Those Kind of People

Catching glances at the sheli in Darijani we walked up Creek Road, in front of the market through the bus stop where the dala dala conductors lean or bang the tin, whilst drivers re. Inside the bus idlers make a crowd by pretending to be passengers. "Hey Babu", they mutter "Hey babu, Nungwi", they cry, the last u sound extended into a rising screech. We, (an American woman, call her Sara, with an American long "a" sound as in Bob Dylans wife), walk on by the stone faced Islam of the wholesalers stalls, before them open cartons containing boxes of soap, ships biscuit, sauce, that kind of thing suggesting falsely the gear they deal in.

I catch the eye of a date seller, "tendi,safi" reflecting my widened eyes with his own rounding. Black pupils lock and mirror mine.

"Why do they stare" , Sara says, hair, hippy style over her face. "

"We stare and avert" I say, "When there is some thing to look at they look: strong and fair".

At the entrance to the alley, the fruit and herb alley, the dried fish stink. I pick up a whole dried octopus,

"You like that stuff?" I like her accent.

Five strides down, where the ninja women bustle, on a little visited shelf I take a jar, an old produce jar re used, full now with house made pickled lemons.

She puckers a Californian nose, " are they clean? "

"In a hotel I ran, in another city, at first light, I watched a spindle legged man with spectacles trying to slip away. A woman appeared on the balcony, an accent American, like you. She called out-"if you cannot do better than a pickled walnut then next time I will sit on your head". The repost amused me, ever since I have had a taste for pickled fruits"

The pickled lemon seller said four thousand five hundred, I gave him three thousand, he nodded curtly, saying "Babu, badye

Down deep Darajani, the money changer who does any kind of transfer. In the outer office the windows did a busy trade. The tellers looked up, an eye brow raised a moment, my white skin, the locked door opened, I slip inside, closing discretely but as firmly as a cell. There is one more office, through the window I see the man, I am gestured in, fingers down. He is squint. I cannot tell which gaze is on me which one to meet. There are two land lines, big hand sets set to speaker, he holds one mobile two more lay on the desk. He converses on one of the speaker phones, hold one mobile to his right ear. The other phones ring constantly. The office is crowded with silent people, a tennis match is showing sound muted on an elevated screen. There should have been a gold fish bowl with one fish. I am given a small bottle of very iced water.

He stops his phone conversations though the phones still ring.

"Yes?"

We talk for a time, at his discretion, of people that we have both known or have agreed to mention.

"So"

I want to send money to Sweden. The pause, for reflection or the polite appearance of reflection.

"How will you pay"

"Cash, Amerikan"

"It will go through Dubai, arrive tomorrow, cost $50"

I had left Sara in Abduls shop. He sells us sheets and towels from his brothers factory in Pakistan. Abdul knew where I had been.

"Was that legal" says Sara.

I reply "I do not have the right kind of passport to go to Amerika"

So thus we passed on, first to the coffee house called Archipelago, then on north to the Bar, then to the rooms at Sazani. For once back to that beach none of these people can find me. Can they? Must be like sleeping with Jesse James.