Бесплатный фрагмент - Colours of Africa: painting a new self

Prologue:
Where did all this come from?

The idea for this book was born as I sped along the only paved road in Tanzania, beside the red waters of the Ruaha River. I wore a bright yellow “Mama Africa” dress, feeling a bubbling excitement and a strange sense of being in a parallel universe. Behind me lay months of emotional chaos after leaving my executive position at an international company. I had dedicated my entire adult life to that job, and now I had walked away into the unknown. And I wasn’t exactly young anymore.

Friends and former colleagues observed my decision with a mixture of bewilderment and curiosity. “Why not work a few more years until retirement? Isn’t that the logical path?” Instead, I bought a one-way ticket to Africa and began documenting everything that happened to me — both externally and internally.

I’ve always been fascinated by personal transformations — by people who chase their dreams, who disappear from the radar, who try, fail, and eventually find what they’re looking for. Or don’t find it but keep searching anyway. I wanted to understand what went on in their minds during this transitional period. How did their environment and lifestyle change? At what moment did they realize, “This is what I need”? When were they ready to give up? How did they find the strength to continue?

Now I have my own insights on this subject, which I share in this book. I’m writing for those who are searching for themselves and their path. I share the full spectrum of feelings, doubts, and revelations I experienced. I believe this will resonate with someone, just as similar stories once resonated with me.

But this book isn’t only about self-discovery and the challenge of birthing creative (and not-so-creative) projects. It’s also about Africa, which I discovered for myself and fell in love with wholeheartedly. Africa gave me a surge of joy and sense of freedom, and introduced me to remarkable people who changed my life. It provided the colours with which I painted my new existence. I cannot help but share this happiness.

Initially, I thought the book would inevitably conclude with a happy end — a definitive period marking some final decision. Looking back at this beautiful chaos called life, I admit I wasn’t struck by some ultimate success. Something more important happened instead. I managed to live several new lives that I had never even dreamed of before — because I hadn’t allowed myself to dream.

I should mention that I’m not an expert in African studies. I describe things through the eyes of a traveler and perhaps a philosopher. I grew up in a family of biologists, studied linguistics, marketing, management, and coaching. I raised two sons, with whom I remain very close. I dance salsa and play guitar and drums. I’ve visited over 40 countries and can’t seem to stop. In Africa, I’ve spent just over a year in total — not that long, but enough for my friends to call me “Lena Africa.” I don’t mind that at all.

Chapter 1. Turquoise:
The Power of Creativity

One-way Ticket to Africa

I sit on a rooftop overlooking Stone Town, the heart of Zanzibar. A white crenelated wall, about a meter high, surrounds the terrace. Through the gaps, I see the city’s rooftops — blue, gray, and rust-colored. Beyond them stretches the ocean, a shimmering strip where the gray sky melts into steely blue water. It’s a cloudy day, unusual for Zanzibar, especially in February — the height of summer.

“Allaaaaaaaah,” a voice rings out nearby. The call to prayer begins. “Allaaaaaaaah Akbar,” I hear from another mosque, then from a third, fourth, fifth… The voices intertwine in a fugue: one just beginning the first note as another finishes the phrase. This musical performance continues for several minutes as the muezzins’ voices emerge from the void in unexpected places, creating a polyphony before suddenly falling silent.

Zanzibar is a Muslim island; you can see it the locals’ attire. Men wear shirts that fall below their knees and tablet-shaped caps. Women and girls walk in long dresses with bell-shaped headscarves that frame their faces. The scarves are clearly made of synthetic fabric. I can’t imagine how they bear wearing them in 30-degree heat and high humidity.

I’m sitting hunched like a nervous sparrow, shoulders raised to my ears as if bracing for impact. How long have I been in this state? A day? A month? A year? It’s over now; I can finally exhale. I breathe in, filling my lungs with warm, humid air, absorbing the vibrations of prayers through my skin, gradually releasing my tension.

I pick up my phone and open a document I’ve been working on for the past couple of weeks. In it, I meticulously planned this trip: goals, success criteria, specific photography angles, and social media themes. How could I possibly come here without a structured plan? I pause, hover my finger over the icon of that beautiful plan, and… send it to the trash bin.

Another deep breath. Then three more. Then thirty more. A strange impulse rises within me — or perhaps it’s a long-suppressed desire finally breaking free. My finger keeps moving. I open the booking app and cancel all my upcoming hotel reservations. All that remains is two nights here in Stone Town at Swahili House.

The day after tomorrow, I’ll decide where to go next. I want to live differently now. Breathe, listen to myself, and plan just a day or two. I wonder where this approach will lead me.

I was supposed to be here five days ago. I had purchased a ticket well in advance. Flights were scarce during the pandemic, and prices matched those of high-end laptops. I absolutely had to reach Zanzibar for the Sauti za Busara music festival. Coincidentally, I had my second vaccine scheduled on my departure day: the shot in the morning, the flight in the evening. I couldn’t stop worrying. The first injection had knocked me out for three days with a temperature of 34.5°C. What would happen when the second dose combined with a 10-hour flight and a dramatic climate change from winter to summer? Flying without being vaccinated wasn’t an option. Anxiety got the better of me, and I canceled my ticket.

Strangely enough, my body barely reacted to the vaccine this time. I waited three days for side effects, but remained surprisingly energetic and cheerful. Maybe I could still make it to the festival? A quick search revealed a reasonably priced charter flight. The catch? It was one-way, and I needed to fly… the very next day. Everything aligned perfectly. So here I am, with a vaccination certificate that nobody here requires but that brings me peace of mind. The thought of falling ill in Tanzania isn’t appealing. Moreover, “that disease” doesn’t seem to exist here, and treatment is virtually nonexistent.

Goats and Papayas

Throughout the COVID-19 saga, Tanzania clearly stood apart. During the first few months of the pandemic, the situation in Tanzania mirrored that of neighboring Kenya. Then, in June 2020, the country abruptly stopped testing and counting cases altogether.

The attitude toward “corona” was deeply skeptical. I was told that initially, many Tanzanians rejected the very existence of such a disease (claiming it wasn’t a disease at all, but a conspiracy orchestrated by global imperialists). Their position later shifted: the disease existed, but it didn’t affect Africans. And if it did affect them, it could easily be treated with traditional remedies: medicinal herbs, steam inhalations, and a mixture of ginger and onions.

Resistance to “Western” medicine was widespread. Everything was rejected, including coronavirus tests. President Magufuli ordered them to be verified in an unusual way: samples for testing were taken not only from people but also from animals and even plants (naturally, without informing the lab technicians). When coronavirus was “detected” in a wild goat and a perfectly healthy papaya, the president openly mocked the reliability of Western tests. He urged Tanzanians to pray for deliverance from the plague, maintain their physical health, and use herbal steam inhalations. Subsequently, he declared Tanzania a “COVID-free” zone and reopened the country to tourists.

The president also refused to vaccinate his people, arguing that Tanzanians should not serve as guinea pigs. He deemed vaccines dangerous and useless, posing a compelling question: “If white people were capable of creating effective vaccines, wouldn’t they have already developed vaccines for AIDS, cancer, and tuberculosis?” I later heard this exact argument from many Tanzanians, each claiming to have reached this conclusion independently.

Neighboring countries that had sealed their borders and imposed quarantines looked at Tanzania with bewilderment. Meanwhile, tourists flocked to Zanzibar’s beaches. Google searches for Tanzania (and Zanzibar, which belongs to it) multiplied. People worldwide were rediscovering this corner of the planet.

One can hold various opinions about the late President Magufuli’s unorthodox stance. One thing is certain: by keeping the country open to tourists, he saved his people from extreme poverty. Of course, visitors brought the virus with them — no test results were required upon entry at that time. Tanzanians began noticing that neighbors and acquaintances were falling seriously ill. Others insisted there was no pandemic. Either way, the country remained calm. After all, these resilient people faced the daily threat of malaria, with its mortality rate reaching 40%.

A Tin Can and a Green Ocean

The water was an impossible shade of green, the sand gleamed blindingly white, and the sound of traditional catamaran boats rocking on the waves filled the air. That was my first impression of Zanzibar — or rather, my second.

The first was the sweltering tin-can airport where I spent a good couple of hours. The new international terminal hadn’t been built yet. The old one was suffocating, with no air conditioning in sight.

Getting a Tanzanian visa meant standing in three consecutive lines. After that ordeal, passengers were left to locate their luggage themselves, wandering alongside rows of bags in various shapes and sizes, wondering, “Is this one mine?” Those who managed to clear this hurdle faced yet another challenge: the “security tunnel.” Yes, an additional security check at the airport’s exit. Seriously? After all the trouble on the way in? After walking in white socks through metal detectors and mourning the confiscated blueberry smoothie? The local security seemed to suspect us of something nefarious. But what exactly? Did they think we had created explosives out of duty-free cognac and peanuts in the bathroom? Or that we were attempting to smuggle “grass” into a country where it’s sold on practically every corner? The logic escaped me.

The process of proving one’s innocence was excruciating. The black “truth tunnel” existed in singular form, apparently deemed sufficient for the entire airport. Hundreds of passengers snaked toward it, heaving their bags into its abyss. The more enterprising travelers used their waiting time to tackle two additional tasks: exchanging dollars for local shillings and purchasing SIM cards. For these services, at least, the efficiency was remarkable: graceful women in Muslim attire calmly distributed local SIMs to all interested parties. Twenty dollars for two weeks or thirty for three.

Finally, I stepped outside. I wearily made my way through clusters of drivers and tour agents in white shirts holding white placards. Inside me was a deep well of fatigue and irritation. After an hour’s taxi ride over bumpy roads, I arrived at the east coast of the island. I saw white frangipani flowers, endless turquoise waters, and dazzling white sand. And just like that, I forgave them everything: the chaotic airport, the punitive black tunnel at the exit, and the countless potholes in the roads.

That was a year ago. Now, I knew exactly where I was flying to, as I hadn’t been able to forget this place all year.

Zanzibar is shaped somewhat like a diving hippopotamus. To the east of the island and extending to the reefs stretches a flat sandy seabed. When the ocean water follows the moon, tides occur. The sea either rises by three meters (bringing turquoise waves right up to the palm trees and huts) or recedes far away (leaving a kilometer of white sandy bottom dotted with seaweed and starfish). This is how the ocean breathes, twice daily — six hours to inhale, six hours to exhale. I witnessed this phenomenon countless times, marveling each time. Soon I learned to predict low tide by the stillness in the air and high tide by the breeze, even without seeing the ocean. Local children taught me this.

How Seaweed Started a Revolution

Early morning. I sit on the shore, watching my favorite low tide. I notice women walking slowly along the exposed seabed in long, colorful dresses. They carry ropes, sticks, and wicker baskets. They wade into the shallow water in these dresses and venture far out to what look like green islands. The water there barely reaches their knees. The women bend over, examine something, and begin working underwater, unbothered by their wet hems.

