27th January
Evening.
Darajani, Stone Town.
I’ve just started venturing out onto my balcony here at home. It spans the length of the house, opening from the bedrooms, just wide enough for a narrow mattress for lounging on.
I say venturing out because it feels like such a public space for lying about in, amidst all the industry; the piki-fundis below, the friendly bicycle fundis up the road and the main street in Darajani beyond, busy with street sellers, people coming and going and dala-dalas maneuvering like angry dinosaurs, reeking and dangerous.
Once ensconced on the lounge mat however, it doesn’t feel too bad. It’s possible to read, watch or even sleep here, though the latter is largely due to my increasing door-mouse like talent for snoozing in the most unlikely of places.
My favourite thing about the street is the sign that is mounted securely on the wall facing the balcony, just below eye level. It reads: “It is forbidden to conduct repair work here in this street. By order of the Zanzibar Municipal Council”. Below it bikes are cannibalized, hammered and beaten back into shape and up the road the bike men do their best with a motley selection of rickety bicycles in various stages of dis-repair. The street is a hive of repair activity. I’m not sure who was here first, the sign or the repairmen, but they seem to co-exist peaceably enough! It’s rather fitting that one of the mechanics is called Waziri, which translates into English as Minister; his own Parliament of Fundis, their own a coup d’etat.
From day one the fundis and I have greeted each other enthusiastically. I have decided to take the way they imitate the feminity of my greetings with high-pitched tones, as a sign of fond humour. However, their girlish Salimus cause me to respond with still higher responses. And so, laughing, we are locked into a falsetto battle which sits well with their oily hands and grease stained clothes.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Mtwara Thoughts
25th January 2007
Afternoon
It seems funny, or rather, strange writing that date. Sitting here, looking out over a plane of flat sand, wearing loose cotton cloths, feeling the warm breeze, it feels as though it can’t be January. I feel separated, divorced and distant from all that the word connotes; cold, wind and rain-January, a troublesome month of darkness.
So here I among the coast of Mtwara, way down south on the Tanzanian mainland, I’m having a few stolen hours of nothing. I have escaped from work, following a non-existent workshop this morning, to a quiet hotel with a lovely view. It’s rather more splendid than our own accommodation, which has been in considerably more basic Mtwaran establishments, much to my enjoyment.
The view here stretches over the wet sand flats to the blue grey-green expanse of the sea beyond. I can see the occasional fisherman wading through the shallows, over half a kilometre out and a sailboat, cruising for fish, sail billowing, gliding softly southward with a full crew aboard. There are also two young boys, who I took to be rocks, sitting so still, the colour of the coast line, ochre and brown. Otherwise the beach is left to the crabs, seaweed and coral stone.
Standing on the sand I could hear a distinct tapping. Convinced it was crabs, I began to scan the rocks for them. The creatures on the shoreline here are hard to spot, blending with their environment so well, only their movement betrays them. Crabs, sand grey and muted green, even a soft jade merging with grey coral rocks. There are small lizards too, of similar soft, blue-grey hues. Camouflage aside, there were simply not enough crabs to be making that noise. I listen closer, perhaps more of a popping? It was the seaweed; languorous on the smooth rocks, slowly drying in the active breeze.
Being on the coast of the mainland always fills me with a thrill, thinking of the vast expanse of land stretching behind me, all the way westwards across the continent. Deep down south, near the border with Mozambique, looking out to sea, here I am on the edge of it all. Wow.
******
Night
So, it’s raining. An occasional drop, then a patter, then a constant stream, a downpour, a torrent, and just as you think it can’t get any heavier, a thunderous gush of pounding followed by a brief abatement, like a drawing of breath, before another onslaught.
I love the rain. I watch it from my window here at the hotel. It’s not the most promising of views, through the mosquito mesh and seurity wire out onto a small car park with a pick-up and two Toyotas, a closed gate and a coconut tree, bark silver with wet. But I can see the night sky light up with sheet lightning; quick, bright flashes that come at surprisingly short intervals and I can hear the distant rumbling roar of thunder rolling of the sea.
