:: louder than swahili

Mandela as a rockstar

Wall painting down the road from the church of Regina Mundi in Soweto. I went there last week with someone who were there on June 16 1976.

Puts life into perspective.

South African Flag: It gotta be right

I went back again today to Pimville in Soweto to interview some more kids.

In between an interactive, sudden session occurred on which way the South African flag must turn.

The kids finally got it right.

No uswahili lingering here.

South Africa: What is football really about?

Today I spent the day in Soweto, most of the time at Tshebedisano Primary School in Pimville, where the NGO Grassroot Soccer has arranged a week full of football and education on HIV/AIDS for about 100 pupils.

The daily programme is mixed between educational sessions and soccer matches.The children were told the rules for the soccer matches; That it is not only about the goals you score, it also is about team spirit - basically about how much cheering, dancing and singing you can come up with on the sideline.

I couldn't help thinking that that is what life is exactly about, that this is what should apply to the politicians ruling the world (but that most of us forget it when we enter our offices).These children did not. I didn't come across one sulky teenager. In stead you had children listening and asking questions when their Skillz Coaches shared their own personal experience with HIV/AIDS. And then you had children going absolutely crazy cheering, dancing and singing while supporting their team. Take away the vuvuzela, you'll still get noise for the 2010.

And that is how it should be.

Yesterday I was again reminded how capitalism runs this continent.

Everybody talks about fottball and the 2010. South Africans want to want the football, too.

But who can afford the tickets?

What national football team will be cuddling up in comfortable Knysna - flying in and out for the games, never getting in touch with how the majority of the South Africans live? (The Danes, of course)

Who will make money on the visitors' fear of South Africa?

I asked one of the girls at the school what she thought 2010 would bring on for South Africa, and she looked at me and said: Honestly?! I really don't know.

To some the answers come easier. People explain that the infrastructure (around the bigger cities) will improve; to others it is about image and pride. During the draw in Cape Town on Saturday Jacob Zuma held the trophy and said it is going to stay in Africa after the cup. That might be wishfull thinking, but it is a huge thing that probably the most football crazy continent finally get to host a world cup. But it is also a challenge when you see the distance between the expectations from the national teams to what is Africa on the ground.

In Johannesburg

I'm in Johannesburg for the next two weeks, visiting friends, but also working on a set of articles and photography for a Danish youth magazine dealing with South African youth and the upcoming 2010 FIFA world cup.

I find it rather ironic that for the past four and a half years I have been cruising many kilometres along and across the Ugandan border to Southern Sudan, in an out of Nairobi and to far corners of Tanzania - rather carefreely - now I have to think in order to go a trip to Soweto.

South Africa is no way as easy as East Africa in this regard. More about this experience later.

Afrika Kaskazini. Nakwenda. Kesho

Dresscode: kikoi, konyagi and malapa. It's all you need.

The upcoming festivious season is an event I and some friends have spent many hours debating.

 

Where others leave Bongo for Christmas and New Year, we stay. The IST is closed (and no kids have to be driven to school in a landcruiser), which means lovely less traffic, fewer wazungu hanging out in Dar, and less crowds on the beaches.

 

However, the seasonal festivities have also proven to be a logistical challenge when friends and families are coming in and out of Bongo on very different dates, bringing with them different budgets and colourful expectations.

 

Add to that that I'm leaving Dar on Thursday for South Africa, only returning four days before I am (ambitiously) planning to host a Christmas Party (fortunately not a regular Danish one, as my mother would have dictated).

 

Friends are arriving from next week on. My Icelandic family after Christmas.

 

And it just feels so good. The party ambiance is already radiating on line.

 

A friend arriving from Denmark next week asks what to bring:

 

What is the dress code for Xmas and NY... Do I need them stilettos?

The answer is:

 

yes... you have two options actually:

a) stilettos, gala dress, and a bottle of konyagi

b) flip flops, kikoy, and a bottle of konyagi

 

I promise you, it'll be good.

Selfportrait

'you'll never see the end of the road by your travelling with me...'

Dusty scenery driving back from the Kim Beach to Kigamboni late yesterday afternoon.

The life of an mzungu (a not so typical one)

The life of a mzungu in Dar es Salaam is a challenging one:

What moustache and what sun glasses to wear today?

To put the fan on 3 or 4 or 5?

So many kali cigarettes to be smoken.

This mzungu is not a classical one, I can assure that, this one even has one thing in common with Bi Kidudde.

Tuko pamoja - 'we're in this together'...

When someone says 'we're in this together' I always get a tiny bit paranoid.

My friends say this a lot. It is such a convinient phrase to explain why there always is people all over the place; why you have to wait; and why you cannot behave as if you're on your own.

Tuko pamoja means that you have to adjust, because you are not alone in this. That you will be given something, but also that you must give back.

A bit ubuntu, just in Kiswahili.

Moja means one. Umoja means unity. Pamoja means together.

I'm Scandinavian, I was brought up in a society defined by the social-democratic idea that we are all the same. It taught my generation that the government will look after you, and that you can find it all defined in the legal system - the regulations for what you have to give in order to receive. 

If you go to a bar in Denmark it is perfectly normal to seperate the bill according to who drank what exactly; if you stay with someone you are supposed to add to the budget; and if you borrow money from a friend or relative you are in fact considered to pay back, unless they told you it was a gift. 

Very much the opposite of the concept of the classical African extended family, which in the case you happen to be the one who has, can be a neverending source of reception.

In Denmark I am actually not the one who has, but I am still supposed to look after myself.

Here I am considered one who has.

A bit tricky this pamoja.

Addition: Read Swahili Street's thoughts on ubuntu/umoja here.

Africa. Always in serious colours.

   

I ask: Does revolutionaries read UN protocols?

'President Jakaya Kikwete wants the United Nations to officially adopt a protocol banning military coups in Africa.'

What exactly did I miss here? I thought the whole point of being a revolutionista is that you don't read UN resolutions? 

