The other side of the Tanzanian Shilling...

It’s the rainy season and everything is lush. The most prominent feature of the landscape however is the lack of fencing. Closer to clusters of homes – mostly mud huts with the structural sticks showing through the walls – the land is tilled and planted or being prepared to receive a combination of the various subsistence crops. Larger plantations are worked by co-operatives of local farmers who in some instances are exporting their tea or coffee, but all are able to varying degrees to sustain themselves from the land. Their land and their birth right.

Again, along the streets the crafters and traders are busy: mostly selling Tanzanian products including T-shirts that are being manufactured and printed locally and not made in China… like the road network. The ugly face of poverty is prevalent but there is an industriousness – a wilful and determined drive to survive and beat the odds. And ‘well-off’ implies having the means to simply generate an income without the ugliness of excess. That doesn’t mean that consumerism hasn’t left its mark as the streets are lined with litter and plastic that seems to have become a permanent part of both the urban and rural landscape.

We slept over in a place called Same but pronounced Sami. Sometimes the joy of a comfortable bed is redundant when work finishes late and starts early; last to bed and first to rise and all of that shit… no birds, no worms. Another early morning and another treacherous road through beautiful scenery; with overloaded trucks and the passing smell of brakes or clutch burning and the inevitable avoidable accidents. Jack-knifes, over-turns, head-ons and drivers seemingly falling asleep on sharp bends resulting in trucks and loads hanging precariously from trees above lush and welcoming ravines.

But then there are also the stories about Chogela who cycled from Arusha to Ruaha to negotiate with the chief for land to establish a camp just outside the national park from where he runs tours; and Simba who studied medicine in Germany to return to Iringa where he is planting a medicinal garden just alongside the Isimila stone-age site on land given him by the municipality. As he proudly showed me around the property, he spoke optimistically of the formation of the East African Union and his own plans to open a lodge and develop a cultural tour of the region.

The roads may be fucked but the people are not deterred…

Crumbling Facades...

I for one was keen to leave the teeming humidity of Dar es Salaam. The two hour drive from the camp site through the city was not without incident though as we were stopped by a two-man road block and while G went through his usual routine with the white-clad police, some of the travellers on-board took photographs of the bustle. One of the locals complained to the police who were only too happy to be given a reason to exert pressure in the hopes of exacting another bribe. Apparently, it is against the law to photograph a policeman or soldier executing their duty and the threat of imprisonment was bruskly made while one of the pair climbed into the cab and the other joined the rest of us at the back of the truck. I smile at the irony as I think of Eric Cartman’s ‘authority’ refrain. There is nothing as maddening as a stupid fucker in uniform and I had to bight my tongue as the surly tirade continued for the few minutes it took for us to reach the local police station where a more senior officer took his turn to go through the same uniformed song-and-dance routine of threats and hints that this ‘problem’ could be made to disappear. And disappear it did after a ‘fine’ of 60000 Shillings. This set the tone for my reflections… And the notion of how the façade of democracy quickly crumbles when dealing with career bureaucrats

The sprawling urban slum that comprises most of the city is populated by poor people eking out an existence in un-serviced squalor. Rules of the road are virtually non-existent and prostitution and crime are rife. Yet, most women are covered with burkas and an almost missionary, conservative and ‘traditional’ mind-set prevails. The usual counterfeit brands are worn and the sheer extent of the commerce would imply a definite Western aspiration of the mostly mindless middle-class. Gender roles and social status is for the most part set and unchallenged. There is not much progressive discourse and everyone seems to be either hustling or on the make. But I suppose that the most telling indication of the malaise was the signs along the road through one of the unfenced National Parks that were written in Swahili with a price quoted in US Dollars alongside the names of animals. I am not sure whether these figures are fines for harming the animals or prices for hunting them.

