Zanzibar

ZANZIBAR

It had been a long trip, over nineteen hours. Not that it mattered. This was where I was supposed to be. Without Franny.  Just me now. Alone.

I deplaned, collected my luggage, and grabbed a cab to my hotel. My lodgings were exactly what I wanted — not a five star hotel, but not a travellers’ hostel, either. Just a nice cozy hotel with a solid four star rating. Definitely not a chain. I can stay at a Holiday Inn anywhere on the planet, but this trip was special and very personal. I needed the personal touch a small, family-run establishment like this would provide. It was a small hotel in the middle of the old town — only eight rooms. Apparently, the hotel, or “pension” as it was called, had been in the family for generations. The building was over one hundred years old, but had gone through modernization over the years. From the photos the old-fashioned character had been maintained, but it still had everything I wanted — privacy and Internet. What more could a traveller ask for? I knew Franny approved of the choice.

*****

“So, if I die first, you have to go to Zanzibar to celebrate our friendship.”

We were in Franny’s room, ostensibly working on our homework.

“Zanzibar? What’s in Zanzibar? Where is Zanzibar”

Franny got up and rifled through a stack of magazines, pulling a worn copy of National Geographic from the middle of the pile. It’s distinctive yellow cover was faded, one of the corners dog-eared.  

“Off the coast of Tanzania. Here.” She flipped to the pages until she came to a story on Zanzibar, and handed it to me. “It’s so beautiful!” she said, staring longingly at the photos.

I looked at the stunning full-colour photographs. White beaches with not a soul in sight, happy workers harvesting spices from the land, quaint villages, a bustling market in Old Stone Town.  

“It is pretty,” I said looking at the stunning photos. “But why Zanzibar?”

“I dunno. I was over at my Gram’s place, and she had all these old National Geographic magazines—” She pointed to the pile of magazines on the carpet beside her bed, “— and I found this article on Zanzibar when I was looking through them. It’s amazing. And so off-the-beaten-path. Did you know they are famous for their spices — cloves, nutmeg, cardamon, turmeric, and …” She looked over my shoulder “cinnamon and black pepper. That’s so exotic!”

“Cool,” I said, scanning the pages. “It looks amazing.” I paused, looking up at her. “I was going to choose Disney Land for your place. I guess I should try and up my game.” 

We both laughed. Neither of us had travelled anywhere, and magazines and television were our window unto our world.

I leaned over and pulled the top two Nat Geo magazines, and started flipping through them, homework forgotten. Maybe I could find Franny a really cool place, too.

*****

We were sixteen that year. And it was the first time that someone we had known had died. That’s was led us to our travel pact. There was a boy in our year who had died in a car crash. He’d been racing and lost control of his car. Neither Franny nor I had ever spoken to him — he was part of the cool group, of which we were not. But his friends were devastated at the loss. It didn’t make any difference that he wasn’t a friend, his death hit us hard. It hit the whole school hard. Franny and I decided that if one of us died, the other had to go take a trip to a place the other one had chosen — sort of like a bucket list trip by proxy. So, our plan was hatched.

Now, I was on Franny’s trip. It broke my heart to be doing it without her. In my heart-of-hearts I had sincerely hoped that we would never have to do either of the trips, that we’d be so old and feeble that we wouldn’t remember that there was a trip to be done. Yet, here I was.

I headed out. My hotel was in Old Stone Town. I strolled around the Darjani Bazaar, inhaling the exotic scents, examining the myriad of different wares. As I wandered through the market, I kept wondering if Franny had been here, doing the exact thing that I was doing. She had visited the Zanzibar Islands a number of times over the years, and always raved about how special this bazaar in Stone Town was. She had revelled in the isolation of the out islands, and had raved about the beach resorts, but her favourite spot had always been Stone Town, and her favourite place in Stone Town had been Darjani Bazaar.

As I was walking towards Kanga Street where the fabric stalls were found, I caught a glimpse of a woman in front of me. I stopped in my tracks, and stared.

Franny!

I was sure it was her. I would know her anywhere. I started to run towards the woman, just as she tuned down one of the dozens of narrow alleys leading into and out of the market. I ran around the corner, smack into a cart pulled by a mule, piled high with bolts of colourful cloth, in colours so rich they almost glowed, the prints both whimsical and bold.

“Sorry, sorry, lady, sorry,” the cart driver apologized. We danced back and forth a couple of times until I was able to slip by the man and his donkey. The alley was busy, stalls lining both sides. The lane was so narrow that I had wonder how the cart had been able to make it to the street.  But no Franny.

I kept scanning the alley, hoping to catch a glimpse. The alley fed into a rotunda, lined with larger stalls, also busy. I stood in the middle of the area turning in circles, searching the faces of those around me.

Still no Franny. Confused and saddened, I made my way to a small coffee stall, tucked between two stores selling spices and fabric. I sat at the table closest to the street, continuing my people watching, hoping to see the woman again.

I was sure I had seen Franny. We’d been friends for over fifty years. I knew my bestie.  

