Colours of Africa: painting a new self

The room’s door had a rusty bolt lock secured with a tiny padlock, clearly a twin to the one on the gate. A large square bed with a mosquito net filled the entire room. A fan spun overhead, and behind a partition wall, I glimpsed a curved shower pipe. The windows had no glass but were fitted with grilles and mosquito nets – standard Zanzibar construction. Not terrible.

“Don’t forget to lock both the gate and your door when you leave, and lock them from inside when you’re in. I’ll prepare breakfast for you tomorrow morning!” Hassan beamed.

“How can I reach you if there’s a problem? What if something goes wrong?” I asked.

“Just call me! I live nearby. I also have a vegetable stall around the corner – you can find me there from eight in the morning.”

He departed. As I locked the gate behind him, I peered outside: darkness and emptiness. A lock on the house’s second door indicated no one else was staying there. I was alone in an unfamiliar house in the middle of an African village, protected by a fence that could be knocked down with a finger. What if someone climbed over? The discomfort grew. I had craved this silence and solitude after the city’s noise and the hostel’s activity, but now I sat nervously monitoring every sound. The wind rustled through a neighbouring palm tree. Something kept falling onto the roof, making me start.

The heat was stifling. The overhead fan laboured but provided no relief, merely circulating the hot air. The mosquito net trapped what little breeze there was, and I lay on the bed, hot and sticky, struggling to breathe in the almost liquid atmosphere. I wished I could fall asleep quickly and wake up early to head for the ocean.

I spent the entire night tossing and turning, sleep eluding me due to anxiety and heat. I managed to doze off toward dawn but was awakened by village roosters, followed by locals loudly discussing their affairs right outside the fence. The windows had no glass, only grilles and mosquito netting – I couldn’t escape the noise.

In the morning, Hassan prepared a delicious breakfast: a delicate omelette, toast, and fresh fruit, just like in a standard hotel. At his shop, I bought an avocado the size of a small watermelon and devoured its buttery yellow flesh with a spoon, like ice cream. However, I couldn’t stay. I felt physically unwell and frightened, and nothing could change that.

“Hassan, you’ve been incredibly kind and attentive. Thank you. Unfortunately, I need to leave.”

“What happened?”

“I couldn’t sleep; it was too hot for me here. I can manage one sleepless night, but I can’t continue like this. I’m sorry.”

Later, I realized that my accommodation had been remarkably comfortable compared to typical living conditions in this village. Not everyone had electricity and gas, and few had showers; most people washed by pouring water from a bucket. This homestay clearly represented a significant investment for Hassan, providing much-needed income for his family. Ten dollars a day amounted to just three hundred dollars monthly – not much by Western standards but considerably more than the average earnings in Zanzibar. I regretted disappointing him, but my health and peace of mind took priority. I had reached the limit of my climate and social adaptation. That same day, I relocated to a nearby hotel with air conditioning, where I slept for a full day and night. Some experiments simply don’t work out.

Stone Town and Its Cultural Blends

“I’m heading to Stone Town tomorrow to handle a banking matter. I can give you a ride since I’m taking a car. You mentioned you had business there,” Saim messaged me.

He was right – I had promised to attend Chris’s concert that evening. How fortunate.

Stone Town, the historic heart of Zanzibar, is simply called “the city” by locals because all other settlements on the island are villages. That evening, I planned to attend Chris’s concert at the Dhow Music Academy with his flute, but in the meantime, I could explore the surroundings.

Stone Town’s center consists of a labyrinth of narrow streets so constricted that pedestrians must press against walls to let roaring motorcycles pass, with no space for cars. The pathways are lined with stalls selling woven bags and hats, leather and plastic bracelets, wooden masks, and traditional kanga fabrics in wild color combinations.

An elderly man in white Muslim attire sits on a concrete bench selling rambutan – red, hairy fruits on branches. These little bunches with traces of mold cost 3,000 shillings, while the ones with large, pristine fruits cost 5,000. I purchase a five-thousand-shilling bundle, which occupies half my backpack. Just 150 shillings – less than a dollar! Incredible.