Lakini, while we are at it, I think we should take it further and suggest more official UN protocols. For instance:

Climate change now; wars should stop; poverty must end sasa hivi; albino killings gives Tanzania a bad image; traffic accidents kill people; gender based violence is not good for families; mob justice is a mess; traffic jams make blood pressure go up; low tide (especially at Selander Bridge) makes Dar es Salaam stink, and high tide just looks nicer; corruption make the wazungu sleepless; kito kidogo is too much;  you cannot wear malapa if you don't lift your feet; bascially we must decrease uswahili behaviour (a friend of mine is already working on that protocol); we must tell wazungu males, who live in the illusion that they work for change in Africa, to get real; that fax machines belong in the 80ties; and that education should be free (really free)....

Now I'm all exhausted.

Alfred Mutua, what do you say?

Not a week in Bongoland without:

• a Very-Important-Person disguised in a long line of black, flashy cars with rotating blue lights bringing all traffic to a halt (think it was Kikwete this morning on Ocean Road);
• a newspaper writing about a corruption investigation case in process (looking forward to when the papers eventually write about cases solved, big potatoes behind bars); 
• a newspaper copying photos in low resolution from the Internet;
• a miss Earth/Air/Ilala/Korosho/you-don’t-need-a-brain competition;
• mob justice; 
• high tide & low tide;
• power cuts;
• traffic jams;
• accidents;
• people asking for money;
• a presidential plea for international aid/ deal with the Chinese/ trip overseas;
• a mobile phone company splashing pink/green/blue paint on the walls of innocent house facades/ adding another billboard on Ali Hassan Mwinyi Road so that the people of Bongo have something nice to look at while stuck in traffic;
• another funny quote from a representative from the Tanzanian civil society related to posho, sitting allowance or interpretation of the theory of where money originates from;
• another newspaper documenting a VIP mzungu shaking hands with a government official;
• another week ahead.

African leaders advise Bono on reform of U2 (love this)

A while ago I complained about Bono here.

I wrote:

I don't have a final decisive stand on Bono and Africa. I think Bono is a bit over-hyped, too obsessed with black shades and being Bono, and I don't listen to U2's music anymore with the same enthusiam. Too mainstream. But in terms of 'telling Africa's stories' I think the long line of African artists (or people who stayed around long enough to at least try to get it under their skin), who promote Africa and who integrate Africa into their actual work, write or sing about Africa because they can't help it, do a much better job.

...

Funny, today I read that An expert commission of African leaders today announced their plan for comprehensive reform of music band U2. Saying that U2’s rock had lost touch with its African roots, the commission called for urgent measures to halt U2’s slide towards impending crisis.

“Our youth today are imperiled by low quality music,” said Commission chairman Nelson Mandela. “We will be lending African musicians to U2 to try to refurbish their sound to satisfy the urgent and growing needs for diversionary entertainment at a time of crisis in the global music and financial sectors.”

FANTASTIC. I'm all in line with Mandela!

Copyright. According to Tanzanian media (photo of me in The Guardian, page 7)

I'm almost giving up on the Tanzanian newspapers!

No respect of copyright. No idea of context:

Just found myself on page 7 in the Guardian.

The photo caption says: 'Tanzanians in the diaspora. Most of them are academic, economic and social refugees'.

Hata mimi...??!!

The photo is from Banana, an area close to the airport in Dar es Salaam. The photo portrays Adrian Nzamba and me on an assignment for Tanzanian Youth Coalition in June 2009. I'm an expat, Adrian a Tanzanian, who at the moment is attending training in Copenhagen.

I must admit the caption still makes me laugh: Does it really look as if we are Tanzanians in the diaspora?

The photo is in low resolution and obviously taken from a previous blog post here, where I clearly state that the photo is by James Seigel.

This is stealing. You cannot copy a photo from the Internet, print it in the paper without the photographer's accept. Even if you had the accept, it would be decent to acknowledge the photographer.

So, what do you do when that happens?

You ring the editor of the Guardian (who maybe calls you back).

Today's Quote: Fear & Loathing

  Taken from here.

Hata mimi!! My photos are published in a South African photo magazine

I've gone very serious and adult. Am very happy.

Dowload the Photo Comment Magazine here.

Come to Africa. The road is yours. Go. Go. Go.

While we're at interpretating Tanzanian road signs. Occasionally, on my long safaris, I end up taking them rather personal.

As if they are talking back to me. This one says it all:

Cut the crap.

Stop beating around the bush.

Just go.

The road is at your feet.

Use the opportunities given.

Explore.

Come to Africa.

And don't leave yet, there are still roads you haven't taken.

Go. Go. Go.

Follow the arrows. Just do it. Been there. Done that.

 

I just realised that I knew exactly what to do when I saw this road sign on the road between Moshi and Tanga.

It didn't even feel strange, but relatively normal.

Per intuition, though. I still can't explain what it really means in practice.

Praise to the Tanzanian (road) sign makers. This is indeed an area where creativity seeps through.

Reintegrating into Danish traffic might have consequences.

I'm not ready.

I live my life on the African continent between two explanations

The question 'Who does Mo Ibrahim think he is?' is being asked over at Swahili Street.

My two favourite answers to questions regarding big or small mysteries on the African continent are at the moment:

That's how it is. Followed by the fatalistic piece of advice: Forget it, you can't change it anyway!*

or

Capitalism. Followed by the advice: Make noise, go tell them that it is bad for Africa!

I live my life on the African continent between these two explanations.

Swahili Street is right, and I hate to admit it. Because Youssou was still good, old, beautiful Youssou last night and Angelique Kidjo was radiating, in spite they're being paid for by mobile phone company Zain to play for the rich people in Dar es Salaam.

When we walked out the entrance gate of the Karimjee Hall, the casual workers on the load of the taka taka truck shouted, while the truck left an unmistakenly reminder of the uswahilini on its way to collect our rubbish.

Of course, this is absurd.

As absurd as Mo's idea of a cash prizes for ‘good’ presidents - or, well, in this year's case: no prices. We all know that presidents don't need extra pocket money or being invited to VIP concerts. We all know who need it the most.

But Mo's got airtime (in more than one way), and big men listen to money.

However, last night, I said That's how it is, and enjoyed the fact that I got to see some of the greatest African artists under circumstances which would never have worked in Europe.