It turns out they’re tending to a plantation of… seaweed on the ocean floor. They cultivate a special variety — bright green and coral-like in shape. The dramatic tides make this business possible. Bunches of seaweed are tied to sticks, which are then firmly inserted into the sand of the ocean floor. Another stick is placed nearby, then another. The plantation becomes a palisade of thirty to fifty rows of sticks with attached seaweed bunches. During high tide, the garden is submerged; during low tide, it’s exposed. After about six weeks, the harvest is ready to be collected, and young seaweed bunches are planted in place of their harvested predecessors. This seaweed is edible and tastes like crisp pickles. They say it has remarkable effects on male virility and energy, though I couldn’t verify this claim. I could, however, confirm its cosmetic properties: Zanzibar has a cosmetics factory called Mwani (which means “seaweed” in Swahili). Here, the seaweed is dried under awnings until it turns purple. Then it’s crushed and mixed with soap base. Once hardened, it’s cut into pieces with a metal wire. The sharp corners are manually trimmed, each piece is stamped, wrapped in palm leaves, and left to settle in a refrigerator. This fragrant miracle is then exported or sold to local five-star hotels.

Europeans founded the project in the 1990s. What they couldn’t have anticipated was that it would spark a social revolution on the island. Traditionally, women in Zanzibar’s Muslim families didn’t work and were completely dependent on the men in their households. The seaweed enterprise needed women both on the plantations and in the factory. The occupation didn’t appeal to men — who would want to stand ankle-deep in water, securing sticks into sand? But it suited women perfectly.

The concept of this new “female” business met with hostility from men. They resented their wives leaving home and earning their own money. They liked it even less that women returned from work too tired to respond to their husbands’ romantic overtures — they even joked it was a new form of birth control.

But the women persisted. Gradually, the “seaweed” business became a symbol of women’s liberation on the island. Previously, they left home only to visit relatives or attend weddings and funerals. The isolation of women from the outside world was reflected in the architecture of traditional Muslim houses: beside each home stood large stone benches where the male owner could converse with guests without inviting them inside (thus avoiding introducing his wife to strangers). Now, imagine a woman going to work outside her village, tending to seaweed under the watchful eyes of everyone around, including passersby. Domestic tensions erupted — better than any soap opera. Many husbands threatened their wives with divorce — and divorces indeed happened!

There was more. To sell their products, women had to travel to markets in other towns themselves — something completely unheard of, as previously only men did the shopping in Zanzibar. Tourists began visiting the factory; the project attracted journalists; articles about Mwani appeared in numerous blogs and even on the BBC. These “Ocean Gardeners” became local celebrities and financially independent women. They could now afford furniture for their homes, school clothes for their children, and even motorcycles. All of this started with seaweed.

I purchased two bars of soap at the Mwani factory. They add aromatic oils to them, wrap the bars in palm leaves, and secure them with twine — the same kind that holds young seaweed bunches on the seabed. I chose cinnamon and lemongrass scents. These fragrant pieces now sit before me, reminding me of Zanzibar, once known as the Island of Spice.

What is Afro-Soul?

The craving was irresistible: I needed a guitar. I simply wanted to strum the strings and create something harmonious amid these beautiful surroundings. I asked hotel owners for help, and they made a few phone calls, which led to more calls.

The flow of information through friends, neighbors, and acquaintances in Africa is far more powerful and essential than the internet. Take local taxi drivers, for instance. Here’s how it typically works: I get into a taxi and tell the driver my destination. He nods enthusiastically, as if he knows exactly where to take me. However, upon reaching the town, something curious happens. The driver pulls up to a group of men sitting by the roadside and asks them something. Their response comes in various gestures. The driver nods and continues. About 100 meters later, the scene repeats, except this time the driver is told to turn around and go back. After yet another interaction with locals, the bewildered driver turns to me and says, “There’s no such hotel here.”

This is when my moment comes: I take out my tablet with an offline map of Tanzania. I type in the name of the place, and a red pin shows that our destination is just a couple of kilometers away. With a simple tap, I guide us along a sandy path between gray stone houses. The driver hesitates at first but eventually follows the navigator’s instructions, and we soon arrive. You might wonder why the driver doesn’t use online maps himself. He does have a smartphone for calls, messaging, and even watching videos — but curiously, not for navigation. Perhaps it’s a matter of professional pride. After several fruitless journeys circling villages, I began planning routes on my own device and insisting that drivers follow them. This saved considerable time.

But when it came to finding a guitar, Zanzibar’s human network worked flawlessly. Within two hours, I had the phone number of a musician willing to lend his instrument for 10,000 Tanzanian shillings per day (about $5). Two minutes later, we agreed on where and how I could get the guitar. He offered to deliver it personally — he must have really needed the money.

A couple of hours later, a handsome dark-skinned man appeared before me in a sky-blue shirt, a red bandana, and black sunglasses. His name was Richie, though his passport said Salum (a name given by his father, which he disliked). I took the guitar, but he didn’t seem eager to leave. I suggested we play something together, and he grinned broadly: “Of course!”

I started playing “More than Words”—the greatest song of all time (in my opinion — it was the reason I’d learned to play the guitar three years earlier). I then handed him the guitar, asking if he knew any classic rock songs.

“I don’t sing covers,” he replied.

“You don’t know any?” I asked.

“No, I don’t.”

“So what do you play?”

“My own songs. Want to hear one?”

“Absolutely.”

I was intrigued. Wasn’t African music all about frenetic drum rhythms and exuberant dancing? How did that relate to the guitar? Richie began plucking the strings, and I heard something melancholic. His voice was strong, slightly raspy — what raw terracotta earth mixed with sand might sound like if it could sing. Though I didn’t understand a word of Swahili, I could feel the song was about unrequited love.

“What a beautiful language. What does ‘moyo wangu’ mean?”

“My heart.” “Moyo” means “heart.”

“And ‘muongo’?”

“That means ‘a lie.’”

“What’s the song about?”

“Don’t lie that you love me.”

“It doesn’t sound angry, though.”

“I don’t write angry songs. Music is for healing.”

“Tell me more.”

“I want to write songs where young people like me can see themselves. So they know they’re not alone.”

“How do you compose? Do you start with lyrics or music?”

“It all begins with a feeling.” He placed his hand over his heart. “I sit by the shore, touching the strings and finding chords that resonate with what I’m feeling. Something emerges. Then the first words come, and I sing them to the melody. Sometimes it ends with just one line, and sometimes a whole verse. Sometimes I don’t compose the second verse until a month later.”

I recalled a songwriting course I’d recently taken. It described a strategic approach: formulate the main “message” of the song, consider the rhythm and rhyme scheme, and structure the verses so that meaning and emotions unfold gradually, like a crescendo. Yet here was an entirely different method — composing purely from impulse, from the heart.

Richie began playing a new melody and looked at me expectantly.

“Sing,” he said.

“What should I sing? I don’t know this song or its lyrics.”

“It doesn’t matter. Just sing whatever you feel.”

I cautiously matched a few notes with my voice, watching his left hand and trying to anticipate the melody’s direction. It was impossible; he was using unusual chord progressions, and I couldn’t determine the key. So I closed my eyes and tried to feel the melody in my body. I sensed a pure, warm resonance in the center of my chest. When my voice harmonized with the music, it created a feeling of pleasure. When it didn’t, I continued humming, searching for the right sound, and the tension gradually transformed into ease and joy. I sang freely, naturally.

After a couple of minutes of my experimentation, Richie joined with his own improvisation. Double uncertainty! It began to feel like paragliding from a mountain, where the fear of heights and awkward movements mingles with the elation of soaring, with breathtaking landscapes unfolding below and your body humming with delight.

I suddenly noticed that hotel guests and staff were watching us. “How long have you been singing together?” they asked. “A long time. At least… twenty minutes.”

When the song ended, I fell silent, trying to process what had just happened. Could this be what they call “the flow”? Giving yourself permission to sing freely? Letting go of control and the need to be correct, simply enjoying the process?

I now understand how significant that moment was for me. Something new awakened within me: fearlessness and a desire to experiment. Even though it happened within a specific melody, on a specific terrace of an East African island, it did happen. What a liberating, expansive feeling — to stop thinking about logic and meaning, to explore seemingly absurd sound combinations and discover harmony. Music connects people; I now had first-hand evidence.

Richie’s journey into music was quite remarkable. He grew up in Bagamoyo, a town on the Tanzanian mainland. When he was fifteen, his mother died of pneumonia, and his aunt raised him alongside her own four children. They lived in extreme poverty. After school, he was assigned to a medical college but left after a few months. He once asked a boatman to take him to Zanzibar — he’d heard from friends that work could be found there. He sailed to the island nestled between sacks of potatoes and tomatoes. On his very first day, he sat down to play guitar at the entrance of the local music academy. At that time, he knew only three or four chords, but the song he played was captivating. A passer-by invited him inside — he turned out to be the school’s director. The next day, he offered Richie a place at the academy… for free. That’s how he became a musician, and Zanzibar became his second home.

That encounter with Richie had happened a year earlier, and I soon learned that he would be performing at that very “Sauti za Busara,” the festival of my dreams. I wondered how those lyrical songs, inspired by the ocean’s breath, would sound from the main stage.

Sounds of Wisdom

“You’re performing at Sauti?” I exclaimed — twice. My musician friends had gotten incredibly lucky: there was an urgent need for replacements at East Africa’s most prestigious festival, and they happened to be on the backup list. Artists from South Africa, Ghana, and Gambia couldn’t cross borders due to quarantine restrictions. So the organizers invited local musicians to fill in, and ultimately, 11 out of 14 performers were locals. Among them — miraculously — were Richie and Chris.

The fate of this grand event had been uncertain until the last moment. The world was in the grip of a pandemic (which Tanzania was studiously ignoring). Would audiences still come? Would they allow large crowds to gather despite social distancing protocols? Could all the artists make it? And would there be enough sponsors to fund the event?

When it became clear that they couldn’t assemble their usual audience and the performer list was shrinking, the organizers scaled down the event. Instead of four days, it was reduced to two. Instead of two large stages, there was one compact stage. The festival also adopted a bold, life-affirming slogan: “Alive and Kickin’.”

Before the pandemic, tiny Zanzibar hosted several festivals each year. July brought stars for the Zanzibar International Film Festival. September welcomed young authors from East Africa for the Jahazi Literary Festival. Right after that came Fashion Week, followed by the hedonistic Swahili Food Festival. But the most vibrant of all was the Sauti za Busara music festival. Its name translates to “Sounds of Wisdom,” but to me, it represented the sounds of joy.

The setting was a historic Portuguese fort. Its inner courtyard turned into a stage and audience area, with ten-meter gray walls on either side, topped with those familiar crenellations. I navigated past stalls selling masks, wooden sculptures, leather bracelets, and (inexplicably) Chinese dresses, ducking under an arch to get closer to the stage. A wave of dense, powerful sound washed over me.

“Zanzibar, are you readyyyyyyy?” an artist with impressive shoulder-length dreadlocks called from the stage.

