The Last of the Wazungu

The last two weeks in Kizimkazi Dimbani have been more than I can even begin to describe. I had been warned by my professor that any explanation of what I’ve experienced here will fall well short of doing it justice. I think I finally understand why: village life is different. “Well duh,” you might say. But it’s not just that it’s different. It’s like living on an entirely different planet. Life is so much simpler living in a rural African village, and by simpler I mean a total lack of creature comforts. The first night in our homestay alone threatened the spirit of adventure that made me so excited to begin fieldwork. Sharing a much-too-small bed with Grant, draped in our much-too- small mosquito nets lead to the hottest night of my life, no doubt about it. Our mesh covered window seemed to actually repel any gust of wind, and my sheet felt as though it had recently been through the wash when I woke up. When we stumbled out to breakfast we were faced with the exact same chapati and fish that we had for dinner the night before, eating with our hands on the concrete floor, of course. I spent the morning walking around with our translator, Abas, listening to people yell mzungu (white person) and trying to survive the stifling heat. By the time I returned home I was more than disheartened. Over the next two weeks I ate fish and five different types of bread for almost every meal, bathed only twice by pouring water out of a ladle over myself, sweated what seems to have been my weight in water, woken up at 4:15 every morning thanks to the traditional Muslim wake up call (not call to prayer, just a daily alarm clock) and brigade of roosters and goats outside our window, and sat on hard cement more than I care to remember.

But all of that was more than worth it. The people of Kizimkazi Dimbani – despite blistering heat, extreme poverty, and lack of decent work – are incredibly warm and happy. They are serious workers: the fisherman often get up around 4 to make sure their boats don’t get beached with the outgoing tide and stay fishing for 5 or 6 hours, sometimes coming back with only enough to eat. But they always seem to be joking with each other, laughing genuinely and just enjoying the company. Whenever Abas passes someone in the street he smiles and greets them wholeheartedly.

Eventually, as they came  to terms with me being there and actually trying to assimilate, the kindness was extended even to me. After I went fishing with our translator in his little ngalawa (I caught the biggest fish, by the way), the story spread like wild fire. Here was this mzungu actually fishing, something they had truly never seen before. After that other fishermen often asked if I had gone fishing that day, joking about whether I was the actual boat captain instead of Abas. One day after I had been sick one of the younger men stopped me and asked why I wasn’t at the football pitch the night before, and everyone was asking if I felt better. While many have yet to learn my name – I go by John Michael, Mr. John, Mitchell, and mostly “the Mzungu” – people frequently ask the family I’m staying with about me. Most everyone is incredibly friendly and does not hesitate to greet me on the street.

And that welcoming sense of community has translated into my work. I can’t share details with you, but I can tell you that what I’ve found is incredibly fascinating –  much more, in fact, than I had ever hoped to find. Instead of finding resistance and distrust, I’ve been welcomed (although a little hesitantly) and have yet to be turned down speaking with someone. The people have some pretty strong opinions about what’s going on (again, sorry I can’t be more specific) and all seem very eager to share with me and very excited that someone is actually listening to them.

All in all my time in Kizimkazi has been worth every discomfort I’ve suffered. If anything the challenges have made it all the more rewarding. I have no doubt that when I return to the States I will come back not only with an incredible experience (emphasized by the fact that I have had the opportunity to do this as an undergrad) but with an entirely different world view. I think village life has inevitably changed me, I hope for the better. Coming back into Stone Town on Tuesday made that clear. Even the smallest things made my day. Having a table to set my things on. Running water to wash my hands. A fan. When it comes time to return home, I believe I will be much more appreciative of the innumerable blessings that I have in life, and unfortunately much more critical of the way we live. But until then, I have just over a week of village life left once I return from Stone Town. Grant will be staying in town for the remainder of his research, so I will be going it alone – the sole researcher, the last of the wazungu.

Karibu Tanzania

When I originally started this blog my aim was to keep family and friends posted on my adventures throughout Spain during last semester’s study abroad trip. Little did I know my travels would lead me just a bit farther south. For the next few weeks I will be blogging about my trip through Tanzania, starting in Dar es Salaam, working my way up to the Serengeti, and heading back east to Mafia Island for a month of research on the Mafia Island Marine Park. For now, enjoy my first post.

Somewhere over France or Germany I began to seriously doubt that I would be able to walk down the aisle once we finally got off the plane – if we ever got off, that is. It seemed like we had been traveling for days, but when we finally touched down in Dar es Salaam (after 30 or 40 hours of travel), the exhaustion left me. We had finally made it to Africa.

Walking out of the airport, the heavy, wet air covered us like a blanket. It felt just like the warmest summer nights back in Savannah, only this was supposed to be the cool season. The first things I see are a crowd of African taxi drivers vying for business and a huge bat with a wingspan on at least a foot gliding into a tree. “Oh yeah,” I thought. “We’re in Africa.”

The ride through Dar to the hotel was something else. At 11pm tons of people were still milling about, lining the sides of the highway, darting across at intervals to greet a friend or examine one the many food stands. The main buildings seemed to be well-lit by new, modern street lights, but the street itself was dark and shadowy. The food vendors relied on what appeared to be kerosene torches for light – a small example of the conflict between the new and the old; the rich and the poor; the “global” and the African.

Once I got used to the traffic and suddenly hitting patches where the road simply stopped being a road, I nodded off. When I awoke, we were cruising alongside the Indian Ocean right before pulling into the White Sands Hotel, the self proclaimed “only four star beach resort in Tanzania.” Because of the threat of a potential demonstration in Dar, a last-minute hotel switch landed us at this swanky beach-side resort (built by a former president’s wife and some corrupt businessmen).

But all of that seems like a year ago. Since then there’s been calamari steaks and tangawizi (ginger ale on steroids), boat rides to islands made of elevated coral reefs, fresh caught grilled fish (eyes and all), snorkeling, and listening to the wealth of knowledge Prof Ian has to offer. We learned how German East Africa grew into what is Tanzania today. How the coral sands of Mbudya are different from the silica sands of Dar. How to eat an entire fish with one hand. How the Tanzanians may well be the most gracious and polite people I’ve ever interacted with. In Swahili, the worst response you can have to the question “How are you?” is “Less good.”

Although our landing has been rather cushy as opposed to being thrown in head first, I feel as though I have already learned and enormous amount. I can’t wait to see what Tanzania has in store.