Since Cate had been studying in Nairobi for six months prior to my arrival, she had completed a homestay in a very rural village on the coast, where her group was the first bunch of foreigners the villagers had ever met. She fell in love with her family there so much, that she wanted to go back and see them before leaving for the States … and so we decided to trek down to Shirazi for 24 hours before madly jumping a bus to Nairobi and our flights. While my time there was very short, it was a fabulous experience. I'm not as eloquent as my sister, so I've copied parts of an email she sent describing her first stay in the village:

I spent the next nine days living with Mama Mwamize and her four daughters (although my host father Ali lives in Mombasa and returns on weekends, my brother Issa now lives and works in Kisumu as a police officer, and another sister lives near Mombasa with her husband and son - all of whom returned for Eid celebrations!), with whom I would become closer than any other host family I have ever stayed with in far less time. Their home has dirt floors, stone walls and a thatched roof with an outdoor shower and toilet which I soon became accustomed to and grew to love. I showered twice a day, first in the morning as the sun rose over the house and again after dinner under the brilliant stars and moon and the silhouettes of palm trees. Unreal. Every morning I watched the sunrise over the palm trees as I sat waiting for my friend Sammy, who lived next door with my uncle, to walk to school together. Meals were another favorite of mine - we ate together on a woven straw mat by the light of a single candle, eating with our hands foods like pilau (sort of like Mexican rice but not spicy), ugali (corn meal stirred until it becomes the consistency of really thick cream of wheat or grits that you've let sit around for days) dipped in coconut sauce, and beans with chapati (sort of like naan or a quesadilla but more oily, which I learned how to make, although mine were a bit misshapen).

I shared a room and bed with Fatuma, 16, who was also more-or-less my lifesaver as she spoke some basic English so when I really didn't understand, she helped me out. Next was Mwajuma, 12, then Mwanacombo (nicknamed Popo), 10, and Hadija, 5. Our relationship was based less on words and more on expression, on laughing at me trying to speak Kiswahili or grooving to the Kenyan music playing on the radio.

My group decided to investigate the water situation in the village, beginning with a rumor (which we ascertained to be true) of seven young women jumping into the original village well to save themselves from being raped from the Ghalans who were coming to destroy the village. The history of the village is long and intricate but my groupmate and friend Allyson and
I sat down one afternoon with a very old woman, her daughter and granddaughter and our Swahili teachers to learn the tale of Shirazi which is as follows (abridged):

A long, long time ago conflict raged in Iran between the black Iranians and the white Iranians. The black Iranians did not want to be ruled/controlled by the white Iranians so a group of them left the country and headed down the African coast, stopping along the Kenyan coast to establish settlements and create mosques. Yet, pursued by the white Iranians, the black Iranians were forced to flee their settlements and head further down the coast. They eventually ended up in Shirazi but the white Iranians had "hired" the Ghalans (a mix of African identities) to destroy the black Iranians. The seven daughters of the then village chairman feared that these men would rape them so they committed suicide by jumping into the village well.