“Yeeeeeeeeeeeah!!!” roared the five-thousand-strong crowd. Right in front of me, a blonde woman sat on the shoulders of a dark-skinned man, waving a Tanzanian flag. Three other women in the festival’s signature T-shirts danced in perfect synchrony, swaying their hips. “I want that T-shirt with the guitar-shaped outline of Africa,” I thought as I navigated through the crowd. It wasn’t easy; people stood shoulder to shoulder.

On stage appeared a muscular man in red pants, bare-chested, wearing a towering yellow hat shaped like a Gothic cathedral spire. It miraculously stayed in place as he dropped to his knees and raised a golden wand toward the heavens. The melody cycled, with the volume and intensity building like waves in a storm. This rhythm immersed my body and mind in a trance state. I wanted to hear it again and again. But what captivated me most was the singer’s voice: powerful, haunting, raspy, and primal. It sounded like a tribal prayer to ancient gods. This was a band from Lesotho. I listened until the end, rooted to my spot. Pure shamanic energy.

I was waiting for Richie. He emerged with his band, accompanied by several musicians including a percussionist and a saxophonist. Goosebumps spread across my arms from the very first notes. I recognized this song. That same melody I had sung to. Now, this song had lyrics. “Keeeeshooooo”—the second song began, powerful and rhythmic. I recognized that Swahili word immediately: “kesho” means tomorrow. The crowd jumped and sang along. The saxophone transformed the musicians’ passion and the audience’s enthusiasm into languid, moaning sounds. “This song is about our dreams and plans for the future,” Richie explained before moving into samba rhythms. The energetic percussionist played five African drums simultaneously and coaxed silvery tones from hanging metal pipes. Richie moved confidently across the stage, connecting with his fellow musicians. He controlled the crowd’s mood with a single gesture of his right hand and with his voice, tinged with just a hint of sand.

I rushed to buy the T-shirt with the Africa-shaped guitar. After putting it on, I spotted a man carrying a flute.

“Chris, is that you? I thought you were performing today too. Did I miss it?”

“I opened the festival — warmed everyone up!”

“Is that the same flute?”

“Yes, the one from Sveta. How long are you staying in Zanzibar? I have a concert at the Dhow Academy next week. You should come.”

“I’m not sure where I’ll be in a week, but I’ll definitely try.”

“Nice T-shirt, by the way.”

I smiled and patted the guitar on my chest, somewhere around the Sahara desert.

Scrounging a Flute from the Military

Sveta was a friend with whom I’d explored the island a year earlier. We had worked together at the Danish company, and later she became a coach and wrote a bestseller. It was with her that I learned the “Clean Language” coaching method.

I still don’t know what inspired her, but she spontaneously decided to join me in Africa despite her packed schedule. “Lena, it’s settled — I’m coming with you! I couldn’t get tickets for the same flight, so get ready to meet me there,” she told me.

On the third day of our expedition, we found ourselves at a hotel composed of huts with banana leaf roofs and windows without glass. Flowerbeds were bordered with upturned bottle bottoms. Three decoratively painted toilets stood proudly planted near the reception area. The local designer must have had quite the sense of humor or perhaps listened to too much reggae. Reggae played constantly, and from the woven walls of the reception hut (where you’d typically expect to see a portrait of the country’s leader or the hotel owner), Bob Marley himself, the ultimate Rastafarian, gazed down upon us.

In the evening, there was a jam session with local musicians. A guitarist, a djembe drummer, and a long-haired man with a flute took the mini-stage under a tent. After performing several songs, they invited audience members to join them. Sveta boldly stepped into the colorful spotlight and said, “I’ll sing a Russian song you don’t know, but I hope you can figure out the chords.” And she began to sing. Sveta had a pure, soaring voice. The musicians on stage couldn’t predict the melody, but they adapted to it, improvising chords and creating unique harmonies. Their imaginations produced something that bore little resemblance to the original song, but that didn’t matter. The guitarist picked out chords, the percussionist experimented with rhythms, and the flutist (Chris) wove the melody. There was no competition, only the joy of co-creation. At six degrees south latitude, in the middle of the Indian Ocean, they were passionately performing a song only the two of us knew.

The next day, we rushed to Stone Town in a taxi. Chris came with us, carefully holding his flute case. He had borrowed it for a few days from a military orchestra musician — probably not entirely legally. This was common practice here: musicians often rented their instruments to earn extra money, since one couldn’t make a living solely from composing and performing.

During the ride, Sveta suddenly asked:

“Chris, how much does this flute cost?”

“10,000 shillings a day to rent.”

“And if you wanted to buy it?”

“I don’t know if that military guy would sell it.”

“I want to give it to you as a gift.”

Chris clutched the flute and looked at Sveta with astonishment.

“But…”

“I’m serious. Yesterday, I sang with you and saw how you play — you create something magical. It should be yours.”

“Thank you, but that’s impossible. It’s a very expensive gift, about 100 dollars.”

“Trust me, this is the best $100 investment of my life.”

Chris later purchased the flute from that military musician. He recorded a video for Sveta, playing “I Will Always Love You.” And now, this instrument had made it to East Africa’s biggest festival. Chris had performed on the Sauti za Busara stage with his own flute.

African Hostel and Its Wounded Souls

The festival ended, as did my hotel booking. Time to leave Stone Town — but for where? “What if I try living in a village… or maybe in a hostel?” I wondered as I browsed accommodation options online. I’d never stayed in hostels before, always preferring privacy over price. A comfortable sleep and the freedom to walk around in my underwear had always seemed more important than saving money. A hostel in Africa would surely be a complete disaster, but… what if I gave it a try?

Fears and doubts swirled through my mind. What kind of people would I be sharing a room with? What if they smoked or used drugs? What if they robbed me? Would there be a decent shower? The questions multiplied, but adventure is adventure. I booked a room for two days, thinking that if I didn’t like it, I could always move elsewhere.

The hostel turned out to be a pleasant one-story building right by the ocean. A tidy courtyard filled with flowers, a kite lying in the middle of the path, designer couches under a canopy with colorful pillows. No sign of a slum. A man approached me, smiling broadly; he was the owner. Nearby, his Italian wife (he being Tanzanian) sat with their two children.

I entered the room and was greeted by a refreshing breeze — there were two ceiling fans and windows on opposite sides. The room had excellent ventilation, a blessing in the heat. Three beds lined each wall, each draped with a mosquito net. The space between beds was reasonably comfortable. I began to relax. The room was quiet, with personal belongings on three of the beds. I chose the empty bed farthest from the entrance and silently hoped there would be at least one other woman staying in the room.

“Hey, you’re new here?” a deep male voice suddenly called out, making me jump. Only then did I notice someone tall in beige shorts lying under a gauzy mosquito net on one of the beds.

“Yes, I’m new, and it’s my first time in a hostel. I’m hoping there’s at least one other woman here.”

“Not yet, just us lovely gentlemen,” the guy said calmly, with a touch of irony. “I’m Konrad, from Poland.”

“I’m Elena. How long have you been here?”

“Here in the hostel? On Zanzibar? In Tanzania? In Africa?”

“Well… here, I suppose.”

“Let me start from the end. I needed a mental reset, and I chose Zanzibar because I’d been here a couple of years ago. But first, I went to Moshi near Mount Kilimanjaro, then came here. I’ve been at this hostel for two weeks, but I’m heading back to Poland soon. Unfortunately.”

“Is it… safe here?”

I mentally inventoried my backpack: passport, a stack of US dollars, an even thicker bundle of Tanzanian shillings, credit cards, tablet, and camera with expensive lenses. Where could I store all this when going to the beach, a store, or even just for breakfast? Should I carry everything with me? I hadn’t seen any lockers or safes for valuables. There was only an open wicker shelf where everyone stored their belongings. On the edge of this shelf, among men’s items, sat a lacy bra and a large straw hat.

“It’s completely safe here. I leave my laptop, documents, and money right on the bed. Nobody takes anything. I don’t know how the hostel owners manage it, but that’s how it works.”

“What about the roommates?”

“It’s safe here,” he repeated calmly. “Good people stay here, fellow travelers like you and me. By the way, where are you from?”

“Can you guess?”

“Well, judging by your accent, you’re either English or Dutch. If I were going by appearance, I’d guess English.”

“You get a B-minus, Konrad,” I laughed. “I spotted you as a Slav right away, but you couldn’t recognize a girl from a neighboring country.”

“You don’t have a Slavic accent.”

“I’m not supposed to — even though I’m Russian.”

“Welcome to our international gang, Elena.”

I met the second member of our “gang” an hour later. A tanned man with long black hair tied back with a rubber band sat on the bed opposite mine. He looked suspicious: who would wear a leather jacket and pants in thirty-degree heat? His cap’s visor concealed his eyes. “He looks like a Pakistani terrorist,” I concluded, discreetly checking that my roll of dollars was still in my sock. A day later, I would feel deeply embarrassed for these thoughts. Saim (the man’s name) turned out to be the kindest, most considerate soul — honest and trustworthy enough that I would eventually entrust him not only with my money but also with my safety.

I met the third roommate the following morning. A blond man was sleeping under a mosquito net on the bed next to mine, having returned in the early hours. “Hi, good morning,” I heard, and turned to see blue eyes and a shy smile. I had just begun to suspect he was another Slav when he said, “I’m Josh, from Germany.”

From that moment on, I laughed until my ribs ached. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d enjoyed myself so much. The four of us went everywhere together — swimming from a boat a kilometer offshore, treating jellyfish stings, sharing jokes and life stories, dancing to traditional music, posing for photos, walking the ocean floor during extreme low tide, and examining tiny starfish.

In the evenings, we sat at a wooden table sharing delicious seafood. Somehow, this hostel had gathered vulnerable, “wounded” people who had weathered crises, made life-altering mistakes, experienced disappointment in loved ones, and stood at the edge of personal abysses. Now they were seeking new directions and values. Open and radiant, they were rediscovering themselves through travel — just like me.

Josh and His Australian Escape

Josh and I sat at breakfast overlooking the Martian landscape of low tide: exposed sandy seabed and stranded seaweed. The menu was typical for the island: fresh mango juice, a plate of watermelon and pineapple chunks, an omelet, two slices of toast, and instant coffee.

“You know, exactly this time last year, I was in Australia,” he unexpectedly volunteered.

“Really? How did you end up there?”

“I needed to escape from home. Anywhere would do. Everything was overwhelming me — work, school, especially my relationship. I sold everything I owned, bought a ticket to Sydney, and ended up living there for a year and a half.”

“Was it that bad back home?”

“I’ve felt unhappy for as long as I can remember. When I was about ten, I felt like a complete idiot and failure. I hated school. My mom wouldn’t listen and kept pushing me. Eventually, I fell into depression — at ten years old, can you imagine?”

“That’s hard to fathom. How did you cope?”

“I went to live with my father in Switzerland. My parents were divorced. He didn’t have time to hover over me or control my every move. He just let me be and told me he trusted me. He said I could handle things on my own. I didn’t believe him then, but it turned out to be true.”

“And then you returned to Germany?”

