Morning comes slowly to Paje. The sun rises over the Indian Ocean, pale at first, then golden. By then, the women are already walking into the water, skirts hitched, buckets balanced, voices soft in the stillness. They move in rhythm…
You hear them before you see them — the clang of hammer on brass nails, the rasp of hand-saws, the rhythm of something being built not for beauty, but for purpose. Just beyond the white sands of Nungwi Beach, away…
Cups clink. Voices rise. Laughter bounces between coral walls. You might pass it the first time without knowing. There’s no sign. No queue. Just a small courtyard at the crossing of five alleys in Stone Town’s labyrinthine heart. But linger…