Zanzibar 88, Part One

In March 1988, Robert Philipson, working on a dissertation about an untranslated Swahili playwright, arrived in Zanzibar for a two-week intensive language course at the Swahili Institute, but the island had other lessons to teach. Within hours of landing in Stone Town, he found himself adopted by the baraza called "Jaws," a gathering of men who socialized in one of the public squares on a nightly basis. Very quickly he developed a special friendship with two of them: Haroub, the self-proclaimed Rasta who became an object of fascination, and Abou, the devout Muslim with a true heart. He also developed a friendship with Mwalimu Jecha, his language teacher at the Swahili Institute who put him through his linguistic paces four hours a day but also invited him into his home.

Philipson also discovered Zanzibar during Ramadan, when the island's rhythms shifted—restaurants closed during daylight; he ate surreptitiously in his rented house; and he was invited to elaborate futari, feasts that were both spiritual observances and expensive domestic obligations. 

Philipson's homosexuality, which he'd had to submerge while conducting research at the University of Dar es Salaam, flared up through his friendship with Haroub, where a mutual sexual tension simmered beneath the surface. The magic of Zanzibar revealed itself in episodes: an expedition to Prison Island, swimming in calm waters with Stone Town's yellowing houses rising against the sky, the exotic beauty of sunset over the Indian Ocean, and the realization that speaking Swahili allowed him not merely to visit but to inhabit a place secure enough in its own culture to weather history's depredations with grace and even humor.

And then . . . the sexual tension finally broke through.

Music:
"Bahati" — Shikamoo Jazz
"Culture Musical Club - 1 - LIVE at Afrikafestival Hertme" — Bi Kudude and the Culture Musical Club
"Jamba Bwana" — Them Mushrooms
"Malaika" — Fadhili William
"Muziki Asili Yake Wapi" — Remmy Ongala
"My Angel (Malaika)" — Harry Belafonte and Miriam Makeba
"Ramadan" — Hurairah and Rahma Tashtitiy
"Ramadan (Arabic-Malay/Bahasa Version)" — Mostafa Abo Rawash
"The Fisherman’s Life and Gratitude to the Sea" — Crejo Studio
"Three Little Birds" — Bob Marley

