By Erika Heinrich

Even though I have voluntarily and enthusiastically moved thousands of kilometers from home in order to embrace life in an unknown place, I still find myself at times searching for familiarity on Zanzibar. By this I don’t mean being able to choose from one of five coffee shops within a five minutes walk, or the option of gorging on a Big Mac. If that was what Zanzibar had on offer - so much of the same - I might have thrown in the towel months ago, rather than use it as I now do - to wipe away the sweat which, in the equatorial heat, seems to have set up permanent residence on my brow.

No, familiar in a foreign land can mean something so subtle as a routine wave from a friendly face, or a respectful nod that acknowledges that you are no longer just another tourist, here today and gone tomorrow. It is never lost of me how very small gestures can sometimes denote so much more - such as mutual respect from the parties involved. Finding myself in a society that religion permeates and in which fatalism is pervasively present in everyday life, reaching mutual understanding across the cultural divide can sometimes be daunting.

Maybe it’s because of this that the smallest gestures of recognition can come to mean so much, and are often formed in the most unlikely ways.

Take, for example, the omnipotence of food. One of life’s most basic needs, food subsequently plays an integral role in everyday life, no matter where you are in the world. Looking back over time I’ve spent living and traveling abroad, my experience has shown that food has had a remarkable ability to bring strangers together and create a sense of familiarity where there once was none. This has been especially true of my time in Zanzibar.

Like my fellow interns, I am not shy about professing my love for anything tasty and edible. We lucked out in that respect. After all, four noses are better than one when it comes to scouting out Zanzibar Town’s tastiest treats. However, I have found that it is as much the people behind the cuisine that makes each dish enticing and keeps us coming back for more. “Little Man”, “Chicken Man”, “Mishkaki Man”, and “Lukmaan’s”, are all familiar names around our Zanzibari home. A visit to any one of them is not only notable for the particular delicacy you endeavor to return with, but also for an interaction with the chosen “Man” of the day himself. A quick jaunt to satisfy a craving also becomes an opportunity to connect with a familiar face.

Little Man was one of the first notable relationships we developed on Zanzibar. While the origin of his name continues to allude me – “Little Man” is not actually little but rather decidedly average in both height and stature - his welcome was never in doubt. Little Man’s tiny open-fronted shop was the first place we bought bottled water on Zanzibar, and nowadays one of his two young sons is always more than happy to deliver the bottles via bicycle directly to our front door. During Eid-al­-Fitr, the celebration to mark the end of the month of Ramadan, Little Man even stopped by our house early one morning to deliver a plate of cookies and treats. In the early mornings, passing by en route to work, we are always offered tiny porcelain cups of piping hot coffee from the thermos his wife prepares for him at home. I can’t help but feel special that we now qualify for this traditional Zanzibar ritual.

Chicken Man is a more recent face. He roasts his fare, succulent half-chicken pieces, over an open barbecue set up in one of Zanzibar Town’s many twisting alleyways. Behind the spit his tiny shop gives off a warm yellow glow. One can perch at the tiny counter and watch as the Zanzibar night comes alive, as families spread out across stoops and watch their children run wild in the streets.

An imposing Indian man with a belly like Santa Clause, Chicken Man exudes a gruff mannerism and an ever-present scowl that could rival that of the Grinch. No matter. So enamored were my fellow interns and I with this new treat on offer that, when Chicken Man set up shop several weeks ago, we frequented the store for five consecutive nights. It turned out Chicken Man’s callous exterior wasn’t immune to the eager Canadian’s enthusiasm. These days when I show up I am usually treated to a smile, albeit fleeting. Even better, however, is the honor of being allowed to carefully select whichever I discern to be the plumpest chicken on offer that night. “Kesho [till tomorrow],” he calls out after me, as I disappear into the night.

The list goes on. Mishkaki Man and Lukmaan’s practically share an address, situated next door on a dusty thoroughfare, but both serve up decidedly different chow and ambiance. Lukmaan’s was one of my first haunts on Zanzibar, a small local joint serving regional dishes. Examples include biryani or curry with rice, as well as refreshing passion-fruit juice. An extremely satisfying meal can be had for less than two dollars and, as long as you don’t mind a little dirt periodically turning up in your spinach, is always served up with a smile from a tiny Zanzibari teen. One mystery I hope to solve before leaving the island? Whether the restaurant is actually named after someone called Lukmaan. The question has been posed repeatedly to staff. As of yet, the answer still remains lost in translation.

Next door, Mishkaki Man offers up the local delicacy of grilled goat meat on a skewer, which is then fried in oil for added flavor. Quiet and stoic, Mishkaki Man also offers a small selection of other fried dishes. On one overzealous visit I decided a feast was in order and asked for fifteen of the (tiny!) skewers, much to the amusement of two local ladies who happened to overhear. Mishkaki Man served me right up with hardly a blink, having grown quite accustomed to the crazy Canadian carnivore in his midst. Although my visits have recently become less frequent, thanks in part to a tightening waistband, Mishkaki Man still always pauses just long enough from peeling his pail of potatoes to offer an acquiescent nod as I wander by.

These men are just a sample of the many faces I have come to know and recognize during my time here on Zanzibar. Each one possesses a unique background and story, of which I will likely never know. Most I have never spoken more than a few basic sentences to, and likely will not before I leave Zanzibar in six weeks time. I know each man for the type of food he sells me, and for which he has been affectionately named. I will remember them for the signs of recognition they have shown me in a generally unfamiliar place. In the future, these memories will be profoundly imprinted on my recollection of Zanzibar. A demonstration of how the simplest of gestures can help create that feeling of a home away from home.