August 17, 2026

Some days, field work is simply not fun. I give zero stars to the experience of driving 200km of terrible dirt backroads less than 24 hours after leaving the hospital for an epic bout of food poisoning. Would I ever advise a “patient” in one of my wilderness first aid training scenarios to do this? Absolutely not. But training has made me more confident in just how much the human body can handle when required. And last week, due to my unforgiving fieldwork timeline for this year, those two interviews were required.

Other days, I feel so crazy lucky to have this job. Today was one of those days. Hours of spinning through peaceful, scenic countryside few people will ever see. Getting to four-wheel-drive through a rocky river bed. Passing ancient baobabs, rolling hills, winding streams. Meeting with highly intelligent, caring people who were so willing to share their time and knowledge with us, so eager to do anything that might help their communities in the future.

But as always, it was just the unexpected, "that could only happen here" moments that made me smile. First, we got stuck behind a lory that had broken down on a jagged spit of an earthen causeway on the morning of the local market. That means the lory itself was piled high with goods that had to be removed to put it on a jack and complete the repair, and then all of those goods had to be reloaded afterwards. It effectively constipated an entire thoroughfare. Other would-be merchants piled up quickly behind this bottleneck. Everyone had to go inspect the situation and express their own opinion on how to handle it. What started out as a frustration basically became a social hour as people chatted by the roadside, leaned on waiting trucks, and good-naturedly goaded the crew to hurry up with the repacking so everyone could get on with their day.

Later, we encountered a different type of road-block. A large herd of cattle swarmed down the center of the narrow dirt track, and their tiny herders (boys of no more than 5 or 6) couldn't manage to disuade them. So for several minutes, we simply crept along behind the swishing tails and jostling heads before the obstinant animals eventually sighted something more appealing in a roadside field and voluntarily shifted out of the way.

It was getting late in the afternoon and we'd finished our third and final interview with village leaders for the day. We'd covered well over 100km at this point, and I was feeling it, but we agreed to give one of the village leaders and a young mother in the community a ride to the neighboring market on our way back towards the main road (saving people steps is a practical way to show our appreciation for welcoming us to their community). 

We were rolling down the rugged dirt track at a good clip when we came over a small rise and saw a bicycle laying in the middle of the road. Its rider was nowhere to be seen. This seemed like an odd omen in a place where bikes are a precious commodity, and I approached with concern. As we were skirting around the bike, three things happened in a matter of seconds.

There was a sudden rush of harsh, raspy noise. 

Another woman appeared out of the bushes just ahead, biking straight towards us while screaming and thrashing around. 

And a number of very large, very angry bees zipped through the open windows of the field truck and started swarming inside. 

My passengers were now yelling conflicting directions in Swahili. The woman was praying out loud. I was trying to fling the door open with my shoulder to give the invaders an exit, my field assistant was reaching over me to try to close the window, and finally the village elder said, "everybody remain calm!" in a deep voice that cut through the chaos. 

"Drive very slowly," he told me. And we did. We left the windows open. We crept along the road, trying to avoid any jarring impacts, and we all hunched like frozen statues in our seats as these rasping balls of fury ricocheted around our headspace. Meanwhile oncoming traffic hadn't gotten the memo, and motorcycle taxis, a bajaji, and another person on a bike streamed past us. The yelling would begin within seconds, though we couldn't see where they went after passing our windows.

At some point, about 100 meters down the road, we reached a place where we couldn't see or hear any more people in distress. Without a word, the village leader signaled me to stop the car, and every door exploded outward as five adults ran in every direction, followed by our persecutors. It took a couple of minutes before the remaining bees lost interest and moved away. I glanced back down the road at the apocalyptic scene. Vehicles of all sizes strewn, abandoned, for the last half a kilometer or so. 

I returned to the field truck first, creeping down the road to regather our passengers. We assessed the damages. Two people had been stung, and I felt incredibly grateful not to be one of them. I asked what would happen to the bikes and bajaji behind us, and they just shrugged. The bees would eventually move somewhere else. The owners would return. It was just another day in the savanna. 

To join me on this journey, you can follow along with new posts in the Field Notes blog on this website or LinkedIn. I am in Tanzania on a Critical Language Scholarship for Summer 2026. My research is currently supported by the Center for Human-Carnivore Coexistence, a P.E.O. Scholar Award, and a Center for Collaborative Conservation Fellowship. I am actively fundraising for the next phase of my research, and welcome referrals to funders who are interested in supporting work on global challenges including human-wildlife conflict, poverty alleviation, biodiversity conservation, and the impacts of a changing climate on all of these issues.

< Previous Field Note 

> Next Field Note