Colours of Africa: painting a new self

Sounds of Wisdom

“You’re performing at Sauti?” I exclaimed – twice. My musician friends had gotten incredibly lucky: there was an urgent need for replacements at East Africa’s most prestigious festival, and they happened to be on the backup list. Artists from South Africa, Ghana, and Gambia couldn’t cross borders due to quarantine restrictions. So the organizers invited local musicians to fill in, and ultimately, 11 out of 14 performers were locals. Among them – miraculously – were Richie and Chris.

The fate of this grand event had been uncertain until the last moment. The world was in the grip of a pandemic (which Tanzania was studiously ignoring). Would audiences still come? Would they allow large crowds to gather despite social distancing protocols? Could all the artists make it? And would there be enough sponsors to fund the event?

When it became clear that they couldn’t assemble their usual audience and the performer list was shrinking, the organizers scaled down the event. Instead of four days, it was reduced to two. Instead of two large stages, there was one compact stage. The festival also adopted a bold, life-affirming slogan: “Alive and Kickin’.”

Before the pandemic, tiny Zanzibar hosted several festivals each year. July brought stars for the Zanzibar International Film Festival. September welcomed young authors from East Africa for the Jahazi Literary Festival. Right after that came Fashion Week, followed by the hedonistic Swahili Food Festival. But the most vibrant of all was the Sauti za Busara music festival. Its name translates to “Sounds of Wisdom,” but to me, it represented the sounds of joy.

The setting was a historic Portuguese fort. Its inner courtyard turned into a stage and audience area, with ten-meter gray walls on either side, topped with those familiar crenellations. I navigated past stalls selling masks, wooden sculptures, leather bracelets, and (inexplicably) Chinese dresses, ducking under an arch to get closer to the stage. A wave of dense, powerful sound washed over me.

“Zanzibar, are you readyyyyyyy?” an artist with impressive shoulder-length dreadlocks called from the stage.

“Yeeeeeeeeeeeah!!!” roared the five-thousand-strong crowd. Right in front of me, a blonde woman sat on the shoulders of a dark-skinned man, waving a Tanzanian flag. Three other women in the festival’s signature T-shirts danced in perfect synchrony, swaying their hips. “I want that T-shirt with the guitar-shaped outline of Africa,” I thought as I navigated through the crowd. It wasn’t easy; people stood shoulder to shoulder.

On stage appeared a muscular man in red pants, bare-chested, wearing a towering yellow hat shaped like a Gothic cathedral spire. It miraculously stayed in place as he dropped to his knees and raised a golden wand toward the heavens. The melody cycled, with the volume and intensity building like waves in a storm. This rhythm immersed my body and mind in a trance state. I wanted to hear it again and again. But what captivated me most was the singer’s voice: powerful, haunting, raspy, and primal. It sounded like a tribal prayer to ancient gods. This was a band from Lesotho. I listened until the end, rooted to my spot. Pure shamanic energy.

I was waiting for Richie. He emerged with his band, accompanied by several musicians including a percussionist and a saxophonist. Goosebumps spread across my arms from the very first notes. I recognized this song. That same melody I had sung to. Now, this song had lyrics. “Keeeeshooooo”—the second song began, powerful and rhythmic. I recognized that Swahili word immediately: “kesho” means tomorrow. The crowd jumped and sang along. The saxophone transformed the musicians’ passion and the audience’s enthusiasm into languid, moaning sounds. “This song is about our dreams and plans for the future,” Richie explained before moving into samba rhythms. The energetic percussionist played five African drums simultaneously and coaxed silvery tones from hanging metal pipes. Richie moved confidently across the stage, connecting with his fellow musicians. He controlled the crowd’s mood with a single gesture of his right hand and with his voice, tinged with just a hint of sand.

I rushed to buy the T-shirt with the Africa-shaped guitar. After putting it on, I spotted a man carrying a flute.

“Chris, is that you? I thought you were performing today too. Did I miss it?”

“I opened the festival – warmed everyone up!”

“Is that the same flute?”

“Yes, the one from Sveta. How long are you staying in Zanzibar? I have a concert at the Dhow Academy next week. You should come.”

“I’m not sure where I’ll be in a week, but I’ll definitely try.”