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:15

Zanzibar 88. Less than four hours after my arrival, I was sitting in a group of young Swahili men, high, playing dominoes. They gave me the treatment, throwing everything at me at once. They shot zanzabari synonyms for words in standard Swahili, the names of all the different tubers in their leaves, cracking jokes, reciting poetry. Nguo Ikochanoni, Sabuni Mikokoni, Huesi Kuifua, Bilamaji Yapatikana. Clothes are on the table, soap is in the hand, but you can't do the laundry when the water is on the lamb. My first walk about Stonetown at night plunged me back to memories of Mombasa, that same Swahili civilization, that same cosmopolitan mix of races, classes, styles of dress. The island feels safe and relaxed. I walked around loose, allowing myself to be caught on any barb of conversation. I ate squid and chips with a coco-colored man in his early thirties who guessed that I was in Zanzibar for two weeks to take language lessons at the Swahili Institute right on the money. Impressed by his ability, I strolled the intimate streets until they brought me to Jamhuri Gardens, a square that opens out on its western side to the Indian Ocean. There I chatted with two boys selling cassava chips, and there I met Harub and his Mombasan friend. He invited me to his place to get high. In spite of the circumstances, I wasn't paranoid. My instincts told me these guys were okay. Harub thinks of himself as a Rasta and expounded Rasta philosophy to me. Twenty-seven years old and something of a hunk, his attractiveness added spice to the evening. After talking for a bit, we went to his baraza called Jaws and played dominoes. Half a dozen young men in western dress, shirts with collars, slacks, and tennis shoes, gathered about a wide board perched on two cartons. One of the players, Neme, immediately saw that I was gay. You look like somebody from San Francisco, he said. I think Harub knows too. But homosexuality, the Swahili version, is accepted along the coast, and I immediately caught the difference between this relaxed, mocking acknowledgement and the stiff, disapproving silence of the Bantu inland culture. So I was drawn into the domino game where I did not know what I was doing. I didn't even realize that Harub was my partner. You don't know a thing, he said in disgust. I caught on quickly enough. The others helped and explained a bit of strategy. Part of the charm of the game is the banter that goes on around it and the panache with which the players slap down their tiles. A heavy rain put the game to an end, and we sat on the barraza, the stone benches in front of every Swahili home, watching the water pelt the little square where the group meets every night. During the day it serves as the cassava market, which gives it its name, Soko Muhogo. Eventually we dashed to a nearby tea house, but there was no tea left. Nonetheless, Bob Marley was singing, Every little thing is gonna be alright. And a general party atmosphere reigned. Harub was dancing and speeding around the room. There was a poster of Michael Jackson on the wall. Harub also had one of him in his apartment, and the boys mocked him as ange, the passive partner in a homosexual relationship. He looks like a woman, they said. Why are there pictures of him everywhere? I asked. He's a singer. Ah, the easy beauty of the exotic. An amazing sunset over the waters of the Indian Ocean. I went to Fordani Gardens on the island's edge to eat at the wooden stalls and watch the crowd in its Sunday finery. The sunset matched the occasion with its own display. A long, dark processional cloud striated the sky, and while the sun was behind it, the silhouette of the small offshore islands, the tiny triangle of a sailing dow, the rough line of the palm trees in the distance, all these were backlit by a luminous mixture of orange and shadow. The swirling crowd of Asians, Africans, and food vendors was scarcely less compelling. Women of all ages wore polyester dresses, and the black Swahili version of the Islamic veil called, in suggestive association, buibui spiders. One beautiful young woman sported a bibui with sheer see-through shoulders, very sexy. People knotted thickly around the food vendors, and what food? Not only the standard grilled meat and chicken, chips, corn, and roasted cassava, but squid and octopus, curries, tall columns of palm centers sliced horizontally for their hearts. I returned to the squid again and again, Swahili, Hindi, English, orange, black, and shadow, the sibilant murmur of the ocean on the retaining wall, and the silhouette of children playing on the dock, the carnival time and the realm of the senses. I returned to the Baraza last night to play dominoes. Out of last night's crew, only Abu was back. A small young man with a serious and attractive face. He presents himself as a devout Muslim and strikes me as the possessor of a true heart. After the game, we had tea together. He asked me if I were interested in going to a Tarab concert, and no sooner had I said yes than he led me quickly through the dark pedestrian streets. We paid twenty shillings apiece to enter the auditorium of a tumbled down public building where a band of eight musicians sent the wailing Arabic music out into the night. I was entranced. I was also Abu's guest. He wouldn't hear of my paying for anything. They bounced out of their surprise with some aplumb, however, and assigned me Abdullah Haji Jecha, who himself is interested in literature and poetry. I like him. He is kind and conscientious. His teaching won't be wildly original, but dealing in Swahili for four hours at a crack every morning will be greatly beneficial. When I met the director of the Swahili Institute, I asked him if the institute had any rooms for foreign students. He immediately offered me the director's house, currently empty, for 300 shillings a night, roughly a dollar at street rates. It is a Swahili-style house in Stonetown, furnished and dusty. The neighborhood is a constant hum of activity. Next door, a bakery clanks through the night. But the house itself is white, high, and cool, intimately nestled in a riot of alleys with a veranda off the bedroom, running water, and electricity. The muezen is calling the afternoon prayers. It's time for my first swim off the island. To look back towards the shore and see the old stone houses rise yellowing against the sky. Mosaic of green and blue. The late afternoon shone behind me, putting the light of this lant, and I swam calm. After a shower back home, I walk down to the Forthani