Museum Mama
Zanzibar Island
September 11, 2005
Monday morning. Michelle and I decide to walk through the narrow streets of Stone Town, to explore the city and photograph its architecture. We enter a part of town constructed specifically for wealthy tourists. It's a bit of a mindplay to see Italian and French restaurants and hotels on the water's edge furnished with beautiful, antique furniture. We walk through hotel lobbies with our jaw's dropping, following tapestry carpets to the seaside patrestaurantsnts, wondering what it's like to stay at such a luxurious place. Though these families are spending between $150 to $200 or more per night, we're spending only $10 each night. Along these same streets are tourist shops complete with huge, glass counters of Tanzanite jewelry, shelves of African shawls and materials and racks and racks of clothes. There is air conditioning. It is like being in a U.S. mall and the store is packed with both men and women and children, all looking for the perfect souvenirs. We recognize many of the people from the spice tour or from Freddy's sunset crowd. It feels strange to be in a tourist spot when we're actually residents of African countries.
Michelle and I decide to lunch at the China Plate restaurant, where we're seated on the top floor with a view of Stone Town harbor and the busy streets below. We're the only customers besides a single, Asian man across the terrace. For 3,000 shillings (approximately $4 USD) we choose from amongst four entrees, meat or fish served with rice and a ginger dressing salad. It's truly delicious. After lunch, Michelle goes to the beach to read and I go the national museum in the House of Wonders building. The center of the building is opened up through all three stories, though a roof has been added in modern times where one did not exist when the building was constructed. This place is huge. Lots of space not used efficiently. Dark wood stairs, about 20 feet wide, lead from floor to floor. One feels like a member of a royal family ascending and descending such massive fliMaritimeMartitime history is displayed on the ground level and artifacts from the Swahili culture are displayed on the second level. As I walk and read, two men also visit the exhibits. We pass, stepping out of each other's way, until I finally say, "There doesn't seem to be a logical system for displaying these items." The older man of the two, who has dreadlocks and a beard and appears to be in his early 50s, says, "You expected to find logical displays?"
"Yes," I say, "at least organized by locale where the objects were found or by dated periods. These things are from all periods and all locations, jumbled together."
They eventually agree and for the next hour the three of us stand in one spot and talk. And talk, without pause and without awkward silences. The older man, Bill, is a retired doctor from the U.S. He's of average height and build and seems very normal, except for his rasta hair. The younger man, Toby, is his son who's living in Southern Tanzania for three months to study a tribe of wood carvers for his bachelor's thesis. Toby is at least 6' 4" with bright red hair and a large, football player build. Bill is visiting Toby for three weeks and they've just spent time in Dar es salaam, which they affectionately and hiply call "Dar." I'm curious what Bill's assessment of Africa is. In the past, he tells me, he donated his medical services for short periods of time in third world countries. He understands the health needs of rural people. Bill has seen the health needs of Africans on this trip. He remains optimistic about healthcare access increasing in Africa and other developing countries, but says he couldn't live in the third world for any length of time. Handing me his card, I notice Bill is now a dance caller.
"Like calling a square dance?" I ask.
"Yes, precisely," he says.
A couple passes us, led by a guide and we half listen to what the guide is saying about the ceremonial dress display. Soon, Bill, Toby and I realize we must complete the tour, so we part with a handshake. As we amble through the rest of the exhibit, Bill and I pass. He comes close to me and says, "You do not know how much I've enjoyed our conversation. It's been a delight to meet you," and his eyes show his thirst for stimulating conversation in one's own language. I understand this need exactly, for I've felt the lack of intellectual stimulation while in a developing country, where everyone who speaks English does it brokenly or with thick accents. And where books of modern thought are practically non-existent. Where museums may have hand-written notices next to displays.
Bill then leans in and hugs me tightly and I hug him back, grateful, as he is, for a mind and heart connection in a foreign land.
The third floor of the museum is empty, though it supposedly contains a library. Some books on mathematics and engineering are stacked willy nilly in a wall niche, reaching from the floor to well above my head. But there is no library. The floor does open out to a deep, covered porch that wraps around the entire, massive building. So I spend time just watching the people in the square, on nearby streets, the boats in the harbor. There's a single, plastic chair in one corner of the railing. If I'm not sitting, I walk around the entire perimeter and take photos from every angle. For more than an hour, I'm on the third floor, studying Stone Town from a bird's eye view. With reluctance, I leave the museum and go back to Annex Malindi.