Stone Town, Zanzibar

Those legendary Zanzibar doors

As you walk through Stone Town, remember to look up; the buildings showcase a remarkable fusion of Arab and Indian architecture. Stone Town is a UNESCO World Heritage site for good reason. Here’s an Arab house with solid walls and tiny windows. And there’s an Indian one with a wide wooden balcony featuring intricate carvings and flowers. Below, I notice a wooden door studded with massive metal spikes. These are the famous Zanzibar doors, worth visiting Stone Town just to see. The spikes serve no practical purpose here. In distant India (where this tradition originated), they protected gates from elephants. There are no elephants in Zanzibar, but these elaborately carved doors remain a source of pride for homeowners and a symbol of prestige and prosperity.

It’s lunchtime, and finding a place to eat in Stone Town presents its own challenge. Local restaurants embody the principle of “pole-pole” (slowly). Even with few patrons, you’ll wait nearly an hour for your food. There’s no alternative to this excruciatingly slow service. I wish I could find something like the coffee shops back home where you can quickly get both a drink and a sandwich. I found none. Surprisingly, I couldn’t even find good coffee, which seems odd considering Tanzania’s fame for coffee plantations. Interestingly, even expensive hotels serve instant coffee at breakfast, and for quality espresso, you must visit Italian restaurants.

How Can I Get to the Ocean?

I walk alone through a narrow alley, uncertain where it leads. I hope it takes me to the waterfront, but my doubts grow. Earlier today, I was searching for the Old Fort and found myself in the middle of a vegetable market instead. My internal compass is hopelessly unreliable. Ahead, I spot an interesting arrangement of construction scaffolding with the green and black Tanzanian flag waving between the struts. What a photo opportunity! I reach for my Canon camera, take a few shots, and hear footsteps approaching from behind. Someone is coming closer, and there’s no one else on the street.

I decide to act pre-emptively. Remembering a warning from a travel forum—“Don’t display expensive devices in public; you risk getting robbed”—I quickly tuck my camera into my backpack. Then I turn abruptly toward the stranger and walk directly toward him.

“Excuse me, do you know how to reach the ocean?” I ask, while my eyes scan his hands – is he actually planning to rob me?

“I’m not a local, but I know the way. I’ll show you,” the man calmly responds. He doesn’t look like a thief, but appearances can be deceiving.

“Actually, I’m a lawyer visiting Zanzibar to work with a charity foundation. By background, though, I’m a historian. I bet I could surprise you with some fascinating facts about Tanzania.”

“Go ahead,” I say, relieved to spot the familiar waterfront and Forodhani Garden with its crowds of people ahead. I’ll definitely be safe there. We sit on a white stone bench.

“Did you know we have a ‘German’ town? Literally built by Germans. And the climate there is cool, around 20 degrees Celsius.”

I wipe sweat from my forehead (it was hot and humid). The prospect of experiencing cool temperatures in an equatorial country sounds intriguing.

“Did you know this city was built to combat the rebellious chief Mkwawa? But in reality, Mkwawa consistently defeated them until he was betrayed and beheaded.”

My curiosity grows. Just tell me the name of this place!

“Iringa,” my now-clearly-not-a-robber companion smiles.

What an interesting name, I think. Sounds like a tablecloth with frills.

“Are there any waterfalls in that region?”

“The largest waterfall in Tanzania. One hundred seventy meters, at the top of a mountain. It’s on the way to Iringa. And don’t forget about the great Ruaha River. If you dream of seeing giraffes, that’s where you should go.”

The man seems determined to enchant me. How did he know about my secret passion for giraffes?

I take out my tablet with its offline map of Tanzania (now that I’m not afraid to display my devices) and place red pins on the locations he’s mentioned.

“By the way, my name is Busara, which means ‘wisdom’ in Swahili. Although Swahili isn’t my native language, nor is it for most people in this country.”

“Isn’t Swahili spoken by all Tanzanians from birth?” I ask, surprised.

“Not at all. Tanzania has more than a hundred tribes and just as many languages. Swahili is what unites us – it’s taught in schools, alongside English. So many Tanzanians speak three languages: their tribal language, Swahili, and English. Zanzibaris are fortunate; here, Swahili is their native language. By the way, Swahili is spoken in five countries, but the Zanzibari variant is considered the standard.”

