La Pomme Prisonniere

 From September 2017 until today, celebrating the end of August, the eighth day of quarantine, the reveal of the trip to the mill... why do we save things?  what do we think we are holding onto in the process, the memories or the past itself?  Here we have the Pomeloi, Eloi’s apple, and such a presentation of time at that, for the eyes and tastebuds...

“et il rendra sublime ce moment precieux choisi pour le register...”

Appreciating the gouts and saveurs.  And this strange world, in which the decision has finally been made not to wait, but to act.  To pull off the impossible, to live through the waiting for the days of wine and roses, tea and massages, watermelon and sunsets.  More to come.  Much more.  

How to explain, when it happens to you?

“The Perfect Celebratory Drink”

Brut.  Funny how the sparkling becomes it, even as the Scotch is preferred.  Truly a moment where it is the thought that counts, the decisions that count, the lives that count.  Crete, 2006, the start of a career.  How long.  The struggle in the disclosure, the Victoria Falls flight, the Stayner’s reveal, the meeting at BOMA.  

The stories.  The missing her, her missing me, in the night.  The shit Friends re-runs.  The laughably wonderful certainty of such an uncertain thing.  

No One Knows

The route out from the Mizingani cannons - random encounter with Kurt, wandering past the Puzzle (you are the piece) only to notice a potential cancellation, realize the 00:20 essentially leaves Saturday night not Sunday, and so put together a joint flight out of Zanzibar Airport and a weekend of travels home our separate ways, for now.  The longest and most taxing legs complete, now just back at Pearson awaiting the final leg of this impossible journey.  KLM does regular checks of the toilets, in search of irregularities.  What a world.  The random strangers whose paths you crossed in the past 24 hours, can only marvel at the variety.  How all have such insignificant parts to play as compared to the lover.

Mom still a bit flabbergasted, need to come up with convincing lines for the story, but such is the way in trying to explain the irrational.  The whole point is that intuition defies attempts at explanation, and the mad certainty required to proceed requires faith beyond that which can be truly conveyed to another.  It sits wholly inside singular experience accumulated over a lifetime of consequential and trivial moments.  Each little glance, decision, lucky choice to head here rather than there, up rather than down.  All in the randomness of the timing.  How you know when a team works.  Time is not the factor.  Is it trust?  Or just that odd "knowing", for lack of a better word.  Like putting together a playlist.  A place and a time, then trying to guess at whether it might last for all places and all times. 

I am well ready for the relaxation promised by the quarantine ahead.  Then back to the routine of walks and meditation, boating and Moncton cooking, all with a mind toward a Zambian ceremonial wedding in November, followed by a momentous Paris in 2021.

Pourquoi pas?  Heh.

The Sense of a Beginning

The final night, 30, of this marvellously random adventure.  The good fortune seeps into your path in all things, even the COVID results delay a means to visit the Africa House Hotel, and capture those further memories of the sandbank view.  Three weeks on since Black Tot.  Impressive to have finalized the last of the work, all that remains is the proper launching of flights to set up the next phase of this momentous pandemic.

Such changes to life as you know it, and all seem to fit.  Nothing out of place, every symbol a portent of the correctness of decisions.  The time, as they say, had come.

Friday prayers, remember the look on the man’s face, who invited you along with a smile at the Zanzibar hat?  The line of boys and men outside the overflowing mosque on the raised concrete by the narrow alleyway?  The note on the message board.  The partner update (6.2 additional? sweet recompense) and booking of tomorrow’s departure.  The smiling way in which Zero-Zero says, no problem.

Of course it must be the Ethiopian tonight.

Mr. and Mrs. Jems

(For the third time) the surrealness of the “welcome back” cake inscription, baffling and yet superbly appropriate, befitting this mazy, zig-zag, perfection of a blissful month.  The stories so wondrous, from the secretive departure and wifi conference calls to the sandbank and win of cup.  “We were surprised,” said Mom, and the look of exhausted yet confused amusement on Dad’s face summed up much of the magic on that call that cheered M so brightly.