I’m writing with the light off so that I can see the light play across the patch of sky. Really this storm deserves a dramatic back drop to match its energy, depth and variety. I remember Morogoro and the fantastic stage of mountains there; lightning brightening the open night sky, silhouetting the mountains.
Finally, a power cut, so that I can further justify the romantic torch light. Now that it’s really very dark, the flashes are more pronounced; a vivid, almost blue strobe, a moment of captured highlights, dim- bright – dim, the coconut black against the white sky.
Lights back on, drama lost, but still the rain falls.
With my eyes closed the rain transports me home to those occasional thunderous downpours. I imagine a north Cornish coast, battered and drenched, the drumming on caravan roofs, hot tea and jumpers. Here, wrapped in a cotton scarf, with the fan whirling, it’s not quite the same, but the same secure, snug sense of being dry and warm, apart from the dampness of sweat, still is.
Afternoon
It seems funny, or rather, strange writing that date. Sitting here, looking out over a plane of flat sand, wearing loose cotton cloths, feeling the warm breeze, it feels as though it can’t be January. I feel separated, divorced and distant from all that the word connotes; cold, wind and rain-January, a troublesome month of darkness.
So here I among the coast of Mtwara, way down south on the Tanzanian mainland, I’m having a few stolen hours of nothing. I have escaped from work, following a non-existent workshop this morning, to a quiet hotel with a lovely view. It’s rather more splendid than our own accommodation, which has been in considerably more basic Mtwaran establishments, much to my enjoyment.
The view here stretches over the wet sand flats to the blue grey-green expanse of the sea beyond. I can see the occasional fisherman wading through the shallows, over half a kilometre out and a sailboat, cruising for fish, sail billowing, gliding softly southward with a full crew aboard. There are also two young boys, who I took to be rocks, sitting so still, the colour of the coast line, ochre and brown. Otherwise the beach is left to the crabs, seaweed and coral stone.
Standing on the sand I could hear a distinct tapping. Convinced it was crabs, I began to scan the rocks for them. The creatures on the shoreline here are hard to spot, blending with their environment so well, only their movement betrays them. Crabs, sand grey and muted green, even a soft jade merging with grey coral rocks. There are small lizards too, of similar soft, blue-grey hues. Camouflage aside, there were simply not enough crabs to be making that noise. I listen closer, perhaps more of a popping? It was the seaweed; languorous on the smooth rocks, slowly drying in the active breeze.
Being on the coast of the mainland always fills me with a thrill, thinking of the vast expanse of land stretching behind me, all the way westwards across the continent. Deep down south, near the border with Mozambique, looking out to sea, here I am on the edge of it all. Wow.
******
Night
So, it’s raining. An occasional drop, then a patter, then a constant stream, a downpour, a torrent, and just as you think it can’t get any heavier, a thunderous gush of pounding followed by a brief abatement, like a drawing of breath, before another onslaught.
I love the rain. I watch it from my window here at the hotel. It’s not the most promising of views, through the mosquito mesh and seurity wire out onto a small car park with a pick-up and two Toyotas, a closed gate and a coconut tree, bark silver with wet. But I can see the night sky light up with sheet lightning; quick, bright flashes that come at surprisingly short intervals and I can hear the distant rumbling roar of thunder rolling of the sea.
I’m writing with the light off so that I can see the light play across the patch of sky. Really this storm deserves a dramatic back drop to match its energy, depth and variety. I remember Morogoro and the fantastic stage of mountains there; lightning brightening the open night sky, silhouetting the mountains.
Finally, a power cut, so that I can further justify the romantic torch light. Now that it’s really very dark, the flashes are more pronounced; a vivid, almost blue strobe, a moment of captured highlights, dim- bright – dim, the coconut black against the white sky.
Lights back on, drama lost, but still the rain falls.
With my eyes closed the rain transports me home to those occasional thunderous downpours. I imagine a north Cornish coast, battered and drenched, the drumming on caravan roofs, hot tea and jumpers. Here, wrapped in a cotton scarf, with the fan whirling, it’s not quite the same, but the same secure, snug sense of being dry and warm, apart from the dampness of sweat, still is.
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