There are those times in life when a goal just seems to challenge you. It presents itself and beckons you forward. When we first made it to Bwejuu Beach in Zanzibar last week, I had no knowledge of its existence. It had been a long day's journey. We dropped our bags and went for a swim. The water was surprisingly warm, almost unrefreshingly so. But we splashed about. We had been anticipating the Indian Ocean and bihlarzia-free swimming for some time now. Our last swimming (other than the pool in Joburg) was in the Atlantic at Kokrobite in Ghana And I had been looking for the Indian Ocean since rounding the Cape of Good Hope by car only to find False Bay – more Atlantic Ocean. I never saw where the two great oceans met. But that doesn't matter now as we splash and dive in the Indian Ocean.
Mara, still jet-lagged, woke us early the next morning to see the sunrise. We walked to the beach and sat in the breeze. Dawn didn't exactly emerge. She faded in ever so imperceptibly. It was after 8 before the sun appeared from behind the clouds. The water was high but still, waves crashing a kilometer from the beach, a white line and a steady roar on the horizon.
It was during the late morning walk with Mara that it became evident that our lives here would be subject to the tides. As the tides recedes, it revelas patches of bright green among the muddy white sandy flats. Patches of turqoise water reflect in the sun. It could be the salt flats of a growing desert, be it around the Dead Sea, Salt Lake or Chile.
We walk along the beach for miles in both directions. But the waves keep crashing on the reef off the shore, a portent to another world. Beyond them is a different ecosystem. Beyond is the Indian Ocean. Somali pirates. The Middle East. India. That tiny island of Mauritius, where people look more Asian than African. Then Australia.
I watch the wave line for days. Small boats paddle out to it and back, their passengers possessing a wisdom unfamiliar. I even watch a kite boarder skim swiftly towards the breaking point only to life his kite to the sky, turn and skid back toward the shore. I ponder how to get there. It is too far to swim. And much of the time too shallow. I try to walk barefoot only to encounter countless sea urchins, spines guarding the reef. So, we turn around. I go to Stone Twon, celebrate a New Year, and return, wanting ever more to reach that place where the waves break. It is low tide and the sun is fading. Maybe tomorrow.
It is 8:42 a.m. I am thoroughly slathered in sun screen. Bathing suit, chacos and new sunglasses (after wearing teh last one's with duct tape for the last month) on my body. And my first ponytail since high school. I can see the flourescent green seaweed shining on the salt flats fromt he path to the beach. Today is the day. The water is busy. I see maybe a dozen locals wading in the shallows. Some with sticks. Some with sacks. It is too far to see what they are doing. But there is a path they use. Like a hippo path.
Back in Liwonde in Malawi, we learned hippos always use the same path. The ground wears down over the years creating these small gulleys for paths. The villagers use them too, making the hippo one of the biggest killer mammals in Africa. At night, when the hippos encounter somebody on their path, they often get scared and run. But they don't always run away. They just run. And sometimes an unsuspecting person walking home to their village gets trampled in the process. Here, there are no hippos. Only hippo paths.
As I walk, the mud sticks to my sandals, trying to pull them off my feet with each suctioned step. The sand seems to be alive with crabs the size of the king of hearts. But they disappear in the sand with my approach. The hippo path is knee-deep and sandy. Seaweed marks its borders on either side. I step carefully toward three women speaking to each other in kiSwahili. They each drag three sacks tied together, filled with seaweed.
"Shoes," the first woman turns and says to me. I life a leg out of the water to show her my sandaled foot. "Shoes," I repeat with a thumbs up. We each take several steps. "Photo man," the second woman says to me, seeing me watching their train of seaweed sacks. "I have no camera," I say, shaking my head and motioning like I am snapping a photo with my right hand. "But thank you," I add. I walk toward the waves. They walk toward the shore with their harvest.
