It’s mid-November and my good intention of falling asleep a bit earlier than the previous night fails miserably. My mind is still wanting to play, it seems. And so, we press the ‘rewind’ button then ‘play’, on the tape cassette that is my mind’s memories. I stay helplessly awake. The distraction of a flickering light pulsating endlessly from an ethereal cable just meters away from my bed leaves my eyelids dry and irritated. Another unfortunate outcome of the pandemic with the addition of a home office inside my already small-sized bedroom.
What comes next isn’t bringing me any closer to a good night’s rest, as my nocturnal mind fills up with the repeated verses of Selena Gomez’s ‘calm down’, and now, the world’s ‘going-ons’ is flashing between the palms of my hands. The lyrics, the reels and the selection of IG video clips -all courtesy my personal algorithms chosen by the robot behind the device. My latest pop up feed – the revolutionary youth in Iran and western media’s mess of delivering their correct message – a result of our never ending paternalistic controls of world events and it’s negative impact on human rights – women, specifically. My head starts to throb.
I plead with myself just this last time to fall asleep so that the next time I open my eyes, I would be able to transport my body into my gas-fueled car and belt away to a cold spacious mall-of-a-bunker that’s guaranteed to be decked out in Xmas decorations. I could inject liquid sugar from a candy cane into my arm tomorrow morning and feel just as elated but I would need the extra jolt of Xmas jingles. The mall’s speakers will provide just that. There is the social aspect as well. Being in a mall with all the other mall zombies feels strangely comforting. They too had likely planned to go there first thing the next day, as well. Most are reaching for some external feeling of joy and others are just ready to part with a wad of cash for some therapy shopping. The mall would fill up quickly soon after I grab my expensive grande chai latte (with oat milk).
It’s 4am now and I am less convinced I will bring as much of a festive spirit along my morning drive to the mall.
It’s the same hour in which the night owl leads me to that dark familiar room. I grab a soft pillow, pull the duvet over me and lay down my aching bones. It’s bedtime and I’m ready to close my tired eyes. Im always the first to depart for the night. A sudden crackling sound of soft thunder catches my attention, but my heavy eyelids refuse to care. A passing thought surfaced from the daze as I wonder if the night will be an easy one with a quick flight into my dreams or, will reality keep me stuck on a hard seat at terminal 1 staring at a broken clock. But I don’t stay awake, and alas, I fall into a deep deep sleep.
The first sight of the morning light behind the curtains is the universe’s renewed embrace and she nudges me awake. Not a clock or early morning sound can compare with her divine grace. She reminds me that she flows through me and I am her. I have time to reflect.
We’ve passed the hour in question in silent slumber, and I smile. It’s been weeks now, I told her last night, that she is either arguing with her late husband in her sleep or whimpering. “It is time to stop”, I say with some effort of authority. She becomes still and stares in disbelief. But the universe runs through us both and we agree it’s time to move past the hurt. She is now post-surgery and her early cancer lumps removed with precision thanks to the most advanced procedure. They said she was the pioneer patient. Depression however came back in August along with pneumonia and a pinched nerve that made her temporarily immobile. The depression still lingers. No chemo needed but the radiologist will start her off with treatments in 2-4 weeks’ time. Christmas for once will not be the same and now we wait for the infection to subside. The return of the emptiness sitting deep in her chest is no stranger to us. It’s a quieter home but a safe one for healing. I too become friends with the quiet space. When you can hear a pin drop and it is loud, you too would scoff at any disturbances in one’s surroundings. Keep her safe.
June 30th 2012 – I looked back at the 5-star resort, lined with thatched roof cabins nestled amongst variegated landscaping shrubs and palm trees. I narrowed my gaze towards the direction I just came from. Wearing roundish, light blue-tinted sunglasses, I spotted the front door of the cabin where I would spend my 6th and final night in Zanzibar. I paused for a moment and recalled that it was already almost a week ago that I had landed here -a solo traveler. This was a paradise island surrounded by white-sandy beaches, located just east of mainland Tanzania. I flew in by domestic plane from Kilimanjaro Airport (KJO) to Abeid Amani Karume International Airport (ZNZ), just an hour’s flight.
This last stretch of my trip to Africa would be the “treat” I gifted myself. It was a place to sunbathe and recover from (what would be) a successful climb to the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro, just 2 days prior. Zanzibar was a popular choice I found, written in travel books I poured over during my brief visits to Chapters bookstore. As well from the many Vlogs I watched on YouTube from trekkers to Mt. Kilimanjaro -I was sold.