* Probably a more frequent explanation is the popular  'TIA', short for 'This Is Africa' made famous by the film Blood Diamond, and somehow very bling among newly arrived wazungu on the continent.

Pernille's Travel Guide: 10 things to do in Dar

Recently I had an article published in Ujumbe Magazine - '10 Things to do in Dar'.

The idea behind the article was to promote Dar es Salaam, and to tell people that they shouldn't trust all what their guidebook says.

I even appear to be in line with today's editorial from The Citizen, though I do not completely agree with their suggestions.

(I'm aware the article has a few mistakes, but nobody's perfect in Bongo, and it's too late for changes anyway).

Download 10_things_to_do_in_Dar.

7 seconds away. I'll be waiting

Just returned from an intense concert in a beautiful garden in Dar es Salaam.

All I can say is that more African men ought to wear light blue shirts like Youssou N'Dour.

The man is beautiful.

He said; Africa can be happiness like this.

Makes me feel like visiting West Africa.

Never had that idea before.

Meet the natives (they might be gone before you know of it)

Maybe you remember this article by Alex Renton which was published on September 6 2009 in the Observer?

Within this article Alex Renton interviewed the manager, Liz McKee, from Thomson Safaris, which later has changed name to the slightly different Thomson Family Adventures. The company is on their website offering an active family’s dream come true and meeting the native Tanzanians. 

That is if there is still any natives left, I'm noting.

The Loliondo saga which makes up an essential part of Renton's article, is namely still cooking with fresh details.

Later in September the Danish Ambassador, Bjarne H. Sørensen, formally handed over 15 years of Danish support to the Maasai as part of the ERETO celebrations, but it was overshadowed by recent events that have seen the pastoralists being forcefully evicted from their homes, and their bomas burned down. ERETO has assisted in supplying water, animal health-care, restocking livestock, women’s economic groups and HIV/AIDS awareness, also in Loliondo. 

Afterwards the topic heated up the Ubunge in Dodoma, the Tanzanian parliament, as referred to here on November 7.

Back to the Thomson Family Adventures. The company still uses the term 'natives', which I find rather curious, taking into consideration that the term in British post-colonial context is considered patronising. 

In this case, in particular, as the natives here are reduced to a bunch of colorful Maasai expected to live up to the tourists' stereotypical ideas of natives - and then stay off the land of the safari company (according to Renton's article).

I think we all go to Africa with some sort of wish to have our stereotypes confirmed.

However, my annual income has so far prevented me from getting that done at Thompson's. Vanity and pride might be other reasons. Conscience, too.

It simply makes me feel like an idiot if I have to pay for engaging in a meeting with the population facilitated by a safari company who try to pretend they are philantropists.

It is as simple as that.

Arranging paid meetings like this make people stay with their stereotypes; It makes the natives believe that all wazungu are rich, while the wazungu believe that all the Maasai are poor people in need.

Last week I went along with the natives - the cheap way - and not that far from the Ngorongoro. I travelled with the natives to Kiserian and Moirowa villages (photo).  Poor, yes. But also strong and resourceful people.

Natives all over, too, in the Lion Guest House in Namanga on the border to Kenya, in fact very few wazungu - and that costed only 5,000 TSH for a room, and I even got to see a lot of natives only dressed in towels when we shared the communal bathing facilities!

If you want my opinion on the colourfull variety of wazungu who think they contribute to change in Africa, while making money, read here. Again, this is not rocket science, this is only another example of capitalism mixed with arrogance.

Female wazungu in flock

Occasionally I have to go to the international clinic in Masaki on the peninsula in Dar es Salaam. Some weeks ago, after having returned from a 10 hours' drive, I urgently needed a cure, which would make an infernal mix of stomach cramps, exhaustion and back pain go away.

 

Two women of my tribe enter the waiting room, accompanied by their children, who also make up the reason for their visit. They occupy a line of chairs, and start talking while they make bland gestures, and communicate at the top of their voices in their native tongue.

 

Exchange greetings, and exchange information as was it habitual commodities. As if they are the only ones in the room. They use irony, and joke with the facts that their children are not dying this time, that it is not that serious.

 

The talk goes on.

 

Aimlessly to the indifferent.

 

Woman A: How are you spending the coming holidays?

Woman B: Oh, I tried calling the X, but everything is booked. One really needs to get away sometimes.

Woman A (nods convincingly, expressing her sincere agreement): We really should get together one of these days. Go somewhere. Bring the children.

 

I start shrinking.

 

Not only by the thought of bringing a lot of children to one place, but about the whole idea of being caught in the midst of a flock of female wazungu slowly running out of commodities to exchange. Females, whose men's choice of careers have turned their families into modern versions of hunters and gatherers.

 

Not that I wouldn't envy - on occasion - the benefits of a man providing, but when I do, I do so for a wide range of obscure reasons. Not that I put all the female wazungu spouses in one box - far from - but when I meet them in flock in Masaki, I imagine the diluted conversations pending.

 

All in spite, I admit, I am a female mzungu myself - one who does know the directions to the Yacht Club; the best kanga designer/tailor in town; where to buy the best German homebaked bread; where to go for sushi; and a lot of other supposedly valuable commodities for a classic Dar es Salaam female, wazungu exchange of information.

 

Here a female mzungu can not only afford the international clinic, lakini, also the irony and the jokes which distances us to the majority of the people. When I lived in northern Uganda it was not unusual that I had to give someone a lift to a clinic, and that morning in the Dar es Salaam clinic it struck me that in Uganda I lived and worked closer to the Ugandans to ever joke about the fact that a child wouldn’t be dying today. 

 

The female wazungu operating in flock make me feel like I'm 16 years old again and back in high school spending too much time figuring out why I am not part of what appears to be the group of girls the boys are interested in. 22 years later, I know that that was a waste of time, and that I definitely don't belong among the wazungu females who isolate themselves in a bourgois life style far off the kelele.

Nothing like instant 'Africafe' (before 200 km on dusty roads)

Today I woke up in Namanga on the border to Kenya. The morning rain wet the dust, and messed up the front screen of the car, which was covered in a fine layer of red dust from the night before. Soon me, too. When you take off from Namanga, you have a great landscape ahead: Kilimanjaro, Meru and Longido. Later, when we drove into the bush, again the peak of Ol Doinyo Lengai.Quite a few of the people interested in 'my' job as communication adviser ask me;

How much do you travel and how much time do you spend outside the office every month?

