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theastonishingkylejackson · 6 years

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“I was out late that night. Much too late. The bartender kept the Kili’s coming while I marveled at the universe putting me in that bar on that night accepting a stranger’s invitation to join their table.” – Written By Jodi Arndt Contributing Columnist for The Astonishing Tales Digital Magazine

To read more of Jodi Arndt’s work, visit her website by clicking HERE.

“You’re a teacher, correct? It’s must be the glasses. You look like a teacher,” he nods his head in the waiter’s direction as a round of shots are placed on the table.

The Astonishing Jodi Arndt, Contributor for The Astonishing Tales Digital Magazine

My face must communicate confusion at the round of drinks that is quickly placed down because his friend confirms, “Chilled vodka, dear.”

“Maisha marif!”

“Cheers.”

“To a long and prosperous life!”

Four glasses clank and I take a slow swig of the vodka.

“Forgive me. We failed to properly introduce ourselves,” he says at he sets down his shot glass.

Abeid, Ibrahim, and Pule introduce themselves and I am suddenly realizing how out of my league I feel.

The shirt with cut-out shoulders Judy loaned me in Al Ain is stuck to the worst parts of me and my black leggings are more gray than black.

The bathroom demons I’ve been battling since Nungwi aren’t backing down. My belly is part beer baby and whatever fun infection that Cipro has yet to relieve.

The travel blow dryer won’t communicate to my adapter, so I am rocking a sad 80’s perm, the result of humidity and genetics.

Realizing that I am:

A. Lightly buzzed

B. Far less attractive and articulate than my male counterparts

C. Likely to debate social or political issues like I tend to do when I drink…

I decide I better talk less and listen more.

The menu at Livingstones, an establishment in Zanzibar

“So, what are ya’ll talking about?”

“Oh, we were just discussing music theory,” Abeid responds.

Nodding my head seems like an appropriate response considering I have zero idea what exactly music theory is and can add absolutely nothing to the conversation, I shift the discussion around the table and ask, “How do you all find yourself together tonight?”

“What kind of question is that?” ‘ How do we find ourselves together?’ Pule’s tone, a tad judgmental, which his head shake communicates.

Unsure of the possible cultural wrong I’ve committed and feeling totally misunderstood, I sip my drink and shut up.

“She’s just asking a question, man calm down,” Ibrahim attempts to right my apparent wrong.

Not sure of the mistake I made, I try again, “What I am saying is, I have friends from different parts and times in my life. People who have known me in different phases–childhood, college, my 20’s, colleagues who have become friends – I could go on and on. Each group per se knows me for me at that time, in that place. Hopefully I’ve evolved, grown. You know? Wondering what your story is. How are you connected? That is all. Pretty simple.”

As I am explaining myself a tear is forming in my left eye. I know it is happening, I am quite aware of my affinity for crying out of sheer frustration.

Even in the dark, Abeid knows, “My God, you look like you are about to cry. My darling you are too sensitive. Much too sensitive.”

“Why, thank you for that. Yes, well aware. I have received such feedback more than once. I know it’s not a good look. Got it,” I say defensively.

Fuck.

“I didn’t mean to insult you. OK, you’re right I said ‘too sensitive’ which tells you it’s a bad thing, that I am judging you, but you are sensitive. Pule was just trying to understand your question. Can we start again?”

“Or we can talk about ice cream. What kind of ice cream do you like?” Ibrahim laughs.

“C’mon, man. We are having a real conversation, I’m sure Jodi can handle it, yes?” He continues, “Why Zanzibar? You’re an American traveling by yourself I’ll assume. What brought you to this part of the world?” Abeid leans back into his chair and awaits my response.

His tone communicating the confidence, my intellect escapes me in this moment.

Ibrahim and Pule lean in and the shift of their bodies and the flood lights perched on the old British Consulate Building illuminate their faces.

I now see quite clearly how nice it would be to not go home alone tonight.

My head is dizzy with the Kilimanjaro that I drank at happy hour with Linda, then the South African wine we had at dinner, and now the vodka shot I’m sipping.

“Well, I was in East Africa years ago and never made it to Zanzibar, so while it was always on my mind, I didn’t consider it beyond a thought until I was taking care of my father who became ill and died rather quickly, so–.”

A collective, “Sorry to hear that,” rings round the table.

