After the past few days of getting up to watch sunrise and witnessing nothing other than cloud, when I saw it was another cloudy morning, I decided to go back to sleep; this proved to be a good decision.
I woke feeling refreshed, albeit still cloaked in sadness from the previous days’ turn of events, and had a nice chat with a couple who are now staying downstairs whilst Abdul served up another breakfast feast (there was so much on my fruit plate I had to store it in the fridge for later – and it served as both an afternoon and midnight snack).
Before arriving in Zanzibar, I’d gotten some tips from an American lady via a Facebook group; she’s been living in Zanzibar for two years now. We’d agreed to meet for coffee in Page and so my options were either a relatively expensive taxi (there’s no Uber, or equivalent, here), or the local bus (called ‘dala dala’).
[protip] pay for taxis in Tzs not $, as it’s significantly cheaper; they’ll always give you the price in $ initially [/protip]
Of course, I opted for the local bus, as I knew that in itself would be a mini adventure!
Abdul had told me it costs 500 tzs, which is around 18p. He’d left by the time I’d thought to ask directions to the bus stop, so I impressed myself by asking both the cleaning lady, and a local lady in the village, for directions entirely in Swahili, “Dala dala iko wapi kwa Paje, tafadhali?”
There aren’t any bus stop signs, so once I’d navigated out of the village and crossed the main road, I asked another lady sitting on a doorstep washing clothes, and she indicated I was standing in the right place.
I stood beneath a tree for shade, as it was after 11am and the sun was already strong.
I was soon joined by a little girl, so greeted her with “Mambo” and she responded “Poa”. She then asked me my name in Swahili, and so we exchanged names (hers was Fatima). She then began singing a song in Swahili, but with my name in it. Not knowing the song, and feeling a bit awkward, I decided to dance a bit along to it and this went on for some time. Her mum, still washing, looked on unsmiling but a man who’d come to talk to her seemed to think it was the best thing he’d ever seen. Her mum then gestured that the bus had arrived and I’m glad she did, as I’d never have realised it was the bus myself.
It did have ‘Jambiani’ on the front (which is where we were) but it was essentially a flat bed truck with open sides and a roof. I climbed on board to find a handful of people already sitting on low, blue vinyl, benches that lined both sides and across the back of the driver’s cab and found myself trying to squat-walk to a spare place on the bench as the roof was so low. Consistently ineligent, my hair got wrapped around a metal bar that’s made for holding onto (à la tube) and I had to try and sit whilst extracting myself from this bar as the truck lurched forward.
Not knowing the etiquette for paying, I then offered my coin to a man sitting near the doorway, who I’d assumed was the conductor…but turned out it was the man opposite him!
The inside of the truck, including the handrails, had been wallpapered in some sort of laminated material. An elaborate blue-and-yellow design, it was quite overwhelming. Much like the tube, everyone seemed to avoid eye contact and just sat, knees to chest, looking down, or out of the window.
No stops were announced, and people would just randomly get on/off. At one point, the truck stopped…and then began reversing back down a MAIN ROAD. Turns out the driver had spotted a Muzungu couple with backpacks and they boarded with as much struggle as I had. Any baggage was tied to the roof, and people would shuffle to accommodate new additions.
At one point there were 16 adults and two babies in the back, and the driver and two passengers in the cab. The conductor moved to the roof (!) and at one point was walking across it as the truck moved, and then slid off the roof and stood in the door way.
After some time, I tried to ask the lady next to me if we had reached Paje, but she didn’t understand. However, a man opposite said we were nearly there, and when we reached the stop he indicated it was time for me to get out.
Everyone else paid the conductor as they disembarked.
I tried to surreptitiously look at Google maps, so I could navigate my way to the cafe, and then crossed the road. Feeling a presence behind me, I found the man who’d helped me with my stop had followed me off the dala dala. He asked if he could walk with me, and started asking me questions. I shut him down and told him it was my last day and he soon bid me goodbye and crossed the road.
Ellie had recommended a Vietnamese cafe because of their iced coconut coffee and whilst it was ridiculously expensive for Zanzibar (think more London prices) it was delicious; I’ve attached a photo as it wins by far the most expensive drink I’ve had here. Ellie and I spent a pleasant couple of hours exchanging travel stories and talking about Zanzibar (I learnt violent crime here is very low; most crime is opportunistic) before she went to have lunch with her boyfriend and I made my way to the beach.
I’d wanted to see the original Macarena Maasai one last time, seeing as I was in town, to see his in-person response to the nonsense that’s been going down.
I found him standing with a group of Maasai and they all greeted me warmly. The sun was super strong, so we found a shady spot on the edge of the beach and sat and talked. He gave me his account of events and, I have to say, he seemed very genuine.
As we were talking, I could see someone wave out of the corner of my eye: it was the other Maasai who’d professed love…who should have been in Jambiani.
Macarena Maasai #1 asked if we’d come together and I said I was as surprised as he was to see him in Paje.
As we sat and chatted, other Maasai would periodically come up to say hello, and were impressed when I’d greet them, and respond, in Maa.
A local man then passed with an elderly lady in a wheel chair. They stopped in front of us and before I could process that they were asking for money, Macarena Maasai #1 handed them some notes, and they left.
