Feminine hygiene!! Yes, the subject of any thought-provoking and inspirational post. Sorry folks, this was just too comical to pass up.
There we were on Zanzibar, lolling through each day at our own pace, enjoying life on the island. It was a major effort just to get there, and we had no plans to do anything until the moment we had to leave. Then comes along a little "friend." You women know about this. You males do too, although you can never REALLY know until and unless you find yourself unprepared for this friend, whilst on an exotic island off the coast of southeastern Africa. Amanda comes to both of us and asks if we have any of the necessary products. We both had a smattering of things, but not enough to suffice. This was going to require some proactive seeking. However, we were seemingly in the middle of nowhere, we hadn't seen but two other tourists since our arrival, there was no electricity, and why should we assume that the relief of a shiny blue "Tampax" package would be in the imminent future? Fatma told us that Mombasa, the village store, (also a city in Kenya) was about a twenty-minute walk from our bungalow. However, Fatma had clearly been misguided on previous directions; our confidence in her was slightly shaken. Without a single alternative though, Amanda and I set out late one sultry afternoon, hoping to find "the goods." After the requisite twenty minutes, we got off the beach and walked into the village, hoping to see Mombasa in all of its glory, waiting to sell us some feminine products. Alas, 'twas not to be. There was nothing except a dusty road, some squawking chickens, and a woman fanning herself in the shade of her house. Not a hopeful sight.
We called out to her, shouting the name "Mombasa." Apparently we thought that would cause her to get right up and give us turn-by-turn directions. Confusion spreads across her face and we quickly realized our efforts here were going to prove futile. As we were about to leave, she calls out something in Swahili and a guy comes out of her house, also looking similarly confused. She rattles off to him and he warily approaches us. We repeat the name "Mombasa" over and over again, pointing the direction we think it is, and he seems to get that the crazy white people need to go to the store. He turns on his heel and we start to follow him, assuming that he is going to take us to the corner and wave in the general direction, at which time we will merrily continue our pursuit of products. However, he appears to take his duty quite seriously, and next thing I know, we are back out on the beach, headed towards what we hope is Mombasa.....along with him and all of his friends.
We quickly realize that we and the Village People would be making this journey together, and that they are quite content to serve as our escort in the dangerous mission of acquiring feminine products. They are pleased as punch to be strolling along with us, and as for us, well, we are just plain amused at this point. Who knew this would turn into yet another event? Our attempts at conversation soon fell weakly by the wayside-their English was limited and our Swahili non-existent. No matter though, the boys were quite content to lead the way in silence. After an additional twenty minute walk, I began to fear that we were actually walking to Mombasa, Kenya, and not the store. Perhaps we had not made our destination clear enough amidst all the pointing and squawking and posse-gathering. What could we do though? Nothing. Alas, a few minutes later, we wend our way through some fishing boats, up off the beach, through the "backyards" of some houses and lo and behold-Mombasa!!! The Promised Land. Or so we hoped.
Stepping inside was like stepping back in time to ye olde general store, African style. That place had everything. It was dim and dingy, sweltering and stuffy. There is only one little aisle by the counter in which to stand and peruse. You could also stand on the street and poke your head in the window. Then you must just call out your order to the shopkeeper while all the other customers around you wait your turn. Right then was a good time to ponder what "tampon" is in Swahili. Never really thought that would be on the "need-to-know" list for life. Resigning ourselves to craning our necks across the counter, we intently search for our prize. Spying a shiny package we excitedly wait our turn. Except that some unfortunate kid has been sent with a list, probably by his mother, to Mombasa to do what seems like the grocery shopping for an entire month. So we wait, and wait, and wait. Our posse waits too. So now everyone-the boys, us, and the small crowd we have attracted- is standing around, waiting for us to purchase tampons.
Finally, the shopkeeper turns his attention to us and we point to what we think is our catch. Unfortunately, it is condoms. "You want tampons? I don't have" says our man. We are crestfallen, but not for long. Instead, he hands us none other than a package of Always! Granted, it's not at all what Amanda would have chosen had she actually had a choice. But desperate times call for desperate measures. Yes please! We threw in some cookies and enough ice-cold bottles of Fanta to thank our posse and started the return trip. Handing the drinks to our new friends, slow smiles crossed their faces and they pranced off, probably to aid some other hapless mzungu in their quest for necessities.
Bemused, we marveled that we had yet again found ourselves at the center of yet another event. I am quite accustomed to purchasing my feminine products in the anonymity of Wal-Mart. I also know right where to find them when I need them and have never needed to enlist the help of nearly an entire village. But you know? It's all part of the adventure, and more importantly, the fun. I can honestly say I have never found myself in this comedic position, with a village of Zanzibarians scoping out every move. It's the stuff of legend.........and blog posts of course.
Anybody have any similar quasi-embarrassing experiences?? Perhaps not with tampons, but you get the idea. Share away if you do.
