Safari Junket

WeightlessBicycle-frames and boxes scrape like Velcro, dragged invisibly over sand. The Tanzanian sailors that had dozed around me are gone. I sit erect searching for my bearing; fingers explore the compact mud beneath me, the front stoop of an African fishing hut. A man approaches, the scent of hearth-smoke and sea-sweat, tall figure blotting out the stars.

“Come.”

His voice rumbles deep and soft, and I follow it, heaving my pack onto my shoulders. I creep towards the expanse of beach, afraid of the sighing static beyond. As if this land were the periphery, when I reach that whisper I’ll be weightless off the edge of the world.

The sailor strides forward, unflinching; it is a surprise when the sea laps up bare feet. Saltwater is warm, silt sucking on my heels and squishing between toes. The pack weighs me down. I glare ahead at the sea, searching for a boat or tangible objective. There is only night, no horizon to differentiate dark sky from dark water.

The water creeps higher, warm, seductive, inevitable. How far would we have to go? Is it a trick? I falter when the sea hits mid-thigh.

“Do not be fear.”

The sailor beckons me forward, lifts the pack from my shoulders. He balances the weight on his head, offering his arm. I clasp his elbow; the man is solid in the moving world. The clinch of fear eases from my body, slowly I see more than darkness. Our progression on the underwater terrain disturbs phosphorescent microbes, faerie specks I’d heard of but never before seen. Tiny lights swirl around our legs, life awakened by the life in us. I am suspended between the realms of stars above and below.

A looming vessel alters the ripple-rhythm tide. The silhouette befalls the ancient form of an Arabian spice dhow. Batting at splintered planks, I catch a thick bristly rope and claw aboard. The boat is only essentials, constructed like two hands cupped around a mast.

Other forms swell from the land. Sailors stride forth, hauling umbrellas, grosgrain sacks, machetes. Someone lifts a swaddled doll, a meter tall, leans it next to my knees. Instinctively I embrace the wobbly figure. The girl looks up – blinks. A sailor touches my shoulder.

“Take care of dada (sister).”

She wiggles within the hull, turning to stare at the moon-skinned Mzungu (stranger). I stare back at two starlit saucers, a lower lip chewed purple. Her swaddling falls to the floor; I reach down, shake the cloth. The girl fixes the kanga as a shawl, smoothing it precious.

The mast is secured. Sails, when full, become the wings of a dragon—the ancient skin stretched between fingers of the Pterodactyl. Sailors sit around the edge of the dhow, encircling the freight, encompassing us. The child cuddles into the cargo. I wonder if where we’re going will be home.

“Dada...” She lays her drowsy cheek on my hand. The sail captures the wind and we drift weightless on the night towards Pemba.