ALWAYS ON TIME

“The bus is never late” he said with a quizzical smile and a typical bobbing of the head. “Sometimes it doesn’t come at the same time you are waiting, but when it does come, it is always on time.”

We had been waiting for close to an hour in the muggy shade on the side of the crossroad and after I sipped from the tepid bottled water I couldn’t help but smile at the bald headed conductor who seemed immune to the heat. Our presence elicited nothing more than a cursory curiosity as more and more commuters entered: stop after harrowing stop on the narrow lane that weaved through a lush, yet somewhat rundown residential area where brightly coloured double and triple story houses towered side-by-side over squatting hovels.

I smiled as an elderly man stood gallantly with a smile and offered his seat to an elderly woman who in turn smiled wearily and gratefully as she squeezed onto the vacated seat. By the time we approached Mapusa (pronounced Mapsa) the passage between the cramped seats was jam-packed with uniformed students and grandparents and mothers sitting cross-legged on the floor with their babies.

At the bus terminus we found a rickshaw that sputtered along more treacherously narrow roads towards the weekly market in Anjuna where thousands of stall holders were selling everything from clothing to spices and musical instruments; and everywhere the air was flavoured with the aromas of enticing delicacies that required a special effort to resist: and a hundred accents all announcing their wares and bartering and oohing-and-aahing.

We arrived around one and decided to fortify ourselves after the journey getting there at one of the many permanent restaurants around which this sprawling seaside market has grown. A simple, simply-delicious bowl of noodles and prawns with a fresh strawberry juice later and we entered the bustling milieu.

A temporary restaurant and pub has live music; a trio of young Indian musicians doing cover-versions of Pink Floyd and Eric Clapton.

“First price.” “Best price.” “Last price?”

A young Indian woman speaking Russian; an old Italian speaking Hindu; a man with a flute speaking to his cow.

I had to take my shades off in the sun in order to take it all in.

There is a section where the Farangs (foreigners) have their stalls selling an assortment of ‘designer’ sameness: speaking in their mother tongues, greeting countrymen flamboyantly or each other with a familiarity that made me think that they have been coming here for years. Here and there a whiff of hashish but seldom a welcoming smile because this bunch is way too cool to be eliciting business from the passing foot traffic. Global hippies; wanted-to-be-models turned dressmakers; surfers turned jewellers; businessmen-and-women turned surfers; functional druggies.

Before we knew it – and without covering every little lane and nook while regularly wandering in circles – it was almost five. We sidled into a booth at a packed and thumping seaside bar where a multi-cultural two-piece band was belting out more foreign pop tunes than Radio Goodhope, but we needed the respite.

One sweet lime and soda, and one cold beer… or maybe two.

5 Point-iets...

It goes without saying that there are aspects of Indian society that exist in complete contradiction to the notions of spirituality and higher consciousness that are for the most part synonymous with this culture in the foreign perspective. The institutionalized prejudice that is born from the cast system and the wholesale acceptance and subscription to this system of inequality rears its ugly multiple heads at every turn and the size of the population coupled with global capital dictates do nothing to alleviate the plight of the poor and downtrodden. Conditions in the slums and smaller villages are deplorable and yet, for the most part, life continues in what can only be described as an apparently harmonious tedium.

And yet, along this stretch of beach in Goa, every seafront property is owned by a local. Some operate small, family-run seasonal businesses with basic accommodation, food and services. Many of the guests return year after year to spend four or six months kite surfing or sunbathing or just enjoying the delicious array of fresh seafood and produce on every menu. And in addition, even the Rand exchanges favourably with the Indian Rupee.

Some of the land owners have however managed to develop bigger operations with permanent structures and air-conditioned tents or bungalows. Here they will have free wifi in their restaurants with a ‘continental meals’ section on the menu and free sun-loungers in rows on the sand with touts welcoming any and all strollers that happen to be passing. Most of these establishments are owned by Indian businessmen who spend their time in Mumbai or Delhi but a couple are even owned by Russians who negotiate longer-term leases or more complicated deals with individual families.

Most of the beach-shack restaurants are however seasonal businesses that are constructed each year for the tourist season and employ teams of Nepali cooks and waiters who run the show.

