Hassles II

Vingette No. 4

I 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.

Hassles

A woman traveling alone for pleasure is a bit of a rarity. But make that a woman traveling alone for pleasure in Africa. Now we're talking scarcity at an extreme level. That would be me. While I find a certain pleasure and thrill, it is not all champagne and roses. Endless marriage proposals, serious attempts at cheating and a constant barrage of unwanted pity. The first two propelled me to a point in Zanzibar where I realized I didn't trust anyone. While I put on a strong face and a merry laugh to intercept the third, I have to admit it got a bit waring.

I'll relay a few vignettes to help you sample the sweet, the salt and gall of a single woman traveling alone.

Introduction
10 October at 4:40 am. I'd gone to bed at 23:23 the night before, after finishing a memo for Urwego and cleaning up a dinner I prepared for a guest who didn't show. A bleary eyed Tom left me in Kigali Int'l airport, specifically charging his friend to take good care of "this young lady". Tom's special friend told me that his name was Amant, French for male lover. He stuck to me like a magnet...(which, in French, is aimant, one letter different. Very Strange). He smelled bad, sat too close, and tried to live up to his name. So my name was Grace. I was American? Yes. It was his goal to marry an American girl. He'd explained this to his mother. Was I married? Here I should have lied, but unfortunately I'm too truthful for my own good. He would marry me, he said. No, I said, quite emphatic. What? I didn't want to get married? Here the honesty, or at least the complete honesty wore out. Mr. Male Lover was too serious to pick up on a sarcastic response so I just started lying, or at least not adding the "definitely not with you" phrase to the end of my responses. In his case, a lie seemed kinder:

Surely you want children. No.
What. You must want children. No.
Well, okay. You don't want children, but you must want someone to make love to you. I'll make love to you. No. (At this point, there were about a dozen people from my flight in the very quiet room...quiet except for this clearly audible conversation.)
Surely you want to make love. No.
I will speak to your father in three years. No.
Don't worry I have it all planned out. No. No. No. No. No.

I managed to shake him off with a distraction and ran away. (Quite proficient at running away.) Tom received an sms indicating that "friends" to try to "take care of me" were unwanted. I think I can manage to check into a flight on my own. Even in Africa.

Vingette No. 1

After collecting me from Kilimanjaro airport, Chilson took me to the tour company's office. He introduced me to everyone, including the manager, and then escorted me into a private room. Just he and I. Could I please help him out? He had underquoted my fee by $230. I starred. $230? $230? I could produce the “fully paid” receipt. He responded that he didn’t want to tell me of his mistake before my arrival lest it deter me from vacation. Well, he should have, I replied. I’ll be penny-pinching the entire trip as I hadn’t anticipated this additional costs and hadn’t brought much cash. However, IF he could prove me the validity of these costs and a breakdown of the entire quote, I would help.

He scurried out, to gather papers and his manager. She sat down with me to explain the quote, line-by-line. My two hour Lonely Planet cram course on the plane taught me enough to recognize the component costs she listed were fair. My accounting mind recognized that company “overhead costs” like labor, fees and rent would also need to be considered. I was convinced. Chislon had made a genuine mistake, so, even though I didn’t have to, I gave him $220.

Only then did the manager tell me that the Company had intended to take the mistaken amount out of his salary…and it was an entire month’s pay…this being pay for a young Tanzania man who went to high school in Minnesota.

I think I did right. I hope I wasn't cheated. It was quite a challenging transaction to navigate on ones own. No one to bounce thoughts off of. I had nothing but my own judgment and the hope Wonders was being honest with me. I thought about it every time I carefully measured my spending allowance through out the trip.

Vingette No. 2

Hyenas and human voices can sound quite similar to the untrained ear. My ear was definitely untrained that first night in Serengeti. Hurama, my guide, would always tell me stories…usually before bedtime and usually because I prompted with too many questions. (I know everyone is surprised. Grace asking too many questions.) Well, I foolishly asked the “is the tent safe” question. (Better to never raise the question.) Response. If you do not take food into your tent, then yes it is safe. Hurama continued, one night in Serengeti, maybe one year ago, maybe two, a couple had forgotten to take all the food out of their tent luggage. The hyenas came to visit, attracted by the scent of easy scavenging. Rumbling with hunger and excitement, their sharp teeth sliced through the tent cloth. At the sound of the fabric tear, the couple awoke with a start. The tent filled with kafuffle. Confused by the commotion, the hyena took a bit out of the wife’s bottom. The husband, in his fury, grabbed the hyena by the neck and strangled it with his bare hands. They had to be evacuated by helicopter, bite taken out of her buttock.

With that story rumbling in my head, I retired to my tent for another night of sleeping solo. I fell asleep easy enough, comforted by the gentle murmur of human voices. At 00:05 I awoke, jolted upright, cringing at the methodically growl not 10 feet from my head. It took me 5 minutes to realize that the growl was my neighbor snoring.