COVID test for her yesterday adding to the pile of experiences that must be paid for but only adds to the details of this tale, one that will be oft told to while away future hours.  Returning to the Miz and its cannons, hearing again the wafting music from the cultural centre and knowing smiles from the staff, it makes the time feel long.  No rush, no stress, no rules or timetables, as the apartment binder invited.  How long ago was that?  What have you learned in terms of next times?

Enough.  I have learned enough.  More than enough.  The transformation has begun, and now it remains only to play it out.  And return at some distant point to mark these experiences with the same eyes again.  There is a sort of homesickness that sticks, in terms of the transience.  The apartness from the surroundings.  The urge to rest among the familiar, after awhile on the road.  The reality of distance.

Soon time for the thief’s escape again.  With knowledge of another theft of time and place and heart.  Entertainment of books and movies to pass the overlong days, the joy at changing weather patterns, falling rain and silver seas and guardian stars...  I still know so little, though grow more content.

Exceptionally Fine (at Bluu)

 72 hours at this beach hotel, magnificent for the quiet, for the infinity pool, for the upgrades, and the warm Indian Ocean reception.  What else to say?  The “lovely” waiter, partying all night at the Peruu Pub in the village.  The playlist being filled out slowly.  The African twerking last night for the Monte Cristo a moment for the ages, truly.  Such pictures.  

What price such memories?  Now just to get home safely and start the next chapter afresh, anew, alive.

The Silken Arms of Glad Success

 When things are going sweetly, stop a moment and say (out loud): “If this isn’t nice, what is?”  Old Vonnegut’s saying coming to mind now in this breezy afternoon shade, the sandy terrace of room 15, waves of the Indian Ocean gliding along right to left.  A wondrous book (Sisters Brothers), a smoothie cocktail concoction of your own cobbling, Zambian fiancé reading in bed behind, the freedom overwhelming as you piss ahead on the cliff’s edge, relaxation level total.

One week or so to go, this time, but the start of a new whole new section of the chronicles.  Verily.  

Soak in this feeling.

"Any Of Various Other Things That Might Also Be Mentioned"

In a word, Whatnot.

A lovely little expression from the stories last night.  The obsessive cheater, tale as old as time.  Promising she was not hurt in more detail, and amazement again at the magical timing of the encounter that led to everything that followed.  All as I pondered the remnants of the Cape to Rio.  Need to stock up again before departing the village.  

Last day of a full week in this simple, quaint, and fit-for-purpose apartment.  Even while I look forward to the infinity pool of the Bluu, the faded orange colouring combination of this place will be missed, with its local Masai, wandering children, fatless chickens, and the smouldering ground.  How Mr. Paul popped his head up within seconds of the sandal breaking for the repair... perfect illustration of how Kiwengwa thus far has offered just what you need.  Twice we needed to send that Mombasa leather out, and twice it was returned at a minimal cost.  Pictures with the Masai to prove it.

The Internet here has served so well, calls to discuss draft quarterly reports and heads of terms and... whatnot.  Nothing overly substantive but enough to keep sending out bills in the hopes of a strong finish to 2020 and profits to be spent on the lubono process, of which I must feign an understanding later this afternoon.  Sure thing.  Still awaiting news on Tanzania's airway spat with Kenya, whether to extend for another week or two in another apartment, and how you might disclose this first COVID foray into the world to best set up the return in a couple of months.

Put it out of mind until Monday at Mizingani.  Hard to argue that we deserve further luxury, but that is what is to come this weekend.  Wonder what the reactions will be upon the sending of pictures on Saturday?  Nothing since has occasioned anything to doubt the correctness and inevitability of the plan.  Just a matter of following-through destiny?  Perhaps. 

