September 13 2005
We’re back at the restaurant anticipating breakfast. They bring us five slices of bread about two-inches square. Butter and jam are on the table, so I slather both of these on thickly. They also serve unlimited coffee and offer eggs cooked to order. It’s not a huge breakfast, but it holds us over.
Michelle finds a spot in the sun with a book and I take a hammock under the eave of the restaurant. It’s so comfortable and in the cool shade. Music is always playing here, like James Taylor. Soothing. I read a book called “Empire: How Britain Made the Modern World” by Niall Ferguson, with a special interest in Britain’s colonization of East Africa. Not light summer reading, but perfect for this trip.We are surrounded by Swedes, Germans, Italians, Dutch, Aussies and Brits. The come and go, perching on rope chairs and lathering on sunscreens. Groups of them come to the water’s edge and climb into boats, on their way to snorkle or dive or parasail. I enjoy the minor sway of the hammack and often drop the book to my chest, enjoying the view of the blue sky melting into blue water sitting against white, white sand.
A Rasta dude comes up, gives me his hand and says his name is Wiseman. He has a boat tour if I’m interested. I’m not, I tell him. We talk about the island and I tell him I live in Kenya. He has lots of questions and begins to tell me how hard it is to drum up business. Also, his favorite soap opera is about to start so he needs to head home to watch. He doesn’t like missing a single episode.
“Wow,” I say, “You have a TV.”
“Sure,” he says. Wiseman must be doing well.
Mid-afternoon, I risk losing the hammack by rising and taking a walk down the beach, past the next ultra-fancy resort. It’s about a mile and a half walk and I’m not far into it when a young man walks up and strolls next to me. He asks the usual questions: What’s your name; where are you from; when did you arrive; how long will you be here; do you want to visit my shop and look at souvenirs? His name is King Soloman and he walks the entire way with me. He talks the entire way. I answer his questions but don’t ask a lot back, though I learn he used to live here but now lives in Dar. King Soloman travels around Tanzania buying handmade crafts and sells them throughout Tanzania, including Zanzibar. He tells me I’m African, he can tell, because I have a quiet confidence about me. I leave him at the spot where he first joined me and find a hammock unoccupied.
Ahhh, shade, James Taylor and a good book. No lunch, but that’s okay. Not hungry.
At dinner, Michelle orders the Flounder dish and a glass of wine. I order the soup again, poatoe and leeks. It’s served with pompado, a thin Indian bread that’s usually spicy. When the soup comes, again the bowl is barely half-filled and the pom is only two small pieces. I don’t want Michelle to know my funds are limited because she would then feel obligated to loan me money. And I don’t need it really. Breakfast tomorrow will be free. I’ll be back in Stone Town tomorrow evening. I’m sure if I ask Tanika, the receptionist at Annex Malindi, she’ll give me a room rate of 8,000 instead of the usual 10,000, which will give me an extra 2,000 ($2USD) to eat dinner with.
After dinner, Michelle and I tuck under our mosquito nets and try to fall asleep with a music war going on between our restaurant and the next door restaurant. Somehow, falling asleep comes quickly.
Michelle finds a spot in the sun with a book and I take a hammock under the eave of the restaurant. It’s so comfortable and in the cool shade. Music is always playing here, like James Taylor. Soothing. I read a book called “Empire: How Britain Made the Modern World” by Niall Ferguson, with a special interest in Britain’s colonization of East Africa. Not light summer reading, but perfect for this trip.We are surrounded by Swedes, Germans, Italians, Dutch, Aussies and Brits. The come and go, perching on rope chairs and lathering on sunscreens. Groups of them come to the water’s edge and climb into boats, on their way to snorkle or dive or parasail. I enjoy the minor sway of the hammack and often drop the book to my chest, enjoying the view of the blue sky melting into blue water sitting against white, white sand.
A Rasta dude comes up, gives me his hand and says his name is Wiseman. He has a boat tour if I’m interested. I’m not, I tell him. We talk about the island and I tell him I live in Kenya. He has lots of questions and begins to tell me how hard it is to drum up business. Also, his favorite soap opera is about to start so he needs to head home to watch. He doesn’t like missing a single episode.
“Wow,” I say, “You have a TV.”
“Sure,” he says. Wiseman must be doing well.
Mid-afternoon, I risk losing the hammack by rising and taking a walk down the beach, past the next ultra-fancy resort. It’s about a mile and a half walk and I’m not far into it when a young man walks up and strolls next to me. He asks the usual questions: What’s your name; where are you from; when did you arrive; how long will you be here; do you want to visit my shop and look at souvenirs? His name is King Soloman and he walks the entire way with me. He talks the entire way. I answer his questions but don’t ask a lot back, though I learn he used to live here but now lives in Dar. King Soloman travels around Tanzania buying handmade crafts and sells them throughout Tanzania, including Zanzibar. He tells me I’m African, he can tell, because I have a quiet confidence about me. I leave him at the spot where he first joined me and find a hammock unoccupied.
Ahhh, shade, James Taylor and a good book. No lunch, but that’s okay. Not hungry.
At dinner, Michelle orders the Flounder dish and a glass of wine. I order the soup again, poatoe and leeks. It’s served with pompado, a thin Indian bread that’s usually spicy. When the soup comes, again the bowl is barely half-filled and the pom is only two small pieces. I don’t want Michelle to know my funds are limited because she would then feel obligated to loan me money. And I don’t need it really. Breakfast tomorrow will be free. I’ll be back in Stone Town tomorrow evening. I’m sure if I ask Tanika, the receptionist at Annex Malindi, she’ll give me a room rate of 8,000 instead of the usual 10,000, which will give me an extra 2,000 ($2USD) to eat dinner with.
After dinner, Michelle and I tuck under our mosquito nets and try to fall asleep with a music war going on between our restaurant and the next door restaurant. Somehow, falling asleep comes quickly.
posted by Cindi at 4:23 PM
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