Gardens. On the way, I stop at the Ottoman-style fort next to the House of Wonders, the Sultan's old palace. The interior of the fort has been transformed to a playing field for basketball, soccer, and an area for lifting weights. A nice mutation of repressive state power into free and open recreation for the people. And the people are so nice here, it almost takes me aback. All are greeted and expected to return those greetings. As I walked through Stone Town, intimate alleyways and sign of the night, I was hailed by salutations from women, children, youths, and wise, old folks. This morning's lesson was a good mixture of classroom work and our first outing. We went to the outdoor market on Darajani Street to look at the Magina inscriptions, or literally names, on the kangas, the cloth that women turn into blouses, skirts, and dresses. They are often quite elliptical, and Jaja had to explain many of them to me over sweet tea and beignets. Ivumaiu Haidumu, the drum which beats loudly, doesn't last long. Maskini Hanashaori, the poor man, has no choice. Mtaka Chamvugani Shaoti Ainami. He who wants what is under the bed has to stoop for it. And my favorite, Nimeona Mengi, Sigutiki. I've seen a lot. It doesn't faze me. The pace is hard. There is so much to do with my time that it's hard not to overdo. The days pass in an unending stream of places, people, walks through Stone Town. Yesterday I ran from eight in the morning to eleven at night without pause. And so half my stay has passed, half flown. I've broken a barrier with Kiswahili. I can discuss things now and hold a conversation without fear. The people here have been wonderful about repeating themselves, correcting me, and pitching their language to my level. The boys at the Baraza. There are three now with whom I have established a special relationship. Harub is the one who turns me on the most in both senses. We get high every time we meet. He's very male-oriented, into exercise, and with all a sweet man. Abu works for the city government, probably one of the better educated men of the Baraza. A serious Muslim, he's another fine fellow, intelligent and sincere. Both Harub and Abu are of Bantu stock. Sabri, an electrician whose family owns one of the movie houses in town, has more Arab blood in him. He sent his wife to Dubai where he has family. In the evening, he rides around town with his little boy on his bike. All of these men are bachelors, none have visible girlfriends. The warmth they show me may or may not have sexual undercurrents. I just can't tell. I take things as they come or don't come. I had my last good restaurant meal last night. Squid Curry at Camlis Restaurant. The good local restaurants, Camlis and Algebrez, with its vibrant biryani, are closing down for Ramadan, and of course, nothing will be open during the day. The rainy season here is serious. Every day it rains. The streets of Stonetown become a mess. People just go about their business. Worse than the rain, however, is the aftermath when the sun comes out. The steam rises off the streets wet and heavy. The whole island feels like a steam bath. Tonight the sky was black with clouds, as the sun had just recently set. Suddenly there was a tremendous commotion among the Sunday crowd. Children began running toward the water. I asked what was going on and was told that the new moon had been sighted. Five minutes later, three cannon shots rent the air. Once more the children screamed and ran. The holy month of Ramadan had begun. The refreshment stalls stand empty or remain folded in upon themselves. Restaurants and tea houses are shut up during the day. Coffee cellars disappear and no one eats or drinks in public. The more devout believe themselves forbidden to swallow their own saliva. People go about their business without the social lubricant that food and drink provide. I missed my mid-morning tea with Jecha today. I was buying pomelos, a kind of Asian grapefruit, in the market this afternoon, and I asked the vendor how long they would last. Watakubali kuka sikun ni autano, he replied. They will agree to sit for four or five days. I was charmed. Zanzibar, African general, has restored the happiness I knew as a youth through the simple state of hanging out with friends. In this case, my new friends from the Baraza. Abu was hit with tonsillitis a few days ago, so I've been visiting him while he convalesces. Harub, who is sitting across from me as I write this, has turned out to be a genuinely nice guy, in spite of my first impression of him, as a fast liver. He says he prays four times a day. And yesterday he turned up at the Baraza in Kofiya and Kansu. With both Abu and Harub, I have formed a friendship that has sprung up through the medium of Swahili. This is when a language becomes a part of my interior life. Ramadan. It is 1020 p.m. Children are singing and beating on anything they can find to wake people up for their second meal, the Daku. They are obviously enjoying the racket they're allowed to make, though they're more of a nuisance than a help. I tell people I'm fasting just to keep up the illusion of solidarity. But I've continued to eat, though less than usual, and only in private. Tonight, my teacher Jecha invited me to his futari, the first meal after the fast. It's a Swahili smorgasport and absolutely delicious. Jecha lives fairly far from Stone Town in a cinder block house with no water or electricity. We ate traditionally, sitting on a mat by the miserly light of a small kerosene lamp. The food was served on a large round tray covered by a plated cone. We began with a sweet glass of coconut milk, a drink particularly pleasing to God, says Mualimu Jecha. Then the cone came off and we dove in. Cinnamon bread, fried plantain, tombi, sweet vermicelli with cardamom. A sugary deep-fried dough cooked in syrup, beef, fish, and uji, thin cord porridge to drink. A sweet meal in all senses. Jecha enjoyed playing the host and guiding me through the meal. He too is sweet. His wife is fat. They have four children. Amazingly enough, she has to produce a futari every night of Ramadan. At the end of the month, husbands are morally obligated to give their wives a new kanga for the festival Id al-Fitir, which marks the end of the holiday. They also have to provide new clothes for their children. What with the lavishness and expense of the nightly futari, Ramadan turns out to be an expensive proposition. The irony is that the fasting is meant to remind the faithful of the suffering of the poor. The Islamic version of Christmas, where Americans lavish gifts