I want to say it was high summer. I want to say that the tides were smooth and that I was in love. None of these things was true, exactly. It was the middle of July, I strolled through the markets and dirt roads close to my Airbnb heading for the beach. I was in Zanzibar, alone. The sand was mouldy, like fish skin if you’ve touched its insides with consent.
The afternoon breeze of customary tourists and eager locals offering boat rides, jet-ski prices, and often cigarettes blended in with the marvellous sunset of the coast of the ocean. Online friends had told me Zanzibar was stunning. I would laze around all day, they said, sunning myself on the silver beaches and swimming in the warm green sea.
Like most people, I hadn’t planned this until the last minute. A co-worker asked me, “What will you do on your leave?” And I remembered months prior how I’d alleged I would rather never go on leave than take it and have nothing special occurring in them, how pointless rest would seem in the same house I have woken up in to go to work, and I found my lips saying, “I’ll travel.”
The flight didn’t last more than three hours, what with the layovers in Nairobi. A Tanzanian friend had put me in contact with a driver who would show me around Dar Es Salaam before boarding the hour-plus ferry to the Island.
Upon reaching the capital of Zanzibar, Stone Town, a guide showed me to my apartment in Nungwi, and would for the following days, plan my activities. My only agenda: to show up and enjoy.
The first activity on the plan was to see Dolphins. The thirty-minute taxi and then a boat ride with a French-speaking guide took me to Mnemba Island where I could discern with certainty a folding number of thirty other boats full of tourists hovering around for the three seconds of presence that the dolphins would bless us with.
Some daring Europeans jumped into the ocean to swim with them. “You want to swim?” asked my friendly guide, handing me an orange life jacket. “No, no I don’t think I will,” I said, exactly in Captain America’s old voice.
Part of me wanted to at least graze my skin on the terrific cold blue water but the magnificent and yet dangerous tides seemed a formidable foe. So, I just put my legs in the ocean. We stayed there for thirty minutes, turning the boat around and around to catch the dolphins whenever they popped back up from the depths of shadows they came from.
With great humility, the aquatic mammals swirled around in spectacular fashion, up and down they swam, in couples, perhaps as companionship whilst facing the unknown. That’s how life should be, I thought.
“Let me show you where you can swim,” said my guide. We sprinted to the other side of the island for snorkelling, the water was green, almost empty until I dived deep inside to find small reef fishes treading waters around me, rocks and just beauty. I was suddenly faced by the immensity of the world, and my utter significance.
We took a breather to eat fruits and take pictures as all tourists overwhelmed by the beauty often do, and then I captained the boat back to the shore. I can report little to no casualties. For lunch, we went to a local restaurant near the beach, barefoot and for the first time, ate shrimp and calamari. Everything was salty. Rightfully so. “Did you know here in Zanzibar men seduce women with fries?” said my guide, as we sat on the beach.
“Excuse me what?” I blurted out, almost choking on a side rice dish. “Yes,” He affirmed. “Food is so huge to us, that people declare their love for it.” And sure, I needed to triple-check this daring piece of information before distilling it to my boys. It could all be so simple like this.
The next stop on my trip was the turtle’s park, just a few minutes from the beach where I saw tiny land turtles and fed raging sea turtles. The little park was covered with yellow birds, monkeys on a natural high, and cute chameleons that I wished so badly to borrow indefinitely. I returned to my apartment, raving so much.
Apart from the scenic views of the tourist areas, hotels and beaches, the rest of the island is fairly in development. The roads are not the best. Locals’ houses leave a lot to desire, and everywhere you go, green grasses cover everything like a giant forest.
That afternoon, I sat outside my room, drinking tea, with a notebook in my hand. I shared the house with a Korean couple. They would come out around 9 pm to smoke, cook for each other and eat while watching a series on their laptop. The woman was a travel blogger. Our conversations revolved around publishing books, specifically how hard it was to get a decent deal.
Half the time I couldn’t understand what she was saying, the other half she struggled to follow how fast I talked. “What do you write about?” she asked. “Sex,” I said. “I’m married,” she replied. “No, no. I write about sex and relationships,” We both laughed awkwardly.
The following day, I went to Paje Beach, a two-hour drive from Nungwi. The beach is much more dazzling and endless. Trust me, I walked it. Masai vendors welcome you with insistent devotion to get you to buy something.
Along the long unending beach, people are gearing up for jet-ski rides while others are returning from kite surfing. It’s a beautiful phenomenon. I lay under a greyed seaside beach hut watching the turquoise waves. I was served Spaghetti bolognese and a Safari beer. It was 10 in the morning, mom and dad would be disappointed. But there’s something about ditching the expectations and routine when on vacation.
