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It's nearly pitch dark when I wake up, the room is only lit by the eerie moonlight shining through the half open window. My watch reads 2am. I curse the men shouting outside. They sound upset but it's hard to tell - I don't speak the language. Africans oftens sound more agitated than they really are. Selling tomatoes or offering taxi services may sound more like someone holding up a bank than a friendly local trying to make a living. 'Why can't they ever speak in a civilised manner,' I say prejudicely to Helene, assuming she's awake. Interesting how suddenly "I" am the civilised and "they" are the villains. I never was much of a morning person. 'It's probably nothing,' I say with a guilty look on my face, hidden from Helene by the darkness. 'It's just the way they communicate.' We try to sleep, but the voices don't go away. On the contrary, it sounds as if more people have joined in. Back home this would undoubtfully sound like a brawl, here, it may be someone gossiping over a Sunday cup of tea. 'What on earth is going on,' Helene says. In couple terminology, this means for me to get up and investigate, reporting back ASAP. Standing up in my bed, I slowly lean my head out the window. It's dark but I can see a group of people standing close to the stairs, some ten metres away. I quickly withdraw my head and report back to the boss lying in the opposite bed.
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Terror in the night

Robinbye
2006-01-05 20:57:06

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I ask the waiter. He hasn't seen anything. 'Well, what about the window,' I say triumphantly and point to the window. 'It's been broken already,' he says, meaning it happened "a long time ago." 'Not true,' I say, changing my sweet-talk tactics to something more Dirty Harry-like, and walk over to it. I look down on the floor to see if I can see any pieces of glass. They have wiped it up but the waiter seems to think I have found something and changes his strategy. 'We broke it last night. They key to the salon was gone. There was a spare key inside so we tried to break in. But after we broke the window someone found the first key,' he says. Problem solved. I sit down with Helene at the breakfast table and we go over the facts, or rather, our experience of the events. In the middle of the night it is suddenly so important to get into the salon that they try to smash the door open, then break the window, all the while shouting? Helene seems happy that the whole thing is "over." It annoys me. 'Well, what if the same thing happens next night? What if the bastards didn't leave the boat? You can't really believe this bullshit they're telling us, do you,' I say in a slightly aggressive tone. 'Maybe they threatened with the police. Because we were going ashore at 4am this morning, the drunks didn't have any choice. Maybe they really did leave then,' Helene says. However many times we talk it over, we can't get closer to a conclusion, we just don't have enough evidence. At the top deck I ask another tourist who has his own business in Cape Maclear and knows the locals and their customs. He hasn't heard anything and underlines that we are safe on board. That's was not the answer I was hoping for. Or maybe I should have hoped for it. Sleeping on the top deck next to the engine pipe there is a lot of noise and he probably didn't hear anything. My last hope is the bartender. I made good friends with him yesterday, buying him drinks all day. He hasn't heard anything (surprise). He says that a brawl doesn't sound very likely. Later the same day I ask him again, pushing him a bit. He says 'maybe the missing key story really happened,' he obviously has been briefed like the rest of the crew now, then adds ambiguously 'or maybe there was a fight.' He doesn't want to eloborate, and I leave it at that.

The rest of the trip goes on eventlessly. We enjoy cold drinks on deck and read our books, occasionally examining the shore and people and boats and huts and sometimes even animals with the binoculars. We lock ourselves up at night and are woken by the waiter at 7am for our breakfast. Finally we've arrived in Nkhata Bay.

Author's note:

At the time of writing this I am sitting at a computer in Jambo Guest House in Stone Town on Zanzibar, the paradise island off Tanzania. Just outside I hear screaming and running feet. Sprinting outside, I see a mob chasing down a young man, beating him with a whip. I ask the guest house staff, who's also keen to watch, what's going on. They explain to me that he stole something from a shop and that stealing is not well accepted on this largely islamic island. 'They will take him to the police now,' one of the staff says. 'What kind of penalty can he get,' I ask. He doesn't want to give a clear answer. 'What about the capital punishment,' I say, thinking of countries where people are killed for stealing an apple or at least lose an arm or something. 'It depends on the judge,' the staff member says. 'Maybe one year, maybe two. But not the death penalty,' he smiles.