The week after my 23rd birthday a group of us traveled to Zanzibar, an island you’ll find both off the coast of Tanzania as well as on your Windows wallpaper—-you know, the stock photo of the idyllic white sand beach with the single palm tree that you envision yourself in when you’re having a bad day. Or an average day. Or even a ridiculously good day, because you’d be able to fully observe your quality day if you were on that idyllic island. Yeah, well, I was just there in the flesh, along with four others: Tyler, Karen, Carolyn, and Courtney--a science teacher, two nurses, and a pilot. All single, all thirty and younger. We went to the island to bond with the Indian Ocean, our snorkel masks, succulent ethnic cuisine, and of course, each other.

I would tell you about the island itself, but it was just so perfect it gets boring/braggy after the first few sentences, so instead, I’ll tell you about interesting young Americans and Canadians and what aspects of life they discuss when they find themselves together on vacation in Africa.

Our conversations started with the past. First, the recent past: the 72-hour jolting train ride here we did yoga sessions on until it stopped dead for 10 hours (tracks broken ahead, rumor had it) and we were forced to give up and catch a bus for the remaining day of travel. But we could’t complain--the green Tanzanian hills we careened through on the bus are absolutely stunning.

Then the not-so-recent past, especially college, where people like me played normal things like flute and people like Courtney played full-contact rugby-style pool games with his “Mod.”
“Dude, some of us, as we were tackling each other for the ball underwater, got so we could hold our breath for like four minutes. Yeah, it’s possible.”

Then our conversations would move to the future, often switching to a serious tone as abruptly as the jolts on the train ride to Zanzibar.
“So what would you rather have: a tail that wags when you’re happy . . . or hair all over your face, even your eyelids? And no surgery or laser hair removal.”
Which switched to:
“Would you rather be with someone who talks too much or not enough?”
Which became:
“If you had two lives to live, would you want to be married in both?”

And in the dim 2 AM light, we searched each others’ hand gestures and eye movements for the answers to life questions.
“Should I go on now to become a doctor?”
“What if the editing job I applied for in the States falls through and I have nothing when I leave here? What do I do then?”

And, where we could, we made plans.
“MY kids will definitely have to play a sport.”
“Well, MINE will just have to find an activity they like.”
As if our future childrens’ outlines will solidify beside us as soon as we solidify our plans for them.

But for all the looking back and planning ahead, our toasts at dinner were to the now: to the sun, the waves, to Africa. We sat sunburned and jellyfish-stung under the crocodile constellation we named Mamba (Swahili for “crocodile”) that had gone previously unnoticed by all the ancient people groups. And we laughed the week away because we are each others’ community, each others’ jobs—-not until something like “marriage” or “stable employment” comes along, but now, because life is about nows, not about untils.

And one Zanzibari afternoon, a week into 23, when I walked on the beach alone locating crustaceans, and Karen called to me,
“Hey Amy, we’re watching the sunset from the ocean today. JUMP IN!”

I didn’t have to think twice about what I’d do.

And let me tell you, life sure does wup up on stock photos.