I answer: as much as possible.

Probably not a very useful answer (if you like the idea of staying a lot in the office), lakini, true. In general in Africa, I see an increasing tendency to cluster expats in the bigger cities and tie them to desks. This is certainly the case of the NGO I work for, which in my opinion now is putting a greater focus on its programme and overall objectives in favour of the smaller civil society organisations we work in partnership with (and which often reside at the end of a dust road in rural Tanzania).

Moreover, it is a fact, that it is difficult to place European expats in rural areas because of the lack of amenities. It is also a common joke between local organisations that sooner or later one of their donors will be ask them to arrange to fly them in to places where there are no airstrips. We laugh when we imagine how the wazungu think they can get from Dar es Salaam to Kiteto to Arusha in only 5 days. Even me, I once had someone requesting me to pick someone up at the border between Tanzania and Uganda, and then take them to Iringa. (I told them I liked to drive, but doubted the visitors would like it as much as me, when they eventually got to look at a map of East Africa). 

However, in times with wide network coverage, mobile Internet modems, Nissan Hardbodies and the majority of the African population living in the rural areas, the only thing which makes sense, is to get out there.

I love having my base in Dar es Salaam, but I am not a writer of fiction.

Besides, this is what Africa is made of.

I love my job: Kilimanjaro, Meru, Longido and Ol Doinyo Lengai in ONE day

I have been happily cruising Tanzania this week – from Dar es Salaam to Tanga to Moshi to Arusha.

This morning I set off from Usa River at the foot of Mount Meru, drove towards Longido (photo above) about 75 km from Arusha and 30 km from the border to Kenya, then off into the bush towards Kiserian Village.

At a certain point during this drive, and on clear days, you can see the mountains of Kilimanjaro, Meru, Longido and Ol Doinyo Lengai.

All the sacred mountains in one go.

I went to Kiserian with two guests from MS ActionAid Denmark and our partner organisation CORDS to visit places where MS ActionAid Denmark supports work on land rights. The guests won their trip to Tanzania in a campaign competition, and this week I am the tour guide. So far, a rather pleasant task. Mainly because I get to go out and meet the wamaasai, and because I get to go through the most magic landscapes of Africa, while I do my job.

Obviously everything got delayed, political heated discussions in the morning in the office over the land issue in Ngorongoro (more about that in a seperate post); people needed lifti, and I ended up driving the last half hour to Namanga cloaked in black, African darkness, blinded by truck headlights, making me inhale 3 kg of African dust which I have now washed down the drains of the Lion Guesthouse on the border to Kenya.

Lakini. This kind of work makes me feel alive.

Personally, I think selected Scandinavian women should have a prize for not freaking out under these circumstances. Or it should be evident what it means when I put the achievement on my CV.

Apropos, jobs:

'My' job is now posted. I do hope who ever gets it, will appreciate getting out of the office working with the wamaasai as much as I do (while I get my head adjusted for leaving it). On days like this it feels like the hardest decision I am making - to return home to Copenhagen.

Lakini. There is a first & last for everything as the hotel on the border between Tanzania and Kenya so rightly puts it.

Angalia, angalia! Mimi, hata ninacheza kama mwafrika

Look, look. Even me I'm dancing like an African.

Time stood still in Tanga; A tourist poster from (I assume) the 1970ties is hanging in a window of a tourist tour service in downtown Tanga.

Our stomach hurt with laughter. The rest of the day we asked ourselves:

But did you see the guy with the skirt?

Were LSD really so easily available in Tanga in the 1970ties?

Were they tourists or development workers?

Is this what happens when you take Ujamaa too seriously?

Is it too much pamoja?

Is it time to go home when you end up on a beach dancing in a skirt?

Where is that guy now (and does he know that he is hanging in a window in Tanga?)

Tanga: It's Kili Time. Make the most it!

  Another lazy afternoon in Tanga. When Tanzania is good, it is exceptionally good.

 

Here's your gateway to the UN! Work your way up!

Interesting job advert from the UN in Afghanistan.

Lazy afternoon. 10 kilometres south of Tanga

   

Sweet Africa

Back on the road again. This weekend in Tanga. Next week in Arusha.

Fashion Tradition

 

+ list over things which are good about returning to Denmark #01

   

I'm gathering points on my + list over things which are good about returning to Denmark.

My Icelandic nephew Baltasar and his new born second cousin, Scottish/Danish Maja Siri, are high on the list. Beautifull children, both of them by the way. I'm sure it pays off to stirr up the Danish gene pool.

Africa and its control freaks

I quite enjoy to look at Africa from a psychological point of view. To just boil it down to people, desires and emotional behaviour.

One of my favorites is when an mzungu arrives to the continent, and turns out to be a control freak.

According to th Wikipedia, in psychology-related slang, a control freak is a derogatory term for a person who attempts to dictate how everything around them is done. It can also refer to someone with a limited number of things that they want done a specific way.

Control Freaks are people who care more than you do about something and won't stop at being pushy to get their way.

In some cases, the control freak sees their constant intervention as beneficial or even necessary; this can be caused by feelings of superiority, believing that others are incapable of handling matters properly, or the fear that things will go wrong if they don't attend to every detail. In other cases, they may simply enjoy the feeling of power it gives them so much that they automatically try to gain control of everything around them.

We all are to different degrees, us, the wazungu, control freaks (me too. I, for instance, still like to believe that traffic rules should apply; and I insist that people wear safety belts when I drive).

No doubt that the first wazungu on the continent were control freaks: the explorers, the missionaries, the voortrekkers and the colonisers all bear the characteristics of a classic control freak. Stanley might be among the most infamous, while the Afrikaans later turned it into a collective, political concept which was legal till 1994.

And what else can explain the idea behind the Great Trek?