“Where are you from?” asked a couple of Masai. “Rwanda,” I replied. “Oh, you’re brother from another mother,” said one Masai. “Same skin me and you,” “Yes, neighbors,” I tried to meet his enthusiasm halfway. He proceeded to disembark his small bag full of brace – lets, necklaces and magnetic giraffe miniatures perched on his shoulders, whilst telling me his life story.
I should note that this was not common for me. For the white travellers, sure. It took them a bit of work-around to realise that even though I have the same skin colour, I’m not from these parts. But it worked for me—fewer interruptions.
The warm tropical sun peeked down at me from gaps in the leaves while the soft breezes scented with the unique fragrance of the spices growing on the island mingled with the aroma of organic coconuts, fruit and other flora surrounding me. There is an alluring freshness in the air, and as you slip into a languorous siesta, only the sounds of the gentle waves twirling on the unbelievably white sands and the rustling of the trees create a serene harmony.
I went for a swim later. The decadence of flowing around called to me. The white boys on the beach invited me for a game of amateur football, the only sport I could do with my skinny legs. We drank some more, made short-term friends, and spent a wonderful day at the beach, clueless of time.
I sprung back up to find a merchant with coconut drinks, which I finished quickly before taking my taxi back to Nungwi. That afternoon, I went for dinner at The Corner, a simplistic Italian restaurant in front of the Nungwi beach and the many souvenir shops. The TV played a rewatch of the Hungarian Formula One Grand Prix. I ordered a Carbonara dish with a white Chardonnay wine.
Afterwards, I reconvened at the best bar on the island. An open white decorated tree with a rounded counter that overpacked by the night. The bartenders were extra cool and became instant friends with one of them, Eric, who’d come to Rwanda months prior with his Swiss girlfriend. I returned every night. It was a vicious cocktail cycle.
I met with a couple of Dutch tourists at the bar. They recommended that I travel to Paris, Ibiza and Croatia next summer. “With what money?” I screeched. They didn’t have an answer for that. But we became pals, started having lunch together the following days. Shared stories about our different countries, cultures, and education systems. The education system? Me? Talking about education? We really become different people on vacation.
In the coming days, I visited Kendwa Beach, just a thirty-minute walk from Nungwi. No guides, no Masai vendors. Just me swimming in the green paradise, eating and returning to Nungwi beach for the afternoon lazing in the sand watching white vacationers read books, take selfies and climax in the nexus of the sun.
At night, I would stroll down to the Coccobello nightclub to shake off what my mama gave me. Scrawny legs. A good three days passed with this routine: Breakfast, beach, lunch, beach, dinner, bar, party.
The day before last, I took a two-hour sunset cruise in the afternoon with other tourists, drummers, singers, and dancers. The point was to try to take it all in. The views, the people, the panic attacks trying to mumble words in Swahili. It had been one of those perfect summer days, the kind that burns off all the inconvenient truths.
The cruise ship emitted local Zanzibar music and a lot of dancing until sundown. We sipped mojitos and shook the boat left and right. I connected with an Irish woman sitting next to me, probably 45 years old. She was there for only three days with her film camera. “That’s such a short holiday,” I muttered.
“Just finished a safari in Kenya. I was tired and people told me I should come to Zanzibar. That I would laze around all day, sunning myself on the silver beaches and swimming in the warm green sea.” she said. It put a grin on my face.
“Can I take you pictures then?” I asked. She handed me her camera, took weird old women’s poses and I tried my best not to drown. She then rustled at the back of the boat to capture the perfect sunset overhead. And I danced like a butterfly.
When we reached the shore, I sat in the sand like I had done for many days, staring at the waves washing away people’s footsteps. And I thought that’s how fragile this moment is. We are here and then we’re gone. We’re lucky to experience something like this, I was.
The cruise boat had a slogan on its main sail: Enjoy Paradise Before You Die. Later, like a routine, I went to my Italian restaurant and ordered a glass of white wine and a plate of Lasagna. Then headed to the Tree bar for a night of Long Islands, chats with my Netherland friends, shots of Amaro and saying goodbye to the best bartenders ever.
I left the next morning. I want to say it was high summer and I was in love. Not exactly. For something like this, an escape from reality, almost dreamlike now, it was magic. And I’m still snagged in that summer idyll, the sun, the clear green water.
We never think about such days as they’re happening. We never consider that unlike love you can hold, the golden varnish of sunny days is overwhelmingly distant, and memories fade. And it’s just a story. Instead, we close our eyes and let our feet step bare in the sand every chance we get.
“When are you coming back?” asked Eric, the bartender, before I left. “When I start to forget about this place,” I said.