“Yes, which was a mistake. I was in a bad place for quite a while. Did you know I was a drug addict?”

“No,” I said, looking at his boyish face and angelic blue eyes.

“And worse than that, I sold drugs. That’s all behind me now, but I was a bad person.”

“I never would have guessed. Why are you here now? Looking for another change?”

“No, I just wanted to see a new country. In Australia, I realized I shouldn’t force myself to be something I’m not — I should listen to my inner voice instead. So I listened, and it brought me to Africa. I also changed careers. Instead of becoming an engineer, I’m now a gardener studying to be a landscape designer.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“It’s amazing — a completely different life. It all started in Australia when I helped a family with their garden. Everything happens for a reason, you know?”

“You’ve been through so much. How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Twenty-four.”

Twenty-four. So much struggle and crisis packed into such a young life.

A Computer Expert with Farming Aspirations

As for Konrad, I couldn’t guess his age either. He looked and sounded mature and somewhat world-weary. There was an old, deep scar on his shoulder, as if someone had sliced off a strip of skin with a razor. I suspected it wasn’t from a kitchen accident, but Konrad didn’t volunteer the story. Some things are better left in the past.

“I notice you’re never without your laptop. Are you working while you’re here?”

“Yes, I’ve been working remotely for two years now.”

“An IT guy, then?”

“Yes, a specialist in SQL databases.”

“I’m not exactly sure what that involves.”

“Neither did I when I applied for the job two years ago. I saw an ad for an SQL specialist position. I immediately applied, even though I had no idea what it was. They invited me for an interview right away.”

“Weren’t you terrified?”

“I told them I could only meet the following week because I was extremely busy. During those seven days, I devoured textbooks and online courses about SQL. That was enough to get me through the first interview, and I continued learning on the job. Now I work and travel the world.”

I found this story remarkable. That’s what it means to believe in yourself — learning enough in just a week to launch a new career!

We reconnected recently, and I discovered that Konrad now wants to become… a farmer. He purchased land, enrolled in university for a bachelor’s degree in agriculture and botany, and dreams of starting his own farm. As proof of his commitment, he showed me photos of the seedlings growing on his balcony. I suspect it didn’t take him more than a month to master this new field either!

A Paramedic in Disguise

“Saim, would you mind walking me back? It’s already ten, it’s completely dark, and I’m nervous about going alone,” I asked.

“Of course.”

The hostel was just twenty minutes away, but the route led through a village in total darkness. A typical Zanzibar village consists of stone houses with concrete parapets, devoid of any illumination. No streetlights, no lamps in courtyards. Even the windows remain dark, creating the impression of walking through a ghost town. This makes practical sense — electricity is prohibitively expensive here, so who would waste it lighting streets that are empty anyway? People go to bed early to rise before dawn. Sunrise occurs consistently around six in the morning and sunset at six in the evening, as the island lies close to the equator.

That night, darkness fell instantly. By seven o’clock, the village was engulfed in blackness.

Saim activated his phone’s flashlight. “Let’s go.”

“Tell me about yourself, Saim. You mentioned you’re from India, right?”

“Yes, from Delhi.”

“How did you end up here?”

“Well, I’m a student, and right now I’m… not exactly here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I left India just before the new wave of lockdowns. We’re studying online now, so nobody noticed my departure. Or rather, I’m being very careful not to get caught.”

“So you attend lectures and seminars every day?”

“Yes, online.”

“And no one has realized you’re actually in Africa?”

“I carefully choose camera angles for video conferences so that local people — and especially the ocean — don’t appear in the background.”

“That’s incredible! What are you studying?”

“I’m supposed to become a paramedic. It was my parents’ wish; they’re paying for my education. But it’s not really my thing. Anything related to medicine, especially emergency care, terrifies me.”

“What will you do instead?”

“I’ll try to get a job at a ministry. I actually have OCD, an anxiety disorder.”

“Aren’t you afraid to walk in complete darkness right now?”

“Honestly, I’m terrified. But I couldn’t just let you go alone in the dark.”

This “Pakistani terrorist” turned out to be the most thoughtful and considerate person — shy, gentle, and generous. Saim has since returned to India to complete his studies.

A French Lady from Ethiopia

One morning, a new face caught my attention. A tall woman in a colorful skirt sat on a stone bench in the hostel lobby, speaking loudly on her phone in French. She turned toward me and, carefully choosing her English words, asked:

“Excusez-moi, is there a good beach nearby?”

“Yes, about a hundred meters away. I can show you. By the way, we can speak French if you prefer.”

“Oh, thank goodness! What a relief. I can’t stand speaking English, but I have to use it here. Pleased to meet you — I’m Jocelyne.”

Finally, a female companion at our hostel — and she was French! I’d always loved the melodious sound of the French language with its sweet cadence. I hadn’t spoken it in eight years, not since traveling to Provence to see the famous lavender fields.

“I’m Elena. Are you staying long?”

“No, I’ve only managed to escape for a few days. I work in Addis Ababa, and there’s a direct flight to Zanzibar, which is quite convenient.”

“How did you end up in Ethiopia?”

“I was going through a personal crisis after my divorce and desperately wanted to leave France. When I was offered a job at a French lycée in Addis Ababa, I accepted immediately. I’ve been working there for six months now. It’s been amazing. You should visit sometime; I have a guest room with a mattress on the floor.”

This was possibly the quickest invitation I’d ever received!

I felt incredibly fortunate. The atmosphere in the hostel differed entirely from hotels — it offered a deeper level of connection. I had chosen it out of a spirit of adventure but discovered tranquillity and emotional comfort instead. I also found my “tribe.” Hostels function like portals connecting kindred spirits. Those who travel alone usually do so for a reason, typically while navigating some form of life crisis. Travel resets your previous life, connections, expectations of the world, and the world’s expectations of you. It’s like seeing everything for the first time and meeting people you would never encounter in your “old” life. A plant transplanted to unfamiliar soil remains essentially the same plant but may alter the shape of its leaves or the color of its blossoms. No one knows what this flower was like before, but in its new setting, any identity it adopts becomes the norm. Travelers enjoy this unique advantage: they needn’t explain to anyone why they are “different” now, because there’s no point of comparison. This freedom is exhilarating.

A Fence Made of Palm Leaves

My successful hostel experiment inspired me to attempt an even more adventurous endeavor: living for a while in an African village. The thought of intruding into local homes seemed both awkward and intimidating, but on Booking.com, I discovered an option called “homestay”—staying in someone’s residence. The reviews were excellent, and the price was reasonable. “Make up your mind — it’s just for a couple of days!” my adventurous inner voice urged.

“Where are we going?” the taxi driver asked, puzzled. The location marked on the map led to what appeared to be an informal dump site, not a residential house.

“I have the homeowner’s phone number,” I confidently replied. After a couple of calls, I found myself walking along a narrow path flanked by slender palm trees and gray stone houses, pulling my purple suitcase behind me. I assumed we were heading toward one of these houses, but we turned a corner, passed a vegetable stall, and approached a dusty fence. This fence was constructed of palm branches secured with interwoven palm leaves, like a basket. A flimsy gate, crafted in the same authentic style, wobbled when I touched it.

“Does it lock?” I asked the owner, whose name was Hassan.

“Of course, right here!” Hassan proudly pointed to a tiny luggage padlock. From somewhere in his pants, he produced a minuscule key, which the lock obediently accepted. The gate clicked shut behind me; it couldn’t creak because it was fastened with those same palm leaves. I had expected to find myself in a branch shelter, but inside the woven enclosure stood a stone house with two entrances — evidently a rural mini-hotel with two rooms.

The room’s door had a rusty bolt lock secured with a tiny padlock, clearly a twin to the one on the gate. A large square bed with a mosquito net filled the entire room. A fan spun overhead, and behind a partition wall, I glimpsed a curved shower pipe. The windows had no glass but were fitted with grilles and mosquito nets — standard Zanzibar construction. Not terrible.

“Don’t forget to lock both the gate and your door when you leave, and lock them from inside when you’re in. I’ll prepare breakfast for you tomorrow morning!” Hassan beamed.

“How can I reach you if there’s a problem? What if something goes wrong?” I asked.

“Just call me! I live nearby. I also have a vegetable stall around the corner — you can find me there from eight in the morning.”

He departed. As I locked the gate behind him, I peered outside: darkness and emptiness. A lock on the house’s second door indicated no one else was staying there. I was alone in an unfamiliar house in the middle of an African village, protected by a fence that could be knocked down with a finger. What if someone climbed over? The discomfort grew. I had craved this silence and solitude after the city’s noise and the hostel’s activity, but now I sat nervously monitoring every sound. The wind rustled through a neighbouring palm tree. Something kept falling onto the roof, making me start.

The heat was stifling. The overhead fan laboured but provided no relief, merely circulating the hot air. The mosquito net trapped what little breeze there was, and I lay on the bed, hot and sticky, struggling to breathe in the almost liquid atmosphere. I wished I could fall asleep quickly and wake up early to head for the ocean.

I spent the entire night tossing and turning, sleep eluding me due to anxiety and heat. I managed to doze off toward dawn but was awakened by village roosters, followed by locals loudly discussing their affairs right outside the fence. The windows had no glass, only grilles and mosquito netting — I couldn’t escape the noise.

In the morning, Hassan prepared a delicious breakfast: a delicate omelette, toast, and fresh fruit, just like in a standard hotel. At his shop, I bought an avocado the size of a small watermelon and devoured its buttery yellow flesh with a spoon, like ice cream. However, I couldn’t stay. I felt physically unwell and frightened, and nothing could change that.

“Hassan, you’ve been incredibly kind and attentive. Thank you. Unfortunately, I need to leave.”

“What happened?”

“I couldn’t sleep; it was too hot for me here. I can manage one sleepless night, but I can’t continue like this. I’m sorry.”

Later, I realized that my accommodation had been remarkably comfortable compared to typical living conditions in this village. Not everyone had electricity and gas, and few had showers; most people washed by pouring water from a bucket. This homestay clearly represented a significant investment for Hassan, providing much-needed income for his family. Ten dollars a day amounted to just three hundred dollars monthly — not much by Western standards but considerably more than the average earnings in Zanzibar. I regretted disappointing him, but my health and peace of mind took priority. I had reached the limit of my climate and social adaptation. That same day, I relocated to a nearby hotel with air conditioning, where I slept for a full day and night. Some experiments simply don’t work out.

Stone Town and Its Cultural Blends

“I’m heading to Stone Town tomorrow to handle a banking matter. I can give you a ride since I’m taking a car. You mentioned you had business there,” Saim messaged me.

He was right — I had promised to attend Chris’s concert that evening. How fortunate.

Stone Town, the historic heart of Zanzibar, is simply called “the city” by locals because all other settlements on the island are villages. That evening, I planned to attend Chris’s concert at the Dhow Music Academy with his flute, but in the meantime, I could explore the surroundings.