I didn’t want to return to Jambiani too late, so Macarena Maasai #1 then walked me to my bus stop (which I’d never have found without him) and checked with the driver that it was definitely going to Jambiani. This time, it was a large minibus, kind of reminiscent of the Kenyan Matutu.
I found a spot at the back and immediately found myself drenched in sweat as it was so hot inside.
The bus didn’t move in what felt like forever – a couple of passengers even disembarked, leaving me wondering if I should too. But, eventually we were off and driving so fast I legit began to fear for my life; my natural inclination for catastrophisation had me picturing the wreckage of my imminent demise.
Once again, no stops were announced and I had to hope I recognised the spot where the lady had sat. Eventually the conductor, who appeared to speak no English, asked where I was going but I couldn’t find a way to communicate with him. The only place with a recognisable name that I knew was near was ‘Whitesands’ but when I said this he looked at me blankly and shrugged.
Fortunately, at the next stop, one of the passengers pointed to a sign that said ‘Whitesands’ and I got off – I hadn’t spotted the singing girl’s mother’s abode as the conductor had distracted me. He also charged me Muzungu tax, as this time I didn’t have the correct money and he gave change to everyone except me. I didn’t dispute it, as despite not liking feeling ripped off I also acknowledge my privilege and how the price was still low by European standards.
After navigating back through the village, past the ever-present cows, I headed for the beach.
On my way there, I bumped into the third Maasai; I knew he was the innocent party, as both of the others had said he wasn’t involved. So I was genuinely pleased to see him.
We sat on the beach together and I explained what had been happening, as best I could given his English isn’t very good and without going into any details, as one of them is his friend. He told me that when Macarena Maasai #1 had come to Jambiani and they were all walking home after dinner, he’d told them to let him walk me home alone as he would be sleeping with me that night; they’d told him no chance and ensured they all left together.
This particular Maasai has a child-like innocence about him; he’s the one who gave me the necklace and I believe him to have a kind heart. I therefore am fairly sure he’s telling me the truth.
However, he then professed his love too and said he knows he has never been to school but he can offer me loyalty and his strength and…what was basically the lyrics to Rebound Chick if Rebound Chick had actually been the main chick (only some of you will understand this reference, I know, and that’s probably for the best!) He also asked if he could kiss me, but I told him only on the cheek and that I can only be a ‘rafiki’ (friend).
We were then joined by the remaining Maasai (for ease, I’ll refer him to #3 – he’s the one offering to pay for me to stay here longer). He told us he’d been in Paje for a business meeting and showed us flyers for a Maasai market there he’d been helping to organise.
They asked me to have dinner with them one last time and I agreed; I don’t feel in any danger from any of them and, I have to admit, the previous night just wasn’t the same without them. So maintaining boundaries but enjoying their company seemed like the best way forward.
I’d gone home to shower and they messaged to say they were back at my gate. I emerged into the darkness – the moon had not yet risen – and initially thought I’d been stood up, as the area seemed deserted. As my eyes adjusted, I saw them standing perfectly still, side-by-side, walking sticks in hand.
They once again escorted me through the village and we returned to the local bar that we’d eaten at on Friday. It was much busier this time, and there were DJs playing a combination of Swahili music and hip hop.
We sat in the darkness, under a tree and this time were served grilled meat on skewers (aka nyama choma) and chips. This time we skipped the beer and had a bitter lemon drink instead. It was hard to see what I was eating but thankfully I survived another food roulette.
As Maasai #2 was attending to some business (not a euphemism), Maasai #3 and I got to have a face-to-face chat about everything. His story aligned with #2’s. It did get a bit awkward turtle when he kept telling me how much he loves me, but I reinforced my boundaries and that, for me, was as much of a resolution as I can hope to get.
After dinner, we walked back through the village, our path now illuminated by the moon high above the palms.
The ground was still uneven, and it was dark in the alleyways, so Maasai #2 took my hand to steady me; he’d done this before, so I let him.
At the beach, which was deserted, the moonlight was so bright it was like daylight. We sat in the spot where we met and Maasai #2 instantly fell asleep on the sand (he has a habit of falling asleep on the beach). So Maasai #3 and I talked for a couple of hours. This time, however, he was respectful (aside from one moment where his had brushed my ass and so I had to slap his hand).
He wants to drive the 1h 20 mins to Stone Town tonight to be able to spend some time alone with me; I told him I think I would prefer to be alone but conceded to at least give it some thought. He kept telling me there is no one like me and he hasn’t felt like this before. I don’t buy it, but he’s definitely consistent.
We watched clouds gather around the moon, and I commented it looked like it would rain at some point. He replied that he thinks there would be a short rain a little after 5am and then it would clear.
At midnight, just as I’d said I needed to leave, Maasai #2 woke and, for the final time, my unofficial bodyguards escorted me back to my gate. Instead of our ‘elephant’ and ‘giraffe’ handshakes, this time both of them enveloped me in bear hugs and told me they’re going to miss me so much they’re going to have to avoid ‘our’ spot on the beach for a few days. Maasai #2 had also told me on the walk back (whilst #3 was on his phone) that #3 never stays long on the beach and he’d only done so since I’ve been around.
As I climbed the concrete steps to my room, tears were sliding freely down my cheeks; it’s genuinely hurting my heart to leave. Goodbyes are so hard (I’m crying a little again writing this).
…
I was woken a little before my 5:30am alarm by torrential rain, that passed in time for me to watch the sun rise over the beach for the final time.