The Undeserved Favor of Life

What odds, from the mud caves and ping pong beer of Yangzhou, the decadence of Bounty and the karaoke brothels of Sengiggi... to 11 years later in Zanzibar, watching - at that old randomly met comrade's instigation - a Jehovah’s Witness video about family roles (of all things) speculating about the everlasting.  Mysterious ways.  Swings and roundabouts.  Miracles and wonder.  At least a glorious turn of phrase for 1 Peter 3:7.  In the style of Hitchens, that seems a titular phrase worth remembering.  Even as the gin in the campari does seem to be of his invention - applied first to irony and then, his mother.  Likened in the ironic definition as well to the knight's move on a chessboard, the cat's purr, the knot in the carpet.  Exquisite.

Back from the beach, feels like a full day today though so little was done.  Slept in until just before 10AM, breakfast, walk to the market and wine shop, then along the flat white beach, photos and Fat Mama, no wallet for the Jambo plate, short swimming lesson interrupted by the old man arising beside his blue radio (remember?).  Supper time stories of Mangos tied together, undershirt, as an unsuccessful way to avoid the insults from the boys about the lack of breasts... memories of water being poured into the dirt as a time challenge for errands to be run before the ground is dry.  Pride in being the first girl in the agriculture class, avoiding home economics.  Such a special lady, a real love.  

The crickets in the background, as she rests over there, reading.  Now making some coffee before bed.  What would it feel like, if this was infinite, and not a moment in time?  How different?  That never seems to bother.  Always there is Cardozo's quote - "The inn that shelters for the night is not the journey's end.  The law, like the traveler, must be ready for the morrow.  It must have a principle of growth."  The look to the next place, the distractions before any concern over monotony.  Although I wonder about the so-many that I pass in these Zanzibar streets.  What think they, day after day?  In the quiet moments.  The time to just sit, through the long hours.  As the day is long (seems Much Ado the source for that, how unsurprising).

Hitch, too, had a valediction in his letters to a young contrarian.  Not so young now, but they still hit home, and maybe in a way in which the personality of the recounter yields further texture to the advice (why did I just flash to Achill and the three-pour Guinness barkeep at that thought?):

"Beware the irrational, however seductive.  Shun the "transcendent" and all who invite you to subordinate yourself...  Never be a spectator of unfairness or stupidity... the grave will supply plenty of time for silence."

Kamili

Lazy days.  An Italian-Zanz apartment with excellent random literature, stories by Ann Packer invoking love and loss and middle-age.  Peaceful and befitting the need to simply chill, this Art Deco sectional mustard orange couch where I passed a bit of last night whiling away the time reading Walk for Mankind, which ties back into the later story read first, and which gave it an odd sort of unexpected poignancy.  

Remember the moment the power cut out, the darkness and the party music and the sound of the fans dying out.  The brief cries from the humans nearby.  Before it was restored.  A magical little moment in time, after the tales of the Arabian nights concluded at another cliff-hanger story.

Waiting news on whether Kenya Airways will be allowed to fly out of Zanzibar, and whether the required testing can be done.  But most looking forward to the staged engagement at the perfectly named Zanbluu.  Will the cooking video give away the game?  Guess we’ll find out.

Makofi

Well?

Happy with the Yes, and all that came after.  The hostel life, the FA Cup Final, the sunsets, the Book of Qualities, the random acrobats and vloggers and teachers with Hawaiian property.  Holding on to the mirage at work.  Lots of little, special moments.  All a reconfirmation of the correctness of the decision, including dinner tonight at the bonfire and the saying of a grace, the storytelling about Oprah's VIP reception, the stars and the swimming.

Booked the flight home for her via Kenya tonight.  Wonder if we bookend it with some COVID tests?  Possibly.  Next up is a week of sunrises though, we will need to see how and whether we meet up with these crazies again.  But it has been a gem of a place.  Enjoy paradise before you die indeed.

Good times.  What's the word for the period between engagement and marriage, as an equivalent for honeymoon?  Figure that one out, and report anon.