Stone Town’s center consists of a labyrinth of narrow streets so constricted that pedestrians must press against walls to let roaring motorcycles pass, with no space for cars. The pathways are lined with stalls selling woven bags and hats, leather and plastic bracelets, wooden masks, and traditional kanga fabrics in wild color combinations.

An elderly man in white Muslim attire sits on a concrete bench selling rambutan — red, hairy fruits on branches. These little bunches with traces of mold cost 3,000 shillings, while the ones with large, pristine fruits cost 5,000. I purchase a five-thousand-shilling bundle, which occupies half my backpack. Just 150 shillings — less than a dollar! Incredible.

As you walk through Stone Town, remember to look up; the buildings showcase a remarkable fusion of Arab and Indian architecture. Stone Town is a UNESCO World Heritage site for good reason. Here’s an Arab house with solid walls and tiny windows. And there’s an Indian one with a wide wooden balcony featuring intricate carvings and flowers. Below, I notice a wooden door studded with massive metal spikes. These are the famous Zanzibar doors, worth visiting Stone Town just to see. The spikes serve no practical purpose here. In distant India (where this tradition originated), they protected gates from elephants. There are no elephants in Zanzibar, but these elaborately carved doors remain a source of pride for homeowners and a symbol of prestige and prosperity.

It’s lunchtime, and finding a place to eat in Stone Town presents its own challenge. Local restaurants embody the principle of “pole-pole” (slowly). Even with few patrons, you’ll wait nearly an hour for your food. There’s no alternative to this excruciatingly slow service. I wish I could find something like the coffee shops back home where you can quickly get both a drink and a sandwich. I found none. Surprisingly, I couldn’t even find good coffee, which seems odd considering Tanzania’s fame for coffee plantations. Interestingly, even expensive hotels serve instant coffee at breakfast, and for quality espresso, you must visit Italian restaurants.

How Can I Get to the Ocean?

I walk alone through a narrow alley, uncertain where it leads. I hope it takes me to the waterfront, but my doubts grow. Earlier today, I was searching for the Old Fort and found myself in the middle of a vegetable market instead. My internal compass is hopelessly unreliable. Ahead, I spot an interesting arrangement of construction scaffolding with the green and black Tanzanian flag waving between the struts. What a photo opportunity! I reach for my Canon camera, take a few shots, and hear footsteps approaching from behind. Someone is coming closer, and there’s no one else on the street.

I decide to act pre-emptively. Remembering a warning from a travel forum—“Don’t display expensive devices in public; you risk getting robbed”—I quickly tuck my camera into my backpack. Then I turn abruptly toward the stranger and walk directly toward him.

“Excuse me, do you know how to reach the ocean?” I ask, while my eyes scan his hands — is he actually planning to rob me?

“I’m not a local, but I know the way. I’ll show you,” the man calmly responds. He doesn’t look like a thief, but appearances can be deceiving.

“Actually, I’m a lawyer visiting Zanzibar to work with a charity foundation. By background, though, I’m a historian. I bet I could surprise you with some fascinating facts about Tanzania.”

“Go ahead,” I say, relieved to spot the familiar waterfront and Forodhani Garden with its crowds of people ahead. I’ll definitely be safe there. We sit on a white stone bench.

“Did you know we have a ‘German’ town? Literally built by Germans. And the climate there is cool, around 20 degrees Celsius.”

I wipe sweat from my forehead (it was hot and humid). The prospect of experiencing cool temperatures in an equatorial country sounds intriguing.

“Did you know this city was built to combat the rebellious chief Mkwawa? But in reality, Mkwawa consistently defeated them until he was betrayed and beheaded.”

My curiosity grows. Just tell me the name of this place!

“Iringa,” my now-clearly-not-a-robber companion smiles.

What an interesting name, I think. Sounds like a tablecloth with frills.

“Are there any waterfalls in that region?”

“The largest waterfall in Tanzania. One hundred seventy meters, at the top of a mountain. It’s on the way to Iringa. And don’t forget about the great Ruaha River. If you dream of seeing giraffes, that’s where you should go.”

The man seems determined to enchant me. How did he know about my secret passion for giraffes?

I take out my tablet with its offline map of Tanzania (now that I’m not afraid to display my devices) and place red pins on the locations he’s mentioned.

“By the way, my name is Busara, which means ‘wisdom’ in Swahili. Although Swahili isn’t my native language, nor is it for most people in this country.”

“Isn’t Swahili spoken by all Tanzanians from birth?” I ask, surprised.

“Not at all. Tanzania has more than a hundred tribes and just as many languages. Swahili is what unites us — it’s taught in schools, alongside English. So many Tanzanians speak three languages: their tribal language, Swahili, and English. Zanzibaris are fortunate; here, Swahili is their native language. By the way, Swahili is spoken in five countries, but the Zanzibari variant is considered the standard.”

Soon we part ways. Busara has a meeting to attend, and I need to head to the waterfront, to the Dhow Academy. Around six o’clock, the sunset begins, and the air cools as locals emerge onto the promenade along the ocean.

A performance unfolds on the concrete parapet: local boys leap into the ocean, executing incredible acrobatics. Dozens participate — they dive, resurface, climb back onto the parapet, and somersault through the air once more. Nearby on the sandy beach, another athletic display takes place: boys perform handstands, flips, and climb onto each other’s shoulders. Groups of girls in long dresses and Muslim headscarves watch the spectacle. Sunset in Stone Town creates a magical atmosphere.

Finally, I arrive at a building with an elaborate carved balcony. This must be the place.

What is Taarab?

Inside, steep stone steps await. They are so precipitous that I ascend sideways, as if descending a steep ski slope. Before the final flight of stairs, I notice writing on the wall: “Follow the music.” Beside it, as if to reinforce the message, musical notes are drawn. Follow the music I shall, I think, and emerge onto the rooftop — though it’s not exactly a rooftop but more of a platform surrounded by the music academy’s classrooms.

Heavy wooden doors stand open, and from within come bursts of sound: drums here, traditional African percussion there, and in the pauses between, string instruments. Moving forward, I find myself on a vast balcony with ornate, almost lace-like edging. Seated on a bench is a young man in a long white garment and a white cap with silver patterns. On his lap rests something resembling a miniature sideways harp or a set of giant metallic strings. His fingertips are adorned with metal thimbles, with which he plucks the strings, producing harmonious sounds. This is the qanun.

I came for a concert but seem to have stumbled upon a tour instead. The concert hall is actually a passageway. I open a door and step onto a huge balcony overlooking the ocean and boats. On the wall hangs a framed portrait of a woman: Sitti bint Saad, the goddess and legend of Taarab music.

This academy is the temple of Taarab. In the 19th century, Sultan Said Barghash brought this music to Zanzibar during his reign. He even sent a Zanzibari musician, Mohammed Ibrahim, to Egypt to learn to play the qanun. Upon his return, Ibrahim formed the Zanzibar Taarab Orchestra. The word “Taarab” comes from Arabic, meaning “to be delighted by music.”

The genre’s greatest surge in popularity came through a woman. Previously, women were forbidden to perform in ensembles or sing. This was strictly enforced in the sultan’s palace, though harder to monitor in villages. Singer Sitti began performing Taarab throughout Tanzania and became the first in East Africa to record an album. Crucially, she sang not in Arabic but in Swahili. Thus, this genre became not only popular but also distinctly “feminine.”

At the Dhow Music Academy, students learn both familiar Western instruments (guitar, piano) and Arabic ones — the harp-like qanun and the round, guitar-like oud. They study traditional music alongside international styles, jazz, and fusion. The academy’s uniqueness lies in its blend of African traditions with Arabic influences from the “Dhow countries” (including Persian Gulf nations, the Comoros, Kuwait, Iran, UAE, and India). “Dhow,” incidentally, refers to a traditional local sailing vessel.

Most students here are African. For them, tuition with certification costs about $500 annually, while foreigners pay $800. It’s remarkable that local students can afford this substantial sum by Tanzanian standards, where monthly earnings typically range from $100–150 for food and accommodation. Some exceptionally talented students from disadvantaged backgrounds receive free education, but this is rare. Education in Tanzania is expensive, with university access limited to those with wealthy parents or stable high incomes — musicians rarely falling into either category.

But I’m here for the concert! At the appointed hour (8:00 PM), only five people occupy the green chairs. Each of us receives an official paper ticket for 15,000 Tanzanian shillings (about $6). Chris, wearing a long yellow Muslim garment, approaches the microphone. Today, he’s tucked his typically braided long hair under a white fez-like cap.

The flute begins, and everyone freezes. Romantic melodies transition into something lively, causing me to bounce on my plastic chair, its legs vibrating against the concrete floor. Sitting through such music seems almost criminal, I think. I scan my neighbors’ faces, seeking allies to join me on the dance floor. Everyone squirms in their seats and claps along, but they maintain their composure and resist the rhythmic temptation.

Two Africans were the first to burst onto the improvised dance floor: the ticket seller and the qanun player. They danced with complete abandon. There’s a saying, “Dance as if no one is watching”—but here, everyone was watching! I couldn’t resist and joined them barefoot. Following me, another woman with her boyfriend joined, and we danced as a group of five. The remaining spectators somehow managed to stay seated. Africans are naturally uninhibited; nothing can keep them still when they hear rhythmic music. And yet, somehow we can!

It ended almost abruptly. The audience dispersed, and I waited for the musicians to pack their instruments. We ventured out to the waterfront and found ourselves amid the bustling Stone Town food market. Stalls displayed skewers of seafood and fish, alongside various types of flatbread. Nearby stood a large juicer operated by a lanky man. It was a sugarcane press: he fed green stems into it and cranked them through the mechanism. A greenish liquid resembling chlorophyll trickled into a glass. This was sugarcane juice! I tasted it — unusual, like grass mixed with sugar.

I gazed out at the ocean: not long ago, the waterfront teemed with activity, but now it was deserted. Beyond the parapet stretched a black sky filled with stars, the moon, and its reflection in the dark water. In the distance, fishing boats’ lights twinkled. I wondered how long it would take to reach them.

Those Damn Red Pins

Back at my accommodation, I couldn’t stop thinking about my encounter with Busara. Those red pins on my map kept pricking at my consciousness.

The next day, I searched online: “How to get to Iringa, Udzungwa, and Ruaha.” It proved more complicated than I’d anticipated. Tanzania has virtually no functioning railway system. Instead, there are buses that crawl for 7–8 hours to each destination, with nothing in between. The prospect was daunting. In these past two weeks, I’d become quite adventurous, but not fearless enough to wander with my suitcase from a remote bus stop in search of accommodation. The mere thought of traveling alone through the African hinterland made me uneasy. What to do?

Feeling anxious, I messaged a Tanzanian travel agency I’d found on social media: “Help me plan a realistic and safe route using public transportation; nothing seems to align.” The agency representatives considered my request and replied: “You won’t be able to connect everything independently; you need a car. Your proposed journey is unique — we’ve never taken anyone to these places before. What if we drive you ourselves and accompany you? You’d pay just the cost price and have both a private vehicle and company.”