“Nice T-shirt, by the way.”

I smiled and patted the guitar on my chest, somewhere around the Sahara desert.

Scrounging a Flute from the Military

Sveta was a friend with whom I’d explored the island a year earlier. We had worked together at the Danish company, and later she became a coach and wrote a bestseller. It was with her that I learned the “Clean Language” coaching method.

I still don’t know what inspired her, but she spontaneously decided to join me in Africa despite her packed schedule. “Lena, it’s settled – I’m coming with you! I couldn’t get tickets for the same flight, so get ready to meet me there,” she told me.

On the third day of our expedition, we found ourselves at a hotel composed of huts with banana leaf roofs and windows without glass. Flowerbeds were bordered with upturned bottle bottoms. Three decoratively painted toilets stood proudly planted near the reception area. The local designer must have had quite the sense of humor or perhaps listened to too much reggae. Reggae played constantly, and from the woven walls of the reception hut (where you’d typically expect to see a portrait of the country’s leader or the hotel owner), Bob Marley himself, the ultimate Rastafarian, gazed down upon us.

In the evening, there was a jam session with local musicians. A guitarist, a djembe drummer, and a long-haired man with a flute took the mini-stage under a tent. After performing several songs, they invited audience members to join them. Sveta boldly stepped into the colorful spotlight and said, “I’ll sing a Russian song you don’t know, but I hope you can figure out the chords.” And she began to sing. Sveta had a pure, soaring voice. The musicians on stage couldn’t predict the melody, but they adapted to it, improvising chords and creating unique harmonies. Their imaginations produced something that bore little resemblance to the original song, but that didn’t matter. The guitarist picked out chords, the percussionist experimented with rhythms, and the flutist (Chris) wove the melody. There was no competition, only the joy of co-creation. At six degrees south latitude, in the middle of the Indian Ocean, they were passionately performing a song only the two of us knew.

The next day, we rushed to Stone Town in a taxi. Chris came with us, carefully holding his flute case. He had borrowed it for a few days from a military orchestra musician – probably not entirely legally. This was common practice here: musicians often rented their instruments to earn extra money, since one couldn’t make a living solely from composing and performing.

During the ride, Sveta suddenly asked:

“Chris, how much does this flute cost?”

“10,000 shillings a day to rent.”

“And if you wanted to buy it?”

“I don’t know if that military guy would sell it.”

“I want to give it to you as a gift.”

Chris clutched the flute and looked at Sveta with astonishment.

“But…”

“I’m serious. Yesterday, I sang with you and saw how you play – you create something magical. It should be yours.”

“Thank you, but that’s impossible. It’s a very expensive gift, about 100 dollars.”

“Trust me, this is the best $100 investment of my life.”

Chris later purchased the flute from that military musician. He recorded a video for Sveta, playing “I Will Always Love You.” And now, this instrument had made it to East Africa’s biggest festival. Chris had performed on the Sauti za Busara stage with his own flute.

African Hostel and Its Wounded Souls

The festival ended, as did my hotel booking. Time to leave Stone Town – but for where? “What if I try living in a village… or maybe in a hostel?” I wondered as I browsed accommodation options online. I’d never stayed in hostels before, always preferring privacy over price. A comfortable sleep and the freedom to walk around in my underwear had always seemed more important than saving money. A hostel in Africa would surely be a complete disaster, but… what if I gave it a try?

Fears and doubts swirled through my mind. What kind of people would I be sharing a room with? What if they smoked or used drugs? What if they robbed me? Would there be a decent shower? The questions multiplied, but adventure is adventure. I booked a room for two days, thinking that if I didn’t like it, I could always move elsewhere.

The hostel turned out to be a pleasant one-story building right by the ocean. A tidy courtyard filled with flowers, a kite lying in the middle of the path, designer couches under a canopy with colorful pillows. No sign of a slum. A man approached me, smiling broadly; he was the owner. Nearby, his Italian wife (he being Tanzanian) sat with their two children.

