The ferry to Zanzibar from Dar Es Salaam slid across the water like greased lightning. It looked old and rusty at the dock, but after we stepped up onto the skis it moved like it was new. We walked off the ferry a couple hours later, and waiting around the ferry terminal were what I found out later, people called “the beach boys.” Their job was to make money from the tourists. They got kickbacks for steering people to the hotels that they were affiliated with. Or to taxis that their cousin Achmed owned. I had seen a rest house in the Lonely Planet guidebook that we had been using, and we ignored the beach boys and walked there, and got a couple rooms on the third floor. Standing on my balcony, I could see over most of the buildings in Old Town Zanzibar. All around us, the towers of the mosques stuck up with their ubiquitous leslie cabinet horns at the very peak, with which the Imams called the faithful to their prayers. Several times a day, the horns would start spinning, and the Imams would sort of sing their call to prayer. It was like the Catholic church thing… “My father plays dominoes better than your father plays dominoes.” But in Arabic. And off in the center of town, there was a red and white cupola looking roof, that I vowed to track down and see what it was. The air was redolent of cinnamon and cardamom, and other spices, and smelled so exotic. Zanzibar was called the Spice Island, and it smelled like it. It was hot and very humid. Outside my door was an open atrium that went from the ground floor to the ceiling of the third floor, where various water pipes and electric conduit, and other things ran along the columns between floors. Standing there looking at the atrium, I saw several rats climbing the pipes. Well, it was the center of a small city, and there were rats in the alleys that ran every which way, and rats around the dock areas which were nearby.
Word from the desk person said there was a food fair that was set up every evening in a park beside the docks, and we were hungry, so we went there for dinner. The smells were exotic and savory. You could smell the ocean, and on top of that, cooked food, with delicious smelling spices. We bought some plates of rice and some kind of meaty sauce, and found a seat at the nearby tables. The food was superb. We were happily munching away when two muslim girls about college age came over and asked if they could share our table. Yes, you certainly may. As they hoisted their black robes to sit down, I saw that they both had bright pink tennis shoes underneath. They were friendly, with great smiles, and we passed the dinner hour pleasantly, finding out about each other. They were students at the local college, studying nursing. One of them, named Sanura, which means Cat, seemed to take a real shine to Mike. She was stunning, with big dark eyes, and a mischievous grin. Pretty much, all you could see of her was her pink tennis shoes, and her face. Everything else was shrouded in black. Before they left to walk back to their dormitory, they invited Mike and I to come and visit them in two days, at the hospital where they were doing an internship. We agreed, and parted ways.
The next day, Mike and I set off to walk around and explore the city, which was a veritable warren of streets and alleys running in every direction. We just wandered. There were shops that sold everything in the world, and friendly shopkeepers. As we wandered down one street, I saw off to one side, the red and white roof, and we zigged and zagged until at the end of one alley, there it was. There was a pile of shoes by the door, so we took ours off, and added them to the pile, and pulled a large carved wooden door open and went in. It was a Hindu temple. We walked quietly inside, and there in the middle of the room  was a large statue of a cow, brightly painted with colorful designs on the black and white color of the cow, with flower garlands draped around the neck, and flowers all around it on the floor. It was a work of art. We wandered around and looked at the temple. Our shoes were still there when we left. In Swaziland they probably would not have been, even though, by then, both Mike’s shoes and mine were worn out.
Later we went back to the food fair by the docks, and had dinner. The girls were nowhere to be seen.The food was again delicious. And cheap. After eating, we sat on a bollard at the docks, and watched out to sea as the sun set. Then we went back to the rest house and went to bed. The next morning, awakened at 6 by the Imam’s calls, and the sounds of the fishermen at the docks heading out, and the strong smell of cardamom, I stood on the balcony and watched groups of people rushing to their mosque, with prayer rugs rolled up in their hands. The different Imams had their different calls, all blasting out of the speakers on top at the same time, and it made an interesting cacophony. After a breakfast of toasted rolls with butter, and coffee, we headed to the hospital where the girls had invited us. They met us at the entrance, and we spent an hour walking around with them. They wore pink and white aprons over their robes, just like the Candy Stripers back home. It was an old building, with cavernous dark rooms and hallways, with lots of sick people in beds. The girls were proud to work there. As we left, I looked back at the sign above the entrance, and saw that I had just spent an hour walking around a hospital for patients with tuberculosis. Oh, goody. I hoped that my old TB vaccine from when I had worked in food service some years ago, was still working.