Soon we part ways. Busara has a meeting to attend, and I need to head to the waterfront, to the Dhow Academy. Around six o’clock, the sunset begins, and the air cools as locals emerge onto the promenade along the ocean.

A performance unfolds on the concrete parapet: local boys leap into the ocean, executing incredible acrobatics. Dozens participate – they dive, resurface, climb back onto the parapet, and somersault through the air once more. Nearby on the sandy beach, another athletic display takes place: boys perform handstands, flips, and climb onto each other’s shoulders. Groups of girls in long dresses and Muslim headscarves watch the spectacle. Sunset in Stone Town creates a magical atmosphere.

Finally, I arrive at a building with an elaborate carved balcony. This must be the place.

What is Taarab?

Inside, steep stone steps await. They are so precipitous that I ascend sideways, as if descending a steep ski slope. Before the final flight of stairs, I notice writing on the wall: “Follow the music.” Beside it, as if to reinforce the message, musical notes are drawn. Follow the music I shall, I think, and emerge onto the rooftop – though it’s not exactly a rooftop but more of a platform surrounded by the music academy’s classrooms.

Heavy wooden doors stand open, and from within come bursts of sound: drums here, traditional African percussion there, and in the pauses between, string instruments. Moving forward, I find myself on a vast balcony with ornate, almost lace-like edging. Seated on a bench is a young man in a long white garment and a white cap with silver patterns. On his lap rests something resembling a miniature sideways harp or a set of giant metallic strings. His fingertips are adorned with metal thimbles, with which he plucks the strings, producing harmonious sounds. This is the qanun.

I came for a concert but seem to have stumbled upon a tour instead. The concert hall is actually a passageway. I open a door and step onto a huge balcony overlooking the ocean and boats. On the wall hangs a framed portrait of a woman: Sitti bint Saad, the goddess and legend of Taarab music.

This academy is the temple of Taarab. In the 19th century, Sultan Said Barghash brought this music to Zanzibar during his reign. He even sent a Zanzibari musician, Mohammed Ibrahim, to Egypt to learn to play the qanun. Upon his return, Ibrahim formed the Zanzibar Taarab Orchestra. The word “Taarab” comes from Arabic, meaning “to be delighted by music.”

The genre’s greatest surge in popularity came through a woman. Previously, women were forbidden to perform in ensembles or sing. This was strictly enforced in the sultan’s palace, though harder to monitor in villages. Singer Sitti began performing Taarab throughout Tanzania and became the first in East Africa to record an album. Crucially, she sang not in Arabic but in Swahili. Thus, this genre became not only popular but also distinctly “feminine.”

At the Dhow Music Academy, students learn both familiar Western instruments (guitar, piano) and Arabic ones – the harp-like qanun and the round, guitar-like oud. They study traditional music alongside international styles, jazz, and fusion. The academy’s uniqueness lies in its blend of African traditions with Arabic influences from the “Dhow countries” (including Persian Gulf nations, the Comoros, Kuwait, Iran, UAE, and India). “Dhow,” incidentally, refers to a traditional local sailing vessel.

Dhow Music Academy students playing the qanun. Stone Town, Zanzibar, Tanzania

Most students here are African. For them, tuition with certification costs about $500 annually, while foreigners pay $800. It’s remarkable that local students can afford this substantial sum by Tanzanian standards, where monthly earnings typically range from $100—150 for food and accommodation. Some exceptionally talented students from disadvantaged backgrounds receive free education, but this is rare. Education in Tanzania is expensive, with university access limited to those with wealthy parents or stable high incomes – musicians rarely falling into either category.

But I’m here for the concert! At the appointed hour (8:00 PM), only five people occupy the green chairs. Each of us receives an official paper ticket for 15,000 Tanzanian shillings (about $6). Chris, wearing a long yellow Muslim garment, approaches the microphone. Today, he’s tucked his typically braided long hair under a white fez-like cap.

The flute begins, and everyone freezes. Romantic melodies transition into something lively, causing me to bounce on my plastic chair, its legs vibrating against the concrete floor. Sitting through such music seems almost criminal, I think. I scan my neighbors’ faces, seeking allies to join me on the dance floor. Everyone squirms in their seats and claps along, but they maintain their composure and resist the rhythmic temptation.