However, the string thrives vibrantly among the modern wazungu, too. Development workers, NGO management, ambassadors, lodge owners, safari companies, volunteers, diplomats and spouses - many fit the control freak profile, too. I can't help noticing that the modern control freaks carry with them different ideas of why they are here to sort it out. Some, ironically, having no prior management or Africa experience. They react differently when realising the challenge, that real Africa doesn't fit the theory.

In my experience, these are the most interesting cases. A majority of the Tanzanians I have met are brought up to choose peace over justice, and will during a potential conflict rather keep quiet than speaking up loud. It is almost too easy for a control freak to abuse this, as an mzungu can set him/herself outside the cultural rules, especially if he/she arrives with an appointed authority to lead; to make decisions; to guide and supervise others.

Chief Mkwawa is an interesting example of a Tanzanian who tried to resist the German control freaks back in the 1890ties. However, I have realised that modern Tanzanians frequently prefer a variety of more silent and sophisticated revenges over the control freak mzungu.

For instance, no mzungu beats a Tanzanian's ability to wait.

Some would claim that some of Africas worst dictators were control freaks, too. That present presidents might be. But when it comes to classifying Jacob Zuma (photo) as one, I'm in doubt, and it somehow fascinates me immensely.

The wazungu control freaks, I know, would never let loose the way Zuma does. Somehow I prefer freaks in favour of control.

Illustration from here.

Swahili Fashion Week in Dar es Salaam

For the second time in a row Swahili Fashion Week (SFW) will take place in Dar es Salaam to give the local fashion is an exciting three days full of fashion fanfare; and galore.

Swahili Fashion week which brings forth an eclectic mix of Swahili culture ensconced with chic style also brings together talented designers from across the Swahili speaking countries and beyond, under one roof to showcase their unique and truly African creations which include clothes, shoes, jewellery, and handbags.

November 4 to 6 at Karimjee Hall in Dar Es Salaam.

More here.

* The bag is made by Doreen Mashika.

Looking for crocodiles. We know you are there.

Photography: Quick snaps from Morogoro

 

Breaking (mainly other people's) illusions in Q Bar, Dar es Salaam

Two friends and I went to Q Bar some Friday nights ago.

In my opinion, Q Bar in Dar Es Salaam serves as one of the most wide-ranging and profound introductions to Africa, mainly because it includes all the stuff you would like to repress the existence of. Go sit upstairs on a Friday night and you have an excellent panoramic view of some of the most characteristic personalities acting out under the black sky. 

First of all, it is real. Hard to believe; but real.

Some of the most vibrant personalities on the floor are the Tanzanian ladies on duty, the malaya, and the brassy selection of males who come in all colours, sizes and ages. Other bars have a tendency to favour certain - more trendy - looks, but here you can be an old, fat, bald, sweaty, sundried and overtly horny bastard, and still leave with a teethy smile. 

(Pole sana for leaving that image with you).

This Friday three guys next to our table hit instant luck when three malaya dedicated themselves to sit on their laps, and shift between so-called fuck-me movements and allowing them to touch their breasts.

Q Bar certainly is 10 times more interesting than a Danish television prime time programme.

First time I found myself in the middle of a situation like this in Kapalagala in Uganda,  I thought it cannot be right; I couldn’t believe that average male wazungu from my own tribe could take such pleasure in regressing to a variation of primal phases, and do things I had never seen them done back in Europe. At least not in public. 

After some time I realised that this is probably closer to whom we all are if we were free of all conventions. It was also about that time I started looking at all men from a new perspective. Africa will never not fascinate me: It is the perfect place to get an idea of your own or other people's illusions.

This Friday two bosbefok Australians embarked on a conversation with me and my friends. One ended up at the same corner of the table as me, insisting to share his visions on Africa. He and his mate had just got back to town from four months in the bush at Lake Tanganyika where they had been looking for nickel. In other places and at other times they would be looking for gold for an Australian mining company.

As a true bosbefok he was in severe need for sharing his genuine impressions from the bush, and a conversation spun over the fragments below gradually developed:

- Before they threw stones after us. Now they wave

- They didn't like us at first, now they do

- We go and have beers with them, we give them money, we go to their funerals in the village

- We make people happy

He was referring to the villagers on the site, which they went to research for nickel. He kept going about the fact that he and his mate contributed to change, how rewarding that was and what good this would bring on to Africa.

I quickly noted that his selection of ‘indicators’ went from ‘stones’ to ‘waving’: Less stones + more waving = happy people, equals change.  

As much as I enjoy the diversity of the company you can come across in Q Bar; – from the Saffricans in two-tone shades; assecorized tourists; loud, alpamale Chinese; Scandinavian volunteers with red faces; Libyan gemstone dealers; the Tanzanian Indian living with his family on top of their shop in Zanaki Street; the mzungu mzee trying to get two ladies with him home at once, - I simply cannot stand listening to crap like this.

And it is at moments like these where I know for sure that Africa hasn’t made me less of a socialist.

You don’t really need a degree in rocket science to know that if a foreign mining company ever finds nickel, gold or tanzanite, the primary outcome isn’t meant for the villagers. The same goes for timber, oil, gas and a lot of other natural resources. The list is long. What is likely to happen, is, that it will mess their village up big time, and the profit ends up in other people’s pockets. Usually outside of the country.

The Aussie called me rough, indicating between the lines that he liked that, and besides; ‘This is my last night in Africa, before I go and look for gold in the Solomon Islands.’  Then he went on blaming me for not openly expressing the change I make for Africa. I told him that I find it hard to believe that my pure presence (just because I happen to be white) on the continent offers vital change. That things are more complex. That I believe I'm one little brick, who occasionally gets things done which then might stirr things off in a good direction. But I have absolutely no illusion that my contribution are bigger than that; and men who have a need for making me confirm their illusion that they contribute to change in Africa (especially when they boil it down to waving African villagers), makes me outright unresponsive.

In an ideal world, yes. But at the moment Tanzania doesn't live up to its own legislation. Its natural resources are being taken out of the country, leaving almost no visible difference to the average villager. (Gado on Arabs, land grabbing, silly Africans and their leaders here).

Even me, working for a Danish NGO, do not live in an illusion like this. And sometimes, I simply cannot grasp how little some people know of the vastness of Africa and their own part in it; how huge differences there are from the ones who have, to the ones who haven't; and how much is build on illusions in our heads.