We wandered Old Town Zanzibar the rest of the day, and found a large marketplace, where I bought some food. I had been on the road for a couple months by then, and I was down to two pairs of shorts that were pretty tattered, and three t-shirts that had seen their day too. I saw a tailor shop, and stopped in to talk to the man. For a cheap price, he would sew me up some pants and a shirt out of a tie dyed cotton material that I chose, that was purple and olive green. Come back in two days. We went back to the rest house, where I noticed that it was so humid there that a white mold was growing on my black pack. The house girls had come by earlier and asked if we had clothes to wash, and we had given them our shorts and shirts, and socks and undies. I saw them on the line strung across the atrium, but they didn’t look like they were drying very much. Mike told me that he had met with Sanura the night before, and he wanted to know if I would embroider Sanuras name on a t-shirt that he had, to give to her. He handed me a paper with her name written in Arabic. It had all kinds of curlicues and the swoopy Arabic script. It looked like a fun thing to embroider, so I agreed.
The next morning it was raining. A gentle rain, but sufficient to wet you if you walked around. The temperature was pleasantly warm. Our clothes on the line still looked wet. There was a small porch with a roof that stuck out over the alley in front of our rest house, and I set up a chair there, and took out my embroidery kit (the same one of the hair wrap fame), and put my hoop on the shirt, and sketched out the Arabic letters, and got busy. People walked by, and looked at my box of brightly colored threads as they passed me, hurrying through the rain. A cute girl walked by, and almost tripped because she was walking while looking at me and my box of colors, and wasn’t paying attention to her feet. 15 minutes later, she walked back by, going the other direction, again focused on the box of colors as she passed. I greeted her in KiSwahili, and she smiled and returned my greeting. An hour later, she walked by again, with a friend, and they were looking at my embroidery and threads, and having a discussion about them. I embroidered for about 4 hours, watching the gentle rain falling, and looking at people passing by. It was very peaceful. The cute girl walked by 3 or 4 more times. I finally stopped her, and asked her name. Asiya. Asiya Hassan Hassan. She asked me about what I was doing, or at least that is what I thought she was saying, but my KiSwahili was minimal, and my Arabic non-existent. We mimed a conversation. She was a native Zanzibari girl, born there in Old Town. I tried my best to explain why I was embroidering Cat on the t-shirt, but I fear she thought I was memorializing my pet cat. But she got my name, Maseko, and after that, when she passed, she would say Jambo Maseko, Howdy Maseko.
The next day, I was in the market looking for some fresh fish for dinner for Mike and I. The fish section of the market had a hump of cement right in the middle of the walkway, and I had tripped over it when I approached. As I stood there looking at many different fish, fresh caught that morning, and trying to decide which I wanted, I found out why the hump was there. Someone bought an octopus, and paid one of the many small boys underfoot who were always asking me if they could carry my groceries, a couple shillings, and he took the octopus by the tentacles and whapped it with force on the cement hump about two dozen times. To tenderize it, he said. Learn something new every day. As I stood there talking to the boy, who had some broken english, I heard my name being shouted off in the distance. I looked around, and saw Asiya, standing on a table way on the other side of the market, waving, and smiling and calling my name. I waved back at her. 
Mike and I explored the island of Zanzibar over the next week or two. My new pants and shirt were ready, and I picked them up and paid the tailor, and wore them proudly. They felt like sunday-goin-to-meetin clothes to me. Our raggedy shorts and t-shirts had dried after 4 days of hanging there, but I liked my new outfit so much that I wore it all the time. The island was large, and we rode daladalas (small trucks with benches facing out, that you just ran up to and jumped aboard, and the conductor would climb back to where you were, and collect the fare) to various parts of the island and explored them on foot. Zanzibar is a beautiful island. We ran into a couple of Peace Corps volunteers who taught at the local college, and they invited us to move out of the rest house, and stay with them. Dan and Dave. Dave was a big kayaker from California, and went kayaking out in the ocean most days after work. He kept his kayaks by the water, and rode his bicycle from his house to where they were stored. He would get back from kayaking just about the time the afternoon fishermen came into the docks, and he would buy fresh caught things and bring them home for dinner. One night a big squid. Another night a redfish. One night, as I sat enjoying the setting sun in front of his house, he came riding down the road with a small shark, bungee corded to the rack on the back of his bicycle. As he hit the bumps in the road, the shark’s tail would move back and forth, and it looked like the shark was swimming through the air, and propelling the bicycle.
