Lost

They call them streets, but they`re more like winding allies where the connecting structure leads you to believe there’s no way out. Darting scooters that sound like their engine is about to fail, old looking bicycles covered in rust, and motorbikes almost always occupying more than one person provide the transportation in these so called streets. I look to my loved one for reassurance and ask “are you scared?” A question you would never hear from a local, or from a returning tourist for that matter, but after turning left and right about as many times as you would looking for a dime in a corn field, you have to ask a question of that calibre.

We have been walking for hours amongst stucco buildings so close together it’s possible to touch both sides if you stretched your arms out. The architecture has been immutable with dull white weathered fortress walls containing water stains that resemble dirt; they are so high that the illusion of being indoors with the sun peeking through skylights is forever prominent. We walk under protruding tin awnings to escape the blazing sun and our necessary long pants and long sleeve shirts stick to our skin like wet newspaper on pavement. We have passed the same Islamic writing on the wall so many times I feel I know what it means. There’s another question looming, but it’s completely rhetorical; are we lost?

With the unequivocal aroma of cloves and the spicy scent of turmeric falling out of curry we continue to relish in being perplexed as we navigate through these narrow lanes. Eating oodles of cashews bought from one of the many street vendors engulfed into the walls, we listen to the cheerful voices of locals who tell us they are Freddie Mercury’s distant cousin or good friend.

The creases around mysterious eyes through burqas tells us these women are smiling back at our gestures and our efforts of respect for a population 95% Muslim has been a success. Five times a day a boisterous alarm rings out resembling a call of emergency to evacuate the island, but in fact it is doing the job of a muezzin to indicate it’s time for prayer. The allies fall quiet as the locals fill the abundant mosques or their personal house of worship during this ritual.

The perception of knowing this use to be the biggest slave market in Africa gives you a guilty feeling of being present. The disgusting act of slavery now seems unfathomable amongst the noble ambience of the people here. As the sun begins to sink into the Indian Ocean the answer to my question becomes obvious; the streets of Stone Town are an intimidating maze of culture, but they are definitely not scary.