Vingette No. 4I think, as a single woman traveling alone, you experience life at its most raw. The warmest generosity. The most coldblooded cheat-ary. There is no buffer. Lonely Planet calls Stonetown (Zanibar's tiny big city) the "Heart of the Archipelago". In the salty swell of the Indian Ocean, Africa,
Arabia and India mix, molding a modest, Muslim and tantalizingly 
sensual culture. The women are mysteriously cloaked in traditional khangas. Only their bright eyes and a oval of smooth skinned face peep out. Conservative habit does not mean that they haven't mastered the art of allurement. No. These woman bring sexy to a whole new level. I have stories. Four to be precise. Two you will be told. One I'll let you figure out. One you might be lucky enough to get from me if I've had one too many Campari & Mangos. Exhibit #1 - Singo, a brides preparation for marriage. No. I am not inventing this. Please read the description in the photo. I rather like the idea of singo... Story # 2 - a girl's induction into womanhood, as explained to me by my henna tatoo artist. Let me begin by explaining that I never stepped out of my hotel after dark except once, for reasons that will become quite apparent. That "once" was with my henna tatoo artist. She insisted I come with her to dinner and I, curious to know how real Zanzibaris live, was delighted to go along. Zanibar is famous for it's taroob music. Walking me back to the hotel after dinner, she insisted that I come with her to the Taroob Music House. I'd read about the Taroob Music House. According to Lonely Planet, it was one of the 2 best spots to sample local music. Needless to say, we clambered up the stairs to the Taroob Music House, drawn by the sound of music. The lady by the door graciously greeted us into a hallway full of Zanzibar women
, leading to a hall full of even more women - all in their finest khangas embroidered with gold, silver and purple silk. The first thing I noticed was was the dancing. It was the most erotic dancing I had ever seen. (It made belly dancing at Marrakesh or your high school prom seem like kitty school.) The second thing I noticed was that, other than the band members, there were no men. Absolutely no men. Being fond of sidelines in large groups, I tried to slink into a corner. That proved difficult as my white skin, however tan, was a bit conspicuous surrounded by all those well endowed African mommas. They would have none of it. No. I had to be dragged front and center - even up on the stage - to dance with them in this erotic dance which was anything but prim and proper. Anna, the henna tatoo artist, laughed and laughed. After the song, her eyes floated over the room until they looked on a very decorated corner. Then those big brown eyes got bigger and browner with that "oh dear, oh no" look. Come, she said, we must leave. I'll explain later. After we had stumbled out of the hall, down the stairs and out the door into the maze of Stonetown streets, she began. "In Dar Saleem a girl's friends explain to her about being a woman and all about men and to stay away from men. In Zanzibar, this is explained by the girl's family." We had accidentally crashed a young girl's coming of age party. Awkward...particularly since the young girl looked rather insulted. I still have pictures of these modest women and their erotic dance. They were so demure when approached them on the street, but I got a little glimpse of what really happens behind closed doors.So - there are pleasures and problems a single woman traveling along will experience.
As soon as I'd step out of my hotel into Stonetown, I'd be swarmed by street touts or "Papasi". The literal English translation of this Swahili word is "tick". So apropos. They really do try to attach themselves to you like a leech, burrow under your skin and suck your blood, hassling any and every shilling they can out of you to support their black market addiction. A female solo appears easy pray. There was one, a Nigerian with some crocked yellow teeth, who really did send shivers down my spine. He'd wait near my hotel. With a "Hello sister, why won't you buy..." he'd trail me down the street, lurk outside the stores I'd enter and, at my exit, call me racist for chatting with the Indian Store keeper, but not him. When I bantered with his respectable black shopkeeping brothers, he'd bark a different abuse. I finally turned around and spat out "Leave me along. I don't trust you." Thankfully, he did. At least for the remainder of the afternoon and evening. That was long enough. I left Stonetown the next day.
I really did get to a point, in Stonetown, when I didn't trust anyone. Not even the tour guide. Or, rather, I particularly distrusted my Zanzibari tour guide. It started when I arrived in the airport. According to my itinerary, I was to be greeted by a driver at the airport and then be transfer to my hotel. No driver. I went to the tourism office, where they helped me call my hotel. They sent a driver...a little dirty whitish Toyota Corolla from the "80s. He was stopped by the police and then the car ran out of gas. I'd never experienced the chug and girgle of a car running out of gas before.
Along the bustling tourist street, just outside the most refined shops, a withered young man in a white tee shirt tried to sell me "African cocaine". He had obviously been snorting something. Couldn't stand or see straight. Not exactly a tempting advertizement for his product to anyone in their right senses.
These were the reasons I never went out at night...except for the one adventure with the henna tatoo artist.
