the great leslie

In Zanzibar, I walked around with seashells and cloves in my pockets. I saw corals and was stung by jellyfish. Drew and I ate lobsters on the beach and were semi-swindled by slicksters. We missed the rare red monkeys, but visited the old tortoises on Prison Island. I saw a shooting star over the Indian Ocean.

Zanzibar, we decided, is a lot like Cartagena, Colombia. Both were successful slave-trading ports on bright blue waters. The streets are narrow, the buildings have balconies, and the flowers are bright. Zanzibar is famous for intricately carved door frames. Cartagena is full brightly-painted houses. Zanzibar might blow away someday, Cartagena might rot.

We met many mzungu in Zanzibar (that is the correct spelling of the Swahili word for white person/people I mentioned the other day). In Mwanza and especially in Kasulu, we were often the only ones. Any other whites we met were from NGOs also associated with refugees. In Zanzibar, we went on  a tour and met a Dutch couple, a Canadian film-maker with a cool project going on in Burundi, and a surprising number of public health students who were traveling after spending the summer in African AIDS awareness training. We were a herd of white tourists in minivans. Drew said it was good exposure for him as he prepared to go back to the States.

I've never thought about my own race as much as I did in Africa. In New York, I look like a million other folks. But, in many parts of Africa, I'm one of a few. Children stare and always want to shake your hand and wave. They are constantly amused by our antics. When we went swimming in Lake Victoria, there were families at the shore washing clothes and getting baths. And here come two whites with bathing suits. For a swim. The kids giggled. One of the women, Happy, wanted to know all about us. (Drew told her my name was Victoria. Given our location, this went over well). And when we were swimming, all the kids got in the water and splashed around, too (at a safe distance, of course). It was like they wanted to do what we were doing to find out more about us. It was fun and we all were enjoying, but it wasn't very comfortable.

We spent our last day of the trip snorkeling. We took the Brotherhood, a long wooden boat with a finicky motor, from Stonetown to Prison Island, the home of the giant tortoises. Off the island, we flippered-up and jumped off the side of our boat, into the Indian Ocean--the third dip in the Tanzanian swimming power play, I might add: Lake Tanganyika in Kigoma (now spelled correctly), Lake Victoria, and the Indian. A small milestone. I'd never snorkeled, but it was easy. And we saw many fishes, huge starfish, and urchins. Who doesn't love an urchin?

The last night we stayed with a Peruvian, Sergio, in Dar es Salaam. We had one last meal at a fancy place that had a band. I ate green curry. There was dancing--Elvis, Paul Simon, "La Bamba"-- but we left early because Drew felt sick. It's too bad, he would have really enjoyed another night. My brother and I can really cut a rug.

Before we went out, we were talking to our host about Africa. He said: "If you're in Africa for a week, you can write a book. If you're here for a month, you can write an article. But if you are here for a year, you won't even be able to write a paragraph. That's what Africa is like. The longer you stay, the less you understand about it."