The Adventures of Glufsvon Zanzibar

After I started visualizing my International Relations professor feeding alligators in a white and scarlet toga, I knew I had had too much to drink. Picking up another vegetable egg roll that we had stolen from the dining hall I tried to tune in on what my roommate James Head, a Connecticut Yankee, was saying across the coffee table we were drinking at. It was something about a man called Glufsvon Zanzibar he had met in Paris a couple of years ago. Apparently this Mr. Zanzibar ran a kenjitsu (samurai sword techniques) school in Paris and believed in the recreational and medicinal qualities of hemp. Of all the places in Paris, James met Glufsvon, who according to James looked like a pirate in his twenties, on the second floor of the Eiffel Tower. Tracking the wafting fragrance of marijuana led James to his first meeting with Glufsvon who, leaning against the railings, was sharing a spliff with a certain gentleman who introduced himself as Ntokozo Xaba (pronounced: Toe-ko-zo Chka-aba). According to James, this Glufsvon Zanzibar was the most wholly remarkable person he had ever met. Of course, I only half believed what James said. After all, it was James who had come up the idea of assassinating Salman Rushdie when he had come to speak in college and picking up the bounty he had on his head. It was all too late when we realized that the fatwa on Mr. Rushdie’s head had long been removed. (Note: If you’re interested or know anyone who might be interested in buying a second hand Remington 700 sniper rifle in mint condition, give me a call.)

I’m writing this on the airplane back from Addis Ababa trying to distract myself from the air hostess with sweaty armpits. The last twenty days have been absolutely brilliant. The most fun I’ve had in a long time. I had landed a voluntary research internship at the University of Addis Ababa with a professor of anthropology and once that was over I managed short trips to Egypt and Tanzania to meet a couple of my friends from college who live there. What happened in Cairo was perhaps one of the funniest and most uncanny experiences of my life…

After two weeks of traversing through disease ridden backward Ethiopia and Tanzania, I decided to visit my friend Ngoda in Cairo and spend a week relaxing before flying back home. If you’ve been to Cairo recently you’ll remember that there’s an oasis not far from the pyramids of Giza. Twenty minutes as the camel runs, it’s usually a fairly desolate place, perfect for hanging out on a lazy Sunday evening. Ngoda and I reached the Oasis at six in the evening, just in time to watch the sun set over the dunes. There weren’t many people at the oasis, so Ngoda and I popped open a couple of chilled beers we had brought along and spread ourselves on the sand enjoying the sweet evening air. As I was getting bored with the scenery, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulders. I turned to see a smiling shabby face of bearded Arab. In perfect English he asked me if I had a light. I threw him a box of matches and watched him as he walked back to his friends under a clump of date trees. Catching my eye, the fellow walked back to us and asked us if we wanted to join them.

The next thing I know, Ngoda and I are sitting in a circle drinking thick Turkish coffee (note: never, ever add camel’s milk to coffee) with three other Arabs smoking a hookah and laughing at the stories they were telling us. I was relieved to find that they all spoke English quite fluently. Ngoda and I swapped a few of our own escapades in return. When the first Arab found out that Ngoda was a local kid, he lowered his tone to a whisper and asked him if he wanted to buy a camel real cheap and he whistled and a beautiful camel came and sat on its knees next to him. Ngoda, who I’m guessing knew his camels, asked him how much he was selling her for. I couldn’t quite catch what his reply was, but whatever it was made Ngoda laugh out like crazy. At first I thought it was the effect of the alcohol, but the Arab looked extremely serious.
“How’re you selling her so cheap?” Ngoda asked.
Flushing with a mixture of pride and alcohol the Arab whispered, “It’s stolen. I’m a camel smuggler, it’s what I do. And she’s a fine one as my name is Glufsvon Zanzibar.”
I was stunned. Like a scratched CD I kept muttering “No way”, for the next minute much to the surprise of our other companions.
I quickly narrated James’ story and Glufsvon’s eyes grew in wonder. I don’t know if he actually remembered James, but at least he pretended to. And I have to agree with James, Glufsvon is definitely the most wholly remarkable man I’ve ever met. Kenjitsu sensei, camel smuggler, tour guide, pearl diver, fragrance explorer and come to think of it, he did look like a pirate, minus the polly and the scimitar! The rest of the evenings events are irrelevant but oh so interesting. Even as I’m about to land in Bombay, I’m still in shock. I mean what are the odds that two people from two different parts of the world will meet the same person in two different countries in completely uncanny circumstances? Suddenly the universe seems so simple.