I take this all in and ask myself where in South Africa I will be able to find a similar set-up and the answer is nowhere! Every viable seafront property is either tribal land or owned by a municipality or a pigmentally-challenged-and-previously-advantaged ostrich. In addition to this, legislation and regulation will not allow for the construction of a traditional structure which in this case is a reed and bamboo hut on stilts that is held together with bits of string and rope. Every morning I sit with my coffee and watch the subsistence fishermen return with their catch or cast their nets at lunch time and I think of the fishermen back home who have been cheated out of their livelihood by a democracy that was negotiated to kowtow to capitalist dictates and where estate agents oppose a ban on foreign owned land. 

AN ELEVATED PERCH

We depart from the hotel on a mild Saturday morning and head at a snail’s pace through the teeming Mumbai traffic toward the airport and an early afternoon flight to Goa. The honking taxis begin to thin and are replaced by speeding private vehicles as we pass through the more affluent suburb of Bandra on the hilltop across the bay.

Airport security gets a donation of a lighter and a knife from me and at the Spicejet check-in the stewardess tries to sell us more leg room and adjacent seats but we are not buying. A bit of turbulence and a quick nap and an hour later we are in Goa. For once, the baggage is quick to appear on the carousel.

Outside our taxi is waiting and the 31 degree heat doesn’t feel as muggy as we take to the road for the 60km journey to Morjim along a narrow, winding road that is busy enough to turn the short distance into almost a two-hour trip. As we get closer to the beaches, the passing faces change from dark brown to pale and tanned as tourists on hired scooters and bikes zip by.

With time to spare before sunset, we arrive at our destination and are quick to settle in the stilted shack that is to be the base for the next few weeks. The orange haze of the sun disappears in the clouds on the horizon as we look out from the balcony and breathe the sea air.

******************

We are awoken in the middle of the night by the patter of raindrops on the thatched roof. The unseasonal, seeping rain’s steady whisper eventually lulls us back to sleep and when we eventually awake the sky holds the promise of more.

It is a mild, overcast morning with the temperature somewhere in the mid-twenties as we stroll along the beach that is littered with Russian accents (even the restaurant menus have Russian translations!) and lined with restaurants and accommodation: mostly seasonal with temporary bamboo and thatch structures that will be taken down before the monsoon arrives.

We turn around after a couple of kilometres and seek out a suitable deck where we look out over the white capped expanse of the Indian Ocean as we enjoy a leisurely lunch of fresh seafood and Kashmiri naan.

As we head back to our own elevated balcony, the clouds burst and a sheet of tiny, slanting droplets stings my cooled skin. At the shack we sit – dry and satisfied – on the mosquito-netted bed as the whispered lullaby continues unrelenting.

The perfect moment for a drop of fortified Rooibos infused Ruby. With love… 

BOMBAY BLUES

Our first night in Mumbai and we are out on the town. I have been on the lookout for live musical performances since the trip was confirmed, but it was only recently that I came across a gig at the Blue Frog that looked promising. The Bombay bustle only starts to abate at around ten at night and we honked our way to an area called Parel where an old Mill Compound had been transformed into a sort of cultural/entertainment hub – pretty much like our own gentrified areas back home but owned by locals.

We had a delicious dinner at a restaurant called Busago which is situated directly across from where the music was happening. After we had eaten a delicious Thai stir fry we went across and sat outside smoking while a solo singer/songwriter did her thing as the opening act.

The sound of a kick drum beckoned us in and I was introduced to the Bodhisattwa Trio. From the outset I was reminded of Eric Truffaz or the free-jam sessions between James Kibby and Hilton and Eldred Schilder on a Sunday night at Carnival Court. A pulsating, grooving drummer (Premjit Dutta) backed by a Pastorian bassist (Bijit Bhattacharya) and the front-man Bodhisattwa Ghosh who describes their music as Indian jazz-rock.

These young musicians are all consummate performers in their own right and together they are simply ‘out-there’ and cooking like an (excuse the reference) Mumbai rooftop restaurant and as hot as a bowl of fresh green chillies! But that was not all…

After two or three of their original compositions, they were joined on stage by one of India’s premier blues guitarists, Ehsaan Noorani. Together the quartet redefined what I thought the Indian pop scene had to offer. Complex rhythms and soaring solos that at times reminded me of John McLaughlin, but on speed!

And all of this in a club with modular circular booths and a full twirling and twisting light rig with crystal-clear sound set up and for once, the sound engineer did not think that he was god.

