It means, 'no worries' for the rest of your stay
I like the coast. There is something so calming about watching the ocean, in all its power, restraining itself. A glory of wonderment curling and flowing beneath the waves we see, breaching briefly to tease and entice us, or because the creatures' own curiosity gets the better of them.
I like to go to the seaside where the weather is always balmy. My skin becomes sticky and salty in the sweetest of ways. The ocean breeze offers reprieve from the vigilant sun.
Stone Town moved through me in slow motion.
The sun rose sluggishly, bathed in the day, and then reluctantly retired for the evening - its warmth trailing behind drowsily. I am grateful for the time I spent in the labyrinth of Zanzibar City. As I melted away in the island sun, the staff at Emerson on Hurumzi facilitated that my stresses melted away too.
Day One:
Following an unnecessary 15 hour journey (I didn't know that the airline for an in-flight magazine I write for connected directly from South Africa) I land at Abeid Amani Karume International Airport. Thankfully, border control is uncomplicated and I'm officially a tourist of Zanzibar within minutes. I walk into the arrival hall but it is empty. This fills me with dread because I'm almost certain I had arranged a transfer to my hotel. Making my way out the airport, I am ready to negotiate an inflated price with a taxi driver. Swelter engulfs me as soon as I exit. I decide I'll hop into the first open automobile; anything to get out of my black turtleneck and trousers quicker. Wading through the waves of heat, I notice a blur of a man holding a sign with a familiar arrangement of letters. While I'm sure my mind is playing tricks on me, I approach the figure and the closer I get the clearer my name becomes.
"Thank God," I exclaim and my charioteer erupts in laughter. "Let's get you to your hotel," he instructs.
As we drive into Stone Town, Solomon exhausts his English giving me a basic history lesson of the island and its natives.
It's up one street, down another and left at the corner. "That's my sister's shop," Solomon manages to squeeze in between the chorus of Jambo's coming at me from all angles, "You can buy presents from her before you go home."
Not after long, we arrive at Emerson on Hurumzi and Lisenka is waiting behind the counter to greet me. "I'm sure you're tired so we'll let you relax," the Dane says mercifully after a brief tour of the multi-storied hotel. She hands me the keys to The West Room and begins her decent down the stairs.
Falling into my lodgings with an exhale, my breath gets caught in my throat in a delighted fright. I've studied images of the rooms on Instagram but nothing has done Emerson justice.
Along two walls is a magnificent mural of palm trees and indigenous flowers, while plum-coloured raw silk curtains drape the lattice panels of the remaining two. In the left corner, a bath tub sits ready to be filled and enjoyed.
My view overlooks the roofs of Stone Town leading to the ocean.
It's early afternoon when I strap into my walking shoes to explore the neighbourhood. I've been warned that the streets can present themselves like a maze, so I grab a map from the lobby, but I'm happy to get lost in Stone Town. I've learned that my best travel stories come from venturing off the beaten path. There is no decided destination anyway, so I'm happy to wander aimlessly.
Up one street, down another and left at the corner. A few men are playing some sort of game that resembles one I used to play with my cousins when we all went home to my grandparents' in the village. Their rocks look more sophisticated, smoother; and they're sliding them from one bowl to another as opposed to across the floor like we used to. I approach them slowly, hoping not to break their rhythm but I fail.
Jambo they greet in unison.
They continue in Swahili and I smile sheepishly.
"You're not from here," one begins compassionately. The island is small enough that everyone knows everyone else, so I'm sure he is just hoping to strike up a conversation. "No, I'm from South Africa," I respond.
"Oh, South Africa! Zulu? Thosa? Sotho?"
"Zulu," I say. Forcing him to contort his tongue again would be cruel and unusual treatment of my new friend.
"Sawubona sisi, nguSalo mina," he says confidently. "Ngiyavu'yukwazi Salo, nginguInga mina," I say.
I suspect the others only speak Swahili because as Salo invites me to join them - so he can teach me baó - they speak amongst themselves and smile in my direction every so often. "There's no way I'll be able to remember all these rules Salo," I concede.
"That's okay. Come back tomorrow and we will practise." The ease of his hospitality is charming, and while I'm certain I won't be able to find this corner in the morning, I commit to doing just that.
