Tanzania (part 7)

The next morning my butt was surprisingly tender from all the bike riding the day before. I went to breakfast where the concierge asked me what I wanted. I couldn't really understand what he was saying so I just said "sure". He brought a piece of PoPo (Papayas, which I now know are not Coconuts, thank you Colbus and Charles) and then asked me if I'd like an egg and toast, I said "sure" again and poured myself a cup of tea at his invitation. After laying down my plate with the egg and toast he said "That's extra", meaning of course that my free breakfast had just been usurped by a $5 egg-toast combo. For some reason this comment really threw me out of wack. Something about the deception, the outright conniving, the pettiness, the feeling that I was nothing except the change that I could cough up, I don't know, but the man's smugness was impenetrable. It was clear that he was religiously dedicated to the notion that all visitors must spend a certain amount of money, and that my living in a tent and eating free breakfasts was not attaining his preconceived quota. I didn't know what to do; I was incensed but felt powerless and began getting depressed. My passive-aggressive reaction was the decision not to eat another meal at that bar (except maybe a more guarded "free" breakfast). After reading and lying out and swimming for the rest of the morning, I hopped on my bike and decided to ride to the village next door to find some lunch. I should add here that the actual owners of the resort, a South African man and Tanzania (I think) woman, were actually very nice, letting me use their snorkeling equipment for free and later erasing breakfast charges made by the concierge.

Instead of going to the village immediately next door to the resort I decided to visit a village down the way that I had noticed the day before when I took my joy-ride on the beach. It was further away but I wanted some time to vent and I wanted to see the other resorts from the inland side. I got to the village and had to walk through it because it was sandy, people stared at me and I tried to act casual and offered a smile and a "Jambo!" to everyone I made eye contact with. I got to the end of the village without seeing any place that looked like they sold lunch. As I was about to turn around I made eye-contact with two Masai children, an odd sight out here on the coast so far away from traditional Masai territories. They were dressed just like all the other Masai I've seen, including their handmade knives and shoes, but the colors they were wearing included yellow, green and orange, whereas the Masai I'm used to seeing wear only red and blue. I tried to talk to them but they didn't speak a word of English and I only had a few stock phrases of Swahili. I was trying to ask if there was anything further down the road, pointing to the apparent dead-end where the road turned into a trail. The eldest boy, who looked maybe 14 or 15, started walking down the path and beckoned me to follow him. I was more curious than hesitant and went along with him. Along the way I tried to ask him if he knew where I could find some lunch. He kept referring to Sefu; I thought maybe it was a restaurant. We entered a clearing in the Palm trees and I saw a house, a legitimate concrete house, not one of the reed huts that populated the village, with two boats visible in its garage. As it became evident that we were heading toward this residence I became a little uncomfortable. I didn't want to show up at some wealthy guy's place and explain how I was pseudo lost and looking for food. The Masai boy however, whose name I've forgotten, was intent upon delivering me to "Sefu", which I hadn't quite realized was the name of the person that I was about to meet. We reached the gate and stopped. I looked behind me to see a young Tanzanian man walking up the trail behind us. The Masai boy pointed and said "Sefu".