The morning after our night in the brothel, we went downstairs and caught a matatu to our awaiting bungalow. Two matatu money collectors actually ended up fighting over who was going to take us there, and one of them, so disappointed that we chose the emptier matatu, slapped the back of Marjona’s bag. We were shocked.

When we arrived at the Beachelettes, an older Australian woman checked us in, giving us the run-down about the key deposit, how the beach boys were not allowed on the premises and to beware of the monkeys.

“We had one monkey break into someone’s bungalow this morning,” she told us. “They raided their kitchen. They’re very smart. They know how to open refrigerators.”

We settled into our room and went to the grocery store that was a five-minute walk away. To stay within our budget, we needed to keep food costs to a minimum, so we planned to make eggs for breakfast, peanut butter sandwiches for lunch and have Lauren cook us pasta dinners. We bought bread, beans, peanut butter, eggs, olives, nuts, instant soup, canned tomatoes, pasta and wine and headed back.

Back at the bungalow, we made ourselves sandwiches and soup in the kitchen and headed out to the front porch to eat. We noticed several monkeys hanging around, but didn’t think much about it.

I went back inside to get more bread to make another sandwich. As I came back outside with the loaf of bread in my hand, a larger monkey, about two and a half feet tall, started running at me. I puffed myself up, trying to look intimidating, and reached to protect the jar of olives – our extravangant $2 expense. The monkey made a beeline for the loaf of bread and grabbed it right out of my hand! When I didn’t let go, he ripped the bag open, slices of bread flying everywhere. Then he grabbed an armful of the bread and went running up the tree.

In the meantime, I should add, Lauren had screamed, and ran into the house closing the door – locking both Marjona and I outside with the monkeys. (Lauren: Ok, that’s not entirely accurate. I was thinking that the monkey was going to get in the house, and I didn’t know how to protect Beth from it. Oh, nevermind.)

Before we could do anything, two more monkeys, smaller ones, ran down and grabbed the rest of the bread. Shocked, we grabbed the rest of our food and went back inside the house.

Later that afternoon, we left the bungalow to go in search of internet access. Traumatized by the monkeys, we put all of our food into a cabinet and pushed a heavy table up against the door so the monkeys wouldn’t be able to get in. We bolted our door shut and headed into town.

On the way back from town, we ended up in the matatu with the driver who had whacked Marjona’s bag earlier in the day. His name was Peter and he teasingly complained again about us not choosing his matatu. Then we understood why Peter was so devastated – as he immediately started flirting with Marjona. He asked her for her phone number, but when we told him we didn’t have a phone, he pouted for several minutes, begging Marjona to buy a phone so he could call her. He even offered to buy her a phone himself. The matatu dropped us off at the bungalows and we never saw Peter again. But he wouldn’t be the last African whose heart Marjona would break.

While we were at the internet place, we found a woman selling fresh garlic and onions, and that night, Lauren cooked up an amazing dish of pasta with a spicy tomato sauce. Marjona and I both agreed it was the best thing we’d eaten since we’d been in Africa. The relatively cheap wine was good too, and we decided to do pasta again the next day.

The next morning, Marjona made us scrambled eggs and fried toast (there was no toaster, so we improvised by frying toast in vegetable fat). I did a lot of dishes and made tea, but for Lauren and Marjona’s sake, I mostly stayed out of the kitchen.

Around lunchtime, we came back to the room to eat – this time planning on eating inside where it we would be safe from the monkeys. As Marjona reached into the cabinet to pull out food, she spotted a huge roach. Lauren went to kill it. Suddenly another roach appeared. Then another one. And another one. One ran into Marjona’s sandal. Lauren and Marjona started screaming. We had some bug spray we had bought earlier because of the ants, and Lauren started spraying the roaches, but they kept coming. Marjona and Lauren quickly improvised and came up with a system: Marjona stamped, and Lauren swept them (dead, or partially mamed) out of the house and into the dirt.

The Australian woman came out to see what the screaming was about. When she saw the dozen squished roaches on the floor and more running around, she went to get her husband and one of the African men who worked there. For the next ten minutes, Lauren, Marjona, and the staff proceeded to chase, bug spray, stamp, and sweep out the roaches. They ended up pulling out all of our food from the cabinet and spraying it with heavy-duty bug spray.

Finally they finished and Marjona, Lauren and I were left with our new dilemma: were we safer outside with the monkeys or inside with the roaches?

Despite all the chaos, the location was pretty wonderful. There was a grassy area with trees overlooking the beach where we could lay in the cool breeze and read. And the security guard kept all of the beach boys out of that area. The water was nice too, perfect for cooling off in the sun.

It was in Diani that Lauren also discovered the card game Solitaire. (I’m still wondering how she went 28 years without knowing this game.) She watched Marjona play it and became fascinated. Marjona and I taught her the rules, and she began playing it. Again and again and again, determined to win. She would end up playing it almost constantly for a week before she managed to win, but as Marjona and I predicted, winning didn’t break her addiction.

Our next to the last day in Diani, Lauren was sitting in the living room playing Solitaire and I was in the kitchen washing dishes. Suddenly Lauren yelled.

“There’s a monkey in the house!”

We had left the door cracked open to get some air in the house. Since we were walking around, we never thought a monkey would have the guts to come inside. I ran back into the living room and ended up, for a second time, face to face with the monkey. We stared at each other, frozen in place. There were only two things between us: an unopened jar of peanut butter and a small bottle of whiskey we still had from India. (Lauren: At this point, Beth fails to remember, Beth screamed, “There’s a monkey in the house! There’s a monkey in the house! There’s a monkey in the house!” Ya, I said that…)

The monkey grabbed the jar of peanut butter and ran outside. Lauren and I chased it, but he was already up on the roof. We were certain that he wouldn’t be able to open the jar and would eventually get frustrated and throw it down. But within the thirty seconds it took Lauren to grab her sandals and go in search of him, he was sitting on our roof, jar open and his face buried in peanut butter. For the next several hours, we saw him in various trees still with the jar, still eating.

By that time, we were through with the monkeys and the bugs and ready to head on to Tanzania. The beach was gorgeous, but Lauren and Marjona said that they needed three things to make it perfect: shade and chairs and bars on the beach.

We would find all of them in Zanzibar.