Life after trauma: The suspicious carjacker

Last night I left work late and made my way to the bus stop with a friend.


We got into a bus that was filling up fast, but finding no joint vacant seats, our plans to seat together were foiled. I sat at the rear of the bus, in the second-last seat, next to a slender guy in a charcoal-gray shirt and gray pinstripe pants with a swelling at the crotch.


The jovial men on the back seat were chatting animatedly, and deciding that they didn’t “look suspicious”, I turned to the pair of seats on my right. On the aisle seat was a petite girl, while the window seat was filled by a heavy, pot-bellied man. They exchanged knowing glances furtively, looking forward to the night ahead.


Satisfied that they also didn’t “look suspicious” I relaxed some more and sunk back into my seat. The bus had tinted windows and a luggage carrier above the seats that made it too dark for my liking, but the blue light from a long, thin bulb on the right side of the bus offered some comfort. But not enough to forget the guy in the seat beside me.


I trained my eyes on my seatmate. He was breathing suspiciously. Short, fast breaths, as if his heart was racing with excitement and his veins flowing with a rush of adrenaline fueled by what he was about to do. He formed a mean, angry scowl that forecast ill-intent. Was he angry at the world and itching to avenge himself for all the ways it had failed him? His eyes darted back and forth and in and out of the bus.


I was overcome with a sense of foreboding, and it didn’t help that the bus was hurtling down the clear road, as if on steroids. I suspected that it was fueled by the muzzle of a gun sticking into the driver’s side, held by the man sitting next to him in the cabin – my seatmate’s accomplice.


Resigned to my fate, I wished that I had carried pepper spray. Then I decided that whatever my seatmate was up to, he would not catch me unawares. I would stare at him brazenly, taking in his entire being and imprinting his photograph in the fore of my mind. I wanted him to know that I knew what he was up to. My eyes followed his every move. I watched him clench and unclench his fidgety hands, noticed when he clasped and unclasped them, and took in the folding and unfolding. Then he slid his right hand down and reached into his pocket.


Was this it?


I watched intently as he drew out a thin, dark object.


It was a phone! A mulika mwizi with a neon green backlight.


I sighed.


He looked at the screen and typed something on the keypad.


Now, this must be it. It was time and he was sending a signal to his accomplices.


My friend alighted.


I was tempted to alight with her and take a taxi home, but I wasn’t sure I would get one … and the price would probably be inflated. I thought of moving seats. Moving to the empty seat that my friend had just vacated, but as I toyed with my thoughts, someone else sunk into it. I was stuck.


The bus was still hurtling down the road suspiciously. We flew past two black spots and then a police road block. Maybe there was nothing there. Maybe I was just being paranoid.


I wanted to fish out my phone, to send a message to the world that I was scared. But that might work against me. It was best not to use it. I remembered the valuables in my bag and tried to figure out how I would hide them.


I thought about how my seatmate would brandish a gun and ask for my bag. How I would hesitate to buy time, enough time to hide my treasures. But where would I hide them? Maybe I could talk some sense into him ...


If anything happened, this guy would kill me. I had studied him too closely, so blatantly. I imagined him sinking a knife into my neck; the blood gushing out as I reached for his neck to strangle him in return.


I had nowhere to hide. A wistful smile formed on my lips. I should have alighted when I first noticed he was suspicious. I should have alighted with my friend. I should have taken a cab home. But here I was. Maybe I was being paranoid, but who could blame me?


Suddenly he moved. I made way for him to pass.


Was this it? Was he finally taking position before he struck?


I watched as he made his way to the front of the bus. I was ready. I had been waiting for this moment all night.


The bus stopped.


He alighted, throwing me off with this twist in the tale.


As the bus swung back onto the road, I looked at my (former) seatmate one last time, glad that he was now outside. He still had that mean scowl on his face, angry at the world and full of ill-intent.


It didn’t matter anymore. I was home and my imaginary carjacker was gone.

What happened in Zanzibar?

Zanzibar at last: Part three

Catch up with Zanzibar at last: Part one here

And read part two: Foray into the Zanzibar night here

And then catch up with the final part about what exactly went down in Unguja, from the photos I managed to salvage from the trip, in the slideshow below. Enjoy! (Not visible on blogger for mobile)

Foray into the Zanzibar night

Zanzibar at last: Part 2

Read part one here

The best time to experience Zanzibar, at least during Ramadhan, is in the evening. The days may be dull, humid and dreary, but the island comes alive at night, more so at Forodhani. I discovered this three hours after setting foot on the island; by then I had parted ways with my German companions, found my host, Ahmed and cruised around the island in his car; met Muumin, a local tour guide who would be showing me around during my stay, gone to my room, freshened up and napped and was now ready to get a proper taste of the island.