I have to stop myself here because Lord knows I could go on and on and talk about my Dad.

About his death.

About the grief that invades my thoughts at the oddest moments, but I have some presence of mind left amidst the alcohol, jet lag, and stomach invaders to practice self restraint.

“It’s life, right? Anyway, I was watching teams weaving through the narrow streets in Zanzibar on The Amazing Race late one night and then I watched an episode of Anthony Bourdain when he was in Zanzibar and felt compelled to make this the time to come, so here I am.”

“Ahhh, Anthony Bourdain! Anything special about that episode that you remember?”

A waiter sets down another round of Kilimanjaro’s and changes out candles that have burned into nubs of wax atop beds of sand in the glass hurricanes.

Ahh, now I can see three wide, expectant smiles curiously anticipating my response.

Is there a correct answer?

I wonder.

Earlier, after Linda left and I wasn’t ready to go home, I sat at the bar, ordered a beer, and made small talk with the bartender as he muddled mint with a pestle.

I was wiping down my beer when a stranger stuck his head through one of the enormous, ornate picture windows that punctuate Livingstone’s stone facade, “Please, come join us,” his hand motioning to a table on the deck. His voice had a warm, rhythmic welcoming tone. His invitation reminding me just why I fell in love with this place.

Later he’d introduce himself as Ibrahim.

Look, in the U.S. I rarely am approached by a man. Any man.

I can count across my fingers the number of times I have been told that I am not approachable, have some hard, pensive look that prevents men from speaking to me. More often than not, I have taken that feedback personally-like something is wrong with me. My first inclination is to point the finger inward. Then, explain myself in order to be understood and accepted.

Like I am in 6th grade.

I am 45.

Yet, while traveling, men talk to me. I know, I know. You’re an American, you say. You have money, you think. True, true. But not all want something from me. Some, do. Most do not.

Some of the most enjoyable, enlightening, and honest conversations I’ve had have been with complete strangers in unfamiliar places. Whether it be the Indian-Canadian business men who ferried over from Dar Es Salaam or the Aussie National Geographic photographer – give me a communal table with complete strangers and a beer – and I am happy.

Sure, I’ve had to learn some hard lessons. Don’t broadcast you’re single. Dress modestly. Don’t walk alone at night. Don’t believe everything a person tells you.

Don’t assume the term ‘friend’ is universal.

Some of those strangers become friends. Others, I learned one of the above lessons too late.

Yet, through these interactions I’ve come to learn how much I don’t know. How much I have to learn about the world.

How damn critical is to love yourself. How important it is to see opportunity in each obstacle. Even in the dark, know the light will come.

“Jodi, so tell us. That episode. You were saying?” The cadence of Abeid’s voice is so familiar, like I somehow know him, but that is impossible.

“I remember Bourdain with Juma the street food vendor, him in a small village near the ocean with a local, the kids playing in the–”

Suddenly I realize why he is so familiar to me.

“Wait! It’s you. You! With your straw hat talking about the history of the island, your family. Holy sh**. You and Anthony Bourdain ate lunch together. No wonder why I thought your voice was so familiar.”

They all laugh.

“Straw hat? Where’d you get that hat again, man?” Ibrahim asks like being on a TV show is no big deal.

Another round of Kilimanjaro’s are placed down at the table. I scan the beach, look through the picture windows and realize we are the only people here.

“The hat with the brown brim, man. Indeed, Jodi. Yes it was me. We were in Jambiani where I have family,” Abeid explains.

I was out late that night. Much too late. The bartender kept the Kili’s coming while I marveled at the universe putting me in that bar on that night accepting a stranger’s invitation to join their table.

Pule walked me home. I went to bed alone and woke up with a slight hangover.

Later, while reminiscing about that evening and thanking the universe for such a story, I’d come to learn that one of my new friends was one of political royalty; Abeid being the grandson of the first President of Zanzibar.

I still shake my head and smile when I think back on that night.

Grateful for a stranger’s invitation.

I’m The Astonishing Jodi Arndt, Contributor For The Astonishing Tales Digital Magazine and I Am Astonishing And I Approve This Message!

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Happiness In Zanzibar: A Stranger’s Invitation "I was out late that night. Much too late. The bartender kept the Kili’s coming while I marveled at the universe putting me in that bar on that night accepting a stranger’s invitation to join their table."

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