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.
Memoirs of a Yankee 