The Secret

by Amy Shepley (Canada)

I didn't expect to find Tanzania

There are secrets here. I can feel them. Not in the way I feel secrets in the plantation homes of the deep south. Not in the thickness of the air. But in the way everything has a story. The worn-in tread of the floorboards. The way the sofa cushions envelop me. The softness of the blankets after years of being washed in basins and dried in the sun. The palm forest grows wildly around me. Magoroto. That’s what they call this place. For all of my Tanzanian exploration, I have never seen a world like this one. In the ‘mainhouse,’ I am offered lunch, served on a rustic table. Masala tea and sugar — so much sugar — are commonplace here. I can’t get enough. I’m not alone. Yusuph is here. We exchange an expectant look as we wander onto the terrace. It overlooks the northern Usambara Mountains. Down below, the winding dirt road crawls up the rock face, like a snake between the green palm leaves. The journey up took an hour; a long drive after the 6-hour bus ride from Dar es Salaam. “What happens here at night?” I ask our host who greets us with a smile so warm it feels familiar. “We like to spend our evenings down at the lake,” he almost whispers, with a glint of excitement in his eyes. His gaze snaps between Yusuph and me and he raises his eyebrows just a bit. Secrets. The afternoon passes the way honey pours. We wander. We listen to the trees and birds. I think I hear a monkey. It’s teasing me. I’ve never seen one in the wild. We meet the others. Explorers who have come chasing rumours of the Magoroto magic. Eventually, the warm afternoon invites us to a nap. When we wake, darkness is falling over Usambara. We’ve been promised barbecue at the water’s edge. Yusuph beckons me to hurry but I feel like I haven’t been clean in days. I shower, pouring water over my head from a bucket of kettle boiled water, but somehow, I’m still not quite clean. I consider the evening and put on freshly laundered clothes that are too fancy for the accommodations. Brown water sputters from the taps in my bathroom. Old wooden ceiling beams drip with cobwebs and the evening breeze blows dust off the windowsills. Even so, I feel the secrets calling out to me like little voices echoing from between the floorboards. I grab a glittery necklace from my bag and toss it around my neck. I smile at Yusuph as we make the journey to the water. The inky lake sprawls out into the forest, highlighted only by a hint of moonlight on the calm surface. We find ourselves around a campfire. Seated on raw-cut logs, we eat Tanzanian food cooked by Mamas. Darkness falls heavy and the air is cooler than I’ve ever felt in Tanzania. It is now the magic reveals itself. The secrets, I realize, aren’t only in the creaking cabinets, chipped teacups, and well-worn pathways. They are found in us. Yusuph and I share a glass of red wine as we exchange secrets with strangers. We admit things we haven’t before; love, desires, confessions. We find ourselves with so much to say, like having Veritaserum on our tongues. We are transformed into alternate versions of ourselves. Perhaps it is correct to say we transformed into our true selves. Without inhibitions. Without lies. Without pretense or any need to impress, we find ourselves free; free to love, and free to belong. As we dance. As we laugh. As we drink and play and holler into the dark mountain air, we taste Magoroto magic. Twilight drifts into night, and night into early morning. Slowly, we say goodbye to new friends and head back to our guestrooms. Two here, two there, we find our soft blankets and crawl between them, so tired, yet awakened to something new. We won’t be the same now. We can’t. They say what happens at Magoroto stays at Magoroto. But the truth is, what happens at Magoroto will stay with you forever. We discovered its secret; it will uncover who you are meant to be.