I entered the room and was greeted by a refreshing breeze – there were two ceiling fans and windows on opposite sides. The room had excellent ventilation, a blessing in the heat. Three beds lined each wall, each draped with a mosquito net. The space between beds was reasonably comfortable. I began to relax. The room was quiet, with personal belongings on three of the beds. I chose the empty bed farthest from the entrance and silently hoped there would be at least one other woman staying in the room.

“Hey, you’re new here?” a deep male voice suddenly called out, making me jump. Only then did I notice someone tall in beige shorts lying under a gauzy mosquito net on one of the beds.

“Yes, I’m new, and it’s my first time in a hostel. I’m hoping there’s at least one other woman here.”

“Not yet, just us lovely gentlemen,” the guy said calmly, with a touch of irony. “I’m Konrad, from Poland.”

“I’m Elena. How long have you been here?”

“Here in the hostel? On Zanzibar? In Tanzania? In Africa?”

“Well… here, I suppose.”

“Let me start from the end. I needed a mental reset, and I chose Zanzibar because I’d been here a couple of years ago. But first, I went to Moshi near Mount Kilimanjaro, then came here. I’ve been at this hostel for two weeks, but I’m heading back to Poland soon. Unfortunately.”

“Is it… safe here?”

I mentally inventoried my backpack: passport, a stack of US dollars, an even thicker bundle of Tanzanian shillings, credit cards, tablet, and camera with expensive lenses. Where could I store all this when going to the beach, a store, or even just for breakfast? Should I carry everything with me? I hadn’t seen any lockers or safes for valuables. There was only an open wicker shelf where everyone stored their belongings. On the edge of this shelf, among men’s items, sat a lacy bra and a large straw hat.

“It’s completely safe here. I leave my laptop, documents, and money right on the bed. Nobody takes anything. I don’t know how the hostel owners manage it, but that’s how it works.”

“What about the roommates?”

“It’s safe here,” he repeated calmly. “Good people stay here, fellow travelers like you and me. By the way, where are you from?”

“Can you guess?”

“Well, judging by your accent, you’re either English or Dutch. If I were going by appearance, I’d guess English.”

“You get a B-minus, Konrad,” I laughed. “I spotted you as a Slav right away, but you couldn’t recognize a girl from a neighboring country.”

“You don’t have a Slavic accent.”

“I’m not supposed to – even though I’m Russian.”

“Welcome to our international gang, Elena.”

I met the second member of our “gang” an hour later. A tanned man with long black hair tied back with a rubber band sat on the bed opposite mine. He looked suspicious: who would wear a leather jacket and pants in thirty-degree heat? His cap’s visor concealed his eyes. “He looks like a Pakistani terrorist,” I concluded, discreetly checking that my roll of dollars was still in my sock. A day later, I would feel deeply embarrassed for these thoughts. Saim (the man’s name) turned out to be the kindest, most considerate soul – honest and trustworthy enough that I would eventually entrust him not only with my money but also with my safety.

I met the third roommate the following morning. A blond man was sleeping under a mosquito net on the bed next to mine, having returned in the early hours. “Hi, good morning,” I heard, and turned to see blue eyes and a shy smile. I had just begun to suspect he was another Slav when he said, “I’m Josh, from Germany.”

From that moment on, I laughed until my ribs ached. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d enjoyed myself so much. The four of us went everywhere together – swimming from a boat a kilometer offshore, treating jellyfish stings, sharing jokes and life stories, dancing to traditional music, posing for photos, walking the ocean floor during extreme low tide, and examining tiny starfish.

In the evenings, we sat at a wooden table sharing delicious seafood. Somehow, this hostel had gathered vulnerable, “wounded” people who had weathered crises, made life-altering mistakes, experienced disappointment in loved ones, and stood at the edge of personal abysses. Now they were seeking new directions and values. Open and radiant, they were rediscovering themselves through travel – just like me.

Josh and His Australian Escape

Josh and I sat at breakfast overlooking the Martian landscape of low tide: exposed sandy seabed and stranded seaweed. The menu was typical for the island: fresh mango juice, a plate of watermelon and pineapple chunks, an omelet, two slices of toast, and instant coffee.

“You know, exactly this time last year, I was in Australia,” he unexpectedly volunteered.

“Really? How did you end up there?”

