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| The view from our tiny tiny plane as it swayed through the air |
“Oh yes, an airplane to Zanzibar. The airplanes have not
crashed for many years now. It will be good.”
I sat on the 13 person plane, tensing every muscle in my body
and clutching both hand rests. I had given up the notion of trying to read my
way through the trip long ago, deciding that clinching my teeth until I got gum
rot was a better avenue to take.
The plane ride was 2 hours of utter terror. With every mild
breeze, the plane would swing and sway through the air, bouncing up and down as
it caught different gusts of air pockets. I thought that at any moment, the
plane would tip and careen itself into some sort of dive that it would be
unable to correct itself from. Becky lay next to me in a drug-induced slumber;
I hated her for it.
We landed in the center of Zanzibar, starting the second part
of our three part Tanzanian vacation. Part one (as I hope you have had the
chance to read about) was our week long safari adventure through the Serengeti
and the areas surrounding Mt. Kilimanjaro, part 2 was a week long beach-side
holiday, and part 3 would be back on the mainland trekking through villages of Northern
Tanzania.
We quickly jumped in a cab with another couple who was headed
in our direction and made our way to the northern tip of the island, where we
would be staying. The ride was through the interior of the island, jungle
greenery interspersed with bareback villages here and there. We passed farmers
atop donkey-drawn carts, carrying whatever crop they were farming for that
season.
We finally reached the tip of the island and checked into
where we would be staying. Our balcony was directly on the beach which faced
west. We arrived on the first day as the sun was setting, allowing for a
magnificent sunset from the seats of our balcony with beers in hand and my
shirt already disrobed.
Everyday was a different variation of the same beautiful
chorus: walks on the beach when we wanted to take breaks from our books, tomato
and avocado salads for lunch alongside a lobster, shrimp or red snapper main
and playing volleyball with other people staying on the beach with us. This
place was paradise.
Nights were spent on the beach with a bonfire, making
friends, telling stories, and drinking beer. The temperature was perfect with a
very comforting breeze coming off of the water. Everything was amazing, except
for the touts. Days and nights alike we had to fend off touts and trinket sellers
that were always around, thinking that they were selling the kitchy African
gift that you just couldn't live without. Shell necklaces, tapestries, key
chains, and wooden-engraved name plates. We disliked all the items equally and
had no interest buying any of them, no matter how many times they asked. A very
persistent guy would come around day after day, trying his hardest to sell
Becky and I a name plate that he would engrave.
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| Happy Hour cocktails near our hotel |
“It will take me a day, but it will be very nice. This is my
promise,” he would say. The examples that he brought to show us his aptitude
and handiwork said otherwise.
“No thanks,” we would respond, day in day out. His pitch
would always change, the reason why we needed to buy this novelty, but our
response was invariably the same: “No thanks.”
He would go away, undeterred by our apparent philistine ways
and would approach us later on that day or somewhere else on the beach.
“Hello, sir. Have you changed your mind? Do you want me to
carve your name? What about you miss? Do you want to remember Zanzibar the best
way? What is your name, miss? Tell me and I will make you the perfect gift for
your perfect holiday.”
I decided to change tactics.
“Can I see the plate?” I asked, outstretching my hand to take
one of the many shoddy engravings he had in his possession. Becky looked at me,
wondering if I was actually considering buying one of these things.
I turned it over in my hand several times, put it up to the
sun, and rubbed my fingers along the indentations of the name plate - marveling
at its handiwork. Jason and Jennifer it read, surrounded by (oblong) hearts and
(not fish looking) fish.
“It's very beautiful and well done, but I am afraid we can
not buy one,” I said, obviously dejected by the thought of not having this
enriching gift in my life.
“But why? It is the perfect Zanzibar gift,” he said, his
voice surging at my interest in his craft.
“Yes, I agree with you. But our names are too long. They cannot
fit on your name plate,” I explained, saddened by this unfortunate fact.
“Oh yes, this is a problem. What are your names?” he said, wondering
what sort of crazy foreign names couldn't fit on a wooden plate.
“Well, my name is Michaelson Christofferson and this is Mrs.