I couldn’t have dreamed of a better solution. Soon I found myself in the Tanzanian savannah and later in tropical jungles, with limited internet access but traveling in a personal jeep with the engaging company of local guides.

Chapter 2:
The Leap into the Unknown

(Two months earlier)

Kalimba Under the Danish Flag

Kalimba! I got the kalimba!

I bounced around the office like an excited child. My colleagues were Russian, the company was Danish, but the gift was connected to Africa. What a perfect blend! I quickly unwrapped the package and held the wooden box with metal tines. I plucked one, then another — delicate silvery sounds, like tiny bells, filled the air. A hush fell over the office. My colleagues glanced around, searching for the source of the bell-like tones. Then they spotted me, exchanged knowing looks, and offered sad smiles.

Everyone knew it was my last day at the company. I’d been through this awkwardness before, saying goodbye to colleagues as they embarked on new journeys. In these moments, words fail because it’s hard to grasp the finality of it all. Just yesterday, we were sitting in the same car in St. Petersburg, brainstorming persuasive arguments for a meeting. Earlier today, we had laughed until tears came, recalling those very negotiations. But tomorrow, we’d be on opposite sides of an invisible divide. Though, what divide, really? We weren’t enemies or competitors. It’s just that in our hearts, there’s this strange mix of emotions: sadness (someone who feels like family is leaving!), curiosity (what awaits them?), anxiety (what if they didn’t choose to leave but were asked to?), and relief (I’m staying in this familiar place, and I’m fine). There’s also a desire to say something warm and meaningful. It might seem like there’s always reason for expressing gratitude and kind words, but in the daily grind, gratitude becomes part of business etiquette, and warmth becomes mere politeness. It’s only when someone leaves that you get to tell them how unique, strong, talented, and, ultimately, important they have been to you. These heartfelt revelations linger and provide warmth along the way.

I wonder what those former colleagues felt on their last day at work? On their first day “after”? A week later? Back then, I didn’t think about it, assuming everyone would need a couple of weeks to catch their breath, savor their freedom, and decide on their next steps.

Now, I recognize familiar emotions in many eyes — sadness, anxiety, relief, that same awkwardness — and I understand it perfectly. I hear words spoken from the heart and see unasked questions in their gazes. Forgive me, colleagues, for leaving. I feel guilty, as if I’m running away and letting someone down for the first time in all these years. Not long ago, we passionately discussed projects and budgets for the next year. When the marketing plan proved impossibly tight and I suggested cutting activities, some of you winked at me, saying, “Lena, come on, we’ll manage everything with you! It’s not the first time!” You didn’t yet know that I wouldn’t be helping you “manage” these projects. But I already knew.

I examined the kalimba closely. Engraved on the side was the phrase, “Life in a better light”—the Russian version of the corporate slogan, “Bringing light to life.” The phrase was written in… my handwriting. Back in 2005, the Danish headquarters had announced a competition to find the best handwriting for this slogan. Anonymous samples from about half the office’s employees and their relatives were sent to Denmark. When my less-than-perfect calligraphy was chosen, many were surprised, including myself. It turned out the Danes were looking for something natural and relaxed, not necessarily perfect. I was flattered, having believed since my school days that my handwriting was terrible.

For the past few years, we hadn’t used this slogan in advertising, but somehow, the women in the office had found my signature in the files. How creative they are! Those familiar words now have a new meaning for me. My life in a better light… What would that look like?

To be honest, I was mentally prepared to receive an exotic instrument as a gift. My colleagues knew about my passion for music. Three years earlier, I had started learning guitar, followed by African djembe drums, and then I switched to a hang, a metallic pan-shaped instrument with a magical sound. I had seen the kalimba before but had never played one. Now it’s mine.

For my “retirement,” I ordered two artistic cakes from a talented pastry chef: one with berry mousse and the other a chocolate delight. Two hearts with lemon filling adorned the “Riviera” cake. The chocolate one had three layers of delicious mousse. As I carried them into the office, I imagined everyone rushing to devour these two sweet masterpieces in twenty seconds. However, the office was empty and quiet: half of the employees were working from home due to quarantine, while the rest were in a Strategic Committee meeting — a project I had once started. Now it was running without me.

The day was spent on simple logistics. Unloading documents from my desk, tossing unnecessary papers into the trash bin, and packing the essentials in plastic bags to take with me. Then came the signing of resignation papers, collecting my employment record, and a bunch of other bureaucratic procedures whose meaning remained vague to me. The IT administrator approached and tersely informed me that my access to corporate email would be cut off at three o’clock. With just an hour left, I sat down to write farewell emails to the entire company, then personal goodbyes to my team, and then to colleagues in Denmark, Poland, and Hungary who had become almost like family during our 20 years of working together. They couldn’t believe I was leaving.

In the last 30 minutes of my working day, I managed to discuss the script for a video on product advantages and benefits. That was my final chord for the day.

Leaving the office, I got into my car, loaded all the bags with documents, flower bouquets, and a pair of black shoes I always kept in the office for a quick change. I drove home feeling numb and empty, automatically pressing the pedals and obeying traffic lights. When I arrived home and entered with all those bags and flowers, I had no desire or energy to share anything with my sons, or with anyone. I simply walked to my bed and fell asleep.

Danish Business in Post-USSR

This job spanned my entire adult life. I joined in the 1990s when job hunting was an adventure. Nowadays, you can check job listings on LinkedIn or companies’ websites and tailor your resume to the job you want. Back then, you had to obtain an English-language newspaper from a hotel, turn to the last page with job ads, and scan the offerings from international companies. Then, you would fax them your resume because email didn’t exist yet.

I remember placing my own job-searching ad in that newspaper, though I have no idea what I wrote. I had no work experience to boast about, just a university degree with proficiency in English and French — that was my only selling point. In the 1990s, foreign languages were incredibly valuable assets. No other business skills were relevant in the post-Soviet space, and Western companies were ready to train their employees from scratch. On top of that, a Russian who spoke English fluently was automatically seen as intelligent, educated, and deserving of respect and trust.

On the day I placed the ad, I sat diligently in my kitchen next to the white phone with a rotary dial and a clunky receiver. Nobody had mobile phones back then, so one had to stay home to receive calls from potential employers.

The first call came at eight in the morning, with someone speaking English with a strong Middle Eastern accent. He wanted to know if I could charter a ship for him in the port of St. Petersburg to transport Kurdish refugees from Iraq. While I visualized the “unofficial” logistics schemes I was supposed to create, I received another call offering me a secretary job in a bank, then another one as an interpreter for a Dutch CEO in a well-known restaurant chain (which was relatively unknown back then).

The fourth call came the following morning. On the other end of the line, I heard a confident male voice with rhythmic, military-precise English (later I could easily recognize it as a Swedish accent, but at the time, it was new to me). Each word sounded strange to me: “roof windows,” “attic,” “marketing assistant,” and finally, “Denmark.” I knew nothing about that country except that Hans Christian Andersen created his fairy tales there, and that they spoke a Germanic language called Danish. I knew even less about “roof windows” and nothing about “attics” (in fact, no one in Russia knew these terms, except for the first three local VELUX employees). But what puzzled me most was the term “marketing assistant.” I clearly didn’t qualify for such a position, and the word “marketing” was totally unknown to me. My head was filled with hundreds of doubts and questions, but they all were stuck in my throat, so I simply said I found it very interesting.

When I dressed for my first interview with that Swede, I couldn’t have guessed it would take place under extreme conditions. I wore a splendid business suit with a knee-length skirt and the sheerest of stockings. It was February, and it was -25°C outside. I had to hop over snow to reach the meeting place at a café. The conversation at the table was brief, and soon my future boss suggested we visit some construction sites. I thought of my almost bare legs, the bitter cold, and my high-heeled boots, but I agreed. We climbed up a rickety temporary staircase without handrails, higher and higher, until we found ourselves in a cluttered space beneath a sloping roof. Light poured down from above. Over my head, I noticed sloped windows through which I could see the cloudless blue sky — typical during extremely cold winter days. The Swede smiled with pride and excitement: “Do you like it?” “Beautiful, I love it,” I lied. I didn’t see anything aesthetically pleasing. What impressed me most was the person showing me this chaos. His tone, words, and gestures conveyed conviction, respect, faith, passion, and absolute honesty. “A person like this cannot be involved in something questionable. I need to figure out the meaning and beauty of these strange windows,” I thought.

That’s how my journey with the Danish company began — a journey that lasted 27 years. I found myself in a small team of pioneers who were building everything from scratch — the business, the company, and even the market itself. Before that, there had been no tradition in Russia of living and working under a sloping roof. There was no such product as a “roof window,” and its function, purpose, and benefits had to be explained to customers even five, ten, and twenty years later. It was a different story in Belgium, for example, where 4 out of 5 people grew up in houses with such windows. Russians had grown up in cubic apartments, and the idea of a bright space with windows facing the sky was just something seen in movies.

“They are a cult,” people used to say about us. Everyone was too happy, passionate, active, devoted, and always ready to help each other. They joked that all VELUX employees had a professional ailment — a sore neck because we constantly lifted our heads to scan the roofs of buildings for potential squares of attic windows. We had “systems” instead of departments — our organizational diagram resembled Swiss cheese or bubbles in an aquarium, rather than a traditional flowchart with squares and lines of authority. Each bubble reflected a function, and every employee could work in multiple “bubbles” at once, meaning their professional development was never confined to a single department.

The company’s strategy wasn’t written behind closed doors and hidden from employees. They developed the strategy themselves. Project groups with deep understanding of specific market segments conducted research, set goals, made plans, tracked outcomes, and even managed their own budgets.

We genuinely believed that the most important thing in the company was its people. Our hiring process was lengthy and took many steps because we were looking for kindred spirits who were serious about staying with us for the long haul. During the first month, newly hired employees were carefully passed through the organization, like newborn babies. They needed to be introduced not only to the strategy and processes but, most importantly, to the organization’s energy and values. Monthly dialogues and annual review meetings between employees and their managers were the norm for us. Only later did I find out that in other companies, such meetings never existed. Our philosophy could today be described by a popular new term.

In 2014, Frederic Laloux wrote a book about “teal” organizations, which resemble living organisms where employees are given great freedom in decision-making, guided by the organization’s goals and values. He called them the companies of the future. A wave of “teal” organizational reforms swept through innovative companies, including Russian ones. The topic of “teal” organizations became popular at conferences. We didn’t speak at these conferences, although we had plenty to boast about: by that time, this management philosophy had been in place at our company for 20 years. Back then, though, it did look like a cult to many.

Once, after leaving the company, I attended a seminar on the principles of building “teal” organizations. For each slide, I nodded and told myself, “Yes, I know this. And this. And this.” When I saw the organizational structure represented as a round piece of Swiss cheese (where the holes were “systems,” an alternative to departments), I even chuckled. I had drawn such circles every time I needed to rethink the functionality of marketing and projects under my supervision. I realized how advanced and progressive my ex-company’s management philosophy was, how deep, honest, and ethical its core was.