MUMBAI MADNESS

Fortunately it’s winter and the temperature was only in the mid-twenties as we disembarked at Mumbai International Airport. A ten minute bus ride to the terminal and a few fast-moving but long queues later and we exited the airport terminal in a gas-powered taxi with a manically manual hooter on the wheel and behind the wheel…

Traffic is nothing short of organised chaos. Lanes are just there for show and everyone seems to have an insatiable desire to regularly and often randomly hoot so that there is an accompanying cacophony of honks and horns as drivers weave in and out and across without causing too many jams. I have been in this kind of traffic before in Nairobi and Dar es Salaam, but not with this much anti-musical accompaniment.

A forty minute drive and we entered the famed Colaba where much of the story of Shantaram was set. In a side street just passed the Regal Cinema we found the Abode Hotel in a building aptly named Lansdowne House. On street level there is an unassuming and even somewhat dingy doorway with a lift ‘manned’ by a woman who took us up one flight to the hotel lobby. To say that the foyer is a contradiction is to reveal my own preconceptions that were informed by the air of grandiose decay that is prevalent throughout the old suburb.

An afternoon stroll for a smoke along the shore-front and a much needed nap later and we headed off in search of what was to prove to be an inspired introduction to the Bombay Blues…

Natural Resources...

The near distant roar

Falling water

Epupa

Across

The narrowed river

Angola

Beneath

Manicured thatch

Omarunga

Water

And wind without

Nationality

Without

A continental identity

African

Elemental

Eternally explored

Enslaved

Oppressed

Yet mostly un-mastered

Martyred

Soil

Sons and daughters natural

Resources.

Pornography or prostitution?

It is a combination of cultural pornography and touristic prostitution that further entrenches ideas of being the lesser ‘other’ that is required to afford the perceived superior and foreign other to enter into spaces as if visitors in a zoo where entire countries and histories are on display to be gawked at or prodded and poked.

Throughout Africa, tourism is a big money-spinner and every incident whether the recent mainstream coverage of the outbreak of Ebola or news of yet another Boko Haram attack, has major impacts on an industry that for the main part generates huge profits for private businesses as opposed to what trickles into national coffers through visa fees. And yet tourism is touted as the lifeblood of many impoverished areas where lodge owners engage with surrounding communities through necessity rather than any noble altruistic inclinations. Often these relationships are anything but successful as rows of craft and curio stalls try to attract a tiny trickle of visitors who venture beyond the security gates and then only to have to haggle with well-healed tourists over the value of the trinket. These same tourists think nothing of spending six dollars for a cold beer at the bar and never walk out of a supermarket without whatever it is they wanted, but come to crafters and they get some imperialist joy out of bargaining and trying to impose a price that is based on an underestimated value of what it takes to produce whatever it is they want to fit into their hand luggage for so-and-so a friend or for the corner of the mantle that is standing bare.

Then there are the village tours and township tours where they want to point their cameras at the faces of poverty and desperation that have been coerced into allowing such an invasion through a lack of viable alternatives. The proud people of Africa reduced once again to nothing more than a curiosity. And not everyone, but those who have been sold and have bought the mistruth that there is a living to be made from such behaviour. Despite my reservations though, I have seen the levels of poverty and understand the willingness to be made a subject of scrutiny for a fee, but what I cannot fathom is the type of human being that would get some kind of kick out of visiting the zoo. What kind of latent voyeuristic tendencies must be lurking behind the social veneer of propriety that is more than often presented as the image of western culture and civilization? How easily that façade is cracked when given the opportunity to photograph the naked breasts of an African mother or child?

So whether it is a matter of cultural pornography or touristic prostitution is quite irrelevant! What it is, is fucking wacked!

Morsigge Varke!

Manners maketh man! It is said…

However when travelling through Africa such considerations are not important. What is important are notions of privilege, entitlement, arrogance and the simpleton’s confirmation that sanctions centuries-old preconceptions and confirms opinions gathered from the propagandized mainstream-media.

Suddenly to greet is not necessary and a simple ‘thank-you’ is more than most deserve. Rubbish can be left for someone else to pick up and it is quite okay to leave dirty dishes because someone else will surely clean it: and not to mention when the dishes are done and there are cups and plates and bowls that still have visible streaks and blobs of food. Die varke is kak morsig!

It makes me wonder whether any of these people actually wipe their asses or whether they have a cleaner to take care of personal hygiene as well!

