I almost died! I did! It’s true! I almost died! I don’t remember, did I see the white tunnel of light?  No, I don’t think so.  Do dinghies get to go to heaven? And if so, does dinghy heaven have a white tunnel of light heading to those pearly gates? These are questions I’ve never contemplated; I’m far too young to die! But, I almost did anyway. It was really dramatic. Leslie had to rescue various of my appendages. The cat was upset. Andrew got mad. It ruined at least two of our days. And, this is all because Andrew and Leslie broke one of those sailor superstitions you should never, ever violate: something about never looking to stern as you set out to sea.

After we departed Pemba-The-Scuba-Paradise, we sailed South again. Instead of breaking new waters, we decided to meet Steel Sapphire and Erie Spirit in Stonetown, Zanzibar for a second spin through that intriguing city. Everyone loved Zanzibar so much, they ALL looked to stern as we pulled away from port, sad our time had come to a close.

We anchored in the Stonetown anchorage and cast off to shore for more adventures. But, things almost immediately went awry. First, Andrew said he needed groceries, so he headed back to the fruit and veggie market to stock up. As he approached, a local man headed him off saying “Do you need an agent to help you buy food?” Andrew told him no, but then the guy said “Hey, Buddy. We’re all family here, if you don’t use me as an agent, they’ll all charge you top dollar.”

As you might imagine, this did not please Andrew. As he went from stall to stall, a wink, a nod, or some other secret signal from this unfriendly fellow resulted in either exorbitant shopping rates or a flat refusal to sell Andrew anything at all. Andrew returned to Sonrisa seething.

That same night, Pete, Jen, Andrew and Leslie decided to go back to town and make a second attempt at the night market. Andrew and Leslie’s first attempt had not gone so well. They tried to reach the shawarma man, but “John the Fisherman” headed them off and sold them rubbery scallops on a stick instead. Fisherman John’s enthusiasm was so great, they failed to negotiate a price before accepting the offer of rubbery scallops and a mango smoothie. After having eaten the meal, Fisherman John came to collect his dues.

“How much do I owe you?” Andrew asked figuring it was somewhere in the range of cheap night market food a la Southeast Asia.

“70,000 shillings,” Fisherman John replied to which Andrew almost choked on his own tongue.

“$30.00 US for chewy scallops on a stick? No.”

Fisherman John shrugged and said, “But, you already ate it,” Andrew growled, scrunched wad of cash into Fisherman John’s outstretched hand, and then took his medicine when the Mango Juice guy asked for 40,000 Shillings for two mango juices.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Andrew said.

The Mango Juice guy shrugged. “They are really nice mangoes.”

Not willing to cause a scene, Andrew crushed up another ball of money to pay the mango guy noting that he really MUST pre-negotiate prices here. This happened early in our arrival while post passage spirits were high and Andrew and Leslie were still willing to accept that they are making errors of cultural interaction that they are responsible to amend. By the time we had returned to Zanzibar, this kindly spirit of heart had dwindled over numerous interactions with touts kicking cans at Leslie and chasing Andrew across pristine white beaches, ruining his appreciation for that powdered sugar coastline. Now, Andrew’s mood was decidedly darker.

“Just ignore them.” Leslie advised, trying to reach that more cheerful aspect of Andrew’s character.

“I hate that,” Andrew said, sulking and folding his arms. “I want to see the humanity in the people I meet. I want to chat with people, get to know them. Here, they don’t want any part of that. I’m a walking ATM to them, and nothing more.” Despite this mood, they set off toward the night market. They wanted to try the Zanzibarian food they missed last time: Zanzibar pizza, Zanzibar soup, shawarma, and fresh sugar cane juice with lemongrass.

Walking through the streets of Stonetown, within the first five minutes a spice salesman falls lockstep with Andrew, “Buy this basket shaped like a fish and filled with packets of spices?”

Andrew: No, thank you. Attempt at Chitchat.

“So, buy my fish?”

Andrew: No. Attempt at Chitchat.

“Buy my fish?”

Andrew: No, thank you.

“Come on brother, support me.”

Andrew: I’m sorry, but I don’t want a spice fish.

“That’s okay, just support me.”

Andrew: I’m sorry, no.

Repeat x2

Andrew: Okay, go away now. I’m not going to buy your fish.

The man crosses over to bother Leslie.

Leslie offers no response. Maintains a glassy eyed stare into the Great Abyss.

The man crosses back over to bother Andrew.

Repeat.

Follow.

Follow.

Follow.

Repeat.

