The Legend of Ali Baba, Part III
I woke up the next morning at my usual 5:45. Sleeping was a bit rough, as I had a few strange dreams about Ali Baba. At a little after 6, one of the ladies from the guesthouse came in to start her day. “They found your stuff!” she said to me. “Already? How do you know?” “I heard it from my neighbor.” I knew word would travel fast! At about 6:30 some other man came in to find me. “Come with me. They found your things!” We rushed over the police station to see what they had found.
I climbed up the stairs and the small police officer was waiting for me on the front porch. I saw my bag sitting on the ground, everything out of its place. “This was found this morning on the porch of the neighborhood president. Check it to see what’s there and what’s missing.” My passport was there. My camera was there – amazing! My wallet was not there. “My wallet is not here, which had the 75 meticais and my bankcard. It also looks like he took all the loose Mozambican change and my medallion.” (There is a medallion that I used to wear everyday…some of you may know it. It had fallen off the chain earlier that day, so I put it in my bag so I wouldn’t lose it.) “A medallion? Made of gold?” “No! It’s made of some cheap metal. It’s not worth anything of value, it’s purely sentimental.”
“Ok. But, you have your passport and your camera, which were the most important things, right?” “Yes.” “Then this investigation is closed. Ali Baba must have dropped this off at the president’s house early this morning. He’s no where to be found. He’s probably hiding in the bush since he knows everyone is looking for him.”
I went back to the hotel and waited for Alafo Mado, my trusty cross-eyed guide. He agreed to go out with me to see if I could recover the other things I lost. We walked out there, past all the women working out in the field. Everyone knew who I was…they greeted me, smiling, some warning me not to walk in the bush alone. “Yes, I know…I never do. But I really felt it was very safe here…” My guard was down, I admit.
The whole time, looking down in the path, I could see my footsteps in the sand. Not the ones walking out…the ones running back in. We finally got to the spot. I don’t really know what to call it – “the scene of the crime”. I found my things on the ground – the capulana still folded in the funny turban I had been wearing, my sunglasses lightly propped on the long grass. I looked around, taking it all in.
“There’s his footprints, running away,” I pointed out to Alafo. We followed them a short distance, me having some small hope that I would find my medallion, but they ended rather quickly, probably having been washed out by the high tide overnight. We sat and rested for a bit, listening to the ocean in the distance before heading back.
We walked through the village on the way back and Alafo asked if I wanted to visit Ali Baba’s father, but I had really no interest to see anyone of the sort. We walked further, frequently stopping to talk to people. We stopped and talked to two ladies, the one not saying very much at all and rather disinterested in the conversation. As we walked away, Alafo told me that was Ali Baba’s mother. I didn’t like that. There’s something extremely awkward about being someone’s son’s ‘victim’. No one ever wants to believe that their son is a bad person, and now I’m the one claiming he is…I didn’t like that. I felt as if somehow the blame was put on me (though, in complete honesty, I was my biggest critic).
I went back to the hotel and just sat. I was relieved that my passport (and camera!) had been found, but I was very reflective of the whole situation. It kept playing over and over in my mind. I imagined myself kicking Ali Baba’s ass, which helped a little. I went out for walks in the village to the market, and I was the talk of the town. People approached me to ask me about it (for they all knew it was me). I heard over and over: “This has never happened before. We’ll find him. We don’t want theives here.” If they didn’t approach me, I could hear “Ali Baba” fall amidst whatever they were saying in their local dialect (although they speak Portuguese here, particularly in the north of Mozambique, they speak their own local languages, which are very similar to Swahili, of which I knew nothing). I knew they were talking about me.
People encouraged me to stay for a few days to wait if Ali Baba came out of the bush and to see if any of my other things would be recovered. Although I wanted to be done with it all, I did stay a few more days, hanging out with the ladies at the guesthouse, picking up some recipes from them and learning some local words.
On the morning of my last day on the island, I saw Alafo Mado walk in with a man with a cane. His one foot was small and shriveled. He had the smallest eyes I’ve ever seen on a person. Alafo approached me and motioned over to a section of the yard for the three of us to talk in person.
The man with the small eyes started: “I am the husband of the sister of Ali Baba. I went to Ali Baba’s mother’s house this morning, and she gave me these things, which appeared inside her house.” He took out a piece of paper with some scratch notes I had made and handed it to me. Then he took out my wallet. “Wow!” I opened it up…my bank card, a silly picture of Jill and me, a $1 bill, and my medallion! They were all there. “Ali Baba must have dropped it off during the night. He still hasn’t shown his face,” he told me. I thanked him repeatedly, and he hobbled off on his way.