We spend sunset at Freddy's, watching the men play soccer and the boys practice gymnastics in the stand. They do handstands and handsprings and run up the wall and flip back onto their feet. It's quite amazing to see such dedicated athleticism from boys wearing torn and dirtied clothes. At the next table, two women and one man also watch the soccer game. Because they refer to the game as soccer instead of football signals to Michelle that they're from North America. She narrows it down to Canada and them must find out, so she asks and they are from Canada, from Toronto. They've just arrived in Zanzibar after climbing Kili. Michelle must get the skinny on the climb from them since she plans to scale the mountain in two week's time.
When people ask me how the climb is, I'm careful not to make light of it. While it's not a technical climb using ropes andespeciallyrnesses, it is physically challenging, epescially because of the risk of high-altitude sickness and the extreme cold. When on a mountain in 10 degree weather, there is no running into the hotel or the lodge, getting warmed by the fire, then going back into the elements. On Kili, climbers are in the elements 24 hours a day. It isn't easy to get warm in a sleeping bag in a tent. This is what I tell people who ask. If you can simply focus on putting one foot in front of the other, which means someone else is preparing your food and setting up your toilet, then you have a great chance of making it. Bring along lots of warm clothes (especially a face cover and gloves), drink lots of liquids and be sure to take Diamoxx to ward off altitude sickness. But I would never encourage someone to do it unless they truly want to.
It seems Zanzibar is where most folks go to relax when their climb is over. Or on safari. Or both. We meet people from all over the world who have just come down from Kili, then went on safari at Ngorongoro Crater or the Serengeti. Michelle is gathering more and more info about Kili from the people we're meeting, so she's feeling a little more secure about the climb.
We walk our usual route through the harbor barbecue and stop at the table where Suzuki has done such a great job of negotiating the price down. As we insist on the same prices with the crew, I hear someone calling my name. Looking back at the rickety picnic table, I see Bill and Toby. We join them, though they're just about finished, and I introduce them to Michelle. We also see the Japanese volunteer from Ethiopia.
A young, British couple sit at the table with us. They are very attractive and kind and appear to be newly-weds. A local walks up and kneels next to the young man. The local has a kerchief tied around his head and he says, "My name is Tupac and I'm going to kill you." We're all caught by surprise, especially when we realize Tupac is not quite right in the head. But the young man is frightened by the words "kill you" and he freezes, as does his wife. Those of us who are older just ignore the guy, which seems to be the best method. But he's not kneeling, peering into our faces, telling us he's going to kill us. Michelle is upset about the young man being frightened. She calls over a guy from the food crew, asking him to make the guy leave. It's apparent, however, that the food guy is scared of Tupac. He won't talk to him.
Tupac sings a little song and repeats his name over and over, which is frightening. The young man turns his face towards us all and says, "I'm afraid." His eyes are pleading. So we all stand, since we're done, and prepare to leave the table, thinking if we act normal and destroy Tupac's audience, he'll move on. He does, thank goodness.
We walk the harbor and run into Suzuki. I tell him Michelle and I are taking a van to Nungwe tomorrow morning. Nungwe is the village at the northern most tip of the island and Suzuki has been there before. Michelle is staying on in Nungwe indefinitely, but I'm returning to Stone Town on Thursday to fly back to Kisumu on Friday. Suzuki says he'll stop by the Annex Malindi on Thursday evening to find me, in case I stay there again.
Toby, who thinks he's running a fever, drinks three large glasses of sugar cane juice. Bill, Michelle and I laugh at his method of self-medicating when he has a real doctor for a father. As we stand and tease Toby, a man comes up to him and asks for money. He speaks to the guy in Kiswahili for a few minutes and finally the guy leaves. Then another man comes up to Toby with his hand out. Strange that they fixate on Toby and none of us. Perhaps because of his size. Even though Toby is large and often awkward, he's a very sweet guy with a soft heart. Maybe that's what the beggars sense.
Once the second guy leaves him alone, a teenager comes running, screaming, from the crowd, brushing past us followed by Tupac, who's fast and catches the guy, tackling him from behind. They tumble, rolling on the grass under a tree, then the guy is up and running away. Tupac stands and begins running after another teenagers who's just lingering in the park. Though there are hundreds of people in the park area, Tupac screams like a predator and chases men through the crowd. But there's something about his face as he gets up from tackling a guy. He seems perfectly lucid. He's there, in his eyes,frightenede strange void in his eyes when he was kneeling as Tupac next to the frigthened guy.
"I don't think he's really crazy," I tell the other. "His eyes just showed his true character coming through and they didn't look possessed."
"I saw that, too," Bill said.
So it's all an act. To entertain? To instill fear so he can get away with taking money from folks? Who knows, really? The guy himself probably doesn't understand what drives him. One thing is for sure, though. He really does look like Tupac.