On the other hand, Africa also makes you spacious, you open up for the fact that the world is not fair, that is has to comprise people you don't agree with, and you learn to find a way to cope with it. And as well as I now accept the buzz on the floor in Q-bar, the loud inequalities of the relations being established here on many Friday nights, I have no problem telling the Aussie:

'Leave me alone. Go find some other women to play with. Safari njema.'

Who made us, here, and why...

On days like this, I crank up this song, and when I have a decent Internet connection I watch the video. As I noted here, I do know that Scatterlings of Africa is old fashion in present South Africa, but it means something special to me. It is no secret to the frequent reader of this blog that I have a crush on Johnny Clegg. His son is cool, too, not to forget his wife (which still is one of the most frequent searches leading to my blog).

Also, I'll argue anytime that the amount of times Johnny Clegg's music is now going to be used for the World Cup soundtracks only understates the fact that his work goes beyond the mainstream.

Many videos have been made to illustrate Scatterlings of Africa, however, this one is my favorite. Shot in the streets of Harare, Zimbabwe. Johnny Clegg was brought up by his Zimbabwean mother, in his mother’s native land of Zimbabwe. She later married a South African journalist and immigrated to South Africa when Johnny was seven years old.

My first trip South of Sahara went to Johannesburg in 2003, then off 14 hours overland in a car to Harare. I went with my then boyfriend, who was born in Zimbabwe, and who later moved to South Africa, then Denmark. When we went to Harare he brought a guitar, CDs, flipflops, boxes of food, diesel and absolutely no suitable clothes for the wedding we were invited to. It didn't matter. The guitar did. Making stops, people would ask for a song, out the guitar came. After a few drinks the zulu dance moves, too. The people in Denmark didn't really get it, here it made perfect sense. 

I heard Johnny Clegg for the first time then. Everybody jumped around like mad. I didn't know what it was, didn't feel the song belonged to me.

It does now.

I arrived to Africa in a complex mode of feeling innocent and open - but also intimidated and worried if I could take it. I was invited by friends, and welcomed into their families and culture. All the other times I came to Africa, I came due to the fact that I work for an NGO. That completely changed my perspective, that and the experience you gather from living 26 months along and across the Ugandan border to Sudan, or the 26 months I have now lived at the Swahili Coast.

It is no secret that I feel that my NGO contract obliges me in certain ways: My presence has a very specified work purpose, I'm a resident, not a tourist. I drive a car with a logo. I work, I get per diem and travel reimbursement. I often end up argueing politically corrrect, defending my presence, though I feel like letting go for the simpler way. NGO workers are serious people, we like to be taken seriously. Sometimes I just wanna be me.

Fortunately, I started in the real way. I know exactly what I love about this continent, I got that under my skin the first time around. Scatterlings of Africa sparks that feeling.

Finally, as a curiosity; I doubt many people know that Johnny Clegg made a reference to Tanzania in his most popular song: Olduvai (or Oldupai) is in Tanzania.

Full lyrics here.

2010 South Africa FIFA World Cup Advert: Start imagining

Kenyan Condom Ad: As big as an umbrella (makes you smile long after)...

Kudus to Kenya for making a man take up a condom in the street and do..., well, see for yourself what he does...but I like it.

Agency Lowe Scanad, Kenya
Copywriter/Creative Director: Andrew White
Art Director: Pat Richer
Account Director: Eve Onduru
Music: Blue, with the song "One Love"

Maisha iko sawa na trust means 'life is good with trust'.

Danish author, Ejersbo, publishes outstanding novels centred in Tanzania

Unfortunately not (yet) in English. But if you read Danish, please read about my admiration for his work here.

Jacob Ejersbo died last summer of cancer at the age of 40. Much too early. He grew up in Moshi at Kilimanjaro where his father worked for Danida over two periods of time, and he went to ISM, International School of Moshi. Before he died he wrote three books centred in Tanzania.

Literature which is already now proclaimed to be a milestone in Danish literature on Africa. Personally, it has made me look differently at what I see in Tanzania.

This is what Klaus Rothstein writes about Ejersbo for a Danish Literary Magazine: 'Seldom has anyone written anything so insistent and impassioned, so glowing hot and ice-cold, so heartfelt and so cynical'.

I'll keep you posted when the books are translated into English.

 

Days like this

Friday I managed to stirr my head well with all vital, practical things related to my own (small) role in Danish development aid, electricity, Internet, water, traffic, corruption - to the music pouring out loud from the container bar next door run by the self-acclaimed peaceful rasta (who once told me that he sold drugs for the Nigerians in Hillbrow, Johannesburg, which means I don’t complain when a bar customer cranks up his car stereo outside my gate.);

• to the ufisadi I read about in the paper;
• the big potatoes in the fat land cruiser not giving me space on Ali Hassan Mwinyi Road;
• my Internet provider who has been hassling me to prepay my Internet subscription (though there hasn't been any connection for the past two months and they have no intention of telling me that his company really has been bought up by another...);
• that my water bill suddenly tripled, and DAWASCO interpretates 'Customer Care' very differently than I.
• the young female students who pay with sex to get through university or to get jobs;
• the fact that you have to know someone to get somewhere (but that you owe that person the rest of your life);
• the young guy with limps in stead of legs;
• to the hungry street child on Morogoro Road whom I passed when I returned from Zanaki Street, and who wanted to wash my (clean) front screen so that he could fill his stomach later.

And that's where I had had it:

He mimicked ‘chakula’. Food.

I got a lump in my throat, and I then went for notes in stead of coins, though it is against all principles (which ones exactly, I’ve luckily forgotten). I thought; World Food Day, my ass. I just blogged about it, and here I face my own limitations one hour later a kilometer away from the office. It made me feel like I was paying a monthly subscription for a lighter conscience in return for representing a nation which have prioritized Tanzania in their development support budget, but not the boy in the street ‘because he is outside the strategy which is focusing on another district, cluster, group or theme.’

Some days it just doesn't stop.