Suddenly I am not surprised that the AU is what it is. A gathering of governments that seem to be playing at being in power while in fact advancing the agendas of the Chinese or the Indians or more traditionally the West and most likely a combination of essentially foreign interests. Corporate securities and capitalist dictates have superseded notions of equality and justice and corruption seems to be the order of the day, while ordinary people go about their lives scratching in the dirt to survive with their heads bowed in prayer and supplication. The scarred and scuffed façade of liberation has crumbled. In Kenya talk of terrorism is front page news and in the City of Dar es Salaam, there is a Barrack Obama Road. Black Africans are still poorly paid labourers who defer to their bosses who in turn – and irrespective of the colour of their skin – are not in business to develop the skills of their workforce but instead – as elsewhere – to make as much profit as possible.

For me it is not enough to be a proud African or for that matter, to mistake arrogance for pride. It is not enough to speak of liberation and democracy or any other noble ideal while your mind has successfully been colonized. Happy to be accepted or even just acknowledged by the oppressor for your ability to unquestioningly assume the values and characteristics of what was once the moral and physical enemy. At the end of the day, it does not matter how bright or shiny the uniform if wearing it allows you to continue to be stupid.

Ripping the night fantastic...

We were stuck in traffic en route to the camp site situated along the coast to the south of the city of Dar es Salaam when suddenly the driver of a light delivery truck jumped from the cab and charged between the cars. After a few minutes he returned despondently and walked around the passenger side of his vehicle before climbing into the cab with his air filter. Someone had stolen the cover.

Later that evening I was returning to my tent after a shower when frantic screaming from the beach drew my attention. One of the guests was charging her phone just outside her tent when one of the locals walked by and casually unplugged the phone and charged down the beach. Needless to say, she was in a state.

Welcome to Dar es Salaam.

Crime was just another part of growing up on the Cape Flats and although I was cautious, I was not too concerned. Shit happens after all: no matter where you are. A few nights later I was asleep when I heard a ripping noise and upon waking I discovered that someone was cutting through the mosquito mesh of my tent. “Jas naai!” was all it took for the fucker to run off into the predawn darkness and by the time I stood naked outside my tent the would-be thief was nowhere to be seen. Pretty much like the security who came ambling up wiping the sleep from their eyes. After a brief investigation, they confirmed that they suspected the guy in the tent next to mine. He was a local who had spent a romantic night with his wife and even though I knew that it could not have been him, they badgered him for more than fifteen minutes and all because he did not get up to investigate when his wife told him earlier that she had heard someone sneaking about outside. Talk about racial profiling. At least I was up in time to watch the sunrise and listen to the boom of the local fishermen using explosives to collect the morning’s catch.

The Sunrise Beach Resort is one of more than a dozen such concessions scattered along the coast and with legislation preventing the fencing off of the beach, the lukewarm water was filled locals enjoying the ocean. This was a welcome sight when compared with South Africa where so many beaches have been privatised and where access is controlled by private security companies. To the right of the fancy resort where day visitors pay 5000 Shillings to enter, was a tiny ramshackle Rasta bar where the inferior strain of local ganja was readily available and where a couple of beach boys and girls hang out every day waiting to be picked up by tourists who come here especially to purchase the endless array of sexual indulgences on offer.

But the flesh trade paled in comparison to the amount of micro enterprises lining every major thoroughfare and side road. Tiny hovels selling every conceivable kind of goods and service. Some with just fresh fruit or a single vegetable while others stocked a wide variety of clothing or foodstuffs with restaurants and pubs and repair shops in between. And every one making some sort of living.

And having shared my blood with the mosquitoes, and sweated through the steaming nights, we prepare once again to depart this sub-tropical paradise where the wind and the waves and the humidity will remain to fan the insatiable desires of foreigners and locals alike.

Magnificently sad...

Bad roads, speed bumps, detours, traffic and a border crossing. It took us close to eight hours to cover just under three hundred kilometres from Nairobi to Arusha on the first leg of the journey. At the Kenyan border G discovered that there was an oil leak and when he tilted the cab to check what was wrong, he discovered that the repair done in Nairobi was shoddy and one of the plugs on the diesel pump was missing – probably because it had not been tightened – but with the help of a piece of broom stick and a couple of screwdrivers, the immediate problem was quickly solved even though G had to (casually) walk across the border into Tanzania with some locals to buy twenty litres of oil.