That’s probably why I worked there for so many years, never succumbing to head hunters’ offers to switch to other attractive positions with salaries at least double what I was earning. I believe it was because the company’s values resonated strongly with mine, and at some point, work ceased to be just a job for me; it became a place for connection and mutual development with like-minded people. During the first five years, I eagerly absorbed these values, tasted them, and tried to find the right words to describe them when friends asked, “Where do you work?” and “How is it?” In the last five to ten years, I was already passing these values on to new employees. I saw myself in their amazed eyes when they asked, “Can business really be like this?” Yes, it can. Believe me, it can. And once you’ve experienced the authenticity and humanity of such a workplace, adapting to anything else — rudeness, disrespect, authoritarianism, mistrust, ignorance — becomes impossible or unbearably difficult.

That’s probably why the question of values became crucial for me. Soon after my resignation, I started receiving job offers. The titles and financial conditions were sky-high. I asked what the working environment was like and how employees were treated. After hearing the answers, I didn’t even go to interviews, realizing I couldn’t betray what was important to me. I couldn’t change my true self.

The Point of No Return

How did the crisis start? I realized I was getting tired. Working in marketing was a wonderful, creative, and exploratory experience. Being a leader was an even greater joy. I loved watching my team members grow, develop, and eventually surpass me. It was satisfying to delegate a project to a colleague and see solutions I wouldn’t have thought of myself.

Every autumn, we would begin preparing the marketing plan for the next year. I knew every bit of it by heart and could fill out the document with my eyes closed. It was exhilarating in the first year, the third, the fifth, even the tenth. But when I walked the same circle for the fifteenth, seventeenth, twentieth time, it started to wear me down. The same competitors, the same distributors, the same events, and even the same topics of discussion year after year.

I wanted to change professions and try something new, but I just couldn’t bring myself to leave the company. The energy of the people, shared values, inspiration, and the feeling of being part of a team kept me there. Company loyalty is a wonderful quality, but it can also become the biggest limitation to personal growth.

One day, all the circumstances and world crises converged into one big tangle of shocking disappointments. Things changed with the arrival of a new general manager with a very different management style. The once vibrant energy of the company began to fade, giving way to hints of misunderstanding, stress, and even fear. Eventually, it dimmed entirely, replaced by a stifling atmosphere of confusion and compromise.

My professional achievements of the past years were devalued, as were the achievements of the entire team. Responsibilities and powers gradually dwindled: I was now supposed to get approval from the boss for every small decision, every detail, such as the color of stickers for envelopes. Unpredictable ideas and decisions replaced the plans we had carefully prepared.

Then the pandemic started, and lockdowns followed. Everyone shifted to remote work, striving to save sales while staring at their laptop screens. With the office closed, the marketing team’s workload didn’t decrease — it multiplied. Our field employees used to spend four out of five workdays visiting clients and construction sites, but now all their energy went into generating marketing ideas. Implementation of these ideas fell on our team. We were drowning in tasks and emails. I sat in front of my computer screen from 9 in the morning until 11 at night, with breaks only for food and tea. For two months, we had 14-hour workdays amidst a suffocating atmosphere of bureaucracy and mistrust.

My body ached from stress, and my soul howled like a wolf. Every morning, I pressed the “login” button on my computer and told myself, “Just hold on for one more day.” Each new task filled me with resentment. The job was burning me out and leaving me empty.

It wasn’t just about the workload. With all my being, I knew that I no longer wanted to do what I had been doing. Not at all, to the point of nausea and a burning in my heart. No more construction industry. No more motivational programs for partners. No more competitive analyses and product USPs. I cried for two months, realizing that I couldn’t go on like this. I just didn’t know what I was able and willing to do instead.

Somewhere deep inside me, a virus of freedom and creativity had taken root. At some point, it had spread throughout my entire being, and it was impossible to stop it. I passionately wanted change.

One night, just before going to bed, I grabbed a bright pink Post-it note, scribbled a few words on it, and went to sleep. In the morning, I folded it into quarters and tucked it into my passport. Since then, I’ve come across it many times. I would take it out, unfold it, read it, and fold it back. I couldn’t throw it away. No, not that one. Once I discovered it at the bottom of my backpack, which had traveled with me through Africa. In my flowing handwriting, blue against pink, it read:

“I want to get to live another, different life: being in a new place, doing what I love, with people who share my spirit and values.”

Time To Say Goodbye

I marched into the General Manager’s office carrying a notebook with two lists: reasons for my resignation and potential freelance projects I could pursue. The night before, I had rehearsed this conversation at least three times. In the morning, I did breathing exercises to add decisiveness and calmness.

Things went differently than planned. Instead of the prepared speech, all I managed to say was: “This year has been tough for me. Unbearable. I can’t continue working here. I want to resign by the end of this year. Let’s discuss how to do this responsibly, so that my team and the company as a whole don’t suffer.” The boss listened and remained silent for a while. Then he looked intensely into my eyes, and I… I just burst into tears. All the tension of those months and weeks poured out through these uninvited, shameful tears. I tried to hold them back with deep breaths, but they wouldn’t stop. The office we were sitting in was an aquarium-like cubicle, transparent to anyone passing by. Any colleague could see my emotional breakdown.

I must admit, my boss acted like a true man. He turned my chair away from the glass wall and fetched a stack of tissues, placing them under my rivers of tears. Twenty minutes later, I calmed down and presented my proposals. We decided to plan my departure in detail, and to break the news in about a month: first to my team, then department managers, and finally the entire staff.

I left that meeting feeling drained but relieved. I had two more months of work ahead, but they seemed manageable now. My agony had eased and found a resolution. My twenty-plus-year business career in the Danish paradise would soon end. I needed to finish it with dignity, give myself time to recover, and move forward. I didn’t know where exactly, and I didn’t want to imagine. The most important thing was to break free, I told myself. That’s how I was thinking at the time.

Newly Acquired Freedom

On my first day of official “freedom,” I woke up at nine in the morning without an alarm. There was neither euphoria nor exhilaration — more like a sense of suspension and uncertainty. I got dressed and went for a walk. I walked slowly, rhythmically along the street, inhaling and exhaling the crisp air. It felt strange to be out walking aimlessly during what would normally be a workday. I didn’t need to work — yet I couldn’t relax; turmoil was brewing inside me.

I entered a Georgian café (serving cuisine from the Caucasus). They served lunch, which I had never tried because at this time of day I was always in the office. They brought me a beetroot salad with goat cheese and chicken soup. I hardly tasted it; I mechanically chewed and listened to a playful French song. Soon I received a message from Galina, a dance therapist: she was planning a new training and needed my help with marketing it. We discussed ideas and brainstormed. All that was left was for me to do the copywriting. “I got it, Galya. Let me send you some drafts later today, OK?” I caught myself speaking with forced enthusiasm. I wasn’t myself at all.

Kalimba! I suddenly remembered the gift from my colleagues. I looked for online workshops on African kalimba. It turned out there were fan clubs and social media groups dedicated to this instrument in Moscow and St. Petersburg. There was an incredible variety of sizes and shapes available for sale online: kalimbas were imported from Africa and China, and some were even produced locally.

Identifying the country’s top kalimba guru was easy; his name was on all review articles, he tested newly arrived instruments in videos and commented on the nuances of their sound. I messaged him that I was looking for a kalimba masterclass. Surprisingly, he was available, so the next day I found myself on my way to meet Peter, with my wooden box. That one hour opened a new world for me: if you pluck the tongues alternately starting from the center, right and left, you get a full musical scale. And if you play on the red keys while following a special pattern, you can produce a beautiful silvery melody. Peter made me promise to practice the kalimba for at least five minutes every day. At that moment, I was sure I would do that. But I didn’t touch it for months.

In the evening of that same day, I went to rehearsal with my rock band. We had been playing together for just over a year and practiced once a week. None of us were real musicians; we were all amateurs. We met at a music school for adults, where each of us learned to play our respective instruments: I played the guitar, Max was on keyboards, the other Max played the bass, and Andrei was on drums. We were all brought together by a pro whose name was Nikita. A recognized ace in classical guitar, he decided to try himself as the leader of a rock band. Our noisy repertoire was the complete opposite of classical music. I think that’s what actually intrigued him. That day, we were working on the mystical “Aerials” by System of a Down. It had a dense, powerful sound, a strong rhythm, and two-part vocals. Something about the energy of this music usually sent me into a trance, emptied my mind, and charged my heart. But on that day, my heart wasn’t charging, and my restless mind was panicking. It was urging me to hurry and race.

What saved me from this onslaught was a live Sufi music event. It took place in a cozy teahouse, adorned with symbols of mindfulness practices: colorful scarves and pillows, Buddha and Ganesha figurines, aromatic candles, bells, and gongs. I sat directly on the floor on a silk pillow, and two meters away from me, an Indian bansuri flute played, the tabla drums rhythmically clacked, and flat bells created unpredictable musical patterns in the air. To follow them, my mind had to be “in the moment.” I finally got two hours of peace.

How the Fear Sets In

On the third day, I chose to continue my music therapy and signed up for a vocal lesson. Why that day, as I hadn’t been to a vocal lesson in over a year? What was the urgency? I couldn’t answer that question; there was an itching desire inside me to run somewhere and do something to dull the growing internal restlessness. I had to sign up with the first available teacher, a woman named Alina.

“What are we going to sing today?” she asked.

“Hallelujah” and “More than Words,” I replied.

What followed was a total failure. My voice trembled; I almost croaked. Alina was clearly disappointed, and I was even more so. There was music, there were favourite songs, but there was no joy. The therapy wasn’t working.

I rushed out onto the street. It was cold and chilly, but I had a meeting with Masha to look forward to. She had once come for an interview for a position in my department, when I was still in my Danish wonderland. She was intelligent and beautiful but clearly overqualified for that role. Since that job interview, we had been keeping in touch and gradually became friends.

“You’re doing great, aren’t you?” she smiled at me. “Feeling steady?”

“Sort of,” I replied. “I even went for a vocal lesson today.”

“You know, I remember how devastated I was when I lost my job. It was awful being without steady income for a whole year. I remember a friend once asking me to meet downtown for a cup of coffee. I silently calculated the subway fare back and forth, the cost of coffee — and realized that I needed those 300 rubles to buy food for myself and my daughter.”

“But didn’t you have online clients?”

“For quite a while, I was in a state of paralysis; I couldn’t bring myself to charge money for consultations and sessions. Clients paid whatever they could. I did several sessions for free, one brought me a thousand, and after another one, I suddenly received 5,000 in my account. Can you imagine? That was a week’s budget!”

I listened to Masha, trying to understand. I had never experienced a situation in my life where I had no money. And really, were 5,000 rubles even considered money? I could afford to spend that amount any time on a Thai oil massage or on a pair of red pants just to boost my mood. Financial stability had been part of my corporate job. In all my years of work, my salary had never been delayed. I knew that on the 1st and 15th of every month, money would drop into my account. No matter what I did during the day or what the results were (didn’t I have unsuccessful days or uneventful meetings?), I would still receive my salary.

