washed up

Took a few days from work in Arusha to truly let myself vacation on the enchanted island of Zanzibar. I have fallen hopelessly in lust with the eerie urban center of Stone Town, where mystery seethes out of crumbling coral castles, the remains of economic exploitation, colonial 'development', and 1964 political revolution. I willingly lose myself in endless mazes of cobblestone alleyways, befriending locals like Ali Bobish over potent shots of spiced coffee (2 cents a piece), who are (refreshingly) not bothered or impressed by wazungu presence in their curious paradise.

My eyes opened unprovoked at a chilly seaside 5:30 am, as they have been every morning here, but I did not rise from bed to find the sunrise as I had promised myself I would before falling asleep. By 7:45, now restless, I wandered out into the sand, my normal skimpy beach attire replaced with the modest coverage of my khanga and large v-neck Hanes tee. Zanzibar is a 99% Muslim community, and while the conservative dress code may be stifling, the rich voice of a man chanting the call to prayer throughout the day echoed freely towards the beaches from a towering mosque in the city behind me.

8 am and the abundance of tourists had yet to crowd the shore, but local shopkeepers and tour guides milled about, opening up their cupboards of bold patterned paintings and rainbow beaded jewelry, calling out to me to come eat breakfast, come buy trinkets, come book a tour. Fresh bait.

I arranged with a new friend, Ali, for an afternoon of snorkeling and a sunset dhow cruise to the Full Moon party upshore at Kendwa Rocks ( a serendipitous scheduling choice on our part, as such infamously fun celebrations come only once every full moon!) Despite the assurance of a planned schedule I felt unsatisfied, and eyes cast down to my sandy toes, I began an aimless walk along the coast, tiptoeing around grungy ropes attached to bobbing boats of fishermen, who were preparing to paddle out with nets and spears for a morning catch. The same morning catch that would be my evening meal, I thought, completely charmed by a natural cycle I am so far from in my home life.

One thing I am surely used to, a cherished pastime from adventures in Newport, is shell collecting, and I stopped to admire the treasure trove at my toes. Familiarity embraces my footsteps and only a hundred yards later my hands are overflowing with creamy conch shells, speckled scallops and abstract chunks of coral. Admiring the intelligent design and masterful engineering of every unique piece, I resist the urge to shed my tee for bikini top in the rising heat of the morning, and instead roll up my sleeves, retie my khanga a bit higher, and wade into the water, knee high in seaweed. Local women have scattered themselves far out into ocean, hand fishing for octopus atop a raised dune. Afraid of being an intruder into their morning routine I continue collecting, but despite my concern I wander into Fatima’s path, a stunning young village girl who is also collecting shells (to sell to me in the seaside shops) – her morning routine. It’s futile to try to be what you’re not, my mind sarcastically muses.

Still, however, concerned about intrusion, I offer Fatima one of my most perfect shells so she knows I’m not trying to compete with her. And again, the silliness of my assumptions flashes at me suddenly as blindingly as the hot sun off the waves. She turns away my offer and with it, my immediate concern of purpose. I try to let the Indian Ocean breeze carry it far away from me but my brain holds tightly to a worry that is increasingly more noticeable the farther out I wade.

I take off my Tivas. I want to feel this. The icky squish of algae clumps between my toes, the rocky, crumbled bits of sea life embedded in the sand. My mind feeling ‘too’ aware, I hope to transfer some responsibility to my body and distract my heavy thoughts. I am immediately more careful about where I tread now that I’m barefoot, not so readily crunching through the ecosystems below. Through crystal clear water, now above my kneecaps, I notice a dazzling, ruby gem of a conch shell, speckled with a galaxy of vanilla stars, and lean over to pluck it from the spindly stalks and amoeba-shaped leaves. A slimy sea slug pokes his face into my finger and I drop the treasure, taken by surprise at the first live shell I have attempted to capture. Exasperated by my failure to not intrude, I look up and realize how far out I have wandered, into living waters where shells are not mine to collect. Sea slug assumes his journey and I wonder, belittling his oozy pace, how little he will ever see in his life crawling along so slowly.

The oasis of sand dune is now within visual reach, though the women have finished their chore, and I stubbornly – and painfully! - tread through a last stretch of thigh-high mystery sea-terrain before the ground rises to reach my adopted destination. I look down and there are no shells in this soggy sand. Now far from the shore, the wind deafens me and blows my wisps wildly. I see the shore life from an incredibly odd point of view, far away and uninvolved. In the silence I feel as if God knows I cannot handle more than one sense at a time, eyes devouring the postcard picture of bursting palm fronds against an azure sky, rolling emerald waves caressing a smooth white shore.

Unlike the empty, majestically carved shells I hold in my hands, the life around my feet out here is thriving. And I suddenly realize, as if the very thought was dropped into my empty ear from above, that it doesn’t matter how slow that slug moves. It doesn’t matter how far I’m going to travel, how many places I see, how fast I move through life. Because even if I were to stay perfectly still, the sea would still churn on around me, gently scraping and etching my shell into some unique masterpiece against unpredictable intrusions with the sand and fellow shells.

The pace and direction I choose will surely determine part of my ultimate shape…

But who am I to challenge the moon?

I am thinking about the dynamics between my movements and the movement of life around me, over which I have absolutely no control. And I think that instead of being so concerned about what I’m doing with my life, how fast I’m moving, and how much I’m ‘accomplishing’, perhaps it’s more worthwhile to make sure I’m happy doing whatever it is I am doing, at whatever pace, with whatever accolades may tag along, so temporary and trivial.

The tide is rising and my path back to shore is slowly disappearing. What will I look like when I wash up one day, finished, upon the shore?