After thanking them for disrupting their game for me, I am back on my way.
Before I know it, it's 5:45pm and I need to be back in time for my dinner reservation. I've been booked for the Hurumzi feast on the rooftop of the Emerson Hotel, and I want to be settled in time for the sunset. My memory is serving as a reliable GPS as I weave through the streets, passing posters and artistically carved door I'd imprinted in my memory like my very own trail of breadcrumbs.
By 6:15pm, I'm back at the hotel. Climbing the stairs, I catch up to a party of friendly Americans who are headed in the same direction. We arrive to a stunning panoramic view of Stone Town at dusk, and enjoy a wonderful belt busting meal of squid, goat, and line fish.
I call it a night at 11:50pm. The excitable Americans are heading to the night market, but I have no fight left in me. I'll check it out tomorrow since I have no Saturday night plans. After a tepid shower to cool down, I manoeuvre under the mosquito net and climb into bed.
Day Two:
Clouds are hanging over the island, threatening to open up and swallow Stone Town in a storm. The weather warnings I'd seen when packing a few days earlier prepared me for this. I'm happy to spend the day in doors.
I've arranged to have breakfast brought up to my room. A fruit platter and some pancakes. It arrives and I set up by the door that leads out to the private balcony. While I certainly want to enjoy the view, I don't want to get wet if the weather decides to change.
By the time I'm done with my lazy breakfast, it's pouring outside. I patter through the hotel looking for a comfortable corner to curl up in. There's a bench on the third floor that offers a tranquil view while keeping me dry as the rain comes and goes.
I manage a few chapters of my book. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie writes with a lyricism that allows you to savour every word and turn of phrase. I've delved into the reality of each page. She's held my hand and walked me through the intimacies of each character. It's exhausted me in the most fulfilling way. Sleepy with the stories of Ifemelu and Obinze, I drag myself to my room for an afternoon nap. By the time I wake, the storm has passed.
Changing into something more comfortable, I want to visit Hurumzi's sister hotel Emerson Spice before heading to the night market to sample local street food.
As I am asking Fiona, one of the hotel's managers, for directions, a voice behind me says, "I'm headed that way, let me take you."
"I'm terribly sorry about this weather," the elderly man says, his hands to his heart. I want to embrace him for being so polite but he is scurrying along far too quickly for me to match his pace. "Fiona tells me you're from South Africa?"
"Yes, born and raised," I reply, a few paces behind him. "Ah! Kuhle kakhulu pha," he mutters in his undeniably posh English accent and I don't know whether he is speaking to himself or to me.
"Where did you pick up such good Zulu," I ask, and he suddenly remembers he is in company. "Well," he begins, "a great deal of tourists come through Stone Town. We teach them a bit of Swahili and we get a few South African phrases in return."
"I like that. You give a little to get a little," I mutter. Now I don't know whether I'm speaking to myself or to him.
"NginguSalu, ngubani wena" my temporary guide introduces after a little while. "My na- NginguInga mina," I say. "Well Inga, we have arrived. Please do enjoy the rest of your stay on the island. Try not to get wet," Salu says and shuffles into the shadows of the setting sun.
Emerson Spice feels familiar, but as I walk through a dimly lit passage way and out into the secret garden, I am convinced that this is what sets it apart.
Dilapidated walls are decorated by vines. Everything is covered in vegetation like a lost city reclaimed by nature. Visitors dine, careful not to disturb the environment. I must have a dumbfounded look on my face because, "are you doing okay," pulls me out of my marvel.
"Yes. Yes of course. Sorry, I'm just... completely taken by this place. It's, wow, it's, gosh, it's beautiful," I stammer.
Eddie introduces himself to me and insists that I make myself at home. "If you're staying at Hurumzi, you are a guest here too," he says. But I am really quite hungry so I thank him for his kindness and turn to head out the door.
"What are you doing tonight," he asks. I explain that I'm going to the night market for dinner, but he repeats his question. "I'm going to the night market for some food," I rephrase. I'm certain something I said or the way I said it must've thrown him off. He finds this funny. "In Zanzibar, 'tonight' means after ten. So I ask again, what are your plans?"