The second night in Serengeti I heard more than snoring neighbors. The wild world roared and cackled, moaned and hackled under the full moon. The hyenas ambled through our camp that night, calling to each other. I could even hear them sniffing around the edges of my little tent. I hunched in the middle of the two-person tent, cuddling with myself, and listening wide-eyed to the sounds of the night. A jackal wandered through camp too, 10 meters to my left with it’s higher, eerie shriek. Repeated, again and again. Lions roared in the distance. The next day, I was a very tired woman.

The final night of camping, in Ngorongora, animal noises began before the human sounds ceased. Puff. Puff. Puff. I really needed to pee... Puff. Puff. Puff. My guide had told me that I really needn´t be scared of any animal except the Buffalo. The sound the Buffalo made was "puff, puff, puff." However, it wasn´t a buffalo that slammed drunkenly into the side of my tent. It was a zebra. I could tell by the strips. I summoned the courage to visit the toilet...and waited for dawn a tad more comfortably, curled up alone in the center of my 2 person tent.

More Vingette´s and pictures to follow.

Karafuu

The ups and downs of my 2 week Tanzania trip, ended in a very nice "up"...three days at the Five Star Karafuu beach resort. The only thing I could have wished for was more time there.

I lolled on the beach, reading My Traiter's Heart and How the Irish Saved Civiliation. I worked on a tan to make my American friends jealous. I swam in a blue lagoon in the Indian Ocean and learned a bit of scuba diving skills...enough to go on an adventure dive to a shallow coral reef.

(I've decided that scuba diving shall become my next expensive hobbie.)

I ate all sorts of delicacies. And I fell more deeply in love with Africa. Though, by the end, of my two weeks. I was ready to return to Rwanda. It felt like going home.

"If Zanzibar is the Heart of the Archipelago, Stone Town is it's soul".

My Serengeti Guide left me at the Impala Hotel in Arusha, to sleep in a circular bed. The next morning he transported me to Arusha's airport, were I and 10 other over-sized tourists stuffed into a 12 seat-coastal aviation plan. I could watch the pilot, co-pilot and all the controls. I arrived in Zanzibar, to find my "welcome committee" not there to welcome me. After fumbling to the tourist office, I call my hotel. They send a taxi for me. I wait. The taxi arrives. Someone demands a tip for bringing my taxi to me. I tell him, "I'm sorry, but no." My taxi driver is stopped by the police and runs out of gas before we arrive at the hotel. I am not pleased.

Zanzibar disappointment number two. I already know I was not in the hotel I had wanted (the Tempo Hotel). They'd put me up in the Chavda, which had mixed reviews. As I sampled three different rooms, during my three night stay, I can see why. The first two rooms brought back childhood memories...the smell of my grandmother's musty basement. While grandma's basement does have fond associations, I wasn't quite keen on a dank, dark hotel room with mice turds, nestled allong the trim and holes in the mosquito nets.

I started in Stone Town, exploring streets, spices and Prison Island.

It has been long. Too long. Longer than I and (probably you) like. The inconveniences of life - packing, saying goodbye, unpacking, saying hello, working, etc. They take time. Ridiculous quantities of time. Where is the time to rest and process which I grew to love in Africa? I don't know that it comes out of Africa.

Well...here are more reasons I have such a love affair with "deepest darkest Africa". (It's really no deeper or darker than the rest of us...). Do read the captions. They explain the story.

More coming, of Zanzibar. Story upon story.

I'm going to let my picasso album do the lion's share. No need for a long string of words.

The Leopard is Illusive...

...so illusive. They blend into their surroundings. Mother and cubs nestled at the bottom of a large rock formation. But for the twitch of her tail and leopard-cub-tumble rustling the grass, you couldn't tell they were there. I didn't really get a good picture of the mother and cubs, even though they weren't 20 meters away.

The leopard spotted a day later in the tree was much further, but you could clearly see the outline of it's spotted form...and she climbed down the tree for me. The next day, I say her in a different tree, just ten meters behind the tree from the day before. In a closer tree, the carcass of an impala was hanging. (Can you spot it?) Leopards are selfish. They don't finish eating their kill, but they pull it up in the tree so no one else can scavenge - not jackals, hyenas or vultures. (Vultures only eat on the ground. If they were intelligent, I would think that maybe they might learn to eat in the tree. Some things are just be beyond me, like vultures. Back to the leopard.)

While the lion and cheetah give chase to their pray, the leopard pounces. Like lions, leopards have territories. Cats don't cross territories. If they do and the weaker is found out, they are chased off the land by the stronger (Lion-leopard-cheetah pecking order). While lions may move their cubs around at a young age, bringing the cubs to the kill to feast, a leopard never moves her cubs before three months. Leopard cubs have a greater chance of surviving because lion cubs get lost in the grasses when traveling with mama to get lunch.

Around 1 and a half to 2 years a litter of cubs will separate. The brothers will together. Like me, the leopardess goes off on her own. Quite solitary. (Now the parallel ends.) A male may follow a female who catches his attention. Eventually, a fight for reproductive rights may take place. She then goes off to raise the cubs on her own. I videoed the leopard descending it's perch, but, as usual, I'm having upload issues. In the movie, I mistakenly called the leopard "cheetah". More on cheetahs later. I saw 8. Hunting. Eating. Wandering. Resting. Running. Staking. Too many good pictures to sort out...too many stories to tell.