Two Africans were the first to burst onto the improvised dance floor: the ticket seller and the qanun player. They danced with complete abandon. There’s a saying, “Dance as if no one is watching”—but here, everyone was watching! I couldn’t resist and joined them barefoot. Following me, another woman with her boyfriend joined, and we danced as a group of five. The remaining spectators somehow managed to stay seated. Africans are naturally uninhibited; nothing can keep them still when they hear rhythmic music. And yet, somehow we can!

It ended almost abruptly. The audience dispersed, and I waited for the musicians to pack their instruments. We ventured out to the waterfront and found ourselves amid the bustling Stone Town food market. Stalls displayed skewers of seafood and fish, alongside various types of flatbread. Nearby stood a large juicer operated by a lanky man. It was a sugarcane press: he fed green stems into it and cranked them through the mechanism. A greenish liquid resembling chlorophyll trickled into a glass. This was sugarcane juice! I tasted it – unusual, like grass mixed with sugar.

I gazed out at the ocean: not long ago, the waterfront teemed with activity, but now it was deserted. Beyond the parapet stretched a black sky filled with stars, the moon, and its reflection in the dark water. In the distance, fishing boats’ lights twinkled. I wondered how long it would take to reach them.

Those Damn Red Pins

Back at my accommodation, I couldn’t stop thinking about my encounter with Busara. Those red pins on my map kept pricking at my consciousness.

The next day, I searched online: “How to get to Iringa, Udzungwa, and Ruaha.” It proved more complicated than I’d anticipated. Tanzania has virtually no functioning railway system. Instead, there are buses that crawl for 7—8 hours to each destination, with nothing in between. The prospect was daunting. In these past two weeks, I’d become quite adventurous, but not fearless enough to wander with my suitcase from a remote bus stop in search of accommodation. The mere thought of traveling alone through the African hinterland made me uneasy. What to do?

Feeling anxious, I messaged a Tanzanian travel agency I’d found on social media: “Help me plan a realistic and safe route using public transportation; nothing seems to align.” The agency representatives considered my request and replied: “You won’t be able to connect everything independently; you need a car. Your proposed journey is unique – we’ve never taken anyone to these places before. What if we drive you ourselves and accompany you? You’d pay just the cost price and have both a private vehicle and company.”

I couldn’t have dreamed of a better solution. Soon I found myself in the Tanzanian savannah and later in tropical jungles, with limited internet access but traveling in a personal jeep with the engaging company of local guides.

Chapter 2:

The Leap into the Unknown

(Two months earlier)

Kalimba Under the Danish Flag

Kalimba! I got the kalimba!

I bounced around the office like an excited child. My colleagues were Russian, the company was Danish, but the gift was connected to Africa. What a perfect blend! I quickly unwrapped the package and held the wooden box with metal tines. I plucked one, then another – delicate silvery sounds, like tiny bells, filled the air. A hush fell over the office. My colleagues glanced around, searching for the source of the bell-like tones. Then they spotted me, exchanged knowing looks, and offered sad smiles.

Everyone knew it was my last day at the company. I’d been through this awkwardness before, saying goodbye to colleagues as they embarked on new journeys. In these moments, words fail because it’s hard to grasp the finality of it all. Just yesterday, we were sitting in the same car in St. Petersburg, brainstorming persuasive arguments for a meeting. Earlier today, we had laughed until tears came, recalling those very negotiations. But tomorrow, we’d be on opposite sides of an invisible divide. Though, what divide, really? We weren’t enemies or competitors. It’s just that in our hearts, there’s this strange mix of emotions: sadness (someone who feels like family is leaving!), curiosity (what awaits them?), anxiety (what if they didn’t choose to leave but were asked to?), and relief (I’m staying in this familiar place, and I’m fine). There’s also a desire to say something warm and meaningful. It might seem like there’s always reason for expressing gratitude and kind words, but in the daily grind, gratitude becomes part of business etiquette, and warmth becomes mere politeness. It’s only when someone leaves that you get to tell them how unique, strong, talented, and, ultimately, important they have been to you. These heartfelt revelations linger and provide warmth along the way.