September 11, 2005
Monday morning. Michelle and I decide to walk through the narrow streets of Stone Town, to explore the city and photograph its architecture. We enter a part of town constructed specifically for wealthy tourists. It's a bit of a mindplay to see Italian and French restaurants and hotels on the water's edge furnished with beautiful, antique furniture. We walk through hotel lobbies with our jaw's dropping, following tapestry carpets to the seaside patrestaurantsnts, wondering what it's like to stay at such a luxurious place. Though these families are spending between $150 to $200 or more per night, we're spending only $10 each night. Along these same streets are tourist shops complete with huge, glass counters of Tanzanite jewelry, shelves of African shawls and materials and racks and racks of clothes. There is air conditioning. It is like being in a U.S. mall and the store is packed with both men and women and children, all looking for the perfect souvenirs. We recognize many of the people from the spice tour or from Freddy's sunset crowd. It feels strange to be in a tourist spot when we're actually residents of African countries.
Michelle and I decide to lunch at the China Plate restaurant, where we're seated on the top floor with a view of Stone Town harbor and the busy streets below. We're the only customers besides a single, Asian man across the terrace. For 3,000 shillings (approximately $4 USD) we choose from amongst four entrees, meat or fish served with rice and a ginger dressing salad. It's truly delicious. After lunch, Michelle goes to the beach to read and I go the national museum in the House of Wonders building. The center of the building is opened up through all three stories, though a roof has been added in modern times where one did not exist when the building was constructed. This place is huge. Lots of space not used efficiently. Dark wood stairs, about 20 feet wide, lead from floor to floor. One feels like a member of a royal family ascending and descending such massive fliMaritimeMartitime history is displayed on the ground level and artifacts from the Swahili culture are displayed on the second level. As I walk and read, two men also visit the exhibits. We pass, stepping out of each other's way, until I finally say, "There doesn't seem to be a logical system for displaying these items." The older man of the two, who has dreadlocks and a beard and appears to be in his early 50s, says, "You expected to find logical displays?"
"Yes," I say, "at least organized by locale where the objects were found or by dated periods. These things are from all periods and all locations, jumbled together."
They eventually agree and for the next hour the three of us stand in one spot and talk. And talk, without pause and without awkward silences. The older man, Bill, is a retired doctor from the U.S. He's of average height and build and seems very normal, except for his rasta hair. The younger man, Toby, is his son who's living in Southern Tanzania for three months to study a tribe of wood carvers for his bachelor's thesis. Toby is at least 6' 4" with bright red hair and a large, football player build. Bill is visiting Toby for three weeks and they've just spent time in Dar es salaam, which they affectionately and hiply call "Dar." I'm curious what Bill's assessment of Africa is. In the past, he tells me, he donated his medical services for short periods of time in third world countries. He understands the health needs of rural people. Bill has seen the health needs of Africans on this trip. He remains optimistic about healthcare access increasing in Africa and other developing countries, but says he couldn't live in the third world for any length of time. Handing me his card, I notice Bill is now a dance caller.
"Like calling a square dance?" I ask.
"Yes, precisely," he says.
A couple passes us, led by a guide and we half listen to what the guide is saying about the ceremonial dress display. Soon, Bill, Toby and I realize we must complete the tour, so we part with a handshake. As we amble through the rest of the exhibit, Bill and I pass. He comes close to me and says, "You do not know how much I've enjoyed our conversation. It's been a delight to meet you," and his eyes show his thirst for stimulating conversation in one's own language. I understand this need exactly, for I've felt the lack of intellectual stimulation while in a developing country, where everyone who speaks English does it brokenly or with thick accents. And where books of modern thought are practically non-existent. Where museums may have hand-written notices next to displays.
Bill then leans in and hugs me tightly and I hug him back, grateful, as he is, for a mind and heart connection in a foreign land.
The third floor of the museum is empty, though it supposedly contains a library. Some books on mathematics and engineering are stacked willy nilly in a wall niche, reaching from the floor to well above my head. But there is no library. The floor does open out to a deep, covered porch that wraps around the entire, massive building. So I spend time just watching the people in the square, on nearby streets, the boats in the harbor. There's a single, plastic chair in one corner of the railing. If I'm not sitting, I walk around the entire perimeter and take photos from every angle. For more than an hour, I'm on the third floor, studying Stone Town from a bird's eye view. With reluctance, I leave the museum and go back to Annex Malindi.
