Day 32, Night in Stone Town

This one's brief. Greg and Kate went back to Dar today, and I'm staying behind for the two more days to relax, sketch, take pictures, coughbuyjewelrycough, and find my studio site. Way harder than it sounds.)

Now that I'm navigating on myown, I really have to test my skills. Kate warned me about the rookie mistake of picking out landmarks in the daytime, like shoe shops or book shops, because when the shopfronts close at night, you get a sea of blank walls. And this is a place where you get and give directions like, go left right right right right left, and then veer left at the trash pile, and then take a right at the scrambling pile of cats. But I think I've figured some things out. Leaving the concert tonight on my own, I hired a walking taxi, but he had no idea where my hotel was. I was game to try it as long as I had a big guy with a flashlight with me. In the dark, I walked us straight back to my hotel, no false moves, no wrong turns. I was so excited I high-fived my taxi.

Zanzibar, Part 3: Are we on day 31? 32? Island time...

At last, some overdue words about my hosts in Tanzania Greg and Kate Giles. Both Texans, both former Raleigh-ites, both artistic souls, and two of the coolest people I know (together and separately.) I know this twosome via Greg, having met him 10 years ago on another trip to Africa. This one was a teacher trip to Ghana to study design through the NC Art Musuem, and we ended up as co-workers at Centennial Middle School after that. There Greg taught art and created all kinds of mischief. He was captain of our bowling team (Face Down in the Gutter), and I'm pretty sure he instigated the faculty/student basketball game. He was responsible for cleaning us all out of nickels at his annual last-day-of-school poker party. Greg has always been unflappable. He reminded me recently of an incident with one of our most lively students, haggling in the hall with our assistant principal. She said, "Time to go back to class with Mr. Giles," and the student said, "Mr. Giles? That old bitch?" To which Greg responded, "Who you callin' OLD?" (Pure gold.) Furthermore, if you play croquet with Greg, he will make up rules on the fly, such as, "Now you've done it. You are two inches away from the Wicket of Death. Now you have to drink a Rogue Shakespeare Stout, do a cartwheel, and tell somebody a lie. Fast." So that's Greg, or Greggae, or Greggorio, or Gilesy-Wilesy, or G-Snap, depending on the day.

Kate Giles: equally fabulous. These two are a perfect pair, as attested to by the fact that they are one of the happiest, sweetest couples I know, and they've been married for 15 years despite their tender young age. If you ate at Edible Arts, or ate a wedding cake of any kind from, say, 1995-2007, then you also know Kate. One of her many talents is cake decorating, which at this point she'd like to keep under wraps or she'll never have a moment's peace in Tanzania. Additionally, Kate is a fantastic cook in every other category. Making tortillas by hand? Making collards edible? Making cocktails out of fresh vanilla beans? No problem. The Giles Calzone Party, consistently, was the highlight of my annual social calendar: house stuffed to the rafters with hungry people, vats of Kate's homemade tomato sauce and gobs of fresh dough, mannequins and fairy lights in the bathtub, 1950's freezer in the den full of CD's, round after round of make-your-own calzones coming out of the oven. I already loved Kate but now she is a lifetime friend: instead of the agreed-upon cab driver with a sign to meet me at my obnoxiously early 5 a.m. arrival in Tanzania, there was Kate instead. She shepherded me onto the ferry in a daze and we watched the sun come up over the water at dawn as we came into Zanzibar. She has been navigating these streets like an Eagle Scout, showing me all kinds of treasures and keeping me from getting ripped off by the fabric sellers and run over by the motorbikes. (Fun aside, these are called "piki-piki's" because that's how they sound: piki piki piki piki piki.)

So, between the two of them, everything you want halfway through a long trip. Greg and I have toasted old colleagues and reminisced about bowling shirts and listened to East African music. Kate and I have wandered the streets for at least a couple of hours every day, shopping and chattering. All three of us have shared great food, and all three of us love the roof.

Greg, it has to be said, wins the prize here. Greg, in fact, has a master's degree in Roof. He's up in our breezy rooftop lounge long before I'm up, with breakfast and coffee and book. I straggle up there as Kate is finishing breakfast, and we do coffee and chit-chat while Greg chills. We head out for fabric shopping; Greg, unswerving in his focus, camps out in the lounge, not missing a moment of steady breeze and the sea of rooftops below. We all head out for a great lunch somewhere else breezy; then, in the heat of the day, we Roof again.

Today I spent two hours napping across two of the Arabian lounge chairs up there- except that it was too great to actually sleep. I would look up at the stained glass above the shutters, backlit with Zanzibar sun and blue sky, then close my eyes and see the reverse pattern floating around for a couple of minutes. Then I'd stare up at the ceiling looking for the fan and remember that there is none- just a stiff steady perfect sea-breeze. I lounged there with Kate reading on one side, and Greg reading at his little balcony triangle table on the other, and thought about how lucky I am, and how perfect this is, and how I wish all of our old friends were here with us, and that all my new friends could come meet them too- trust me, you'd have a great time.