I decided to walk down the beach. The sun was white hot. The ocean green and turquoise. The sand whiter than the sun. I went further than I’ve been before. I came upon a group of little girls playing in the sand. They rushed me, “Jambo, jambo, jambo!” they said, “pencil.” I smiled, “Jambo.” “Pencil,” they persisted. I shook my head, indicating I had no pencils to give. I wish I had known all the children in Zanzibar needed pencils. I would have brought boxes. I sit on the sand and let the girls crowd around me. They wear bright pink and orange and yellow against their ebony skin. Ebony, orange, yellow, white, turquoise. I am surrounded by these colors and the white noise of the bright sea. I cannot believe the beauty of these children against the water , sky and sand. They stroke my hair and try to braid it. They pull on my rings, singing softly the whole time, “Jambo” (hello), the only Swahili word they know I know.
Afterward, I begin walking back to the hotel and have to stop to cry. As I am sitting on a bright colored cloth in the wet sand, two new little girls slowly approach me. They sit down near me, shyly meeting my eyes, “Jambo.” They begin making balls of wet sand. They pack them together, ‘pat, pat, pat’ and throw them in the air and then catch them. I make one too. Soon we are playing catch, laughing and squealing ‘weeeee’ together whenever we successfully catch the sand balls. Laughter is universal. They do cartwheels in the sand. I clap and tell them ‘nzuri’ which I hope means nice or good. They laugh at my attempted Swahili. I stay. After a bit it is only me and one girl of about 7. She wears a pink dress and sits quietly against the ocean, creating a huge sand ball, ‘pat, pat, pat,’ and the surf on the land. We meet eyes now and again and smile, but mostly just enjoy the sand ball making comraderie. My skin and eyes burn beneath the blazing sun, but I cannot get up. I am at peace and I am not ready to stop seeing such a beautiful sight.
I see three tall boys in the distance, slowly approaching. I sigh, assuming they are beach boys, coming to sell me a tour. I am tired of saying no. I am tired of saying yes. I am tired of only being spoken to for money. I am sad because I know it is only desperation that drives them.
They get closer and I see how young they are. They are handsome and grinning. They each drop silently to the sand, encircling me. They sit on their haunches. One of them asks me tentatively, “What are you doing?” He laughs a little and gestures at my huge sand ball. I smile and motion to my pink dressed little friend who is still hard at work packing her sand ball, ‘pat pat pat.’ “I’m playing,” I say. They all smile broadly.
We talk to one another, slowly and brokenly. They are curious about me. I find out they are all cousins, “His father, and my father, and his father, from the same mother,” one of them tells me. Whenever they speak in English they are shy, but they do so well. Their names are Nawawi, Rajabu and Kassim. Nawawi and Rajabu are 18 years old, and Kassim is 20. They tell me about school and family and their home. They ask me many questions about America.
My little pink dressed friend is Nawawi’s sister. They ask me if I want to come see their home. I do. “Ok, but…this is Islamic country,” Nawawi explains, “So you must…” “Wear full clothes to your house?” I ask. “Yes,” he says, relieved I understand. “You cannot wear underwear,” he says, motioning to my bikini. I laugh and nod, “No problem.” We arrange to meet back on the beach in an hour once I’ve had a chance to clean up and change.
Later the boys walk me through the village to their home. “It’s ok to take pictures,” Nawawi tells me. The house is new and lovely, set back from the rest of the village. They proudly show me pineapple and banana trees in their garden. They teach me the Swahili words, “nanasi” for pineapple, “ndizi” for banana. Inside the room is open and airy, brightly lit by large windows. They offer me a seat and Nawawi fetches his older sister and his mother to come meet me. “Karibu, karibu,” they tell me shy and smiling, “Welcome.” None of the boys live in the house, it is reserved for Nawawi’s mother, father, and the two daughters, but they call it their home. The boys live in the village. Nawawi’s father built the house recently and they all are very proud of how nice it is. It is really lovely. They ask me if I would like to try their fruit. I nod, and soon have a huge plate of fresh pineapple and banana in front of me. I try to share with them, but they want me to eat it. It is delicious and I am so touched by their hospitality. I was worried when these boys approached me that they wanted something from me, but instead they have only given. It’s amazing and humbling. We all take photos together. When I leave it is hesitantly.
The boys tell me they’d like to see me again tomorrow. We arrange to meet on the beach around the same time. I am so happy to know I will see them again. “And the photos?” Nawawi asks me, “How can we see them?” I ask if they have an email address, and they say they will bring their father’s with them when they return tomorrow.
The next day we meet on the beach. They ask about Samantha (I’ve told them I’m in Zanzibar with a friend). I tell them she’s at the hotel, and they ask if they can meet her. We begin the walk down the beach together. They ask me more questions about America. They want to know if it’s nice, what life is like there. I tell them it is nice where I live and that I like it very much. I ask them if they like living in Zanzibar. “Yes,” Kassim tells me, “but it is a developing country and life is very hard.” I nod. These beautiful, gentle, intelligent boys…they deserve everything. I look at the sand and we keep walking.
Samantha joins us on the beach and we continue to get to know the three cousins. Kassim wants to be a doctor. Nawawi wants to be a teacher. Rajabu is the shyest and quietest one. He has a beautiful smile. They write down their names for me and give me their father’s address. I promise to send the photos. We sit in the sand and make lists of Swahili words. Nawawi is already quite a good teacher, as he explains things like plurals to us.
When we are saying our goodbyes, I am so sad to see them go. They speak to each other quietly in Swahili, then Nawawi (his English is the best), turns to me and says, “Most visitors do not want to talk to us, we try and they look away, but you are very polite people.” We smile and tell them that they are very polite too. “And generous,” I say. “Thank you so much for taking me to your house.” They ask for a photo with Sam before they leave. I promise again to send them the photos. I watch them walk away. And not for the first time, nor the last time, I am overwhelmed with love and admiration for the people of Zanzibar.
Photos (out of order, but I'm just stoked I could get them to post!): top: three cousins walking away after our second and last gathering; next: from left to right-- Rajabu, Kassim, Nawawi, in their home; next: one of the beach baby girlies I played with in the sand; next: Nawawi's little sister, my sand ball making comrade; next: me and Nawawi at his home; next: the three cousins in front of the house.
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