I liked early and look out these beaches without towels, their horizons silk, to hypnotic Indian Twinkle, the dhows sparingly rocked by the ocean, a typical day on the beaches of Zanzibar. Walk the sand while the hustler showed up to step, snuggle up to kangas and kikois stalls pursuing the shade of the palm as a condemned begging for mercy, wooden docks tour looms windblown, listening to the sound of the waves do not have to compete with anything by itself heard. And observe around me, especially.
I hate the beach, go ahead. But this was something else. With the first light of dawn or dusk, it was a wonderful spectacle in which only had to sit down and open your eyes. Then, after a few minutes, one had the feeling of having interrupted a dream. Few dreamlike landscapes it to a stranger accustomed to blatant beaches where there early to snatch a piece of sand, where the music drowns the sound of the sea, where walking along the shore is an obstacle. The beach, in the end.
After a few minutes, one had the feeling of having interrupted a dream. Few dreamlike landscapes that this
In Zanzibar, however, perplexity was such that it made you want to call someone to tell: «He descubierto el paraíso, something like the, pero no se lo digas a nadie». And in that silence the minutes passed accomplice, while the children cavorted on the sand as if it had just discovered the sea, with wide smile and endless curiosity. I often think of those beaches that have dazzled Sorolla, in swaying on the sea ngalawas, lateen in blurred by haze. It was a beach crisscrossed by bicycle and some other motorcycle in which, suddenly, burst a group of schoolgirls at the wind inflated their hijab as resisting cones fly. Going to or coming from school and only heard the sound of their laughter. Impossible to imagine a more idyllic school route. A child walking with a monkey tied to a rope. It was hard to tell who was pulling who.
In the distance loomed the unmistakable silhouette of a Maasai with their string of beads in his hand. Far from the savanna, Maasai seem to lose their golden ratio and loose looking for a rhyme verbs. The vendors have no mercy with them. «Son masais de pacotilla -me susurra uno de ellos-, beben cerveza en lugar de sangre de vaca».
Suddenly, burst a group of schoolgirls at the wind inflated their hijab as resisting cones fly
The sun that forces confused squint, without notice, with a tropical shower that nobody inmuta. The chairs of tourists, brought closer to the hotels as observation posts coastal wildlife, are empty. Most prefer the comfort of the pool with ice daikiri. We are here sentandos, alone, soaking in the sea, while waiting in reception pack trip to the airport. We do not have airline tickets, but this is Tanzania, where everything ends up out unexpectedly well and is sterile worry about trifles like having to get on a plane without a ticket.
When I look for reasons to make peace with the beach I often think of that Zanzibar that would have dazzled Sorolla
The passages appear in the last minute, about to check in baggage Street. That will be after, but a few minutes before the gaze still empties into the Indian, where anglers fishing around the sea as if it were his, while the sunlight flickering on the water inviting you to not give up this dream. And now, clear, when I look for reasons to make peace with the beach I think of Zanzibar. And it's hard to know if I'm awake.