upon one another to commemorate the birth of Christ to his impoverished parents. When I dropped a hint of Harub at the Baraza that I wanted to be invited to a futari, he immediately picked up on it. And so I found myself at a second feast tonight. Harub eats his futari at his mother's house along with his elder brother Waquil. The meal there was as varied and savory as at Jecha's, but with a slightly different mix of foods. The men, supping by themselves, ate their fill. Harub and I carried on a conversation, but Waquil said not a word. Half his face had been disfigured by an accident involving lying. He may be shy around strangers or uncomfortable with Wazungu, but white folks. Haroub was his usual effusive self, however, and I felt at ease and welcomed. We spent the rest of the evening visiting Abu, who had been recovering steadily from his tonsillitis and playing dominoes at the Baraza. Since Thursday was to be my last day in Zanzibar, I had asked Harub to arrange for a boat out to Prison Island, so named for the function it once held in the past. Earlier in the afternoon, I went over to Africa House, a tourist hotel, and scrounged up some newly arrived folks to join us. Still marinating in Zanzibar's magical ambience, an island that delivers on the promise of its Siceran syllables. Perhaps the limited landmass of the place would eventually fall, but Zanzibar, Unguja, the Spice Islands has wedged a niche in my heart, all of which was enhanced by the underlying eroticism finally coming to the surface. Harub here was the principal fantasy figure. Harub's best feature outside of his character is his body, compact and tight. He's not the mesomorphic specimen of the American gay ideal, but still a hunk in his own way, as he is well aware. His casual grooming can hide the attractiveness of his face, otherwise compelling in its quicksilver energy. But when he trimmed his beard and combed his hair for Ramadan, I was pleasurably shocked by how handsome he was. From the beginning there was a strong sexual current between us, but I am used to dwelling in a state of semi-suppressed excitement here. The Bantu culture of the mainland is intolerant of homosexuality, and I have strategically retreated to the closet, not easy for a healthy man who's been out for a dozen years, so as not to jeopardize my research at the university. In Zanzibar, I was away from my university associates and had my own place. But though I found several of the boys at the Baraza enticing, any attempt at my part on seduction would have seemed, at the very least, a breach of decorum. Besides, I had other things to do. Harub and I kept running into one another, however, and we developed a special friendship. The expedition to prison island was a futati of the senses. It started inauspiciously as a shower drenched us on the way out, but the sun asserted its dominion definitively in the early afternoon, and we enjoyed a clear and peaceful day from then on. The couple I had invited to join us, Dorothy and John Mia, turned out to be hip and fascinating. John, a visual artist living in Brooklyn, possessed a great character, sense of humor, aesthetic sense, and a bag of stories. Dorothy was subdued, mildly ill, and John did most of the talking. His paternal grandfather was Japanese, and he spent two years in Japan learning the language and culture. A tall, handsome man in his late twenties, John doesn't look particularly Japanese except for his black and glossy hair. He found Japanese culture, while extraordinary in its aesthetic sensibility, to be clothed and xenophobic. When people around him realized that here was a Westerner who could understand what they were saying, they became uncomfortable and even angry. In the meantime, I was having my own intense cross-cultural experience with Haru, but even though he was fasting, Haru decided to go swimming with us, an infraction of the rules, and he was beautiful in his bathing suit. We basically flirted in a low-keyed fashion the rest of the afternoon, but he acted enticingly, and I let myself be enticed. Some of the dynamics translated into straight male erotics, wrestling and horseplay in the ocean, follow the leader games. Did I dare dive off a high platform into shallow water? Twice, in moderate physical activity. I kept my end up, although Harub is younger and far stronger than I. We both enjoyed his exhibitionism, and I believe he was impressed by my swimming ability and my willingness to play his games. Even though Harub was acting like a tease, he was at the same time thoroughly Muslim. He wouldn't smoke grass with John and me, although he did after fasting hours. He performed three prayers while we were on the island, and he brought a religious pamphlet written in Arabic, which he read on the beach looking very picturesque in his red wrapper. The island, now deserted, offered a peaceful refuge of palm trees, beach, and a few giant turtles making their home among the ruined buildings. The day turned brilliantly clear after the noonstorm, and Zanzibar spread out in the distance across the expanse of water with its occasional triangle of sails like a necklace of rubbed-down wooden ivory. The ride back to Stonetown was a movie in itself. As we approached, I couldn't resist standing up, balancing myself by planting my legs on either side of the motorized Ngalawa. A young boy had put himself in a similar position on the prow. Seeing us in our poses, John murmured, the king and the queen. I trust the pun was unintended, I replied, and John blushed. That night, Haroub came to my house dressed in castro fashion, tight jeans, an olive green military shirt open to the belly button, and a key ring clipped to the belt loop and tucked in the back pocket. I decided to bring the issue to a head before we parted. I was leaving the next day anyway. I let him know that I wanted him and put on some mild moves. We hugged and kissed on the mouth, going pretty far for a straight man, but I didn't push the issue any further. He mimed and kneeing me in the groin, and I immediately backed off. Then came a great burst of English and Swahili. In my excited state I didn't get all he said, but some of it was you're a man and I'm a man, I live alone with my parents. But the two sentences that stood out like fire were I like you, I trust you. So I let him go. He asked if I would come back to Zanzibar, and I promised I would. As he descended the stairs, he chuckled softly, and so did I. Some kind of pact had been made.

SPEAKER_04 24:25

Malika Nakupena Malika Malika Nakupena Malika Engakuma Engumo.