I step between the rows of seaweed. It is neatly cultivated in rows, like corn. A wooden stake sticks out at either end of each row. Som sort of rope is tied between them, or organic matter of some sort, perhaps a plant of its own. Sea urchins start to appear. Sometimes amidst the seaweed. Sometimes below the rows. I pick my steps, lifting each leg straight up and setting it straight down from above. This way, any sea urchin gets squashed under my sole, safe from my toes.
A dark fish the size of my ring finger darts across my path and disappears in the seaweed rows. I see sea animals I don't recognize and am scared to touch. One has a soft pinkish shell in the shape of a cog, a hole in the middle that could fit on my finger. Another looks like a mussel. I pick it up to discover it is more like a handroll stuffed with six small cowry shells. I don't know who the owner was and if it was vacant when the cowries moved in.
It gets more interesting as I walk. The sea weed rows disappear. They are replaced by huge pieces of coral. It comes in all colors and textures. Black and hard but pourous like volcanic rock. Orange and soft like huge orange brains. Green and bushy like rosemary with each leaf inflated to a third dimension. And with the coral are the fish. Each fish seems to be specially designed for the coral it lives near. Long noses. Camouflage. A small fat one that looks like a blowfish. Several with black and cream vertical zebra-like stripes. One the color of the sand. As I step, I realize it is a whole school of thumb-length sand-colored fish. The others hide in the coral when I approach. The sand-colored ones just swim away like a herd of wildebeest spooked by the presumed presence of a lion. But the liopn is scared like a cow by a cattleguard in the road. This cattleguard is a series of sea urchins by the thousands. I look back to the shore. Mara is reading in the sun. Annette is nursing a hangover in the shade. I am not even halfway to the breaking waves.
So I pick my steps carefully, balance on one foot, steady myself with the water when necessary. None of it is very graceful. But nobody can really see me. I move slowly. The water gets deeper then shallower then deeper again. It is now up to my chest. The coral becomes more diverse. I see a blue starfish, but its posture is slouchy. Five droopy legs, four of them pointed at me. The sea urchins are growing. Their spines now seem to be the length of my foot. The water gets deeper. It is harder to see the bottom. I come to a field of coral. It looks like a huge flourescent flower garden on the sea floor. I look back at the beach. I am still only halfway there. The women have takend their seaweed harvests ashore. Ahead of me, I see two boats. Nobody is on foot. The breaking point is still too far to swim. And the depth fluctuates. I don't want to kick a sea urchin. Then there is the problem I always encounter when walking on the beach. I am exactly halfway at the point I choose to turn around But, I am usually more tired on the way back. And I have seen it all before.
"Sometimes it is great to reach the goal. Most of the time it is good simply to enjoy the journey," I tell myself silently and turn toward the shore. I am starting to feel the sun on my shoulders. The shore is a long way off. I slowly pick my way forward. It seems harder going than before. I wonder if this is the way I came. I fall more often, splashing around spastically with my arms in fear of kicking a sea urchin. Maybe it is harder because I am walking in defeat rather than eager anticipation. I feel a small prick on my right big toes. Sea urchin. I life my toes and feel for needles in it. Nothing. Just enough of a reminder that they hurt. The bottom seems more slippery, more up and down. The shore further away. A slight wind has picked up. It blurs the water beneath me, blows the silt from my steps in front of me, or so it seems. I walk faster to stay ahead of it. The water is still over my waist. I step more carelessly. I feel a prick in my left big toe. I recoil. No spines. I tighten my sandals so my feet won't slide, but it doens't seem to do much.
But soon the sea urchins yield to sand and sea grass. I walk on until I spot the hippo path. A crab scurries across. The crabs here always scurry sideways. Even when they are digging their holes in the sand. It seems that they are incapable of walking forward. My path, too, is pretty zig-zagged. I find it easier to see where I am stepping that way.
When I return to Mustapha's, I notice a yellow inflatable kayak. I ask for permission to use it. Perhaps this will take me to the breaking point. Perhaps tomorrow.
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