I saw Asiya here and there, and always stopped to talk to her, and practice the KiSwahili that I was picking up from a book that I had.  I don’t know why, but I was kind of falling for her. I had not had a girlfriend for a good while, and found myself really enjoying our meetings. I was 40. She was 22. It caused me to think about love a lot. And about the difference in our ages. She seemed to reciprocate my feelings.One night she invited me to dinner at her mothers house where she lived. It was a totally fun evening. Her whole family had turned out to see this guy that she must have been talking to them about. Nobody spoke English, but through my minimal KiSwahili and mimeing with each other, I was in a conversation with one or another until late into the night. It was with sadness that I took my leave and returned to Dan and Dave’s house. I had finished the t-shirt with Sanura in Arabic on it, and Mike had taken it to give to Sanura. He was often gone, and though we didn’t speak about it, I figured he was meeting clandestinely with her. Sanura was a strict Muslim, with the robes and the head covering. And, I figured, a lot of cultural issues to deal with about running around with a heathen, ex-catholic American dude. Asiya was a “just folks” Muslim, and wore skirts and blouses and flip flops.  Being more or less stationary after traveling for the past months was refreshing. The food was flavorful and exotic. Dan and Dave were really nice guys. I had met and become friends with a bunch of people, and it was like living in a neighborhood. I swam in the Indian Ocean, ate at some restaurants, tried different cuisines, and walked my flip flops to death. It was like that old Monty Python schtick… “And NOW for something Completely Different!” Life in Zanzibar was nothing like life in Swaziland. There was music in the cafes, beautiful people in bright clothing. Catholic Relief Services had a steady stream of huge bales of clothes donated by Americans that were brought over on the ferry, and sold piece by piece in the marketplace. I saw people with Dallas Cowboys t-shirts, and even a Texas A&M Aggies t-shirt on one old man. T-shirts with Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” were everywhere. The Macarena was a popular song.
I started seeing Asiya a lot. She would accompany me to places I went to explore. We held hands sometimes. We had developed a patois that allowed us to talk about things. It was a lot of fun. I decided that for some reason, that I have never understood then or now, that I wanted to marry her, and have her come live with me in America. Middle age crazy. I don’t know. It took me by surprise. Her too, I think. So I started paying court to her. When I told Mike, he said, “Sam, are you nuts?” But once I had the idea, I followed through with it. I had a dowry discussion with her father. We set a date. The date came, and we met with her mom and dad, Mike and I, and Asiya, of course, at the District Commissioners office, to tie the knot. The whole way there. Mike was trying to talk me out of it. We filled out the paperwork, and at one point, the District Commissioner asked me for my letter of permission. What?
“What letter of permission?””The one from your father, giving you permission to marry.””Um, sir, I am 40 years old. In my culture you don’t need parental permission after you are 21 years old. For anything.””Well, Mr Birchall, here you do. I must have it in order to marry you together.””Wait!” I said, “I do have a letter of permission. Wait and I will go get it.” 
Mike looked at me, puzzled. I winked at him, and walked calmly into the  hall outside the commissioners office. As soon as I was out of sight, I raced down the stairs, hailed a cab, had him drive as fast as he could out to Dan and Dave’s house, and reached in my pack, and got the letter the U.S. Embassy guy had given me in Dar Es Salaam. I raced back to the commissioners office, and having been gone about 15 minutes, walked calmly back inside, and handed him the letter. He looked at it, but it was obvious that though he spoke some small english, he could not read it. It didn’t matter, he inked up his stamper, and stamped the letter, and put it in a folder with the other papers, and then married Asiya and I.
I got a hotel room and had a week of connubial bliss, and at the end of the week, Mike and I went to the airport to fly home. Well, Mike flew home to Pittsburgh, and I flew to Amsterdam where my longtime Dutch friend Marianne lived, because I had promised her when I first came to Swaziland,that I would not go from Africa to Texas, without swinging by Amsterdam. I promised Asiya that as soon as I got back to Texas, I would start the paperwork to get her over to the States and get her a green card. And that is a whole nother story.
While we were waiting interminably long at the airport, it turned out that someone had checked some baggage, but they weren’t there to get on the plane, so, in case it was a bomb, the security took all the luggage off the plane, and lined it up on the runway, and had us go out and claim our bags, and then re-loaded them, and my plane to Abu Dabi and Amsterdam was 3 hours late getting off, and so, three hours late to Abu Dabi, missing my connecting flight to Amsterdam. Abu Dabi is a muslim country, and if you are not Islamic, you can’t enter. So I spent the night not sleeping on a hard bench in the arrivals terminal, until the next plane to Amsterdam left the next day.
I want to say before I end this chapter, that I was serious about marrying Asiya. I felt like I loved her, and intended to help her get to Texas, and become an American Citizen, and be my wife. I got her to Texas after about a year and a half of paperwork with the Justice Department, but like I said, that is a whole nother story. Stay tuned.
Traveling with Mike was the best part of my African experience. We got along with almost no disputes at all. I could rely on him, and he could rely on me. We made our mutual decisions about traveling almost seamlessly. I could not have chosen a better traveling buddy.
Njabulo! (his african name) Magagula! Gootshwa! Mthombeni! (his praise names)   
The only way to have adventure, is to go out and do it.