“She's got a smile that heals me; I don't know why it is; But I have to laugh when she reveals me”

This is it, the definition of nirvana. I sit here and stare into her beautiful brown eyes. There’s no where else I want to be. I touch her head, massage it, and stroke her neck. We talk. Well, I talk and she lets me. I learn she’s fifty-six years old, but that doesn’t stop me from calling her my baby girl. Frankly, I don’t know that she is a girl, but it doesn’t seem to matter. I tell her she’s beautiful and sweet tempered. I talk about taking her home with me, and while it may seem impossible, I’m sure the two of us can figure it out.

As I pet her, the sun beats down. My pasty white skin absorbs the humidity and drenches my hair. Despite wearing lightweight clothing, I feel the warmth pierce my long-sleeved blouse and khaki trousers. It’s my first time in a predominantly Muslim culture and I take notice that my new friend is not adhering to the unspoken dress code for women.

But then again, meeting her today is merely a stroke of coincidence.

The day, leading up to this point, had been exhausting and long. We began by checking out of a dreamy beach resort at the northern tip of Zanzibar. Our tour group loaded our belongings and selves onto small buses and were driven to historic Stone Town with a stop for a spice tour and then lunch. Afterward, we gathered our worldly possessions and trekked through a maze of back alleys until reaching our hotel.

As the keys were dispersed, I realized all I wanted to do was lie down. But, the day was still young and there was an opportunity to see “Prison Island,” which held slave trade markets. With a deep sigh, we hauled everything we had packed and acquired on a two-week African excursion up three flights of stairs to a room that was a cross between my grandmother’s former Austrian apartment and a hotel room from any 1970s horror flick.  

We dropped our belongings and raced downstairs to meet the next tour group. This one would take us to the legendary Prison Island. The boat ride was no more than thirty minutes, but felt like an eternity. The ferry bounced on the waves and spritzed water on our faces.

The water was beautiful shades of turquoise, but strangely as cold as New England. Upon arrival, we were led upstairs and across a wooden bridge to a beautiful landmark that had nothing to do with its title or reputation. Yes, it had been built as a prison, but never used as one. Instead, it held people quarantining from yellow fever. Additionally, the slave trade ended twenty years before the prison was constructed.

Defeated, I wondered why we came.

Our tour guide then mentioned a sanctuary, just around the corner, housing giant tortoises. We are invited to see them, pet, and massage them, and are warned not to sit on them. Hesitantly, we followed as he led the way. Passing through the entrance, we were given leafy greens and told it was snack time. Turtles were everywhere. Some had plopped themselves on sidewalks, others seemingly cuddled in groups.

I venture to several, introduced myself, and fed them. One appeared to be lonely. I made my way over and after seating myself on the sidewalk, began to pet her. What started as a passing moment, turned to a half hour.

The tour guide returns and suggests it’s time to leave. The tour guide says the other couple is ready to head back to the mainland.

Sadly, I bid my farewell and stand. I walk away, wondering how much love this particular turtle receives in a given day. By my calculations, it’s not nearly enough and I ask the tour guide about obtaining a passport and plane ticket for her. Of course, at six-hundred pounds, I realize I may need to buy her more than one airline seat and getting her down the steps to the ferry to take her off the island may be more challenging than I think. It’s a moot point, as I’m sure the government will take issue with my plans, but still I dream.

We pause near the entryway. The tour guide speaks with my other half and they eye the turtles around them. They're not moving and we're not leaving the sanctuary. We're just standing. I look back at my sweet girl. She's alone. It's not fair. I'm here and she's there. We're clearly not leaving.

“If you’re just going to stand here and not go back down to the boats, I’m going to go back to Zanzi. Yes, I named her,” I say to the two men.

I turn away from them and turn back to my girl. As I walk toward her, her neck lifts and extends toward me, much like ET from the famed 1980s movie. For just another moment, we are united and embrace. My tour guide and other half see the entire scene. The tour guide remarks he’s never seen such a thing. My boyfriend notes I have a way with animals.