Alafo invited me to his house for dinner that night. “We’ve been through a lot together. Let me invite you to dinner.” He picked me up later that night and we walked through the darkness to his house. I sat on the porch with his children laying all over the place, listening to the static-y broadcast from the radio inside. I watched the families playing together on the other candle-lit porches. Across the street was the holiest Muslim man on the island, who I had been introduced to earlier. Finally Alafo invited me in to eat, his wife moving to the outside, which might be custom…not sure.
“This is all for you,” he said. “Really? That’s a lot.” There were sweet potatoes, rice, beans, and something else – veggies, I think. I filled my plate. “Aren’t you going to eat?” I asked. “You go ahead.” He had laid out a fork specially for me, but I went forth eating with my hands, which is harder than you’d think. “Thank you! This is wonderful!” After I had been eating for a while Alafo prepared himself a plate and joined me.
After dinner we went across the street, where a makeshift cinema had been set up, power provided by a generator. We sat down on the benches and watched “Death Raiders” on a television set up at the front of the room. The movie was full of awful martial arts battle scenes, and all done in English. It was so bad, in fact, that I couldn’t tell if it was originally in English or if it was dubbed over. Entertaining, though, it was. There was a disco scene and when they showed the white girls dancing, everyone looked at me and laughed. “I don’t dance like that!” I assured them.
I left early the next morning, sharing a dhow with another traveler to what was my most anticipated destination – Pangane. I was glad to leave Ibo and all that it aroused inside of me. Despite what happened, I still love that island and I hope things like what happened to me don’t become a norm. I wish all the best in the development of tourism on the island, and I sincerely hope the tourists and the locals can enjoy what each have to offer.
Finally, as for Ali Baba…I kind of feel sorry for him. He must have thought I had millions of dollars and he was going to hit it big with me. He ended up with about 3 bucks. It’s not even a lot, really, in Mozambican terms. Sure, he can buy 75 bread rolls, but if he’s run away, it won’t get him a night in a hotel. But, now he can’t even go home. No one knows where Ali Baba is. The last I heard, through a grapevine of travelers, the children on Ibo were still warning the tourists: “Be careful! Ali Baba is still hiding in the bush!” The legend lives…
Tags: Ibo Island, Mozambique, Mozambique, Tag Index
Tania
January 29th, 2007 at 12:04 am
You’re back! I’m so glad. I have missed you, and I was frightened when you disappeared for so long! Welcome back! Keep writing! And let me know if you want contacts in Lesotho.
January 31st, 2007 at 4:51 pm
Hey Tania!
I’ve just been skimming through some of your blogs…sounds like you’re having one hell of a trip. Chris and I were trying to figure out how long you’ve been gone and looks like about a year and a half. Not much has changed around here except I’m about an inch away from being a full-time teacher (no more frickin’ bar for me!) and Chris is back in school for IT. Anyway, just wanted to send you a little message letting you know that we all miss ya around Chitown. Take care, be safe, and have fun!
-Summer
February 3rd, 2007 at 11:04 pm
yuk to ali baba
February 5th, 2007 at 9:37 pm
Jesus Tania, I am glad you are ok! Thining of coming back to the US any time in ’07?
February 6th, 2007 at 12:32 pm
amazing…absolutely amazing. could you imagine getting robbed in chicago and actually finding the husband of the sister of the theif and then randomly walking down the road only to find out later that you were walking alongside ali baba’s mother! crazytown. i’m so glad that nother else happened to you other than a couple scratches and a lot of mud. physically, i mean. i’m so happy that all of your belongings were returned, including that priceless picture of me and you. lol. totally kidding. it’s beautiful how the town worked so hard to make sure you were ok and also make you feel welcome after all the chaos was said and done. very kind. well, at the very least you got a good story about it. keep on keepin’ on t. much love…jilly
March 9th, 2007 at 8:46 am
I see, I see…you all only leave comments when something bad happens…that’s ok. I still love you all….
March 23rd, 2007 at 2:10 am
Thank you Tania,
You have made a very boring night in Mexico somewhat funny. Glad you are alright, but I got a kick out of your story. Why are the dangerous times always the best stories?
Rob