I wasn’t even prepared for the possibility of having no money and needing to earn and save money daily, hourly. What if one day I would agonize over spending 300 rubles? What if I had no clients, orders, or projects? What if I didn’t have the energy or health to seek clients? While working in the office, I never had to think about whether I wanted to go to work or not — it was a daily given.

I cringed. I was scared. At home, I opened my laptop and created a simple spreadsheet to track expenses. From that moment on, I began recording all my expenses from the day I resigned. The fear of being left without money (despite having good savings) paralyzed me. I had an overwhelming desire to save on everything, to the point where I preferred a shawarma at the nearest fast-food joint over a proper lunch. I stopped buying new clothes or shoes.

After a couple of months, I analysed the structure of my expenses. It turned out that I needed exactly half of the amount I used to spend before. However, the lion’s share of these expenses went toward workshops, courses, books, and various forms of education. In other words, I could survive on one-sixth of my previous income. This was a shocking discovery — in the past, I found it challenging to save even 20% of my salary!

Now I understand that the survival and extreme saving mode I had chosen was a mistake. Instead of replenishing my strength, joy, and peace, I was filling my internal vessel with a toxic panic potion. Looking back, I would do the exact opposite — allow myself better food, praise myself for having created a solid safety net, and celebrate my “time for me.” I would take care of myself instead of suffocating myself with artificial limitations. Back then, I didn’t know what I know now.

Black Void

And here I am, curled up under the blanket. All my attention is on my breath. When I push my abdomen and diaphragm outward, I feel the air rushing inside. So much air. So much that it hurts my ribs and, for some reason, my shoulder blades. Blowing away these cobwebs, I send the wave into my hands, right down to the fingertips, into my feet, all the way to the heels, and the tremor in my body subsides slightly. I know it won’t last long.

I’m shrinking into a tiny grey dot. This dot trembles and feels like sticky viscous jelly. Panic, a thirst for immediate frantic activity, and powerlessness are dissolved within this jelly. I am bursting with the desire to run, search, discover, learn, work, resolve something. It doesn’t matter exactly what, but it feels urgent. My body refuses to obey these impulses and even sabotages food and sleep. Instead of thinking “I am free and capable of so much,” the thought that revolves is “I am lonely, I don’t want anything, I can’t even gather the will to do something for my future.” I want to grasp someone’s hand, a straw, a branch — but there’s no one. Inside, there’s just emptiness.

The first time I felt that nervous grey jelly inside me, my brain began to burn with insatiable curiosity. I opened my PC. Within a couple of hours of searching online, I registered for dozens of webinars on radically unrelated topics — from video editing secrets to belting vocal techniques. The crowning achievement of my panic-driven quest was the purchase of two courses — one on creative photography and another on social media marketing.

On the same day, homemade paper dashboards appeared on my wall. I used to create these in the office for visualizing website stats. On these home dashboards, I listed all the courses and webinars I had registered for. Separately, I compiled a list of useful books on business and personal development. Ten books to read within two months — after all, I had plenty of free time, didn’t I?

I am looking at these dashboards now. The red lines indicate progress in completing the task, from 0 to 100%. The graphs show that I had taken on 15 sources of self-education simultaneously. After 2 weeks of monitoring, only in three of them had the red thread moved slightly to the right. The rest mockingly stood at zero, vividly showing how far I was from expertise in any direction. It looks like the dashboard of a loser with a complete lack of focus and priorities.

Hello, my name is Elena, and I am a books and webinars addict. How did it happen? Unnoticeably and swiftly. The vacuum left by my daily intensive work urged me to fill the void immediately.

Did it bring me ideas for future working projects? Not really. At first, I brainstormed possible vectors of development. Then I conducted a review of my skills. I realized the gap between my desires and reality. It turned out that for the most desirable vectors, I had neither experience nor skills. I could obtain them by studying courses. And more courses. Or better yet, a proper university degree — but when and how? I don’t have the time!

The knowledge and skills that I had developed over twenty years of working with Danes seemed useless to me. They were related to the work of a marketing professional in the construction materials industry. But now, both construction, materials, and marketing itself, along with its elements, made me feel sick. One of the courses I purchased was on SMM and personal branding. I convinced myself that it was absolutely necessary, that I couldn’t do without it. I listened to the first lectures and started working on the exercises. I needed to define my value and uniqueness, and then describe my target audiences. These were elementary tasks for a former marketer, but they left me stumped. What was my value outside of the profession I was utterly exhausted from? What target audience should I write about when I left one industry and didn’t enter a new one? What else am I good at? What else am I valuable for?

I am not a marketer. I don’t even know who I am.

I am a neuron that has broken free from its crystalline lattice, floating in the cold, black void of space, without constraints or bearings.

Lead Me by the Hand

On the seventh day, I woke up feeling completely powerless and apathetic. To get out of bed and change my surroundings, I told myself I needed to take clothes to a refugee assistance center. Three large bags were filled with long-unused coats and jackets, three sweaters that I simply didn’t feel like wearing anymore. I also decided to get rid of pants and shirts that had become too small for me. I used to hope that I would lose weight and fit into them. It no longer made sense to keep them — after all, if I lost weight, I would buy new clothes for my new body.

The navigator quickly brought the car to the required address: the second-hand clothing collection point was in the entrance of a building, next to a pharmacy. A friendly woman handed me a large black bag into which I loaded all my belongings. The large floor scales beeped: the red numbers showed 11.5 kilograms. Not bad, I thought, at least I did something useful today.

Sitting in the car, I opened my email: a newsletter from a coach. I had followed him for a while and saw him regularly conducting some incredibly smart and cool events. Something about business clubs for successful entrepreneurs and masterminds. I didn’t belong to the first category, I didn’t understand the essence of the second, and I therefore never responded to his initiatives. But something in this particular email caught my attention. Peter was announcing the launch of a 21-day coaching program, and I felt I could use some support this time. I wanted someone to guide me and hold my hand, so that I wouldn’t be left alone with that grey jelly inside and those desperate-looking dashboards. So that I wouldn’t plunge back into the black void where I felt useless.

Decision made. The next morning, I was already reading the material for the first lesson and meeting the group.

Exploring Myself

The very first day of the coaching program forced me to live by new rules. My brain wanted to continue panicking, my body wanted to stay endlessly under the covers, and my soul wanted to lament. But the first rule stated: treat everything that happens during the day as a gift. The key phrase was “This is exactly what I need!” Stuck in traffic? This is exactly what I need, let me think of the benefits! The TV didn’t get fixed on time? Excellent — that means I’ll read a book. No energy for a task — great, that means I’ll give myself a proper hour of rest and then try again.

The second rule demanded that I identify the key task of every day — and do it without excuses. Not a list of 10 items of which only 4 are completed by the evening. Just one main task. Most likely, something I’ve been putting off for a long time, distracted by those 10 items.

Thirdly, at the end of the day, I had to write down three personal victories (in addition to the main task of the day)! Where could I find so many? It turned out I could “collect” them from healthy habits, positive interactions with loved ones, and hobbies. One way or another, at the end of each of the 21 days, I had three reasons to praise myself. It was challenging, but very therapeutic.

Well, those were just daily routines; to start the inner change process, I was to answer deep and powerful questions.

What achievements have I had in my life?

What gives me energy, and what takes it away?

What are my values?

What dreams call and inspire me?

What fears hold me back?

What can I rely on if I face failure?

To work on these questions, I started a thick notebook with a black leather cover and an elastic band. I wrote and rewrote each task three times, through doubt and pain, but with persistence bordering on stubbornness. Each question forced me to look inward and not run away, to feel and not make mechanical plans. I slowly and painstakingly moved towards understanding who I am, and what is important to me.

Twice a week, we went online to report our progress to the rest of the group. Unlike the other participants (who had jobs and were busy during the day), I had the luxury of free time, which allowed me to do everything thoroughly.

These exercises and tasks transformed my panic and inner chaos into something different. The spotlight of my attention turned inward. I rediscovered myself: it turned out that I didn’t know myself much outside the context of a world-famous brand and company and my former top management position.

Who am I — when I’m not crafting a marketing plan for roof windows, with a multi-million budget?

Who am I — when I’m not watching the sunset over Moscow from that top-floor office and routinely taking pictures of it every day?

Who am I — when I can no longer turn to colleagues with questions, or ask for help? When all I hear around me is silence?

Who am I — when I feel nauseated at the thought of new projects — what kind of professional am I?

This is how I had been thinking, but I was wrong! It turned out there was something remarkable about me — as a person. My new friends from the coaching group told me about it during our video meetings. I had to believe them.

I got a “buddy”—a woman to whom I reported on my progress, and who praised me even when there wasn’t much to praise. We were both burned out, each for our own reasons. We both tried but made mistakes. The realization that we had the right to be weak and move at our own pace, even a very slow one, made us stronger. Natasha (my wonderful buddy) was an architect, creating inspiring study spaces. During our interaction, we discovered a strange coincidence. It turned out that Natasha not only knew my Danish company but had visited our head office in Denmark as the author of the best daylighting project. I recalled the architectural competitions we held, and even that very tour we organized for the winners — except I wasn’t the one accompanying the group, it was one of our in-house architect colleagues. Now, ten years later, we met in the coaching program. It felt like destiny.

Inner Harmony

Do you know my values? Can you list them in order of priority? At first, this question and the exercise puzzled me. I recalled the framed list of five corporate values in the office. I agreed with them all, but felt there was a touch of formality about a “list of values.”

Eventually, I learned that values are not a list of cool concepts we choose for ourselves. They are what de-facto determines our choices, big and small, hour by hour, day by day. The clash with values is what starts a burning sensation when we encounter something unpleasant. The alignment with values is what resonates with waves of warmth when we make the right decision. Does it feel right — or not? Our values are like internal tuning forks, our ultimate litmus test.

Freedom.

Authenticity.

Respect.

Joy of life.

Exploration, discovery.

Inner harmony.

Understanding.

Love.

These are my tuning forks. When I formulated them for myself, I understood why everything happened the way it did. Why I needed a change so badly, why I couldn’t stand what I’d been stewing in for the past year. I wish I had asked myself these questions earlier.

Dialogue with a Coach

“What did you come here for today, Lena?”

“You know, that values exercise really ‘clicked’ with me. I clarified a lot about myself.”

“Care to share?”

“I realized that the process of discovery is vitally important to me. In recent years, I fanatically studied new languages, attended a music school, played in a rock band, painted Chinese peonies, learned salsa and Son Cubano. And all that solo traveling around the world, off the beaten track — now I know why I get a thrill from them. When I explore something new, I live a full life. In fact, it feels like living several new lives.”

“Cool. What else did you find out?”

“Freedom, joy of life, and respect are also important to me. Moreover, they are somehow intertwined into one bundle for me. Probably that’s why my previous job meant so much to me — it had all of that. When the atmosphere changed, when the attitude towards me and other managers changed, it became unbearable for me. So it’s not really about the profession. It means that my job no longer resonated with my values.”

“Knowing this, what professional and life goals would you set for yourself for the next few months?”