When I finally got home to my neighborhood, all traffic had come to a halt. Two cars had crashed, one driver still stuck in the front seat behind the wheel, people gathering like flies on sugar, hovering like hyenas. Just up front Kikwete's house in the crossing between Ursino and Migombani Street, which got tarmac last year so that people now can drive as if no one else exists.

There is only so much you can deal with in one day.

Your friends at home think you’ve finally lost it, and that Africa has beaten you. They tell you, they told you. That Africa wears you out. That it is time to return home.

So, you stop telling them what's really going on.

Or you insist that this is normal. That Danish psychological interpretations appear absurd in Tanzania. That this is what most people in Africa go through, and you are not excempted just because you are white.

If so, that is because you close your eyes and have lost touch with your feelings and conscience.

Photography: Late afternoon in Libya and Zanaki Street. Kisutu. Dar Es Salaam

      

Siku Kuu!

Thanks to my friend's great, visual blogpost here, I don't have to write one about what we did on the latest Siku Kuu.

Siku Kuu is a great Swahili word.

It means 'holiday' or 'special day'.

It is also a street in Kariakoo, which by the way is a bit of a mystery to me as it appears that really no one practises siku kuus in Kariakoo.

Another Tanzanian Public Holiday: Nyerere Day

On Wednesday, 14 October, we are off again, as it is Nyerere Day, marking the day of Julius Nyerere's death in 1999.

Julius Kambarage Nyerere was not only Tanzania's first president, he was also the Tanzanians' favorite president. Born in Tanganyika to Nyerere Burito (1860-1942), Chief of the Zanaki (my absolute favorite street in Dar Es Salaam is named hereafter). Nyerere is known by the Swahili name Mwalimu or 'teacher', his profession prior to politics. He was also referred to as Baba wa Taifa (Father of the Nation).

Source: Wikipedia.

Expat life: The art of making (new) friends

 

If someone asked me for a best advice when settling in a new country and culture, I’d say make friends a high priority.

In Dar Es Salaam I see a lot of expats arriving, focusing on getting a house in the ‘right’ place (preferably close to the Yacht Club and the International School of Tanganyika (IST), preferably far off the traffic jam and the kelele), getting IST to accept their children (so they can meet other appropriate children), buying a car (‘always saw myself driving that land rover when moving to Africa…’); locating where to buy the European style food; and how to get invitations to cocktail parties, receptions or the right people’s houses.

The despair is always tangible when the Danish Embassy has invited the Danes for the June 5 celebration of Constitution Day, and someone didn't receive the official invitation card with the royal gold stamp. The Danes ask; ‘Why did you get one, when I haven’t got one?!’ as if the embassy personally tried to punish selected Danes.

It is hard to be cool. The desperation of a newly arrived is immense. In my culture it is a taboo to admit that you don’t know anybody, or even worse; that nobody knows you. At the same time the expat hierarchy decides without consultation on what level to fit you in. The expats who have been here longer than you, quiz you; how long have you been here? Where did you work before? How long are you going to stay?

The less time, the further away from Africa, and the shorter you are going to stay, the less chance of getting a good position.

(Me, I was in the fortunate position that I could answer: ‘I’ve been here before’; 26 months along and across the Ugandan border to Southern Sudan; and as long as they let me’.)

It didn’t give me friends, though.

It has been bloody hard. Moving to a new country is considered one of the most stress provoking actions, together with leaving your safe environment. Your best friends are somewhere else. Your work is crazy. You desperately need new friends. But you are expected to have things under control.

For me, Dar Es Salaam hasn’t been easy in this way. I have generally blamed it on the huge, spoiled expat community which firstly is comprised by a majority of families (in comparison to my aid worker and missionary friends high on coffeeine and post-conflict daily life in northern Uganda and Sudan), but also characterized by a conservative tradition for how you do things. If you don’t fit into the categories, it is just your bad luck. And, man, that is exactly why I didn’t decide to stay on the island back in Denmark, to copy my parents’ lifestyle.

I think a lot of expats confuse making new friends with a membership to the Yacht Club; hanging out with the Coastal Air pilots (who really should sleep more hours) while getting drunk and singing karokee in the Irish Pub; Joining the Hash Runners Club; Or trying to be accepted among the experienced selection of sundried, white male expats at the High Table at Jackie’s Bar on Haile Selassie Road or getting integrated by the Diplomatic Spouses Community (where one can look forward to saving the world in a way more sophisticated way than my patience would ever allow).

I am not saying it isn’t possible, I just think that a lot of expats trick themselves into thinking that they can get the right friends the way they get the right house, car and school, and forget that it take longer time. I am not saying I know how to do it the right way. Not sure there is one. But I have definitely spent too much time doing the wrong things.

My life in northern Uganda was very different from the one I have had for the past two years in Dar Es Salaam. In Uganda I rather easily got a real good core group of friends who were open to letting new ones in. When I lived in Belgrade my work was strongly connected to my private life, and I made a lot of friends through work, friends who are still there.

The thing is that I know that it usually works out. I have tried it several times, and I always make friends who fill out the extremely important spaces in my expat life, who take the most important places of the ones I left behind. In many ways, very rewarding when it works out. And right now, I consider myself extremely lucky in this regard. I do know an interesting variety of amazing people. But it took time.

Kisutu: The Barghashia Hat. Handmade

  Back then, a million years ago, I studied embrodery for four months in Copenhagen, and later after four years in Teachers' Training College I graduated as a teacher of Arts (and English). I know my way round stiching, and back then I thought I was going seriously into art & craft. Not the development business.

The handmade Barghashia hat on sale in Kisutu costs 25,000 TSH. Today, I got it down to 20, and am now, in fact,  left with a bad taste in my mouth. I always bargain as a principle. I always ask for second price. 25,000 is a lot of money in this place.

However, in some cases it is not okay to bargain. That is when things are handmade and of good quality. I truly think this should be honoured, in particularly in a place which is flushed with cheap Chinese crap and where time spend on labour isn't valued.

Hence, apologies to the man in the photo, the advice is put forward.

Bongo is amazing. It gives me an excellent excuse to listen to music I would be condemned for in Denmark

 
I can't blame the Tanzanians for occasionally having trouble sussing out the wazungu.