As I sipped the rich, fragrant coffee, I considered what I had seen, or what I thought I had seen. I was certain it was Franny. But, my brain told me that it couldn’t be her. Franny was dead. That was the reason that I was in Zanzibar right now. She had died in a plane crash in South America, doing what she loved, her job. I knew that. But, I was so sure that I had seen her.

*****

“Gabs! I got the job!”

“Oh my God! Congrats, Franny! That’s fantastic!”

We were hugging, jumping around in a circle. She was so happy! I was so happy! It was the job of her dreams. Well, an entry-level job of her dreams, but still, it was what she wanted to do. She was now a professional photographer, working the street beat in our little town.

“When do you start?” I asked.

“In a week!” she squealed. “And they’re giving me my own camera!” We both screamed in delight, still jumping around in a circle, still holding hands.

“That is so cool!” I said.  

I was truly happy for Franny. Ever since she had discovered National Geographic, and the outstanding photographs that populated the magazine, Franny’s goal was to become a professional photo journalist, and eventually work for Nat Geo. She was the year book photographer at school, and always had a camera in her bag or around her neck. Her first subjects had been our circle of friends. She took photos of everything. 

To show her that they supported her choices, her parents set up a dark room in the basement. When she told them that she wanted to be a photo journalist, they encouraged her to pursue a degree in journalism at university, but insisted that she got a minor in Business. “Just in case,” they said. “A business minor could become helpful when she started her own photography business,” they said.

And now she had her first job. Our local paper was a far cry from the islands of Zanzibar, but it was a start.

*****

The next morning, I walked through the old city, my camera at the ready. Well, it was not actually my camera, it was the one that Franny had left for me in her will. My skills were nothing compared to Franny’s but her love of photography had rubbed off on me. She had taught me so much — the difference between a snap shot and a photograph, how to be decisive in choosing a subject, the rule of thirds, depth of field … so much.  

I remembered looking at Franny’s photos of Stone Town. I tried to recreate them. I wandered through the old fort, looking for the unique perspectives that made Franny’s photos so appealing.  It was a wonderful old building, a mixture Arabic and Portuguese styles.  

It was getting close to lunch, and I headed back to the hotel before it got too late. I ate in the small restaurant attached to the pension, enjoying one of the local delicacies, octopus curry. Franny had raved about the fusion of the tastes. I was not usually an adventurous eater, but when in Rome... It was delicious. Franny had been right, as usual.

I went up to my room, and started looking through my photos. Most were okay — at least I could tell what I had been photographing. When I got to the photos from the fort, the woman from the bazaar appeared in the distance, or just out of focus in a number of them. It was Franny. I was positive. But how?  

One of the things that Franny had drilled into me was composition, composition, composition.  

“Pay attention to the whole scene,” she’d say. “If you don’t want people in your photo, you’re going to wait until there are no people around. If you want the sun coming from behind you, move until the sun is behind you. If you want to get a closeup with a nice depth of field, you’re going to have to walk closer. Trust me,” she said, “you’ll thank me when you have a fantastic photograph.”

And I had followed her advice. I know that I had scanned the scene. When I took a photo of the battlements, I had made sure there were no other people in the shot. But, when I examined the photo, there was the woman. Same with the tunnel into the main square, a woman on the periphery, just turning a corner. And in the area outside the fort.

It was as if she was here with me on my trip to Zanzibar.

*****

The lawyer had called me, and told me that I had been mentioned in Franny’s will. I was still so numb, rocked to the core by her death, but I traveled down to his office.

“Gabriella, Franny has left you her Nikon D850 camera and all the lenses.”

He handed me the camera case. Not a little bag that you take on vacation, but one of those huge aluminum cases with cutouts for the lenses.

I smiled. I had used this camera a lot when Franny and I had gone on “photo-cations”. She would always snort when I said that my phone was good enough.

“And her ouvre of work — all of her prints and negatives.”

I looked at him.

“That’s a lot of photos,” I said.

“Yes, it is. We’ll arrange to have them delivered to a location of your choice.”

While I was contemplating my “inheritance,” he held out his hand. In it was an envelop.

“And this is for you, as well.”

I waited until I got home before opening it.

Gabs:

Well, if you’re reading this, then I’m dead. Sorry!  

So, about our deal. You’re going to finally make it to Zanzibar, but without me. You’re going to love it. I’ve told Mr. Easton — who you’ve met if you’re reading this letter — to pay for the trip for you. First class all the way, baby. No economy or business class, first class. Maybe even one of those fancy sleeper cabins they have in the really lux planes. And a great hotel, too. There’s this little place in Stone Town, Bultler’s Pension. Superb! Alan and is wife, Winsome, are fantastic. They’ll take great care of you. Just tell them that Franny sent you. Not kidding — tell them. They’ll make your stay marvellous.

There’s so much to see and do in Zanzibar. Although I love Stone Town, there are other amazing places you need to visit. Make sure that you arrange to visit the outer islands, and stay at the Copperfield Beach Resort. Raul is the manager, he’s amazing. I suggest at least three days there.

Travel the whole archipelago, on my dime. I don’t need the money anymore, and I want you to have the best trip ever. You’re my best friend, and you deserve it. Just don’t be surprised if you see me there, haunting your trip, making sure you have a fantastic time!

I love your Gabs!

Franny.