And yet, mention is regularly made of how ‘civilized’ it is to have ice in their gin and tonic after a long, hot day on the road. Or how someone will ‘die for a cup of tea’ and I think to myself “Yes! Please do the world a favour!”

The low-down on the high ground...

President Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe has certainly managed to get things working in the tiny little town of Victoria Falls situated just beneath the falls and close to the border with Zambia. The streets are clean and lined with slick coffee shops, African-themed restaurants and an endless assortment of curio and craft shops catering exclusively to the tourist market.

Over the past few weeks I have had to deal with six different currencies and I had to brush up on my algebra to make sense of the value of these currencies. For instance, in Tanzania where 10000 Tanzanian Shillings is equivalent to about 60 South African Rands, a loaf of bread works out to about R6. At the local OK supermarket in Vic Falls, prices are quoted in US Dollars and a loaf of bread is $1.85. In Dar es Sallam I bought some shorts which cost me around R40, but at the Jet clothing store in Zim, a shorts costs $25.

My dilemma here is twofold. Firstly, how does the average unemployed Zimbabwean survive? And secondly, what’s up with using the American currency while making headlines for a hard core stance on colonial interests and imperialism?

At the massive outdoor craft markets there are hundreds of stall owners who are for the most part trying to earn a buck selling variations of the same carved animals and masks. There are always one or two real artists at these markets whose work makes one stop and take notice; but it saddens me to think that someone like Baino Nyamhondoro has to haggle with dumb-ass foreigners to earn a fraction of what his work is worth. When I visited him he even offered to trade me something for old clothes or food.

And as I said, Victoria Falls is one of the success stories of the current Zimbabwean reality.

The future of the past...

Tanzania gained its independence from British colonial rule in 1961 and two years later in 1963, Kenya and Malawi followed suit.  In 1964 it was Zambia’s turn and finally in 1980 Zimbabwe also became an independent state. Travelling through these countries one is struck by a similar socio-economic reality that is defined by a general infra-structural under-development and widespread poverty.

As a rule, British travellers speak of the brutish colonial past with barely muted pride and refer fondly to historical anecdotes as if oppression then was an act of benevolence. They are largely unaffected by the plight of the people and if possible would prefer to remain at a safe distance from crafters and traders who often feel obliged to harass tourists in an attempt to make just one overpriced sale.

In a sense tour groups are like visitors to a zoo, but in this case entire countries are on display in their cages of poverty and desperation. Towns which have some kind of natural attraction have lost their identity and could be any tourist trap anywhere with quaint and mostly expensive coffee shops, African themed restaurants and of course endless craft markets with sometimes hundreds of stall owners trying to scrape by.

Governments on the other hand are cosying up to the USA through USAID and China for trade deals in which most locals are overlooked or underpaid. Progressive social ideals have been discarded to make way for free markets that ensure international loans and cooperation and the continued outflow of profits to these economic partners. The British are for the most part uninvolved and yet the ‘ordinary’ British citizens who can afford to travel still feel entitled and arrogantly superior with lopsided, propagandized opinions borrowed directly from the international media and Wikipedia.

Having said all of that though, I saw a painting in the Tinga Tinga Gallery in Meserani just outside of Arusha by one of the local painters whose name I forget. It was a village scene with a protest theme and in the centre of the image was a stern looking face staring directly at the viewer with a placard held aloft that read: “African Presidents kill 100 000 people.”

And I sit and wonder what notions of responsibility for freedom and independence mean after all is said and done…

Click...

“Africa is black!”

He shouted angrily

As I walked away

Thinking

“Fuck you!”

Africa is battered

And bruised

Africa is blue

And purple and brown.

All because I wanted to reflect

I wanted to embrace

The whispering lake

And the clouds

And the sunset

And the moment,

But beach-boy couldn’t imagine

That I could be immune

To his golliwog song-and-dance.

Africa still bleeds

The wounds still raw

Festering minds colonized

With carved hands

Grasping for tourist dollars

Passing through

The half-smiling zoo

With bags of medication

And preconceptions intact.

No-one utters a word

The civilized brutality

And prejudice intact

Overlooking the bloodied white hand

Nurturing murderous despots

Pointing manicured fingers

Ignoring the abject desperation

Of a mother drenched and begging

From a passing vehicle with cameras drawn.

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…