By Claire Meriwether
My name is Claire Meriwether, and I am a rising senior at Duke double majoring in International Comparative Studies and Global Health. I am here in Tanzania this summer with Laura Mkumba, a rising senior double majoring in Biology and Global Health, and Emily Gillespie, a rising junior double majoring in Evolutionary Anthropology and Global Health.
An Introduction to Mwika: As I drove into Mwika, it was too easy to find beauty with only my eyes – so that is exactly what I did. I narrowed myself to one sense as each turn of the road led to more lush, green plants, more banana trees, more rich red soil. As I moved into what will be home for the next two months, I again allowed my eyes to dominate all other senses – I took in the blue sky obscured by billowing gray clouds, the yellow-green bushes lining the path to the house. But now, sitting here on the porch, I am noticing what I had not before: the symphony of sounds that make up the village.
The grand irony is that as Emily, Laura and I headed to sleep (or rather, tried to sleep) on our last night in the city amidst the revving motorcycles, the honking horns, and the chorus of people yelling and singing in the streets, we talked about how quiet the village would be in comparison. And of course, as I sit on this porch I hear no engines spluttering. I hear no horns honking. I hear no people yelling. But I hear so much more.
The first thing to grab my attention: the birds. The high trills and the low coos, it’s a rare moment when no birds are singing. I wish I could do their songs more justice, but the music created by the birds is not something that lends itself to a description in words. The birds are backed up by the steady voices of the cattle. There seems to be one cow in particular that likes to play the part of rooster, waking me up each morning with a startlingly loud moooooo.
Which brings me to the rooster. The star of the show, when he eventually does crow, his voice soars above the rest. However, this particular rooster seems to be unsure of when dawn is, so you can’t really count on him for a wake-up call (he is not nearly as dependable as the aforementioned cow).
The sounds of the surrounding nature here are endless. The hum and buzz of the bee that momentarily chased me away from my writing perch. The chirp of the cricket as darkness falls. The deafening roar of the rain that has pounded down on our tin roof every night, save one.
But nature is only one part of the sounds of the village. Every few minutes, add into the mix the sound of feet shuffling along the red dirt road or the pounding of little feet running. The sound of the water filling the plastic and metal laundry buckets. The sound of chapattis sizzling on the stove. And, of course, there is the constant sound of me mispronouncing the new Swahili words I am learning.
Looking at a photo of where I am sitting, what adjectives come to mind? Gorgeous, definitely. Lush and green, certainly. Serene, breathtaking, peaceful… Quiet? No, this place is anything but quiet.