As I stood there looking back at my cabin in the far distance, my thoughts weighed as to whether it would be worth the extra mileage to retrace my steps. I had left my iPhone on the nightstand (well, I didn’t leave it, I had forgotten it there) -DEEP SIGH. I twisted my weary feet from underneath (almost tripping over myself), and made my way back to grab my communicator. The thought going through my head was no different from the vast majority of people around the planet facing a similar predicament… ‘I may see something I’d want a snapshot of… (and) opportunities come by once, you know… (and) I might regret it miserably if I don’t.’
Fast-forward, I got the opportunistic snapshot which almost cost me my life… smh
Once I grabbed my phone, I walked back out, shutting the beautifully painted dark-brown oak door behind me. Hopped down the few steps, I felt happily disoriented. Ah yes… the red wine with lunch just 2 hours prior, was still in my bloodstream. I made my way back to the upper level of the main patio for 3pm cocktails (okay, I made that up, its cocktail hour every hour at most resorts including this one). To place this on the resort’s map, the patio was 40 feet away from the idyllic beachfront lined with palm trees and dry brush furthest away from shore. When I arrived at the entrance, I proceeded to walk to the back area and make my way past the area bar. I was carrying my dark brown nylon mesh beach bag slung over my shoulder and wearing my new blue t-shirt that I bought from the souvenir shop at Springlands hotel in Moshi, where myself and my team stayed at for the climb. The shirt read, “I did it”.
I sat down at one of the modern-style wooden tables tops and looked at the cocktail menu. I knew it was my last afternoon staying at this lovely resort and service was excellent. Everything went well in terms of my safety (minus the compromised credit card that occurred just before I left Canada unbeknownst to me, and the ONLY card I had on the trip). I decided I was going to switch up my drinks a bit, still sticking with wine, I was to replace the usual red grapes with the white, knowing full well what white wine does to my being. I wanted to get a little buzzed but not buzzed enough to draw attention from my surroundings. Um…this is nonsense talk, in retrospect. My only agenda for the rest of the afternoon was to coast through it, feel the bliss, EarPods in my ears with feel-good music, while I would later navigate my way back to my cabin to nap like a bear, before dinnertime. A perfect ending to an amazing African Adventure!
The chilled ‘crisp-and-fruity’ glass of white had arrived alas, and the first sip tasted as good as I had imagined it would. Since I first arrived on this pre-dominantly Muslim island, I maintained a modest and sober appearance throughout my stay (or I’d like to think I did). I took a chance at wearing shorts when I was not within the resort compound as I didn’t venture outside taxi cabs during the 40 minute drive to and from the airport. Oh, there was only one other time, which was to sort out the credit card problem by going directly to the nearest bank machine, 30 minutes away from the resort. I also had access to a curtain by my window in the backseat of the cabs, which I had been able to draw closed, whenever the hired resort driver came into traffic, or passed through, (with a more cautionary speed) in the more populated intersections. When I look back to those drives in the cab each time, I can still close my eyes and take in all the sights and smells that I experienced from the vantage point of the back seat. Most interesting were the drives past the centres of religious gatherings where you would watch all the men come out of the woodwork as the sun was rising or setting, meeting for prayer.
The strong beam of light from the sun rays hitting the glass that was held in my hand, was making the yellow tint of liquid glitter.
I looked down at the vacant chair positioned to the left side of me, and felt for my brown mesh handbag so as to put my paperback in. I was starting to lose focus on the storyline. I gazed at my feet and then at my favourite flip flops I was wearing at the time. It had these plastic fake diamonds beads glued on the top of the clear bands. The base of the shoes were the colour beige and gave the appearance I wasn’t wearing anything as footwear except for the sparkly stones on top of my feet.
I finished my glass of wine and when I put the glass down on my table, I looked up and peered out at the distant ocean. Something caught my attention out there. A colourful object was moving about, haphazardly. I made out what it was – there was a white male, blonde-haired tourist on a surfboard. I would guess he would was likely be an Aussie , in his happy place, kitesurfing. He was impressive at first and I became interested (with the kite), and wanted a closer look. I got up from my chair, squeezed my toes to catch hold of my flip flops beneath my feet, and swung my handbag over my shoulder which held my beach towel, paperback novel, bottled water and sunscreen lotion. For reasons I now comprehend, the bag weighed more heavily than when I first arrived for cocktails. I had a buzz by then, and so, felt it too in my steps , as I tried to be discreet but ended up clumsily making my way to the edge of the patio’s deck. This is where the resort ended and the sand filled quickly between my toes. As I glanced back at the resort, music still blaring in my ears, there was a security personnel standing within the resort lines before the entrance to the beach. Against the retaining wall of the resort ,was a tourist couple negotiating with two vendors of the Maasai tribe. They were all sitting on a large mat with a full stock of wares on display, beach apparel and jewelry. I kept walking towards the water and found a sandy spot where I threw my flip flops into my bag and sat down, easily sunked deep into the sand, facing directly towards the kite surfer.
