April Orcutt’s essay about meeting an Omani band in Zanzibar ran in the San Francisco Chronicle on Sunday, August 28th. Here’s the lead:
“What have we done?” my husband, Michael, moaned. We had arrived penniless, hungry and late on a hot Sunday evening in Zanzibar, a Third World island 30 miles off the coast of East Africa. Rushed, we hadn’t eaten or cashed traveler’s checks before we left Arusha in Tanzania that morning, credit cards were useless in Zanzibar, banks wouldn’t open until morning, and the clerk in our crumbling hotel in Stone Town was no help.
We again searched wallets, money pouches, clothing pockets and all suitcase niches in which coins or a cookie might have hidden. Our booty: two Tanzanian 20-shilling notes, worth about 20 cents U.S. And no crumbs. . . .
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