During low tide, the women of Fukuchani, in the northeast of Zanzibar, plant, tend, and harvest red seaweed to support their daily livelihoods. Upon the coral platform unfolds a silent ballet, moving to the slow rhythm of a vast and powerful tide.
These are repeated gestures of bodies that sometimes bend, for a while, over stakes and rows that need tending, or suddenly rise as they collect the seaweed that has reached the ideal size for harvesting. They then place it in a sack, which they gradually fill and press down with their hands, carefully and slowly, until no more can fit.
Light casts itself onto their bodies, turning these women into mermaid-like figures, as if spotlights were layered upon them, briefly sculpting hues and tones. Suddenly, a focused beam breaks through thick clouds, reflecting not only on the blue-green transparency of the Indian Ocean, but also on the coral stones, which shimmer with the brilliance of a light as ephemeral as it is intense.
The seaweed that is cultivated and transplanted here is later exported to Europe and the United States, primarily for use in the food and cosmetics industries.
In the latter case, I doubt it can preserve the beauty of these women, of this place, its vibrant tones, or so many other contrasts. Nor the sense of intimacy, marked by those who tend these seaweeds across endless tides, under sun or rain, watching them grow, harvesting and selling them — because, ultimately, this is what they live from.
It makes me forget all the commerce that stirs and moves beyond these protagonists and the rhythm of the tides over the coral platforms — for this trade accounts for almost all of the archipelago’s marine exports.
What would the economy be without these women-turned-mermaids of Fukuchani? Here, on the coral reefs, as in all things — as we well know.