They reach the night market with spice fish man still in tow. (You’d think he’d find someone else who actually might want a spice fish?) Pete, Jen, Andrew, and Leslie charged through the Gatekeeping Touts, practically pushing Fisherman John over like a row of bulldozers, determined to reach their Schwarma Goal. A chorus of “Hey, I remember you!” echoes behind them, a tactic these guys use to cause tourists to pause and wonder “where would they remember me from,” which is just time enough to have a rubbery scallop thrust into your paw.

It was here they observed that the touts harass not only tourists, but the Tanzanians trying to man their food stalls, too. While trying to order a bowl of soup from a woman with her prices physically posted on the soup stand, Pete and Leslie were hassled by a man offering to “find them a seat” (plenty around), “carry their food” (no thanks), and “get them a drink,” (no we don’t want your help). He then demanded Pete and Leslie pay three times the price posted on the soup stand, with the only service rendered being annoyance.

“No,” Pete says, “the sign tells me what the price is.”

“But this bowl is more full,” the Tout says. “It’s 3x the sign.” he insists.

“No, nope. You have to go away now.” Pete says.

Reaching through the Tout’s wriggling octopus arms, Pete hands the woman serving the soup the money she is owed. You’d think now the transaction was done, the tout would move on, but he does not. He joins the spice-fish salesperson, both now trailing all four sailors who stoutly ignore them for the rest of the night. When Andrew decides to return for seconds at the shawarma stand, the Soup-Bowl Tout follows along and demands money from the shawarma man for “leading Andrew to the shawarma stand.” The Shawarma man knew better, though, and told the tout to beat it.

Back aboard Sonrisa, Leslie says, “This is a mysterious point of culture I do not understand. It’s like they are some sort of tourist-tout mafia. I hope that tout doesn't burn down the shawarma guy’s restaurant stand.”

This only hardened Andrew’s resolve. “I’m over it. I’m ready to leave.”

“We can’t go yet,” Leslie said, “We have to go to the Secret Garden again for a Zanzibar music night and that delicious Goat Biriyani!” They were in the middle of negotiations on this very point when, disaster struck.

In the days prior, the crew aboard Steel Sapphire, Erie Spirit, and Sonrisa had been threatening to polish their “Olympic scoring plaques” to rate the Zanzibar ferry drivers producing the highest rooster tail and creating the biggest waves imaginable. The Green Ferry seemed to have amassed quite the lead, never concerning himself with the possibility of mowing down the Russian tourists silly enough to swim in the anchorage. The Green Ferry cared not if he created a full tidal wave, picking up 100 water taxis and three sailboats to deposit them on the beach. Each morning and each evening, he came blowing in and out of the anchorage full steam ahead only to crash up to the dock with full reverse thrusters blazing.

I must not have been paying attention.

I don't really know how it happened.

All I know is that suddenly, it seemed as if my whole world was being tossed upside down. Sonrisa rocked gunnel to gunnel in the anchorage as if she’d been broached by a wave at sea. I was being tossed and jerked, crashed, and scraped. There was a great cacophony of noise. There was grinding of metal on metal, clatter of plastic on fiberglass...until all at once I broke apart! I exploded, flinging dinghy parts and pieces into the sea.

“Grin!” I could hear Leslie hovering over me, “GRIN! Are you okay?! Your paddle! Oh now, your benches!”

Leslie dives into the water fully clothed and swims with her tightest racing strokes to retrieve two of my benches, a paddle, bailing cups, and one of Andrew’s flipflops he’d left in my hull the night before. My remains hung from my hooks on Sonrisa’s stern, drooping and half -folded without my benches to keep me in shape. Leslie kicks my parts and pieces back toward Sonrisa. She hands them up to Andrew cussing like a sailor about that “God damn, F$%6King Green Ferry.” Hands free, she swims back toward Sonrisa’s stern to find more parts and pieces that usually hold me together drooping, torn apart, bent, and altered forever.

Andrew drops me solemnly into the water. “Leslie, can you hang on to the hull-strip to make sure it doesn’t fall off while I go get a hammer?”

Andrew goes down below to sort out some tools. Leslie floats next to me, supporting my flopping hull strip and hollering across the anchorage answering Steel Sapphire’s questions of concern. Tango is launched to come see how I’m doing.

Andrew jumps into the water, muttering and swearing. He pins me back together, then Leslie and Andrew haul me up on deck.

“We are leaving now,” Andrew says.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s go.” Leslie says.

And so it was that Andrew, Leslie, and Sonrisa tied my mangled pieces on deck, waved goodbye to Steel Sapphire and Erie Spirit’s crews, then departed Zanzibar to Dar Es Saleem. Not a single crew member glanced astern this time.