We wake to the buzzing of Ben’s travel alarm. The air is cool and clouds are rolling in from off the water. I feel like this climate makes it easier for me to leave. We drag our luggage down the wooden stairs. I move slowly and let the “plunk plunk plunk” of each step count down my last seconds on the coast. At the bottom of the stairs, I gaze out at the blue ocean one last time and kneel down to feel the sand, soft in my fingers. Ben calls my name and nods toward the waiting van and I stand up and walk toward its waiting driver. I slide down in my seat and stare out the window at the road ahead. For the first time, I don’t look back.
The ride to Stonetown is rough. The van that we’re in was clearly not meant to transport the amount of passengers that are currently squished together on the seats. It moans and creaks and moves like an old horse that has been pushed too hard for too long. The engine block heats up and the floor becomes so hot that I feel like my sandals are going to melt. Ben pulls his leg up and mutters “bloody hell” or something to that effect. We sigh and close our eyes and ride the rest of the way in scorching silence.
We hop out of the van and grab our bags and get directions from our driver. Walking down the street, the buildings tower over us and the dusty road crunches under my flip flops. I look up at the crumbling stone and dirt-streaked walls and think “welcome to Baghdad” The night before Ben and I flopped on the bed and scoured the book for a place to stay. We studied maps and read reviews and concluded that the best place to try would be the Clove Hotel, run by an “interesting lady from Amsterdam” but upon arriving at the Clove, we discover that there are no vacancies to be had.
We step out into the street, squinting. Ben looks at me like “well, what now?” and I just shrug and smile and look around at the ancient buildings against the skyline. Two men in flip flops and tattered clothing step up out of nowhere and tell us that they’ll take us to another hotel. They take my duffel and we follow them through the narrow, winding streets. Now I know that people will tell you not do follow such people while traveling, but honestly, it’s just the way the world works. You begin to develop a sense of street logic when you’re on the lamb. These guys would probably be beaten within an inch of their lives if they ran off with my bag (which is locked as well, so pilfering items isn’t an option). They were waiting outside the hotel, which means that they know it’s full and there’s good money in carrying strangers’ bags and commissions and tips for directing us to a competing hotel. This situation is far more lucrative than a plan B approach of taking advantage of us. We don’t drop our guard completely, but I feel pretty confident that we aren’t in any immediate danger.
The street gets narrower and narrower and I trip a few times, as I’m paying far more attention to the amazing architecture above me than to the stones under my feet. Everything is filthy and the buildings look old and tired, like old men with bad coughs. Garbage is piled along the walls and in corners of streets and stacked in every dead end. The deeper into the city we walk, the more dilapidated and archaic it gets. I put my hand out and run my palm along a rough stone wall. I wonder how many people have touched this building. I wonder who built it and who lived in it and died in it and lost sleep over things that went on inside of it. Ben tells me that I think too much.
The men take us down a narrow hallway, to a desk in a back room. You would never know there was a hotel here. I wonder for a second if it even is a hotel. The man takes our names and tells us that our room will be ready in a few hours and we can leave our things in his back room. We agree and lock our bags in a room that contains an old rotten mattress and half a bottle of Gin. The smell of the mattress is overpowering and I hold my breath and double check our locks and then Ben and I are back in the street. I turn to him and say “do you think our stuff will still be there when we come back?” and he just looks at me sideways and says “well it’s a bit dodgy, but what else are we going to do” and I nod. It is a bit dodgy.
I decide that I have nothing worth missing. I am carrying my journal and camera in a small bag. My money and credit cards are on my body and all I need are the shoes on my feet and the clothes on my back. I decide that if my entire bag goes missing now, if everything that I own is stolen, it will not mean disaster. Inconvenience only exists if you let it. I will not worry about my possessions. Kilimanjaro was defeated, that gear has served its purpose and its loss now will only sadden me if I attach emotion to it. I am truly all I need. Ben, on the other hand, has borrowed most of his travel necessities and does not want to suffer any material losses because of it. We cross our fingers that our stuff is still there when we return.
We shuffle along the streets. It is VERY Muslim here. We see burqas and head scarves and every now and then a voice will seemingly come out of nowhere from an invisible loudspeaker and demand prayer from all within earshot (which I hazard to guess is the entire island). The streets are packed with tourists and people selling things. We are shocked at the number of Mzungus we pass. We scoff at some of the outfits we see. Shoulders and kneecaps seem so…scandalous and whorish now. Say nothing of midriffs! My God! I feel like I should tell them to cover up, don’t they know that no one wants to see that? Conservative dress is something that I’ll miss immensely when I return to North America. Life isn’t all about chasing and attracting sex. It’s about living.
We stop at a restaurant and order milkshakes and sandwiches. We chat about everything and comment on the dealings in the street and the journey we’ve had and the wonderful food we’re enjoying. Dairy is amazing! I order another shake and close my eyes and let the flavor pass through my body in waves of happiness. The sun is still shining down on us.
