I am staying with a Muslim family in an apartment somewhere in the midst of the maze that is Stonetown. I have a 'self-contained' apartment on the top floor (there is not technically what I would consider a real door seperating me from the family but I don't think they go to the upstairs part). There are two bedrooms, a massive living room, great kitchen space (a fridge!) and a flush toilet. Cold water showers only but it's 25 degrees with 100% humidity. Who needs hot water! I have been covered in sweat since arriving but I really don't care. It feels good, familiar. $100 per month.
Sleeping peacefully in the mornings is presenting itself a challenge and I usually find myself with my head wrapped up in my sweatshirt to try and block out the noises for just a few more minutes of peace. The first call to prayer begins at about 5am. I love the haunted, eery sound of it. I try and sleep a few more hours but people start walking past my window and the noise gradually increases to a maddening choas of voices and customary greetings as people pass each other and start their days. A motorbike screetches to a stop narrowly missing an older woman as she shuffles through the streets and two men compete (every morning) to win the title of 'loudest bicycle bell'. Men and boys of every age sit together looking bored, contemplating life. Children scream and laugh and chase each other through the streets and I give up and drag myself into the shower. First thought.. coffee.
I walk down the two flights of stairs to the street (wearing a scarf to cover my shoulders) and rip it off and stick it in my bag the second I get out of the house. I'm already sweating and I know I should keep it on but ug..the heat. I wind my way through the narrow cobblestone streets greeting the artists and shop keepers who are trying to convince me to come in to their shop. I love you, please will you be my friendy, where are you from. You are never anonymous in Africa.
Sitting in Livingstones (sipping on coffee) and the place is literally deserted..it is the rainy season so tourism is low. I feel like (if I was a writer) this would be the place I would haunt. Insufferable humidity made (only the slightest bit) easier by rickety cieling fans. Dramatic skies threatening thundershowers, a view of the ocean and the cargo ships unloading potato sack after potoato sack (how can this tiny island possible need this many potatoes?). A fifty (plus) woman does her best to hide her age behind sunglasses that practically cover her entire head, wearing touristy clothes that are just a bit too young and (intentionally) too tight. She swings to the music while paying the bill. The twenty-five year old beach boy accompanying her does his best to look amused and treats her like she is the most beautiful woman in the world (bored to tears when she's not looking). The life of a beach boy, made easier by a European woman twice his age on a two week holiday with cash to burn. Can't really blame him.
Mardia tells me I look 'cleaner' than last time I was here. I'm not sure what that means exactly (Mardia is known for speaking her mind) but I do assume it's a good thing. I do have the same daily shower thing that I did last time I was here (even sometimes twice - I swear! In fact, Denise was the one who loved to revel in her own filth for days and brag about how long she'd gone without a dribble of water to clean herself - hahah!!). It must be the clean fingernails and manicured toes that are throwing her off.
We are spending today at the 'sandbank'. Literally, it is a mile long stetch of sand that is only visible during low tide. There is nothing on it.. only birds. It's a twenty minute boat ride from the town and we are the only people there. Snorkeling and suntanning. Tough life this is..
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