We spend sunset at Freddy's, watching the men play soccer and the boys practice gymnastics in the stand. They do handstands and handsprings and run up the wall and flip back onto their feet. It's quite amazing to see such dedicated athleticism from boys wearing torn and dirtied clothes. At the next table, two women and one man also watch the soccer game. Because they refer to the game as soccer instead of football signals to Michelle that they're from North America. She narrows it down to Canada and them must find out, so she asks and they are from Canada, from Toronto. They've just arrived in Zanzibar after climbing Kili. Michelle must get the skinny on the climb from them since she plans to scale the mountain in two week's time.
When people ask me how the climb is, I'm careful not to make light of it. While it's not a technical climb using ropes andespeciallyrnesses, it is physically challenging, epescially because of the risk of high-altitude sickness and the extreme cold. When on a mountain in 10 degree weather, there is no running into the hotel or the lodge, getting warmed by the fire, then going back into the elements. On Kili, climbers are in the elements 24 hours a day. It isn't easy to get warm in a sleeping bag in a tent. This is what I tell people who ask. If you can simply focus on putting one foot in front of the other, which means someone else is preparing your food and setting up your toilet, then you have a great chance of making it. Bring along lots of warm clothes (especially a face cover and gloves), drink lots of liquids and be sure to take Diamoxx to ward off altitude sickness. But I would never encourage someone to do it unless they truly want to.
It seems Zanzibar is where most folks go to relax when their climb is over. Or on safari. Or both. We meet people from all over the world who have just come down from Kili, then went on safari at Ngorongoro Crater or the Serengeti. Michelle is gathering more and more info about Kili from the people we're meeting, so she's feeling a little more secure about the climb.
We walk our usual route through the harbor barbecue and stop at the table where Suzuki has done such a great job of negotiating the price down. As we insist on the same prices with the crew, I hear someone calling my name. Looking back at the rickety picnic table, I see Bill and Toby. We join them, though they're just about finished, and I introduce them to Michelle. We also see the Japanese volunteer from Ethiopia.
A young, British couple sit at the table with us. They are very attractive and kind and appear to be newly-weds. A local walks up and kneels next to the young man. The local has a kerchief tied around his head and he says, "My name is Tupac and I'm going to kill you." We're all caught by surprise, especially when we realize Tupac is not quite right in the head. But the young man is frightened by the words "kill you" and he freezes, as does his wife. Those of us who are older just ignore the guy, which seems to be the best method. But he's not kneeling, peering into our faces, telling us he's going to kill us. Michelle is upset about the young man being frightened. She calls over a guy from the food crew, asking him to make the guy leave. It's apparent, however, that the food guy is scared of Tupac. He won't talk to him.
Tupac sings a little song and repeats his name over and over, which is frightening. The young man turns his face towards us all and says, "I'm afraid." His eyes are pleading. So we all stand, since we're done, and prepare to leave the table, thinking if we act normal and destroy Tupac's audience, he'll move on. He does, thank goodness.
We walk the harbor and run into Suzuki. I tell him Michelle and I are taking a van to Nungwe tomorrow morning. Nungwe is the village at the northern most tip of the island and Suzuki has been there before. Michelle is staying on in Nungwe indefinitely, but I'm returning to Stone Town on Thursday to fly back to Kisumu on Friday. Suzuki says he'll stop by the Annex Malindi on Thursday evening to find me, in case I stay there again.
Toby, who thinks he's running a fever, drinks three large glasses of sugar cane juice. Bill, Michelle and I laugh at his method of self-medicating when he has a real doctor for a father. As we stand and tease Toby, a man comes up to him and asks for money. He speaks to the guy in Kiswahili for a few minutes and finally the guy leaves. Then another man comes up to Toby with his hand out. Strange that they fixate on Toby and none of us. Perhaps because of his size. Even though Toby is large and often awkward, he's a very sweet guy with a soft heart. Maybe that's what the beggars sense.
Once the second guy leaves him alone, a teenager comes running, screaming, from the crowd, brushing past us followed by Tupac, who's fast and catches the guy, tackling him from behind. They tumble, rolling on the grass under a tree, then the guy is up and running away. Tupac stands and begins running after another teenagers who's just lingering in the park. Though there are hundreds of people in the park area, Tupac screams like a predator and chases men through the crowd. But there's something about his face as he gets up from tackling a guy. He seems perfectly lucid. He's there, in his eyes,frightenede strange void in his eyes when he was kneeling as Tupac next to the frigthened guy.
"I don't think he's really crazy," I tell the other. "His eyes just showed his true character coming through and they didn't look possessed."
"I saw that, too," Bill said.
So it's all an act. To entertain? To instill fear so he can get away with taking money from folks? Who knows, really? The guy himself probably doesn't understand what drives him. One thing is for sure, though. He really does look like Tupac.
posted by Cindi at 2:49 PM
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