“I needed to escape from home. Anywhere would do. Everything was overwhelming me – work, school, especially my relationship. I sold everything I owned, bought a ticket to Sydney, and ended up living there for a year and a half.”

“Was it that bad back home?”

“I’ve felt unhappy for as long as I can remember. When I was about ten, I felt like a complete idiot and failure. I hated school. My mom wouldn’t listen and kept pushing me. Eventually, I fell into depression – at ten years old, can you imagine?”

“That’s hard to fathom. How did you cope?”

“I went to live with my father in Switzerland. My parents were divorced. He didn’t have time to hover over me or control my every move. He just let me be and told me he trusted me. He said I could handle things on my own. I didn’t believe him then, but it turned out to be true.”

“And then you returned to Germany?”

“Yes, which was a mistake. I was in a bad place for quite a while. Did you know I was a drug addict?”

“No,” I said, looking at his boyish face and angelic blue eyes.

“And worse than that, I sold drugs. That’s all behind me now, but I was a bad person.”

“I never would have guessed. Why are you here now? Looking for another change?”

“No, I just wanted to see a new country. In Australia, I realized I shouldn’t force myself to be something I’m not – I should listen to my inner voice instead. So I listened, and it brought me to Africa. I also changed careers. Instead of becoming an engineer, I’m now a gardener studying to be a landscape designer.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“It’s amazing – a completely different life. It all started in Australia when I helped a family with their garden. Everything happens for a reason, you know?”

“You’ve been through so much. How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Twenty-four.”

Twenty-four. So much struggle and crisis packed into such a young life.

A Computer Expert with Farming Aspirations

As for Konrad, I couldn’t guess his age either. He looked and sounded mature and somewhat world-weary. There was an old, deep scar on his shoulder, as if someone had sliced off a strip of skin with a razor. I suspected it wasn’t from a kitchen accident, but Konrad didn’t volunteer the story. Some things are better left in the past.

“I notice you’re never without your laptop. Are you working while you’re here?”

“Yes, I’ve been working remotely for two years now.”

“An IT guy, then?”

“Yes, a specialist in SQL databases.”

“I’m not exactly sure what that involves.”

“Neither did I when I applied for the job two years ago. I saw an ad for an SQL specialist position. I immediately applied, even though I had no idea what it was. They invited me for an interview right away.”

“Weren’t you terrified?”

“I told them I could only meet the following week because I was extremely busy. During those seven days, I devoured textbooks and online courses about SQL. That was enough to get me through the first interview, and I continued learning on the job. Now I work and travel the world.”

I found this story remarkable. That’s what it means to believe in yourself – learning enough in just a week to launch a new career!

We reconnected recently, and I discovered that Konrad now wants to become… a farmer. He purchased land, enrolled in university for a bachelor’s degree in agriculture and botany, and dreams of starting his own farm. As proof of his commitment, he showed me photos of the seedlings growing on his balcony. I suspect it didn’t take him more than a month to master this new field either!

A Paramedic in Disguise

“Saim, would you mind walking me back? It’s already ten, it’s completely dark, and I’m nervous about going alone,” I asked.

“Of course.”

The hostel was just twenty minutes away, but the route led through a village in total darkness. A typical Zanzibar village consists of stone houses with concrete parapets, devoid of any illumination. No streetlights, no lamps in courtyards. Even the windows remain dark, creating the impression of walking through a ghost town. This makes practical sense – electricity is prohibitively expensive here, so who would waste it lighting streets that are empty anyway? People go to bed early to rise before dawn. Sunrise occurs consistently around six in the morning and sunset at six in the evening, as the island lies close to the equator.

That night, darkness fell instantly. By seven o’clock, the village was engulfed in blackness.

Saim activated his phone’s flashlight. “Let’s go.”

“Tell me about yourself, Saim. You mentioned you’re from India, right?”

“Yes, from Delhi.”

“How did you end up here?”

“Well, I’m a student, and right now I’m… not exactly here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I left India just before the new wave of lockdowns. We’re studying online now, so nobody noticed my departure. Or rather, I’m being very careful not to get caught.”

“So you attend lectures and seminars every day?”

“Yes, online.”

“And no one has realized you’re actually in Africa?”

“I carefully choose camera angles for video conferences so that local people – and especially the ocean – don’t appear in the background.”

