He was annoyed when I said no. This was not the first time that my naivety had gotten me into trouble. I was pissed off at myself and all things in Zanzibar. I was on the island for less than an hour. Things were not going well. I was nauseous from the hour and a half hydrofoil ride across the Indian Ocean. At the Zanzibari wharf the passengers were swarmed by friendly guides offering to carry their bags, point out the way to customs and arrange taxis to hotels.
I was desperate for a rest. Disorientated I allowed one such tout to smooth out my confusion and anxiety about arriving in an alien island. His fee was peanuts. Besides he was young and quite cute. The guide knew the custom officials. After he hailed them the officials asked me to open my backpack and then closed it immediately.
No hassle. Then he took me to a taxi. I idly remarked to the taxi driver that the guide was a pleasant young man. I wondered what local rule I had thoughtlessly broken. The Florida Inn Guest House was the fourth place that we checked for rooms.
All the others were fully booked. The Florida Inn was in Stone Town, the oldest part of the island. The inn had only four double rooms and it appeared to be clean and cosy. I checked into room It had two single beds, a Persian carpet and walls panelled with roughly grooved timber. The innkeeper was a friendly young man who talked about Michael Jackson and Bob Marley.
Under his flowing sky-blue djellabah he wore jeans, a white T-shirt, and white running shoes. He was about 19 years old. Even though the room smelled slightly of mildew I decided to take it. My throbbing head needed a rest. I rested for about half an hour but the headache and nausea would not go away.
