Call me Laila

Hello all! Thankfully it seems Zanzibar will not be getting the terrible power outage I was previously warned of. Instead, the power gets cut every night for about 1 1/2 hours, usually around 8 or 9pm, which ends up being rather pleasant actually because we sit and chat by candlelight. So here I am, able to share my adventures with you all once again.

You may be wondering about the title of this post. Well, I have managed to pick up yet another set of names here. The list just keeps growing and growing! In Kenya, my last name was the biggest problem, so I stopped bothering to use Keusch and switched to using my middle name. Then I was given my Kenyan name, Chepkemboi, so I have been using that instead of Braden. My first name has presented minimal problems, though the way most Kenyans have interpreted it, it sounds almost exactly like the Swahili way to say 'Helen'. So as a result many people think that is my American name. When I arrived here in Zanzibar, however, pronouncing Alana seemed to be even more trouble than usual, so Mama Rahma decided my Muslim name would be either Layla or Laila. I chose the latter, and have since become known as Laila (pronounced LIE-LUH), or as George has started calling me, Leela.

So, I have a confession to make: I have become absolutely addicted to Swahili movies. You can rent them for Tsh500 (about 35 cents) at these little shops all over town. They're overdramatic in a soap opera kind of way, so they're a total guilty pleasure, but I justify watching them because they are spoken entirely in Swahili with minimal English subtitles. There's one actor I love in particular who I call 'shiny shirt' because in the first movie I saw, he was always wearing a bright satin button-up, which I couldn't help but mock a bit. The gaudy outfits, amateur acting, and terrible directing & sound production make for an altogether enjoyable evening of trashy cinema. And seriously, it's crucially important that I know how to say "oh my husband, you have betrayed me for the last time! I found those condoms in your pocket!" in Swahili.

I have been trying to spend some time not just with my host family, but also with my neighbor Trisia's family, because it is good form here to visit one's neighbors. Also, they're just plain delightful (though I think Mama Rahma's cooking is better!). Trisia's mama, Mama Shadia, has 5 or 6 kids (it's difficult to keep track) ranging from 1 1/2 years to about 14 or 15. I am madly in love with the baby because she has already learned to call me Auntie Laila and runs to hug my knees when I show up. The other day I was invited over for lunch, which we ate with our hands (no small feat with rice!), sitting on the floor, watching Fear Factor with terrible reception. Then I was kidnapped, before I could walk the 15 feet to my own house, to go visit Mama Shadia's mom. We drove the short distance to her house because we were bringing a large gas canister for the stove, which was haphazardly rolling around in the trunk. With every pothole we hit, I closed my eyes in fear of what I assumed was our impending death in a fiery explosion. When we arrived, introductions were made as the baby ran around laughing, and then Trisia and I spent the rest of the visit watching The Ugly Truth. I get the sense it is important that we, as guests, be introduced to everybody, but after introductions, Trisia and I are usually left to occupy ourselves because we are largely unable to follow the fast-moving Swahili conversations that ensue. It's definitely not the culture here to worry about including someone in your conversation. When it's just me, I usually sit watching people's facial expressions and movements, and trying to pick up on cultural expressions of surprise, agreement, disgust, etc.

Trisia's family decided to take us out for an afternoon of Zanzibari fun this weekend, so they arranged for a boat to take us to nearby Prison Island. It's one of the many small islands just off the western coast of Unguja. (FYI: The name Zanzibar actually refers to the archipelago of Zanzibar, which includes the big island where I'm living, Unguja, and the much less developed neighboring island of Pemba.) Prison Island was initially used by merchants to detain slaves, but later was developed by the British to serve as a prison in 1890. It was never used as a prison though, and instead became a quarantine station for any vessels that had experienced infectious disease outbreaks during their voyage. As we walked around the island, we were able to see some of the original buildings, which still have iron shackles in the floors from the slave trade and small rooms that housed sailors during their quarantine, and the animals that live in the sanctuary there. The island has been inhabited by a group of peacocks, some teeny little antelope-like creatures that the kids called Paa, and giant tortoises imported from the Seychelles in the 19th century. There's a small beach where you first land with crystalline turquoise water that Trisia and I played in with the kids most of the afternoon, and the family had brought a traditional island picnic including some homemade Arabic sweets, shokeshoke fruit, baobab tree candies (which dye your tongue and teeth hot pink for a while), and oddly enough, Arabic coffee.

Unbelievably, I have only 3 weeks remaining here before I return to Kenya. I plan to make the most of it, and hopefully I will have many more fun stories to share in the near future. If you have not yet been emailed the link to see my pictures (it takes way too long to try and upload them here), just shoot me an email and I'll forward the link to you. It has been updated today with more! Until next time loves! <3