Kilindoni Port Fishing Village, Mafia Island

Samaki. Samaki. Samaki. 
Fish. Fish Fish. 
The smell of samaki along a dirt path. 
The hill begins to decline. 
The smell of samaki increases, one in which is not so pleasant. 
Vibrant. 
Vibrant colors of those below become more visible. 
The vibration of the sounds begin to pulse my body. 
Piki-piki's are crazily honking their horns calling attention to them speeding down the hill. 
Those at the gas station to the right talk loudly as if they have megaphones 
while filling gas containers for their vehicles and boats. 
Local shop keepers, small roadside restaurant owners sit outside with their chipsi (french fries), mayai (eggs) and mishkaki (beef of a stick) ready for those who are passing by with eating as a present thought. 
The hill continues to decline and the voices of the local fishing port get louder and louder 
as those below are hustling about. 
The first sight once on the sand is that of young muscular African men with their shirts off and dark dark skin glistening in the sun as they are carrying massive containers of fish heavier than that of my body. 
Two at a time they come.
Two at a time. 
They come, one of each side of a large crate like container.
Running out of the crashing water and onto the white sand. 
The containers are carried to those who support the men. 
No. 
It is not other men or can I say rarely is it other men. 
It is the women of the community. 
The supporters. 
The laborers. 
The woman in which enable the men to do their societal duties. 
This. 
This community. 
This society. 
Would not be in existence if it was not for the woman. 
The woman of Mafia Island, of Tanzania are absolutely admirable. 
The fish are then separated. 
Cleaned. 
Slit open. 
Guts are emptied onto the sand. 
Yes, in those areas, the white sand is that of a light maroon color with an odor no human should have to smell. 
We continue along the coastline. 
Parallel with the fishing waters of the Indian Ocean and the palm tree,
 mangrove traditional African house lined beaches. 
The palm trees sway in the distance. 
Doing mother nature's dance. 
Giving beings a color show, flaunting all that she is capable of brilliantly creating. 
This same occurrence, the one with men carrying massive containers of samaki onto the sand where they're greeted by women to begin the cleaning and slitting process and then back into the water. 
Again and again and again. 
Back into the water. 
Foot after foot. 
Dozens upon dozens. 
Fishing boats tied. 
Men hustling about. 
Anchors do not exist as they are too heavy and the material to produce such device is far to expensive for that of a local fisherman's budget. 
The boats exist steadily in the ocean waters by being tied up to their land strapped counterparts. 
Those that are no longer working. 
Those that do not have an active crew to operate. 
We stop. 
We admire. 
We take photos. 
We question. 
The Kilondoni port coastline walk continues. 
Amongst the natural colors of the Mafia Island coastal environment, the clear blue water, bright white and light yellow sand, green palm trees, dark brown trunks. 
There are radiating colors. 
Those of the woman.  
Those crunched against land strapped boats using its shade,
 a subtile release from the sun and its extreme heat. 
And, even in this heat, these conditions, these woman are covered from head to toe. 
We stop. 
Sit under a mangrove tree structure. 
Look around. 
Absolute curiosity as to those and what I am experiencing. 
Trying to take it all in. 
It has happened again. 
A mental overstimulation. 
A physical calmness. 
The locals look about, in curiosity towards us. 
Yes, those who are not native to that of Mafia Island. 
One in particular that is carrying a large black object around her neck and pointing it in multiple directions. 
 That would be me. 
 We sit. 
We embrace. 
 We move forward. 
 Our time at Kilindoni port coastline fishing village has commenced for now. 
 
Until we meet again, here are the photos of these moments.
 A few of these occurrences. 
WIth much love, enjoy.