A BOAT RIDE to Pemba nearly threw me overboard. The sea rose high and furious, and all of us passengers were tossed around like dolls with loose limbs and empty grins. I crouched down, rested my head on the seat, and held on for dear life as the waves whipped us around and sent some of us flying.
When we finally reached the shoreline, I felt fully scrambled and unable to comprehend what the rest of the week would be like because I was too worried about having to take the same boat back to Unguja, the main island where I’d been living with this man who swore a trip to Pemba would delight us both.
On that first day wandering through the markets, I bought an enormous glass bottle full of the island’s famous amber honey, pristine liquid gold spun from the magic of bees and their keepers on an island known as much for its honey as for its ghosts.
This was a place where time indeed stood still—where questions of empire or commerce hung in the air like heavy clouds already emptied of rain—and where fans whirred forever inside empty cafés. The island lacked any infrastructure for tourists; public minibuses left for certain villages only once a day, so I followed my ex around as if he knew where he was going.
The days were hot and the nights muggy, thick with mosquitoes and the shrieks of bats. We spent a few nights in Wete and Chake Chake, the town with the abandoned cinema. In the evenings, I spoke in whatever Swahili I could muster with my ex’s relatives, who looked at me with eyes awaiting gifts from the greater island of Unguja.
In the ruins of this place, where only the lush green trees still thrived as if political despair had never touched them, everyone seemed to exist in a state of waiting—except the trees, and maybe the flying foxes.
Pembans, shamed and shunned for their political tendencies toward revolution within the revolution, often moved to Unguja, not the other way around. Anyone who stayed behind felt forgotten, or so it was conveyed to me.
I have not been to Pemba in many years now, so it surprises me that I’m writing about it. I think it’s because I’ve been reading a novel about a traveler who lets her heart open to strangers along the way, and whose journey unfolds through this willingness to be led.
I was like that for a time—letting strangers love me and lead me into their homes for fresh mango juice and a rest on a woven mat in a patch of sunlight, like a weary cat. How gorgeous it was to live in pockets of time without caring about clocks or calendars.
I remember Pemba as a dream, but certain feelings come through as real enough to report back.
One night on that trip, we stayed in a village shrouded by trees where my ex’s relatives lived. We bought a huge bag of candy at the tiny kiosk near the house, with only a few flickering lanterns to light the way. When we returned with the bag, all the children in the village swarmed me on the porch, their little arms reaching toward me, begging for a piece.
Another night, the clerk at a sleepy guesthouse asked my ex for our marriage certificate and refused to rent us a room without it. We pleaded with him to believe we were married and had simply forgotten the documents at home. He begrudgingly allowed us to stay a few nights, and each morning at breakfast, over cups of milky chai and toasted squares of white bread, I felt a strange shame about lying to him.
I think it’s because I already knew I was with a man I would eventually have to leave, and that he would make it difficult for me to do so. So I sipped my milky spiced chai and made him smile for a photo. I still have that snapshot somewhere in my records, the tub of Blue Band butter sitting on the crowded table.
We argued for much of that trip—about where to go and how to get there—stopping frequently for smoke breaks under the shade of hot tin awnings, dust kicking up around our ankles. But we also found a way to weave through the heat and confusion, finding moments of pleasure along the way, deep fried chips mayai and all, with a side of pili-pili.
We visited ancient ruins, walked through broken towns, toured archival sites, met aunties and cousins, and talked with locals about the jealous well, the hungry ghosts, and the bitter comrades of a communist past. We shook hands with teachers and bakers, greeted tropical birds and village kids who forced me to sing Celine Dion songs with them as we passed through town trying to reach the next place.
It was a difficult trip to a forgotten place, and I’m so glad I went—and that I still have photos to help me remember it. If I’m not mistaken, the boat ride back to Unguja was nowhere near as violent.
The winds were in our favor.
When we finally reached the shoreline, I felt fully scrambled and unable to comprehend what the rest of the week would be like because I was too worried about having to take the same boat back to Unguja, the main island where I’d been living with this man who swore a trip to Pemba would delight us both.
On that first day wandering through the markets, I bought an enormous glass bottle full of the island’s famous amber honey, pristine liquid gold spun from the magic of bees and their keepers on an island known as much for its honey as for its ghosts.
This was a place where time indeed stood still—where questions of empire or commerce hung in the air like heavy clouds already emptied of rain—and where fans whirred forever inside empty cafés. The island lacked any infrastructure for tourists; public minibuses left for certain villages only once a day, so I followed my ex around as if he knew where he was going.
The days were hot and the nights muggy, thick with mosquitoes and the shrieks of bats. We spent a few nights in Wete and Chake Chake, the town with the abandoned cinema. In the evenings, I spoke in whatever Swahili I could muster with my ex’s relatives, who looked at me with eyes awaiting gifts from the greater island of Unguja.
In the ruins of this place, where only the lush green trees still thrived as if political despair had never touched them, everyone seemed to exist in a state of waiting—except the trees, and maybe the flying foxes.
Pembans, shamed and shunned for their political tendencies toward revolution within the revolution, often moved to Unguja, not the other way around. Anyone who stayed behind felt forgotten, or so it was conveyed to me.
I have not been to Pemba in many years now, so it surprises me that I’m writing about it. I think it’s because I’ve been reading a novel about a traveler who lets her heart open to strangers along the way, and whose journey unfolds through this willingness to be led.
I was like that for a time—letting strangers love me and lead me into their homes for fresh mango juice and a rest on a woven mat in a patch of sunlight, like a weary cat. How gorgeous it was to live in pockets of time without caring about clocks or calendars.
I remember Pemba as a dream, but certain feelings come through as real enough to report back.
One night on that trip, we stayed in a village shrouded by trees where my ex’s relatives lived. We bought a huge bag of candy at the tiny kiosk near the house, with only a few flickering lanterns to light the way. When we returned with the bag, all the children in the village swarmed me on the porch, their little arms reaching toward me, begging for a piece.
Another night, the clerk at a sleepy guesthouse asked my ex for our marriage certificate and refused to rent us a room without it. We pleaded with him to believe we were married and had simply forgotten the documents at home. He begrudgingly allowed us to stay a few nights, and each morning at breakfast, over cups of milky chai and toasted squares of white bread, I felt a strange shame about lying to him.
I think it’s because I already knew I was with a man I would eventually have to leave, and that he would make it difficult for me to do so. So I sipped my milky spiced chai and made him smile for a photo. I still have that snapshot somewhere in my records, the tub of Blue Band butter sitting on the crowded table.
We argued for much of that trip—about where to go and how to get there—stopping frequently for smoke breaks under the shade of hot tin awnings, dust kicking up around our ankles. But we also found a way to weave through the heat and confusion, finding moments of pleasure along the way, deep fried chips mayai and all, with a side of pili-pili.
We visited ancient ruins, walked through broken towns, toured archival sites, met aunties and cousins, and talked with locals about the jealous well, the hungry ghosts, and the bitter comrades of a communist past. We shook hands with teachers and bakers, greeted tropical birds and village kids who forced me to sing Celine Dion songs with them as we passed through town trying to reach the next place.
It was a difficult trip to a forgotten place, and I’m so glad I went—and that I still have photos to help me remember it. If I’m not mistaken, the boat ride back to Unguja was nowhere near as violent.
The winds were in our favor.
