Ali Hippy Sings the Blues

Anita, Ed and I don't make it to the Sun Sail before we run into Ali Hippy on the steps of the bus station. He's about 5 foot 4 inches with a belly rounder than Santa's. He wears a kukoi wrap around his waist and a western style dress shirt. Ali has a funny accent, slightly British, though he's local. And he's rather famous, mentioned in all the guide books. Ali Hippy walks around town inviting tourist to his house for dinner. He usually charges 500 shillings. Ali is rather distracted, though, as we try to talk to him. We ask if he has room for us this evening and he says yes. We then ask how much. He and Anita get into some real down and dirty negotiations. I'm impressed with Anita's skills, learned from shopping in the Cairo bazaars. She gets Ali down to 400 shillings each. He says there's one other guys joining us for dinner and the guy is paying 500 so please, he asks us, do not tell the guy how much we're paying. We meet Ali back at the bus station at 7pm. The other guest does not show. Ali is distracted, constantly looking down the waterfront, hoping to spot the guy. "We'll give him 15 minutes," Ali says. We're fine with that. Besides, everyone in town knows where Ali lives so someone can simply escort the guy if he shows up. At 7:15 we walk along a narrow, dark street, past a video store and a general store. Ali stops to buy throat syrup. "I want my voice to be golden for you tonight." We walk on and on, turning this corner then that, until Ali steps into a courtyard and speaks to the woman crouched next to a jiko stove (an iron charcoal pot). We're introduced to his wife, his son-in-law and several grandchildren bouncing around us. Ali takes us into the house. There is no electricity, only light from a kerosene lantern on the floor. Linoleum covers the cement floor and there is no furniture. Just an electronic keyboard and a flute recorder. He tells us to sit next to the wall facing him. Because of the heat Ali removes his shirt, after asking our permission, and plays the keyboard a little then yells in Kiswahili to his wife, who yells back from the courtyard. He slides the keyboard across the lineoleum and tells Anita to play something, so she and I play chopsticks. Ali yells again until his wife enters with plates and mandazi. I LOVE Mandazi. It's like a dough nut but without the hole and without sweetness. But this mandazi is different in a totally delightful way. Ali's wife has filled it with crab and fish seasoned with garlic. It is absolutely the best things I've eaten in the last year. Then she brings in fish and rice. We eat with our hands the Swahili way. After dinner, Ali serves Swahili cake for dessert. It's a lovely candy made from sugar, milk and a touch of Cardamom. It's almost caramelized. As we nibble the "cake," Ali's extended family comes in, including his four grandchildren aged between 3 and 7 years. His daughters and sons-in-laws all play drums on canisters of some type while Ali plays the keyboard. His throat is irritated but he insists on singing. The children are superb dancers and keep us laughing with their antics and suggestive moves. Ali and his family sing "Lala Salama," which means sleep peacefully, so I figure it's time to go. And it is. I've brought a bag of bubble gum balls for the children and leave them with Ali. Ali is still worried about the guy who didn't show. He tells us, "If he turns up tomorrow and says he was sick, he can come to dinner tomorrow night." Yes, that sounds reasonable. "Hakuna matata," I tell Ali, which means "No worries." But Ali is worried. It's on his face. He'll be worried until the guys comes for dinner or leaves the island.