The background sound of young girls’ chatter came into my consciousness not far into the initial time my bottom hit the sand. I was videotaping the tourist out yonder who was by now, no longer able to catch wind as he kept falling into the water and being still-and-chill on his surf board. The volume of chatter grew stronger and stronger while my mind was enjoying the beat and rhythms pouring through my ears. I lifted my camera phone again and started to record as the kite finally made its way upwards and about and for a brief moment, I knew I would have short time to concentrate on the movements in the water.
While i started to record, this “opportunity” was soon melting into another, as I moved the phone slightly away from my face to see how close by the girls were. They were still at some distance away but within earshot. I couldn’t understand what they were saying as they spoke their mother tongue, Arabic. After a minute or two, the chattering finally dominated my ear and I could almost feel that they were in close proximity. At the blink of an eye, what came into view was a band of six to eight 10-year-old girls, all dressed in traditional clothing for school, heads uncovered, they now formed a circle around me. Two girls were holding, rather, they were dangling their sun-sparkled machetes from their hands. These length of these knives must have been more than half the size of the girls. One girl in particular, seemed a bit more on edge than the other, and was waving her weapon in a teasing manner towards me. From my observations thus far, from my drives to and from the airport, it would make sense for safety’s sake, that these girls would travel in groups and with some form of protection. At the time I was being surrounded, I noticed that the same girl who looked uneasy started talking to me was looking at my phone. Maybe it was just curiosity of this video recorder /phone thing being strangely as small as my hand, or that they never saw something like it before. My not-so-straight brain (thanks to the buzzing effect or perhaps it was the fight or flight chemical reaction in my body), went into intuition-mode and the silent voice in my head started to speak to me. I joined in on the chat immediately with these the girls, using the language of ‘bonding’ that they would understand. I needed to sway them my way until I can pull myself out of this jam and get back to safety. For all I am concerned, I was in a foreign country, an island off of that even, and regretfully away from the resort property line. It would have been more fitting if I been wearing a shirt that read ‘at your own risk’, because I already know that ‘I did it’. Back to the cultivation of bonding with these girls, they were still talking to me and to each other. Right away and without hesitation, I wanted to show them I was recording something ‘awesome’ and, if they would look out to the ocean with me , we can all see this man doing his neat tricks and “see, its recording here on my phone – take a look!”, I thought to myself… ‘where the heck are my flip flops… ah, here is one. I’ll put this on my left foot…there! I’ll just start pulling myself up now and, okay good,. Oh, where the heck is my other flop?’ The less intimidating girl with the machete, pointed her weapon towards my bag where the flop was, and I gave her an appreciative nod. I pulled it out and place it under my bare foot. By now, I am standing up and walking calmly towards the resort. I was still not out of the woods so it then struck me that I could connect with them further, by tapping into my muslim heritage from my mother’s side. “Hey, your baba (your dad), what’s his name? .. ahhh… yes. You know, hear me, my grand papa, well his name is Abdurahman…yes ! It is Abdurahman! Come let’s talk and walk” We had not had much more to say, rather our hand gestures and body language was communicating well enough, and it felt safer instantly. Before I knew it, I had reached the steps of the resort, turned back and lifted my hands to wave goodbye to the girls, who were already continuing on their original path. With measured pace, I climbed up the 3 large concrete steps to the resort line, still trying to look composed an untethered. I walked straight to the bar as I needed a fix for my nerves and ordered another glass of white wine. I held the glass and returned to the edge of the resort, sitting on the retaining wall with legs dangling over the property lines again, while sipping my crisp fruity wine, served chilled…
I did not exist then and I will not be here forever. I am a visitor just like you, standing on the observation deck.
While we are here, we create and carry our stories, draw conclusions about her while we find comfort to ease our pain.
Say, does it really matter for the ruthless heart, a wayward wind lost from the start? For the rest of us, is there no sign to keep us hoping beyond a doubt? Is love a mould just like the rock beneath our feet you made- porous and hard?
Let’s sing and dance our way into the light then… No answer? Let’s wear our metal thread and climb back up onto the observation deck… no answer?
At The Tea House 