Dancing With the Masai

The Full Moon Party is a famous (infamous?) fixture of tourism in Thailand; the standard story is consume massive quantities of alcohol (and god knows what else) and congregate on a beach, under a full moon, and ___ (dance, go swimming, watch fire shows, get mugged-- you know, the usual). It's one of those things you are just supposed to say you have done. "Have you been to Thailand? Have you been to a Full Moon Party?"

This could not have any less appeal for me, as I am not a big party person to begin with (you know me, you know this is an understatement), and the stories I have heard about this particular type of party could make your heart stop. Luckily I was saved from finding a way to get out of this situation by the lack of a full moon, while I was in the vicinity.

As soon as we arrived in Stone Town (Zanzibar), I saw the posters on shops, on trees, on the walls of the Old Fort and the House of Wonders and the ice cream parlour: Full Moon Party-- June 22nd, Kendwe Beach! "Oh dear," I thought, and said nothing, hoping the others had not seen the signs. "Are you going to the Full Moon Party?" says the girl sitting next to me, "Big night! It'll be great!" "I don't know," I say, "I'd kind of like to enjoy actually having a room by... staying in my room." "You can't stay in your room!" says my hard-partying friend, "It's at the hotel right next to ours! No escape!"

No escape. I am painting a very bleak picture here on purpose, as it most accurately sums up my attitude going into to this whole thing. For most of the day, as we walked through the old slave market and took turns fielding the overly aggressive street vendors all of whom are carrying CDs, which they shove in our faces and sing Jambo! Jambo bwana...", I am still telling myself "No-- I won't go!" but even I know this is unlikely. I am too much a sucker for a good story, to stay behind.

Kendwe Beach will stand out in my memory most for the size of the snails which were everywhere, crawling up walls and down pathways and lying in the sand like fist-sized conch shells... oh yes, and the Full Moon Party!

The posters said it would run 10 PM-10 AM, with fire dances and a DJ all the way from Dar (about 2 hours, by ferry). Around 11:30 (fashionably late), just as we were about to head over (the whole 20 meters between our hotel and the neighbouring resort) Anna cornered us to warn that "Under no circumstances" were we to walk alone on the beach "Especially the girls-- the dodgy beach boys are already hovering!" She also told a story or two which I will not repeat here, but which made us more than willing to stick together.

The others were well on their way to giddy-intoxication as we scurried down along the beach, passed said dodgy beach boys, and towards the booming, pulsing, strobing, sweating techno "hut" that was the neighbouring bar. Now, I have years of practice at being the sober one at the party, but this was taking the experience to a whole new level. The music was very bad and very loud (then again perhaps any music sounds bad at that volume?) and it was nearly impossible to work out where the dance floor ended and the beach began, as the sand was everywhere.

The heart of the party was nearest the music, nearest the flashing lights, and the frantic, flailing movement made it seem that the 100 or so bodies combined were a single being, and that there was no place for you in the crush. Beyond that --in slightly better light-- was a stunned looking spattering of tourists, mostly in awkward 3s or 4s who figured they weren't quite drunk enough to take the plunge into the center. This is were we congregated at first, shouting out to each other and straining to hear the answers from half a step away. We cross our arms across our chests, tight and unnatural, drink a bit an try to ignore the solid circle of "dodgy boys", sitting in the shadows, smoking and just watching the mayhem in a way that made your skin crawl. "I should leave," I think, "I want to leave!" But no way am I walking back up that beach --and passed those boys-- alone, and before I know it the girls have grabbed me by the hand and we are crashing towards the shuddering middle.

"I don't go to clubs. I don't dance. I don't know how to play this game..." I think, I try to say but no one can hear me. So I go along and thank god for the protection of a group of girls who are wearing far less clothes than me; a good distraction, if ever there were one! Slowly, slowly this becomes fun. We form our own circle within the madness, and look only at faces we know, suddenly laughing uncontrollably at the improbability of it all: we could be anywhere! Anywhere in the world-- Thailand or Miami or Mexico, anywhere other than where we are, on a far off beach on an island off the coast of Tanzania. "Life is funny," I think, and that is when the Masai enter the scene.

Someone is groping Daisy. This in itself is not unusual, Daisy spends a lot of time fending off such attentions, possibly because she wears no clothes, and to be honest isn't all that concerned about fending it off. But the person doing the groping is not who you would expect.

TO BE CONTINUED