My Forrest Gump Moment
A few days at the seaside in a slow-paced, gorgeous corner of Zanzibar. My leisure would not be complete without jogging, so I scouted a few routes around Matemwe on Google Maps and then, sporting my old red Salomon cap against the African sun, I trotted out to meet the challenge. That presented itself very quickly in the form of a tall brick wall where, according to satellite pictures, there should have been a beachside road. It was the first — but not the last — phantom Google road I would stumble upon that holiday. With no way around it, I improvised and continued along the spacious Muyuni beach, the ocean lapping at my shoes. Kids playing football or flying kites in the wind. Hundreds of crabs playing hide-and-seek in the water-sculpted cliffs separating the sand from the wild bushland. A nice experience, but touristy and a little tame for my taste.
So one of the other days I decided to venture in the opposite direction — away from the beach and into the island's dense tropical greenery. Within a hundred metres I found myself immersed in a far more authentic Zanzibar. The tourists disappeared, and with them the colonial language. I heard Swahili all around me now, only occasionally threaded with a stray English word. People regarded me with curious eyes, as though I were some extraterrestrial — but always greeted me with a cheerful “Jambo!” or the inevitable “Hakuna matata”, and sometimes the grandmotherly “Pole pole”.
The asphalt gave way to a dusty, rocky, potholed track with occasional stretches of old concrete. No sign of hotels or tourist traps of any size. Just tiny fields and a scattering of humble shacks among the trees. Every so often a baobab rose like a living monument, solitary beneath the endless African sky.
Locals patiently offering what they had grown in their gardens — often just a handful of meagre fruits, maybe a mango, a bungo, or a banana, set out on a wooden board. Children playing in the dirt with chickens scratching about, helping with domestic chores, or herding goats and cows. A boy driving a bicycle tyre with a stick. Men hanging out, engrossed in bao or other games, sometimes in agitated groups, probably gambling. A gang of teens locked in a fierce game of football on a parched meadow, the whole scene golden in the setting sun. One of the boys jogged over, grinning, and tried to convince me to join their match.
The road connecting the settlements formed one long village, the life of the village played out on the road, and the traffic moved on foot. People here walk. There are not many cyclists to be seen. The roads are lined with slowly ambling figures of all ages, covering kilometres at a time. Women were particularly impressive. Clothed in long habits — this is a predominantly Muslim region of Tanzania — they moved with effortless grace, hands free, balancing huge bags, jugs, or firewood on their heads. They were warm and friendly, but resolutely refused any suggestion of being photographed. Often they were surrounded by a flock of romping kids. Dogs, by contrast, were absent — thank goodness; to a stray dog, a runner is like a red rag to a bull.
I was passing one such group when it happened — the moment that gave this story its title.
First one child, then three, then a dozen peeled off from the women and fell in beside me. No longer walking, but jogging. After a while others joined from the verges. Boys and girls, some in feeble flip-flops or cracked sandals, many simply barefoot — but the enthusiasm! Laughing — teeth flashing white against ebony faces — they sang and clapped along in rhythm as we moved down the hard, gritty road. They kept calling out “Jambo!”, “Mambo!”, or “Jao!”, their voices bouncing around me in a jubilant chorus.
I caught sight of my reflection in a window pane: a bearded, sweaty runner in a bright red cap surrounded by an excited entourage — a proper Forrest Gump moment! Surreal, glorious, and touching all at once.
We ran together for a good while, a little caravan threading along the winding road. Farmers waved with amused smiles and stern housewives nodded in quiet approval — but the adults never joined in. Some of the kids effortlessly kept me company for a few kilometres, including the girls wrapped in headscarves. I was startled to notice one of them clutching a long, rusty knife — but she probably dashed out from a kitchen, forgetting to put it down when the parade swept her up.
What began as a solitary jog spontaneously turned into a village fun run. A bearded foreigner in a sweaty red cap trailed by a joyful chorus of barefoot pacemakers, appearing out of nowhere. And then, just like that, it was over. As if on cue, a few of the children darted back the way we had come, the others melted into the roadside greenery. The dust from our footsteps still drifted in the sunset light, yet I was alone again — breathless and bewildered as I tried to grasp what on earth had just happened.
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ENGLISH ARTICLEOCTOBER 20, 2018 AT 01:46:40 UTC