Back again, with hopefully better luck internet-wise.
Where was I? Ah, Mombasa. Unstoppable forces. We saw the immense Fort Jesus, built in the 1500s, conquered by seemingly every empire since. Each of the women bought bui bui, the traditional muslim cover-wear, and kangas, a colorfull alternative to the standard black (a perplexing color choice for the hottest place in the world). The four men bought kanzu and kofia, traditional muslim wear for men, which, unlike the well recepted kangas, made us really just look like Ultratourists; instead of allowing us to fit in, stuck us out like 4 non-muslim sore thumbs.
After two days in Mombasa, with, let me just say it again, the coolest 80 year old man on the 3rd rock, we travelled to the remote island of Pemba.
A 3 hr motor boat ride on high seas and a still uneasy stomach region didn't give my initial impression of the place the get go it needed for such a extreme change. The tiny island, one of two that makes up Zanzibar, is mainly farming lands, or straight up uninhabited. The people live in mud huts, which sound terrible, but is really no worse that a spanish mesa or a cabin for that matter. That said, the furthest extent of westernization found here is their clothing, and even then only half of them wear what we call "modern garb". I was given to my host brother Khamis in the village of Tumbe, immediately cast away from the women sitting, trying and failing to communicate. This was something you notice quickly as a man in a muslim culture: the idea of men and women intertwined is seemingly unheard of. Men are blue, women are red: no purpling allowed. It's sad to see at first, quite honestly, but once you realize that your American values and ideals on life are similarly, completely foreign and sad likewise, you are humbled by their rocksteadiness.
For the women, on a whole, it seemed the Tumbe experience was the most difficult yet. Touching of faces, rummaging of private belongings, and parading of wazungu seemed to be on the local's agenda. The men on the other hand had a wonderful time: soccer with the local boys, hangin' out, waited on day and night. It's a lesson I learned in Riruta not to try to help with female-role jobs, much less in the crevace of gender divide called Islam.
The next day, we met at a sea weed farm. A beach that looked like it was straight out of a post card was our port to a rickety hand carved boat, in which all 14 students and 2 captains dragged us to the shallow underwater shamba. It was surreal to say the least.
Now I'm nestled in a Zanzibari hotel. Tulitembeatembea, or we walked around for a while, surrounded, for the very first time in a month, hoards of white people. We felt out of place, like fakes, meandering through the "Authentic Maasai Staff!" Signed streets, beautiful as they may be. Stonetown in one of the oldest cities in E. Africa, and is now world reknown as a tourist destination, something we were initially excited for, but now, after 3 African families, we felt like we knew something they didn't; cocky I know, but truth all the same.
Trying to find a singular identity for Islamic Swahili coast is impossible. Islam is a maliable, adjustable religion, regardless of what those headlines say. If a culture doesn't allow for lavish muslim ammenities, it just focuses more intently on a certain element. The people of Tumbe weren't as fortunate as those in Mombasa to attend brilliantly decorated mosques or travel to Mecca, so instead, they take the covering of women and their domestic roles much more seriously. The familily aspect is much more prevalent because, well, their on an island...where are the men gonna go?
Safari in a week
More to come,
Tim
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