So Saturday night is the famous full moon party. Despite a certain amount of airport-induced nausea and exhaustion, I plan to head through with Ian. After a quick, greasy, dry and cold meal of chicken and chips with a few foreign types, he picks me up in a taxi with a few other South Africans. We finish a cold beer on the way through. Something about hearing Afrikaans all the way up here amuses me greatly. Ons gaan jol toe!
We make it in, despite the roadblocks and much haggling over entrance prices, and suddenly we're in a music video. Radio pop blares out of the massive reed-roofed dance floor, like angle grinders set to a beat. Horny young travelers gyrate their bodies and knock back drinks like there's no tomorrow. Strobe lights flash, decibel limits are transcended, crotches are ground like Vida e Caffe coffee in rush hour, and hormones rule the day. A sense of the unreal begins to set in, and I take stock of the surrounds. This could be anywhere. Ibiza, or Goa, Thailand, or whatever. I feel like Zanzibar is not quite what I expected, but now that I'm here, it seems silly to have expected anything else.
We make it in, despite the roadblocks and much haggling over entrance prices, and suddenly we're in a music video. Radio pop blares out of the massive reed-roofed dance floor, like angle grinders set to a beat. Horny young travelers gyrate their bodies and knock back drinks like there's no tomorrow. Strobe lights flash, decibel limits are transcended, crotches are ground like Vida e Caffe coffee in rush hour, and hormones rule the day. A sense of the unreal begins to set in, and I take stock of the surrounds. This could be anywhere. Ibiza, or Goa, Thailand, or whatever. I feel like Zanzibar is not quite what I expected, but now that I'm here, it seems silly to have expected anything else.
Ian guides me around, telling me that all of these women are here for one reason. I could have guessed, but a local insight is always good. A quick look at the lithe young bodies on the dance floor that would make your granny shit herself confirms these girls are, as Ian says, DTF. Down To Fuck. We, however, are here for another reason. We are Down To Get Fucked. Doesnt roll off the tongue quite so easily, but it holds its own rewards. Besides, looking at these people pawing each other and rubbing snail trails all over the show actually makes me feel like upchucking the rubbery chicken and chips I just shovelled down my throat.
We head to the bar and push through the heaving masses of dreadlocked locals in Bob Marley muscle vest and slops and British boys in collared shirts and shorts, stinking of sun cream.
"You drink beer?", Ian calls over the Rihanna that seems to be on a loop all evening.
Does a bear shit in the woods? He orders two, and two for himself as well, and we retreat to the starlit beach, to talk shit, like all real men do.
Suddenly, the night takes a vicious downward swing. Lines of cocaine appear on toilet seats. Notes are rolled up. More beer is drunk. The music is still terrible. I am disappointed, I thought this would improve this terrible racket! Let's try more..
Noise. A drunk old man tells me about his mzungu friend. It is not interesting. I try to strike up a converation with someone. We talk about ducks, and their penises. It doesnt go well. I hate this place. Rihanna blares. The stars are spinning. Some reggae comes on. I hate reggae. Why the fuck am I at this party? Why am I in this toilet? Who the fuck is this guy? And how does anyone listen to this music, never mind dance to it? The party ends. I have no money left. I am miles away from my hotel, in a foreign country, and the sun is coming up.
Day one, Zanzibar. Not a huge success.
We head to the bar and push through the heaving masses of dreadlocked locals in Bob Marley muscle vest and slops and British boys in collared shirts and shorts, stinking of sun cream.
"You drink beer?", Ian calls over the Rihanna that seems to be on a loop all evening.
Does a bear shit in the woods? He orders two, and two for himself as well, and we retreat to the starlit beach, to talk shit, like all real men do.
Suddenly, the night takes a vicious downward swing. Lines of cocaine appear on toilet seats. Notes are rolled up. More beer is drunk. The music is still terrible. I am disappointed, I thought this would improve this terrible racket! Let's try more..
Noise. A drunk old man tells me about his mzungu friend. It is not interesting. I try to strike up a converation with someone. We talk about ducks, and their penises. It doesnt go well. I hate this place. Rihanna blares. The stars are spinning. Some reggae comes on. I hate reggae. Why the fuck am I at this party? Why am I in this toilet? Who the fuck is this guy? And how does anyone listen to this music, never mind dance to it? The party ends. I have no money left. I am miles away from my hotel, in a foreign country, and the sun is coming up.
Day one, Zanzibar. Not a huge success.
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