From the outskirts of Arusha, the bustle slowly intensified with over-laden trucks labouring at the lead of an unruly assortment of cars and buses and motorbikes weaving in between. Ramshackle wooden structures lined the sidewalks with interspersed buildings of a more ‘conventional’ design and every single one conducting some sort of business. Blackened young men selling large bags of coal piled high and held in place with woven string. Down the side roads people were busy living profusely!

We camped at a site just outside of the city where a week before there was a serious flood leaving one of the overland trucks bogged down in more than a meter of mud. Mop up operations were underway and while the group went off to the Serengeti, I stayed behind to breathe. The owners of the Snake Park Camp site are a beautiful elderly South African couple who moved to Tanzania twenty years ago to establish a sanctuary for snakes. Deon helps to manage the facility and is a friend of one of their sons and the few nights I spent chatting to them at the bar reminded me of similarly pleasant times spent with good friends in the Karoo.

On Tuesday morning I walked along the highway to the weekly vegetable market for potatoes and hundreds of traders with bags and boxes of goods were arriving by the busload. As I took it all in, I wondered what the streets of South Africa would have been like if bylaws and policy had not killed informal trade.

Before we eventually left Arusha, we stopped at the Cultural Heritage Museum which has curated the most magnificent collection of African painting and sculpture that I had ever seen – a collection of such scope that it alone could one of ensure the City’s title of being the Capitol of African Art. Intricate sculptures from massive ebony logs, of entire families over the generations, others of folk tales or mythical characters and all with such exquisite craftsmanship and exact detail with one of the larger pieces reputed to have taken eighteen years to complete. And then, housing this mind-blowing overload is the museum itself. Designed by a local architect and artist who created a spiral of continuous wall-and-floor space to accommodate what could comfortably be called a home for the artwork on display. And yet, once again reflecting on my moment of awe, I think about the state of the South African National Gallery in Cape Town with its mostly insipid colonial paintings and marked lack of support of local contemporary artists – let alone the privately owned galleries (such as this) that follow every mindless commercial trend to ensure that great South African art is deemed a foolish cousin to the purely decorative clichés that get scooped up by a piddle of buyers.

Over Land

it is all over land
over stolen land
land stolen over
and over and over again
stolen from the ancestors
the ancestral guardians
over their dead bodies
buried beneath the land
soaked in blood
barely discernible
hardly remembered
the cracking veneer
stolen land fissures
over and over

Random Artwork

Saturday in the City...

The journey into the city centre was an adventure all of its own. We decided to use motorbike taxis to avoid the worst of the traffic and it worked: potholed sidewalks; people; gaps between bumper-to-bumper cars, buses and trucks; the only motivation being to arrive at the destination with the least delay. About midway through the journey, the clutch cable of the bike I was on broke, but after a few minutes we were on our way with a replacement.

We dismounted on the outskirts of the CBD: a sprawling, bustling, pulsating mass of humanity and commerce, but first things first: where to have a smoke? The first option was the casino and at eleven in the morning we sat alone at a roulette table with an ice cold Tuskers.

We walked to the east city and for block after block the streets are lined with auto spares. Small kiosk style stores with an assortment of new and used spares for every conceivable make of vehicle. The Nairobi City Market is housed in a beautiful old building with a vaulted roof with stalls selling everything from flowers and fruit to crafts and impressive ebony sculptures.

The National Museum is alongside the botanical gardens and late on a Saturday afternoon the space was teeming with lovers, families, school groups and tourists. Unlike South Africa, Kenya has different entrance fees for locals and tourists and in all the exhibition halls young Kenyans were engaging with the national narrative.

It was late afternoon as we headed home in a taxi and still the traffic was crawling, but one quickly adjusts to the slow pace and seemingly random changing of lanes. Once again I was amazed by the endless rows of informal nurseries and the furniture manufacturers who lived and plied their trade along a particular stretch of road that extended for more than two kilometres with everything being made for the local market.

This is how it is supposed to be. 

Carrion...

I fell asleep and awoke to the twangy whine of Australian and American accents. We are staying at a campsite that caters to the overland truck market and during the course of the afternoon two tours arrived to dispel the tranquility with their foreign (in)-sensibilities.