Suddenly I'm flushed. Embarrassed that something so simple has gotten lost in translation, but excited by the prospect of exploring Stone Town's night life with this friendly stranger. "I hadn't planned anything past dinner," I admit.
"Let me show you how we party," Eddie challenges with a devilish smile on his face.
We agree to meet outside Emerson on Hurumzi at at 10:30pm. Leaving the secret garden at Emerson Spice, I navigate my way from the hotel to the market.
There is an array of edibles on display as vendors are trying to push as much seafood as possible. A pathetic negotiator, I do a lap to gauge what the competitive prices are and settle on Captain Jimmy who takes care of me with a generous plate of lobster, crab, scallops and squid.
It's 10:15pm when the hotel phone rings. "Hi Inga, your friend is here in the lobby for you."
While I have no expectations, as Eddie and I stroll through the streets of Stone Town, it feels like we've slipped into an alternate reality. Zanzibar looks completely different in the evening. The street lights illuminate empty alleys and avenues. It's just me and the party adviser I've put my utmost faith in.
One kilometre stretches out into a half hour walk as Eddie tells me everything about himself from his upbringing and education to his plans for the upcoming year. We walk past the building he grew up in, now stained in ash. "I used to play with my brother and sister in that room over there," he reminisces as he points to a window facing the street.
Eventually we arrive at Tatu and I'm grateful for the quality time we spent walking to the bar because the music is so loud, all I can hear is the bass of the beat and my heart pounding in my ears.
We dance to Justin Bieber, Usher, Nicki Minaj, a few artists from Tanzania a one or two musicians from South Africa. Tourists are piling into the tiny bar. I am beginning to sweat under the neon lights and between the jiving bodies but I relish every moment; grip it tightly. One song bleeds into another as I sway, eyes closed and head tossed back in a trance. Though Eddie and I have danced for hours, by home time, everything seems to be over too soon.
Drenched, my chaperone walks me to my hotel, bids me farewell and continues on his way.
Day Three:
I wake up wearing the same smile I fell asleep in. Today is my last full day in Zanzibar and I want to make the most of it.
After breakfast, I head up what's notoriously known as Freddie Mercury's street towards Tatu. Jodi, one of the Americans I met at dinner on Friday has suggested we link up at Puzzles for coffee before we head in our respective directions. I arrive but the cafe is closed. Jodi pops up soon after and we decide to double back to her hotel and grab a quick cuppa there.
Dhow Palace Hotel is beautiful. We find an empty table by the pool to catch up. The magnetic American is recounting the spice tour she took with her travel group yesterday. They had gotten caught in the rain, but she makes bundu bashing in the wet forest sound like a thrilling adventure.
Like the rest of her group, Jodi is in transit so we exchange details and agree to travel together in the future. While she checks out, I sneak around the hotel I might stay at when I return to Zanzibar in December.
Before I get carried away, I hotfoot it back to Emerson on Hurumzi for my planned tea ceremony. On my walk back to the hotel, I run my fingers along buildings and over fences with my eyes closed, hoping to commit everything to memory.
By the time I arrive, Obama, points me upstairs and says everything is set up for me in the tea room. I slip my shoes off and slide behind the table of treats.
Day Four:
It's been such a exhilarating weekend in Zanzibar, it would be a tragedy to spend any time upset that I'm leaving. Even as I pack my bag, my heart is filled with fond memories of meeting 'black name' at the night market, laughing as a hawker tried to guilt me into buying a piece if art, and making friends with the security guards who watched over the ATM machines.
As I bid Fiona, Obama and Lisenka Farewell, and follow Solomon to the car, I am grateful for the kindness everyone has shown this sole traveller. Zanzibar has been exactly what I needed, at the precise moment I needed it. For that, I will always be indebted to every single person on the charming island.
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PHEW! That's just the beginning. There was no way I could fit everything about my trip in one blog post.
Stay tuned for the run down of my Feast at Emerson on Hurumzi. I've also got a few funny tales from Dinner at The Night Market and I'll share my experience of the Tea Ceremony.
PLUS Jodi shared a local Coconut Crab Soup Recipe with me that I've just shared. Go check it out.