I wonder what those former colleagues felt on their last day at work? On their first day “after”? A week later? Back then, I didn’t think about it, assuming everyone would need a couple of weeks to catch their breath, savor their freedom, and decide on their next steps.

Now, I recognize familiar emotions in many eyes – sadness, anxiety, relief, that same awkwardness – and I understand it perfectly. I hear words spoken from the heart and see unasked questions in their gazes. Forgive me, colleagues, for leaving. I feel guilty, as if I’m running away and letting someone down for the first time in all these years. Not long ago, we passionately discussed projects and budgets for the next year. When the marketing plan proved impossibly tight and I suggested cutting activities, some of you winked at me, saying, “Lena, come on, we’ll manage everything with you! It’s not the first time!” You didn’t yet know that I wouldn’t be helping you “manage” these projects. But I already knew.

I examined the kalimba closely. Engraved on the side was the phrase, “Life in a better light”—the Russian version of the corporate slogan, “Bringing light to life.” The phrase was written in… my handwriting. Back in 2005, the Danish headquarters had announced a competition to find the best handwriting for this slogan. Anonymous samples from about half the office’s employees and their relatives were sent to Denmark. When my less-than-perfect calligraphy was chosen, many were surprised, including myself. It turned out the Danes were looking for something natural and relaxed, not necessarily perfect. I was flattered, having believed since my school days that my handwriting was terrible.

For the past few years, we hadn’t used this slogan in advertising, but somehow, the women in the office had found my signature in the files. How creative they are! Those familiar words now have a new meaning for me. My life in a better light… What would that look like?

To be honest, I was mentally prepared to receive an exotic instrument as a gift. My colleagues knew about my passion for music. Three years earlier, I had started learning guitar, followed by African djembe drums, and then I switched to a hang, a metallic pan-shaped instrument with a magical sound. I had seen the kalimba before but had never played one. Now it’s mine.

For my “retirement,” I ordered two artistic cakes from a talented pastry chef: one with berry mousse and the other a chocolate delight. Two hearts with lemon filling adorned the “Riviera” cake. The chocolate one had three layers of delicious mousse. As I carried them into the office, I imagined everyone rushing to devour these two sweet masterpieces in twenty seconds. However, the office was empty and quiet: half of the employees were working from home due to quarantine, while the rest were in a Strategic Committee meeting – a project I had once started. Now it was running without me.

The day was spent on simple logistics. Unloading documents from my desk, tossing unnecessary papers into the trash bin, and packing the essentials in plastic bags to take with me. Then came the signing of resignation papers, collecting my employment record, and a bunch of other bureaucratic procedures whose meaning remained vague to me. The IT administrator approached and tersely informed me that my access to corporate email would be cut off at three o’clock. With just an hour left, I sat down to write farewell emails to the entire company, then personal goodbyes to my team, and then to colleagues in Denmark, Poland, and Hungary who had become almost like family during our 20 years of working together. They couldn’t believe I was leaving.

In the last 30 minutes of my working day, I managed to discuss the script for a video on product advantages and benefits. That was my final chord for the day.

Leaving the office, I got into my car, loaded all the bags with documents, flower bouquets, and a pair of black shoes I always kept in the office for a quick change. I drove home feeling numb and empty, automatically pressing the pedals and obeying traffic lights. When I arrived home and entered with all those bags and flowers, I had no desire or energy to share anything with my sons, or with anyone. I simply walked to my bed and fell asleep.

Danish Business in Post-USSR

This job spanned my entire adult life. I joined in the 1990s when job hunting was an adventure. Nowadays, you can check job listings on LinkedIn or companies’ websites and tailor your resume to the job you want. Back then, you had to obtain an English-language newspaper from a hotel, turn to the last page with job ads, and scan the offerings from international companies. Then, you would fax them your resume because email didn’t exist yet.

I remember placing my own job-searching ad in that newspaper, though I have no idea what I wrote. I had no work experience to boast about, just a university degree with proficiency in English and French – that was my only selling point. In the 1990s, foreign languages were incredibly valuable assets. No other business skills were relevant in the post-Soviet space, and Western companies were ready to train their employees from scratch. On top of that, a Russian who spoke English fluently was automatically seen as intelligent, educated, and deserving of respect and trust.