“That’s incredible! What are you studying?”

“I’m supposed to become a paramedic. It was my parents’ wish; they’re paying for my education. But it’s not really my thing. Anything related to medicine, especially emergency care, terrifies me.”

“What will you do instead?”

“I’ll try to get a job at a ministry. I actually have OCD, an anxiety disorder.”

“Aren’t you afraid to walk in complete darkness right now?”

“Honestly, I’m terrified. But I couldn’t just let you go alone in the dark.”

This “Pakistani terrorist” turned out to be the most thoughtful and considerate person – shy, gentle, and generous. Saim has since returned to India to complete his studies.

A French Lady from Ethiopia

One morning, a new face caught my attention. A tall woman in a colorful skirt sat on a stone bench in the hostel lobby, speaking loudly on her phone in French. She turned toward me and, carefully choosing her English words, asked:

“Excusez-moi, is there a good beach nearby?”

“Yes, about a hundred meters away. I can show you. By the way, we can speak French if you prefer.”

“Oh, thank goodness! What a relief. I can’t stand speaking English, but I have to use it here. Pleased to meet you – I’m Jocelyne.”

Finally, a female companion at our hostel – and she was French! I’d always loved the melodious sound of the French language with its sweet cadence. I hadn’t spoken it in eight years, not since traveling to Provence to see the famous lavender fields.

“I’m Elena. Are you staying long?”

“No, I’ve only managed to escape for a few days. I work in Addis Ababa, and there’s a direct flight to Zanzibar, which is quite convenient.”

“How did you end up in Ethiopia?”

“I was going through a personal crisis after my divorce and desperately wanted to leave France. When I was offered a job at a French lycée in Addis Ababa, I accepted immediately. I’ve been working there for six months now. It’s been amazing. You should visit sometime; I have a guest room with a mattress on the floor.”

This was possibly the quickest invitation I’d ever received!

I felt incredibly fortunate. The atmosphere in the hostel differed entirely from hotels – it offered a deeper level of connection. I had chosen it out of a spirit of adventure but discovered tranquillity and emotional comfort instead. I also found my “tribe.” Hostels function like portals connecting kindred spirits. Those who travel alone usually do so for a reason, typically while navigating some form of life crisis. Travel resets your previous life, connections, expectations of the world, and the world’s expectations of you. It’s like seeing everything for the first time and meeting people you would never encounter in your “old” life. A plant transplanted to unfamiliar soil remains essentially the same plant but may alter the shape of its leaves or the color of its blossoms. No one knows what this flower was like before, but in its new setting, any identity it adopts becomes the norm. Travelers enjoy this unique advantage: they needn’t explain to anyone why they are “different” now, because there’s no point of comparison. This freedom is exhilarating.

A Fence Made of Palm Leaves

My successful hostel experiment inspired me to attempt an even more adventurous endeavor: living for a while in an African village. The thought of intruding into local homes seemed both awkward and intimidating, but on Booking.com, I discovered an option called “homestay”—staying in someone’s residence. The reviews were excellent, and the price was reasonable. “Make up your mind – it’s just for a couple of days!” my adventurous inner voice urged.

“Where are we going?” the taxi driver asked, puzzled. The location marked on the map led to what appeared to be an informal dump site, not a residential house.

“I have the homeowner’s phone number,” I confidently replied. After a couple of calls, I found myself walking along a narrow path flanked by slender palm trees and gray stone houses, pulling my purple suitcase behind me. I assumed we were heading toward one of these houses, but we turned a corner, passed a vegetable stall, and approached a dusty fence. This fence was constructed of palm branches secured with interwoven palm leaves, like a basket. A flimsy gate, crafted in the same authentic style, wobbled when I touched it.

“Does it lock?” I asked the owner, whose name was Hassan.

“Of course, right here!” Hassan proudly pointed to a tiny luggage padlock. From somewhere in his pants, he produced a minuscule key, which the lock obediently accepted. The gate clicked shut behind me; it couldn’t creak because it was fastened with those same palm leaves. I had expected to find myself in a branch shelter, but inside the woven enclosure stood a stone house with two entrances – evidently a rural mini-hotel with two rooms.