Heeding the advice of fellow travelers, we take a bus to the North of Zanzibar, seeking tranquil beaches and unrelenting sunshine. Kendwa Rocks becomes our new home.
The ocean beautiful, covered in fine white sand, sea shades of light green to dark blues disappear behind the horizon.
A boy standing in his dugout canoes drudges the shallow waters with his wooden pole. Fishing boats sail by, shoring long enough to pass on the days catch. Boys flock to the boat, hauling out King fish, trout and barracuda, selling them to hotel kitchens.
Tourism brought electricity to Kendwa village in 1996, once a little known camping spot with the best beaches on the island, now shrubs have been cleared, palms replanted and resorts built.
The cheapest room in this resort village is our room, a rickety two story fort built upon wood stilts, dried palm leaves and wire mesh piece our banda together. Finally we are able to lie on the beach, book in hand and listen to the gentle surf lap the ancient boats. For four days, we do nothing more than watch the sky change colors over head and cool off in the buoyant salt water.
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The sun is directly overhead as we ferry along the equator from Dar El Salaam to Zanzibar. Ancient wooden dhous sail on our wake, reeling in full nets for the fish market. The slow ferry saves us money, so we climb aboard claiming two seats, in the shade no less, and wedge between local Tanzanians. The boat fills up beyond capacity as families compete for floor space, men settle on steps and boys perch on railings. As the only wazungu on the back deck, curious eyes fall upon us. Tanzania’s land mass shrinks as we turn into the Indian Ocean for a 4 hour journey, listing wayward, all remnants of shade are displaced, rendering a slow torture of pure sunlight upon our backs.
Afternoons we wondered Stone Town, soaking up hours of history. We searched for the beautiful baobab tree and found the remains of the horrifying slave market across the way. Illegal since 1897, the relics include a dank underground cellar and neck chains, pictures illuminate the past with women and children tied to stakes, unable to move. The catholic church has built a cathedral above the old market, using the whipping post as a pulpit for weekly sermons. The student guide asked which religion we held, his response interesting, “Religion is a safe place, it pays for my school, you ask questions and therefore don’t believe, we are taught not to answer questions, we must have faith.”
I have always been an impatient, fidgety student with daydreams unconducive to the classroom, yet here I sit, in the classroom. Swahili holds greetings in high esteem and as we sit in the children’s chairs in this one room schoolroom, our teacher, Mwana, fires greeting after greeting at us so we fluidly respond and return the courtesies, again and again, with dynamic aplomb as my elementary notebook floods with ink.
Our class is held at the university by the market and we can practice pleasantries and placing orders at lunch and every question introduces a whole new chapter in grammar. How many noun classes do there need to be? And what the hell is a noun class anyway? As a reprieve, I take out my PADI dive book and work on the first three chapters, preparing for the following days quiz. Non stop learning, shouldn’t I be on vacation?
During our free time we navigate the local market. I am fascinated by its color and energy, most specifically the meats and fish. It’s rather disgusting, but I want to get as close as possible without stepping in the blood or accidentally brushing up against the discarded goat heads or entrails. I want to ask a million questions, but for now, our greetings and wide-eyed awe are enough to break the ice and pull us further in. We are forever students, as it should be.
We spent two months in Morocco and never found a single working clock. Everything operated 
The historic clock towers proudly display times that you might think are wrong, but when you look at ferry schedules and adjust to swahili time, you realize otherwise. While diving, the safety checks include synchronizing our watches, but relying on the instructor, we simply go thru the motions of looking at our wrists, as if time matters, and really, as we later kick back at sunset, our feet in the sand, our beers in our hands, and the sun sinking low, there is no need for any more accuracy than that. We are right on time.
From Paris to Cairo to Dar El Salam, uncertainty ensued at every security check. We were the only passengers without visas or return tickets, and no one knew quite what to do with us. After our Cameroon Visa fiasco, my communication skills were reduced to pleading, begging and almost bribery, Jay’s composure held fest.