Shaibu

After Kathy, Roger and I climbed Kilimanjaro, we flew to Zanzibar and Pemba for some island R&R.  When we arrived at the Zanzibar airport, Sabit was waiting for us with his taxi.  By sheer luck, my friends Kristen and Fredi had met Sabit while visiting Zanzibar just a year or two before us, and still had his phone number.  For the next few days, Sabit transported us to spice tours and national parks, gave us a walking tour of old Stone Town, and generally served as our guide to Zanzibar, all for a price that was almost shamefully low.  He was highly-intelligent and sophisticated and spoke English fluently.  During our long drives, we took turns enjoying sitting in the front seat with Sabit, as talking to him added richness to our experience.  And whenever we were with him, the street touts would leave us alone.  This gave us a very welcome respite from being treated as a "walking wallet" as a "mzungu" in Tanzania - especially with Roger, who ever personable, could not resist responding to the street touts and engaging them in conversation!

When we set out for Pemba, Sabit, who is originally from Pemba, arranged for his nephew Shaibu to meet us at the airport with his taxi.

Pemba was a sharp contrast to over-touristy Zanzibar.  The island had no ATMs or souvenir shops (except for one at the airport), the towns were all small, there was no nightlife, but there were miles upon miles of unspoiled beauty!  Shaibu was one of four taxi drivers on the island: a young guy who had neither the sophistication or the English language skills of his uncle:

    Melissa (pointing upwards to the sky): "Do you think it will rain today?"

    Shaibu (pointing upwards at the tall trees at the side of the road): "Mango tree!"

When he wasn't talking, Shaibu's actions were punctuated by snorts and grunts.  And when we'd drive down a road, locals sitting by the side of the road waiting for the bus would leap to their feet and leap off the road when they saw Shaibu coming!

Shaibu delivered us to the Sharook Lodge in Wete, a place selected by both ourselves and Sabit.  It was a simple lodge with a great rooftop terrace where they served amazing dinners in the evening while the flying foxes took flight from the trees nearby.  We went on some wonderful adventures with Kassin, the hotel manager, a handsome young guy whose yellowed eyes suggested malaria.  We crossed the bay in a dugout canoe to a little village where the schoolgirls followed us around from a cautious distance while local boys climbed the palm trees to fetch coconuts for us.  The next day, we went on a motorboat trip to snorkel in the amazingly clear water farther out in the bay, ending with a sublime lunch on an unspoiled little tropical island with fresh fish that Kassin had purchased from a fishing boat while we swam.  I wrote in my journal: "This brings me to a question, what's the point of ever leaving?"

That night, we asked the hotel owner about arranging an excursion to the north end of the island.  He quoted a price that made Kathy's body stiffen abruptly, while the Italian couple at the next table gestured wildly to us from behind his back to not take it.  We told him: thanks, but that's okay, we have our own taxi driver.

Back in our room later, we sent Shaibu a text.  An instant later, he was on the phone, shouting.  I talked to him, got more shouting in response, and handed the phone to Kathy while rolling my eyes.  She spoke with him slowly and calmly, and arranged with him that he'd pick us up at 9:30 AM for a half-day tour.

At 8:45 AM, Shaibu bounded up the stairs to the terrace, where we'd just sat down for breakfast.  We hastily finished our breakfast and packing, and met Shaibu in the lobby where Kassin was trying to doze and Shaibu wasn't letting him.  We piled into Shaibu's minivan and set out.  As we drove, Shaibu stopped periodically to buy beverages from roadside vendors, sandwich baggies of red juice that he let me taste.  It tasted like Red Bull, but worse.  At the Ngezi Forest Reserve, the ranger gave us a tour while Shaibu trailed behind, cigarette butt between his lips, swinging on the branches of bushes while laughing  maniacally to himself.  We drove from there to the lighthouse at the north end of the island, Shaibu careening through the rough track in a way that I told him made him look like an SUV commercial.  His response was a guttural laugh.  From the top of the lighthouse, Shaibu pointed out the white sand beach where we would go next.   Back in the minivan, we careened towards the beach, roaring through villages and sending chickens running.  When we arrived at the beach, some fishing boats and a handful of locals were already there.  Shaibu stared at them intently, snorting, and then made up his mind and turned abruptly to drive up the beach and away from the fishing boats.