There’s been another of their compatriots who has been encamped for a few days now. A seemingly quiet chap who had just climbed Mount Kenya and is resting up before setting off to conquer an even higher peak somewhere else in the country. Last night this dip-shit had a couple of drinks and in the company of his country-folk, he shared his opinion about the Arabs! This small-minded, middle-class bigot spewed his shit in a raised voice and the worst part was that none of his countrymen challenged his bigotry. I am not sure whether they are cowards or whether they agree, but it got me thinking about what someone like this would be thinking as he interacts with any of the locals…

I have a long-held belief that in general, most foreigners who can afford to travel are not the nicest of people. Out of touch and in denial. Convinced that they are doing every African a favour by spending their savings on a packaged holiday to the Dark Continent with the ill-conceived intention of confirming their National Geographic preconceptions.

In my opinion, it would have been easier if the streets were filled with wild animals who could feed off or maybe just trample this kind of roadkill.

Adjusting the lenses...

The mornings have been tranquil and mild. Unlike the traffic. I have to remind myself that my usual preconceptions are no longer relevant: I have to keep in mind that this is not just another camp site somewhere in South Africa.

I spent a few hours yesterday taking stock of the mobile kitchen and today should see the inventory being completed. It seems as if the previous tour chefs had no idea of how to cook a decent meal with loads of MSG ‘spices’ and sauces and canned foods.

And while I am thinking menus and making tentative inquiries, Gary is doing repairs to the truck. We had to take a trip to check for parts and I was intrigued by the sight of extensive plant nurseries along the side of the road: and a fruit vendor on a bicycle selling slices of watermelon to students outside the university gates.

No one smokes on the streets and motorbike taxis stand in groups along the roads, while others weave precariously through the traffic, their passengers without helmets and quite unperturbed.

One thing is for certain. I am relieved that I am not required to drive.

Departures and arrivals...

We had a flight to Joburg at 6.20 and I was convinced that I was going to have an early night until some bud-heads stopped by. Drinks, dinner and the frenetic insanity of spontaneous creative interaction and I eventually got to bed at 1. The alarm was set for 4.15.

Fortunately the night wasn’t too rough and we made it to the airport in time. Just-just.

I hardly touched the inflight breakfast of powdered eggs and canned smoortjie with a dodgy little sausage, but the juice and the water were good companions.

The airport terminal in Johannesburg struck me as being lightless. Not dark, but bathed in an insipid unnatural yellowish glow.

We were airborne with just a few minutes delay. Castle beer, more airline food and a relatively short journey of just under 4000 kilometres as the SAA bird flies and we were in Nairobi and through customs. We had just retrieved our bags and were on our way out of the airport terminal when we were randomly stopped by three ladies in the employ of airport security. Passport and yellow fever card. Busted!

I was supposed to have had my shots ten days before travelling.

“Normally we send you back. I must take you to my boss. How much you got?”

2500 Shillings later I was in the taxi to Karen Camp.

So begins the odyssey… 

AFRIKA! Hie' ko' ek!

For anyone growing up on the Cape Flats in the seventies, the spatial connection with the African continent was at best limited to an outdated map in an outdated Atlas. Africa was seldom mentioned in the classroom and I don’t recall it being a significant part of any of the subjects. Personally, I regularly used to spend holidays in what was then South West Africa and with our own South Africa these two cardinal references were the extent of my African perspective, but fortunately since then my horizons have evolved through research and reading as well as working and interacting with refugees from across the continent. A combination of factors have however always prevented me from travelling more extensively in Africa, but finally an opportunity has presented itself and I will be heading off to Nairobi to begin my own African odyssey – a two-month journey to Cape Town by road of close to seven thousand kilometers.

Departure checklist: notebook, pencil, espresso pot, camera, sloffies, sunhat, passport and yellow fever certificate…  

SAID IS DONE

Words are actions

Each one follows on

Leading from

And leading to

Giving substance

To these thoughts

Of me and you

Everyone a bridge

Straddling time

Jaded moments that could be

And the persistent possibility

That lies behind my eyes

Dispersed throughout a scene

Of an illusory memory

Stretching out before me

My footprints in places

Where I have never been

And behind me

A vaguely familiar

Windswept landscape

Constant and shifting