Manuella,” I said, pointing at Becky who finally understood what I was doing.
“Yes,” she chimed in after a short pause, “Mrs. Rubella
Manuella. Two L's in Rubella. Very long names.”
“Oh yes,” he concurred, retracting his hands that held the
name plate, conceding the idea of a sale. “Michaelson Christofferson and
Rubella Manuella,” he repeated, agreeing with us.
“We are very sorry, but we wish you luck with other names,” I
said as I grabbed Becky by the arm, turned her around and smiled victoriously.
I felt very clever. I had gotten rid of one of the many irritating touts
without making him feel bad, myself feel bad, and without having to buy
something that I definitely would not buy in a million years. Now it was time
to reward myself with a happy hour cocktail and a shrimp salad.
The next day, Becky and I were walking down the beach, taking
photos of the setting sun with the fishing boats in the fore-ground when I hear
someone screaming, running down the beach, flailing something in his hand. With
no one in pursuit we wondered A) why he was running down the beach and B) what
he was saying.
Well, it was not until we could make out B that we understood
A. B was my name. He was screaming my name. He was running down the beach
screaming “Michaelson,” trying to catch up with us with something in his hand.
“Oh great, now what does he want?”, I said to myself. “What
sort of brilliant scheme will I have to come up with next?”, I pondered, as we
waited for him to catch up with us on the beach.
“I was looking for you today!”, the out of breath wooden
plate maker said, bent over at the half, not yet ready to show us what he was
holding. He caught his breath, took in some air and then stood up straight.
“You were right, Michaelson. Your name is very long, but I
worked very hard last night and I finished your names.” As he finished, he then
showed us what he was carrying. He held out his hand and show us the wooden
plate with our names on it:
With my strike of brilliance shot down and my plan totally
blown up in my face, all I was left to do was lie about how much I liked the
craftsmanship and tell him how much his renderings of a heart and a dolphin
actually looked like hearts and dolphins. He was, of course, very happy to
receive the accolade and to proceed onto the next part of the conversation.
“So my friend, how much do I owe you?”, I asked, trying to
scrape together at least a shred of dignity from this situation I had gotten
myself in.
“Well, normally it is cheaper but your names are very long. I
worked very hard for you.”
I sighed, reached for my wallet, and paid the exorbitant
amount of money he knew he could charge me. To this day, on our mantle you can
still find this ugly plate, complete with a barely recognizable dolphin, a heart that looks more like a circle, and our
fictitious names. Becky still laughs at me about it to this day.
Well the days went by quickly, and I had succeeded in not
wearing a shirt for one whole week. Becky's volleyball skills graduated from
abysmal to piss-poor and for some inexplicable reason, the cocktail happy hour
time seemed to creep earlier and earlier in the day. Becky and I were lying on
the beach, reading our books, when I posed a question to her:
“So, when do you want to make our way back to the city tomorrow
to head back to the mainland?”, I asked, sad by the mere thought of leaving
this amazing place.
She poked her nose over her book, gave it a thoughtful few
seconds, glancing between me and our beach side paradise before saying, “Yeah,
I don't want to do that.”
So just like that, it was decided. A 1 week long, shirtless,
lobster eating, cocktail drinking, hedonistic, beach side vacation had just
been extended to a 2 week long, shirtless, lobster eating, cocktail drinking,
hedonistic, beach side vacation. I couldn't have been happier.
To not feel like total bums, we checked out of our hotel and
decided to spend the next week on the other side of the island; the Indian Ocean
facing side of the island with a pool and some other guests that we would befriend
and hang out with for the entire week. We laid poolside and beach side, taking
in every beautiful bit of this amazing place willing it to never come to an end
but, like all things, this too came to an end.
We made it back to the main city of Zanzibar, had an amazing
beach side dinner at a swanky upscale hotel that we belonged at not at all
where I ate warthog for the first time. It was the most delicious piece of meat
I have ever had. It looked like and had the texture of pork, but tasted like succulent
red meat.
Sorry Pumba, you were delicious.
Sorry Pumba, you were delicious.