When we got out, Shaibu, Kathy and I all stripped down to our swimsuits that we'd been wearing under our clothes, and jumped in the water.  Roger started changing into his swimming trunks.  Just as he exposed his naked butt, a local boy approached the car, holding his hand to shield his eyes from Roger's butt.  He and Shaibu engaged in an animated conversation, the gist of which was likely that Shaibu shouldn't be there with scantily-clad mzungu.  After the boy left, Shaibu came grunting to us, telling us we'd have to leave.  Kathy and I wrapped ourselves up hastily and piled  into the minivan with a half-naked Roger.  Shaibu drove off in a fury, scattering chickens.

In the front seat, Shaibu grunted to me that the people from that village were "uneducated", and that he was taking us to a nicer beach "where we can be free".  So we careened wildly through the north island with Kathy and Roger sitting in the back seat (Roger still half-naked) wondering what exactly was going on!  As we drove, Shaibu's mood began to lighten.  Then as we reached a village where a police officer was walking along the side of the road, Shaibu almost ran the police officer off the road because the officer was his friend and this was his way of saying hello.

As we were just starting to approach Wete, Shaibu swerved abruptly onto two tire tracks barely visible in the brush, grunting "local road", and went careening down the tracks.  As we zoomed past trees just a few inches from the side of the car, Shaibu directed me to pull in the side rearview mirror.  I asked him how he'd ever found that road.  His response: "heh, heh, heh".

We finally arrived at a white sand beach with blue water.  Roger took off to explore, Kathy and I started venturing towards the water, and Shaibu locked the keys inside the car!  Roger returned, and the two of them somehow rescued the car keys together, as evidenced by the fact that we're not all still at that beach.

Kathy and I made our plans to take turns guarding our stuff on the beach, and I took first guard, but was thwarted when Shaibu practically dragged me into the water.  We swam for a bit, until Kathy and I made our way to the beach and protective clothing.  I walked around the corner of the beach to see the view from around the corner.  Shaibu followed.  He walked up close to me, inches away, and asked me if I was married. "Married", I replied, "why yes I am!".  Without hearing a word, Shaibu put his arm around my waist and pulled me close for a kiss.  I pushed him off and walked back to where Kathy and Roger were waiting.  Shaibu followed, dropped into a squat in the sand, and stared off into the distance with an angry glare, while Roger murmured to Kathy, "do you think he's meditating?".  To break the silence, Roger asked Shaibu if he would drive us to the airport the next day.  Shaibu grunted, without shifting his gaze.  Several minutes later, Roger told Shaibu that we were ready to leave, and Shaibu emerged from his sulk and we all piled into the minivan.

We returned to the asphalt.  We started approaching Wete, with the buildings becoming more dense, Shaibu turned abruptly onto a side street.  As I was wondering if this was a short cut, he proceeded to turn onto smaller and smaller streets.  Eventually, he stopped abruptly in front of a house, and told us that this was his parents' house and we should go in.  

We were met at the gate by Baracka, Sabit's brother and Shaibu's father, an intelligent-looking man with a calm demeanor that seemed more like his brother than his son.  He led us to the living room, where the TV was playing an American WW2 movie.  We watched Alec Baldwin with confusion, until Sabit's mother appeared, a petite woman who worked as a nurse midwife and spoke little but clearly understood much.  The two of them showed us their garden, full of fruit trees, and offered us snacks of sliced papaya and cucumber and glasses of fresh juice.

Then it came time to leave.  We piled into the minivan with Shaibu.  His parents stood at the gate waving goodbye, as the neighbor's son relaxed in the shade of a banana tree.  That was when Shaibu plowed into the banana tree, knocking it over!  He grunted to me, "It's the brakes, they don't work", while I nodded in feigned sympathy, "Ah yes, the brakes...".

We were wondering if we'd see Shaibu the next morning, but he arrived 20 minutes early to take us to the airport.  Despite another hasty breakfast, I was relieved to see him.  Shaibu's mood was more restrained, and as we drove to the airport, he didn't run any police officers off the road, but he still sent chickens running.  Roger asked him what happens if he hits and kills a chicken: does he pay for it, and does he take it home for dinner?.  Shaibu responded, "Mangoes". 

At the airport, as we unloaded the van, Shaibu said to me, "I call you".  I smiled and nodded.

Later on, back in Zanzibar, we got a voicemail from Shaibu.  Anyway, it was a call from Shaibu's number, with a loud snort.  Was that romance?  Was it a butt dial?  We'll never really know.