 My initial impression on arrival was that, Unguja looked nothing close to what I had dreamt. I had always imagined that it looked somewhat like Lamu, with narrow sandy streets and buildings that took one back in time to the days of the sultans. What I saw instead were streets that could have been anywhere – the exotic feel I had expected was going to be a mirage, but I could live with that. What I did like about it was the hospitality and friendly brotherliness of everyone I met - it all made me feel at home. I also liked that my room had a balcony and window overlooking a neglected building – not much of a view, but the few palm trees towering over it and the houses surrounding it built in the traditional coastal design gave me a sense of being on an island.

  Muumin came to get me at 7pm after iftar (breaking the fast). We would be walking to Forodhani Gardens, the nightly centre of attraction, through the city centre and the labyrinth of narrow roads through Stone Town and into the food market at Forodhani. Earlier, that evening as we docked at the harbour, there had not been much activity going on at the gardens, but after sunset, the area came alive with a bustle of activity from food vendors, tourists and locals swarming the gardens to get a piece of the action. The warm orange light from the gas lanterns and sizzling sounds off the grills added to the lively atmosphere that interspersed beautifully with a breeze from the sea. Muumin and I shuffled around the stalls, he making small talk with the food vendors, while I sampled what I would have for dinner. I settled on a Zanzibar pizza, freshly-squeezed sugarcane juice and a bunch of deliciously red Shokishoki –an indigenous fruit from the lychee family, with a tasty white pulp, for dessert.

 I watched as the vendor rolled out the dough, put it on the grill and made the pocket-size pizza. Then I sat on the edge of the sea wall overlooking the waterfront and savoured my meal of choice. This sure had to be a people-watcher's paradise, I thought, as I took in the splishing and splashing of the young men and boys diving and swimming in the cool waters below. Muumin explained that in keeping with abstaining from worldly pleasures during the holy month of Ramadhan, people could only take a dip at night. He suggested that I also cool off in the sea and made as if to give me a mock push over the edge and into the waters below, as I squealed in frightened laughter. 

After dinner, and as we made our way through Stone Town again Muumin regaled me with tales of Zanzibar and why the young men were fed up and wanted independence from Tanganyika. He left me after making sure that I was safely inside my room, and tired I curled right into bed and drifted to sleep. Muumin would be back in the morning to take me sight-seeing around the main Island.

Part 3 coming soon.

 

Zanzibar at last: Part one

I hadn't planned to go to Zanzibar last year. I knew it was one of the places I wanted to check off my bucket list in the shortest time possible, but I had thought that would happen months later. However, life is spontaneous and when the idea sneaked into my mind I jumped on and sailed with it.

I went to Zanzibar, at the worst time - during Ramadhan. At that time everything is closed down in the predominantly Muslim island as most prefer to show their piety by keeping life as simple and as entertainment-free as they can. It is all about holiness and fasting.

I was in Dar all this time trying to pick out the best day to travel, and then suddenly my host's friend - a German volunteer worker in Tanzania - came for dinner with her family and they quipped that they were headed to Unguja (Zanzibar's main island) the next day. My host subtly tugged at my knee and whispered that I should tag along with them as it would be more fun than traveling alone, and I thought, why not? The Germans equally welcomed the idea and we agreed to meet at their hotel in the morning, and leave for the harbour together. My host had warned me against taking any other ferry save for MV Kilimanjaro, as it was the most modern, and with fresh memory of a ferry that had capsized just a few weeks before, I was wary to heed her advice to the letter to avoid a similar fate. However, that was easier said than done because as soon as we got to the harbour, we were ambushed by touts, who tugged at our luggage at every side and yelled that they would help us buy ferry tickets. Since Niki - the volunteer, had been to Zanzibar before and was technically a Dar resident, she told me she could handle it and went ahead to talk to a man whom she claimed to have consulted during her previous trips. The man insisted that his was the last ferry to Zanzibar that day and booked VIP tickets for us at a cost of Tsh27000. We made our way to the waiting area, with a view of the ocean and I was shocked to see an MV Kilimanjaro docked at the harbour; I realised we had been duped.

Our waiting area was a basic, unlit and overcrowded, warehouse with concrete benches and non-nondescript walls; on the opposite side the Kilimanjaro waiting area was well lit, with painted walls, nice lounge seats and uniformed attendants. I cursed under my breath, knowing that I had paid much more to travel in a ram-shackled ferry that could come apart and sink with my dreams of Zanzibar any minute. I swallowed hard as I boarded the creaky and rusted ferry and though we had paid for VIP seats, there was no such thing. We went atop the ferry and were welcomed by hawkers selling all sorts of wares. I bought cashew nuts and bottled water. There was no sinking back into the wooden benches so I plopped my bag and butt on the wood, before shuffling to the edge of the vessel to stare into the sea.  For the next three hours I drifted between drowsiness, staring, chit-chat with my German companions and a conversation with a prying stranger; but before I could complain of boredom, we docked at the island.

It was four O'clock and the last ferries back to Dar were just about to depart. I took a pic of my German friends against the background of the ferry and bid them goodbye as they headed to their hotel in the Old Town; and I called my host and waited for him to pick me up just outside the harbour. Despite all my earlier disappointments, I was happy to be at Zanzibar at last.

Zanzibar at last:Part two