Thursday, March 20, 2008

Watching the sunrise

It didnt seem like a good plan to wake up at 5:45 am the next day, considering I had only been sleeping 3-4 hours a night for a week since arriving in Africa; my brain had become sluggish and even Mamma V noticed I wasnt making sense the night before. We only had 3 days to enjoy the island, certainly wouldn't be as fun going to see the monkeys in the forest if I was fatigued, but I knew I would regret not catching the sunrise. It was getting light outside as I stepped out. The narrow roads were empty except for a few pedestrians. I walked past the library with the giant clock, the small shops which were shuttered; stepped aside for a dala dala passing by - it zipped past about a foot and a half from me, only half full. They didnt sardine people as was customary in Dar.


As the Africa hotel approached, I made a left and gasped inside at the sudden blueness of the ocean. There were no tourists, no vendors, for a second I wondered if it was safe for me to be alone.


As I approached the 2 foot hight wall, the beach spread out below, perfectly white. There were a few fisherman bobbing in their boats which were still anchored at shore. I sat down on the edge of the wall with my feet dangling. Gradually they started to push their boats out, some turned to look at me, the only other person apart from them.


The Africa hotel's patio was quiet, chairs turned upside down. Last night it was packed with tourists. The sky started getting lighter as the sun rose, but I couldnt see it properly because Iwas facing West. A man came up the beach with a tray of sunglasses, he saw me looking and I pointedly turned away, hoping he wouldnt harrass me. A white couple appeared - from the hotel I presumed and he followed them past the Italian Ice cream shop with rickety stairs leading up.


After half an hour I got up and started walking back. A familiar sound caught my attention, and grew louder - it was a recitation of the Qur'an. I stopped infront of a moderately dilapitated dirty white four storyed building and listened, it was surah fateha. "Malikayoumudeen iya ka na budu wa iya ka nastaeen...." Very soulful, brought back memories of the Jidda and Makkah. Voice was thin, he could have been a boy, or I pictured a skinny fellow in his early 20's. A hafiz, who had denounced the West...


I was startled at my own thoughts. Was he a suicide bomber?


The door was right above the road, double heavy type that was typical of the area. There was a dark foyer with a sign "Restaurant" and an arrow to the left. The door was closed. To the right was another entryway where a man in a thobe was pulling a scooter over the threshold. He came out and placed a wooden ramp at the main entrance, he glanced at me and turned back. He brought the scooter and since I was still standing there, on the empty road looking up at one of the windows.


"Salamualaikum" I offered and he turned towards me a little surprised. He had a trimmed beard , and could have been anywhere from later 40's to later 50's. "Walaikumasalam" and smiled.


Then I asked "is that the Qur'an being recited upstairs" asking the obvious but really wanting to ask if someone was reciting it and explaining my odd presence. He said "Yes, are you Muslim?"


I replied in the affirmative. "where are you from". I knew what he wanted toknow so I replied "I live in the States, but I am Pakistani".


A look of recognition passed his face then I said " i stopped here because I wanted to listen to that.." pointing up.


"Its a tape playing in my house".


Ok I said and smiled.


Why dont you cover? he asked, surprising me, quickly glancing at my arm (I was wearing half sleeved kurta), but not in a perverted way. I couldnt help but smile, and paused searching for the right words. "I uh, choose not to."


"Yes but you cannot choose in Islam."


"I agree, one cannot choose, but I choose not to..."


He smiled "It is obligatory, you cannot change it like this , it is a commandment".


"I totally agree, it is written in the Qu'ran, and we cannot change it, but I am just not doing what is prescribed...its me..." I said pointing to myself.


His face seemed to register a lighthearted pity for me, I figured he blamed the Devil (Marikana - America) for my moral state, laughed and started his scooter, "are you here to visit?"


"yes"


"Caribou, welcome"


"Shukran (thanks), asante sana"


He looked surprised at my few words of swahili and took off on his red scooter leaving a little dusty trail.


I walked back, as the little island town started to wake up, my stomach started rumbling.

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