African Travel Log: Crickets and Canaries
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Ghada and I got up before six this morning to meet Mr Haji who was to take us to the fish auction in the village this morning but we never made it. I had barely slept all night — my mosquito tent is very secure, except for when a mosquito manages to sneak inside as I open it up to climb in.
I fall asleep, wake up itchy, and the night then becomes a routine of trying to fix the situation. Also I keep opening my door and walking outside of my hut staring into the darkness like a hungry person who opens the refrigerator door over and over again even though there is nothing in there to eat. Each time I am surprised and disappointed by the darkness, as if only the morning could offer at least the solution of starting a new day, when we can stretch the day as long as it will allow. And so I find myself dreading sleep time, when my body asks for rest and there is no promise of it.
Delivered like this into morning, most days start out slowly, except when Ghada and I have ventured into the village for photographing and interviewing.
The first sound of the day is the ocean. The first sight is the light blue water prefaced by white sand and the two mamas on the beach who sleep outside next to their huts with crafts, next to my hut. "Jambo!", they say first, before propositioning for a massage. Jambo! Mambo! Hello, how are you? Poa, I'm cool. Massage? Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow. Or, not today. Asanti. Thank you. Hakuna Matata, no problem.
A few steps away is free coffee and a simple breakfast included in our hut price — a small banana, which is about half the size of the ones we get at home, half of a mango still on the skin offering itself is turned inside out in squared sections. A small oily crepe, and another piece of bread — sometimes a square fried donu, or a piece of white bread.
There is a spread that is not called butter or margarine, but Blue Band. And