On the other side of the building where our hotel is situated, there is an orphanage. Children fill the alleys, yelling and chasing each other. These children have the look of the street on them and they are not the kind who will jump into the arms of strangers. Their eyes are alert and sharp and their movements quick. There is graffiti along the side of one of the crumbling buildings that reads “Football” and “NO AIDS” and it serves only to reinforce the sense of desolation and hopelessness in the air. Children crouch in doorways and inside a wall-less building, behind rubble and dripping water. This reminds me of footage I have seen of Iraq. Old men sit on steps and old women sit with babies in stairwells. Everything is gray and brown.
Our bags are right where we left them and we are shown to our room. The hallway is white with a terra cotta floor and black doors. I feel like I’m in an Escher painting. We have a double bed and our own bathroom. It’s pretty luxurious by our standards. We lie down for a while and plan our next move. Ben flips through the guide book and I use an entire roll of masking tape to patch up my ratty, dogged bow and arrow for the long journey back to Canada. We decide to shower and go to dinner. The water is actually luke warm here and I feel like this is the fanciest place I’ve ever stayed. Spiders crawl away from the drain and down the shower head and I have to get Ben to come flick them off before they fall on me. But oh God the water is nice!
When we leave the hotel to get dinner, it’s dark. Pitch dark. We get as far as the narrow alleyway and hear scuffling beyond. Ben says “we can’t go on without a torch” and we turn around to get my flashlight. And I hang onto the sleeve of his fleece as we navigate down the dingy, dusty pathways, onto the main road.
We go to dinner and I finally have the lobster that I have been dreaming of. It’s awesome and Ben tastes it for the first time. He says he likes it and seems a little surprised. I grin and we eat like kings. We walk back at a nice clip and Ben keeps bugging me to keep up. He says “how can someone walk SO fast on Kilimanjaro and so SLOW on the street?? How?” and I grumble and break into a slow jog to keep up. The streets are a bit sketchy, but no one gives us any trouble.
The next day we stay at the hotel international. It’s the neatest hotel I’ve ever seen! It’s a huge converted mansion that is furnished with the original antique furniture. Our room is on the 5th floor and its murder trying to drag our bags up 5 flights of steep, ancient wooden stairs. I look at everything. We have two single beds with canopies and hanging mosquito net. We have an enormous old writing desk and wardrobe and coffee table and couches and vases and gorgeous cabinets and shelves. I feel like I’m in a sultan’s room. I undo all the shutters and stick my head out and breathe deeply. I can see the shanty town tin roofs of all of Stonetown from here. I am grinning from ear to ear as I fiddle with knobs and drawers and latches. Ben discovers an old air conditioner and cranks it. He plunks himself down on the couch, takes off his shirt, puts his hands behind his head and closes his eyes.
I explore the other floors and there are black and white tiles and white stucco archways and old dark wood and creaks and groans. I poke my head into all the open rooms and see gorgeous armoires and bureaus and beds and area rugs. I want to know who lived here and what happened in all of these rooms before it was a hotel. I touch everything and look out every window and through every door. Ben feels poorly and I figure out how to connect the television. We haven’t seen TV in ages. Saturday Night Live is on, behind a layer of static. Ben has never heard of SNL. I am shocked! They don’t have that in England?? We watch a skit about Bill Cosby and Sharon Osborne as contestants on Jeopardy and Ben thinks it’s pretty funny. Ha-ha, Bill Cosby’s answer was “Woozle Wozzle” and we laugh and laugh.
On the last day we venture out to buy souvenirs. I buy numerous scarves for friends and family, as they are light and easy to carry. I buy my mom a fancy carved elephant and a Chukka for my dad. I buy myself some bracelets, a bongo drum and a wooden hippo that I name Humphrey. Ben shakes his head at me and says “there’s no WAY you’re going to be able to fit that in your bag and if you do, there’s no WAY you’ll be able to carry it” and I say “oh ye of little faith” He finds some really neat ebony frames for his Arusha prints and buys them from a guy on the side of the road. I buy a masaii hunting knife for my roommate and decide that is my last purchase on this trip.
We catch the ferry to the mainland and Ben is as sick as ever. He has a raging fever and even though I don’t have a thermometer, it’s pretty obvious. Sweat is just pouring off of his face and he is flushed and unable to be far from a bathroom. Both he and I are worried that he may have malaria, but there is no time to get him tested. He flies out tonight.
The ferry ride is long and horrible. We stuff our bags on huge outdoor racks and walk below deck and take a seat. We’re facing a wall and I’m worried that Ben won’t be able to make it the 3hrs without a toilet. I’m worried that I won’t either. At one point, Ben turns to me and says “I’m burning up” and he takes his cap off and his hair is drenched. I wish the ferry would go faster. I fall asleep and when I wake up, I feel like I’m going to puke. Like right now. Ben is asleep and I turn to my other side and see a man passing out plastic bags. I don’t know why at first and then I realize that everyone is puking; men, women, children in the laps of their mothers. They are all puking into these bags, which are old and recycled and have holes in them. Vomit runs out the bottom in streams. It runs all over legs and feet and parents and pools on the floor. I close my eyes and count to fifty. I tell myself that I am okay and there is no reason for me to feel sick. I survive the last 45 minutes of the puke-o-rama ride from hell on sheer willpower. Somehow, even when walking off of the ferry, through tiny rivers of vomit, neither Ben nor I toss our cookies. It’s a holiday miracle.
