Zanzibar, Tanzania - Trying to be a Nice Guy
As I walk through the maze of whitewashed buildings I think back to how wary I was of potential problems before arriving here. After all, the U.S. State Department had published stern advisories warning about traveling in East Africa during the time of my visit.
The government warnings had cited robbery, muggings, and assorted scams as things to be worried about if you traveled to the region. Now though, the strongest feeling I have is embarrassment as I walk past the now familiar group of local "Stone Towners" and our eyes meet in a friendly greeting. I feel comfortable and safe.
Things can change quickly though and there is no anonymity on these ox cart-wide walled streets. A few minutes ago there was the joy of discovery as I wandered past a group of children playing with a soccer ball, skipping and dancing down the street. Now though, I feel a sense of urgency and search for something that looks familiar, some indication of where I am besides lost.
As the street widens momentarily, I notice that the shadows falling on the Arabic building across the street are beginning to lengthen. It is getting late and I pick up the pace so that I can find my way back before the sun sets. Eventually, I begin to see an increasing number of white faces and more and more stores cluttered with integrally carved teak picture frames, Masai paintings, and Zanzibar spices, all sure signs that I am approaching the more touristy section of town. Moments later I arrive safely at mzungu (tourist) ground zero, surrounded by internet cafes and street vendors selling sunglasses.
It barely takes two minutes to pass through the main tourist area and become the only tourist amidst a mix of people originating from Tanzania, India, and Oman which make up the majority of the population of Zanzibar. Most wear the traditional Muslim buibui garb with women in headdress and long skirts.
During my visit, many are observing Ramadan by fasting during the daylight hours until the call to prayer initiates a migration of men to the mosque and women to the kitchen to start preparing the evening meal. Under amber skies framed in coral colored houses and mosques, the call to pray reverberates off of the twisting walls of Stone Town. In the weak light after sunset, on the unlit narrow streets, the exodus of people heading home or to pray is transformed into a never ending parade of shuffling buibui silhouettes.
As I walk back to my hotel two locals exit a house and we exchange greetings. In response to my greeting, one of them responds, "How am I? Not good. I just tried to get money for a tetanus shot and the person didn't show up."
He shows me multiple cuts that weave across his stomach and chest in random patterns. "What happened?" I mumbled uncertain whether I really wanted to know the answer.
"Dhese people think you shake a mzungu and money falls down like leaves from da te. Me, I think dhis bad! Me and dhis bad for you." His voice starts to quiver and his eyes stare off as if he is reliving the experience. "You work hard for money to get here, I tell you, you don't want a camera robbed."
"You were cut saving a tourist from a robbery?" I asked with hands at my side guarding my own pockets.
"Yeh mon, yesterday and now de guy no show and give me da money for tetanus. Me, I tell you!" he said waving his hand in exclamation.
As I listened I noticed some of his cuts looked more than a day old yet they were deep and his shirt was still stained with blood. "How much is a tetanus shot? You certainly need one," I say in a long hesitant mumble. After being convinced I could watch him get the shot at the local clinic I agreed to help.
Along the walk Mohammed tells me about how he shows kindness to others so kindness will come back to him and how important it is that Zanzibarians don't treat muzungus as just objects with money. "The clinic is closed for the day, but there is another one outside of town," Mohammed says when we arrive at where he says the clinic was.
In my mind I review the multitude of sales pitches thrown my way by street merchants persistently trying to sell me anything from jewelry to furniture. There is no evidence of a clinic.
"What to do? You can come taxi me out of town but dhey charge ten. If I go dhey charge five." At this point reality hits me and I cringe with the realization that what started out as a genuine attempt to help someone in need has turned out to be yet another scam.
Contact Ben
