Prince of Tides

So this is Zanzibar. A tourist paradise, a cultural consummation, a paradisical reststop in the international highway of the Indian Ocean. Mainland, homeland, soft sand, far away lands…the intrigue of this mysterious woman of an isle has been well adorned by the authors, artists, historians and travelers of the world. She is like a concubine whose mystery and allure perseveres even if she has bedded every king on two continents.  Her streets are narrow, winding and seemingly unmappable.  Her waters are of that ethereal crystal blue quality that keeps photographers and sea divers salivating. Her stories throughout history have captured the keen, spotlight attention of the growing international community, even as those of the mainland countries wash into one another in the primitive public eye. Spicy trade routes, robed sultans, veiled women, blundering colonialism, decadent diversity a la international trade, impenetrable anguish a la slavery, and the haunting Muslim calls to prayer ringing off of the waves at their regular times of day. History is not kind to the Europeans here, like most places in Africa. And especially here, the blunt, primitive fist of the fat colonial hand on the wrist of a delicate, exquisite and cavernous eastern culture left unsightly marks, the most grievous of which sometimes seems to be the lobster red bodies of white tourists like ours milking the later fruits of those colonialists conquests - poverty, inequity and gross economic disparity.

Please don’t think me ungrateful, especially as I flock here with the rest of them like seagulls in oversized sunglasses. Quite the opposite actually. But along with a wash of thanks and respect, I am constantly inclined to ask those questions without answers that end up plaguing many third world house guests like travelers’ diarrhea - what and who got swept into the mortar foundations of our white suburban houses? What dark and complex pieces of history have paved the way for us to click away in skyscrapers and order our delivery food imported from every part of the world that lives on what they can grow in the backyard? What have we learned about imperialism and do we recognize it when it looks us right back in the face in our grocery store staple exports, in our all-inclusive tropical getaways, in our bulldog immigration policies, in our manifest destiny daydreams that seem to come from some other time. Are the lives we lead our birth right? From who? And how did they attain it - did they ever own it in the first place? And this isn’t just about my life as an American -  that means you too, Europe. As I politely decline the people that approach me and ask me for money, elude petty thieves that have me on lock from a mile away assuming I am rich, pay a sobering visit to the old slave market in Zanzibar and try over and over again to refine my response to the astonishment we receive when we tell people we are here to work for free (“but how do you have the means?“), I see an ironic new twist to the old saying - who died and made us kings?

Consider these thorns of reality on the path to humility - but it doesn’t benefit anyone if I bleed to death from them. Blame (even on those long-dead explorer imperialist buggers or modern exploitative emperors of enterprise who deserve it, blast them) is a silly undertaking. Guilt makes me too weak to be of any use to anyone. And sweeping generalizations about the quality of life here versus there, but what about poor people in the U.S. etc just turn into faulty perspectives on the whole entire world that are riddled with holes. So what is left? Learning. Considering, for a moment, not what I know but what I don’t. And feeling that the only truth available to me is those precious beads I can scrape off of conversations with locals that are often muddied with what they think I want to hear. Swallowing the understanding that nothing - really, nothing -- exists in a vacuum.

There is no mistake that almost every culture in the world, in its own way, pays homage to tradition, roots, ancestors. The respect and acknowledgement that we came from something else and we always stand on something else. Respect for the earth, for our elders, for our religions, for great works of historical literature. Here on the Swahili coast this is expressed when you meet someone who is older than you. Instead of the usual “mambo”, or “what’s up?” you say “shikamoo” - which translates into something like “I hold your feet”, a sign of respect for your elders whether you know them or not. I think, whoever or whatever you “pay homage” to in your own life, the act of it can be enriching for the soul - bowing or nodding to something that is older and maybe wiser than you, something that has rich knowledge that you might not ever tap into completely. And with that bow, you are also bowing to its inevitable faults. Its inconsistencies, its unexplained idioms, or in the case of imperialism, its selfish mistakes made with cruel cuts of a knife far away. Those too are included in a legacy - even the ones we think of as sacred, those that define us. It doesn’t mean we don’t pay homage - in fact it means bow deeper, first with a commitment to be as good as we can as people and second to pay homage also to those well-hidden, sour and suffering secrets that may never come to the surface. But we still know that they are there somewhere, under the feet of the alter angel. And that - I think - is the point.

Zanzibar is the perfect place to pay homage. The beauty of the world seems washes up ,on its shores carrying on its waves the little wooden dhow ships that have helped to transfer knowledge, people, language and goods between continents for centuries. Its buildings are old and some caving in on each other, floor boards exposed like skeleton ribs but still with a sense of grace and wisdom. Islam is the main religion here, and it keeps the women and the windows of the city swathed in privacy and the streets seemingly quieter except during worship times. Virtually all of the local women cover their heads, bodies and some faces with scarves and robes. But other religions have been historically well tolerated here alongside Islam and it shows - mosques, churches, Hindu temples - Zanzibar’s religious history adorns it beautifully. And the colors of mainland African dress are set aflame in Zanzibar by Indian and Arab influence, so that the cloths fill the stone streets like thousands of multicolored butterflies. The history, the colors, the goods, the religions, all of them are quite rich here. The people of course, are not, at least when it comes down to the daily dollar. But their way of life alongside bare-legged tourists, taking each day as it comes in with the tide, is to be respected. They are like many of the people I have met so far in Tanzania - friendly, alert and calm, “salama”, like the sea when it is pacified.

We wandered the streets and bargained with the shopkeepers, who usually smiled the whole time, and so did we. We ate the local food which ,despite the resulting parasitic encounter, proved interesting, especially the traditional coconut-infused Swahili coast cuisine. We attended a music festival at an old open fort in stone town featuring African artists from all over the continent. We rolled in a dinky old dhow over huge topaz waves to visit prison island and the giant turtles (kobe in Swahili) that live there. We swam briefly in the soup-warm, clear blue sea but came aboard soon after rolling in the post-storm waves. I managed (barely) to keep my breakfast on the rolling ride back to the island but wasn’t so lucky on the ferry back to Dar - another story in itself that I will safe for another time. Ultimately we came away with the Zanzibari flavor we came for. And we appreciated the time it gave us to reflect on our time in Africa, miss our kids and our friends like Ian, Furaha, Leana and Sylvie in bagamoyo, and try not to file away the things we have seen into westernized categories in our minds, as I feel so often tempted to do in order to feel “right” about it. There will be more, so many more, things to see. We are now in Dar staying with a kind friend. Tomorrow we will board a bus to Arusha to start the trek up Kilimanjaro. We are dingy and dogged and a little skinny to be starting such a trek, but ready, I think, nonetheless. Goodbye, Zanzibar, oh you devout and beautiful mistress to every continent.