The most frequently offered CDs in the streets of Bongo these days are (- and please sit down);

• Westlife
• Ronan Keating
• Phil Collins
• Backstreet Boys
• Kenny Rogers
• Dolly Parton 
• Shakira

Bongo is amazing. It gives me an excellent excuse to listen to music I would be condemned for in Denmark.

Living abroad opens your mind in ways I never imagined.
 

Afro Supplies: Please, don't run out!

 

Breaking the rules of gravity: Fun in a hammock

Flashback: The Perfect Roadtrip (except for the bananas)

 

It's Sunday in the middle of August. Mikindani at sunset.

Getting people out of bed. Smoking the first cigarette. Drinking coffee. Getting the Hardbody packed. More coffee (knowing it will mean an early pee break for the four women). Stuffing four passengers in and all their stuff on the load. Getting going. 10 hours ahead of us.

The 60 kilometres of red road appear to be less bad on the way out. Possibly because we invent this game where you have to guess someone who played a (funny, remarkable) role on this road trip. We play loud music, sing and make many stops to pee, smoke cigarettes and joke about whatever can make the trip appear shorter.

I took the above photo of Justine, and I told her she looked like a lost European rock star on a mission in Africa; 'Eh, tell me, where are those starving children, I'm gonna dedicate my next album to?'

Somewhere around 65 kilometres before Dar Es Salaam I almost lost my energy, partly my temper. The petrol station reported no more diesel. And my passengers began buying bananas.

It is the worst thing I know. Bananas, especially inside a car.

So, now I am this person with a remarkably, funny limit: Bananas.

Guess, that's what happens on road trips.

If you drive far enough, you can't hide.

Sunday: Kigamboni/Kisutu/Kariakoo

Turning back time

 

My mother just called me from Denmark, asking me when I thought I'd be home (meaning returning to Denmark on a permanent note). 

Casually, as if I were still 7 and on my way out playing (and not 38 years old and 7400 km away in Africa).

Back then my sister and I tried to trick our parents by turning back the clock. Literally, we simply synchronised and turned the time back on our wrist watches. Initially, half an hour, one hour more - until the Danish summer evening eventually turned into night, and it was too difficult to negotiate that it was still time to play.

Unfortunately, it isn't an option any longer.

Panic.

Photo: From Lolland, the rural area where I grew up in Denmark.

Show me your toilet, and I'll tell you who you are...

Here are toilets where someone gently and discretly has folded the tip of the toilet roll.

Here are toilets where someone digged a hole in the ground, and found whatever other people threw away to create the walls so that you can do the long call in peace.

No folded tip of the toilet rolls there.

But isn't that also some wicked sense of comfort in a nation where the majority of its inhabitants can't even afford toilet paper?

Kikwete's morning view (if he sleeps in State House)

Another Swahili Breakfast: Supu ya kuku!

 

My Swiss friend repeats; I want supu, and walks off in search of someone cooking chicken soup. In general she talks a lot about supu itself and the supu as a breakfast concept.

It’s 10 am at the Kivukoni Seafront in Dar Es Salaam on Saturday morning, and the boat is leaving for Zanzibar in half an hour (actually it didn’t leave until much later, but that’s another story).

Plenty of time for supu ya kuku, which all over Tanzania is eaten as a breakfast meal. Amongst others.

 

Often on the go, served from small road side food stalls or in the market. Except, to a lot of the Tanzanians eating supu ya kuku at 10 am isn't really a breakfast meal, as they are likely have been up long before the sun.

 

Receipt here.

Watch me!

'Wazungu, you have the watches but we have the time'

Quote: The Tanzanians

 

Expat Karma: Stay!

Last night I had an Italian friend of a friend overnighting. He had to catch an early plane from Dar Es Salaam to Nairobi and then Kigali. Then a 3-hour bus to Eastern Congo, where he works.

I just have to be in Congo by 6 pm before the border closes, he said and finished a late meal I had tried to organise (Italians always make me think I can't cook).

Today, from Iceland my sister is messaging that the Germans are famous now. I'm about to text her back; What Germans? when I realise that the Germans are a couple on honeymoon in Iceland, who normally live here in Dar Es Salaam, and whom I gave my sister's contact, in case they needed to hook up with some Icelandic locals.

In today's Danish daily, Information, Pia Kjaersgaard, Chairwoman of the Danish People's Party is quoted for telling the Palaestinians residing in Denmark to go home.

Pia surely hasn't  realised that offering a temporary home to someone who needs it - for whatever reasons - does wonders for your karma.

It also makes life a bit more interesting.

I recommend Zanzibar. The best stress release. Kweli!

  

Zanzibar is my high. 

 

And I am not talking about 4-star, romantic honey moon resorts fenced off to the public, where the waiters wear white gloves and the 'karibu' sounds hollow.

 

No.

 

Zanzibar doesn't have to be expensive to be good.

 

Though the tourist agencies shamelessly have conceptualised that conviction.

 

I'm also not talking about the endless hassling at the harbour when arriving by boat. I'm definitely not talking about the Yes, taxi..?! or the mass of men jamboing me (never women) over my limit.

 

For me it is way simpler.

 

A blue kikoy. A new kanga or Indian tunika which is gonna last till my housekeeper washes it to pieces.

 

My wazungu friends, who have been long enough in Africa to think it is funny to keep conversations going by saying eh, ehhh, ah, eh eh or eh eh eh ehhhh.

 

Cool Kilis.

 

That the water is warmer than the air.

 

Oh, and of course the men with Persian genes.

 

And the flying low back home over the Indian Ocean in a 6-seater plane. A last minute's change, where you watch the mechanic screw the passenger door back on before you enter.

 

Adds on to the state of feeling very much alive.

White woman you're on your own!

A modern rephrasing of Steve Bantu Biko's 'Black man you're on your own!?', I laughed and texted back to the sender of this SMS.

Steve who? the sender texted back. 

Nothing much beats Steve Bantu Biko, but this one was funny as the sender had never heard about the man.

And sometimes white women are in fact on their own.

Visa2Dance - Don't miss the Contemporary Dance Festival in Dar Es Salaam next month!

When I meet Tanzanians bara ya Afrika they say 'those people there at the coast, all they think about is the ngoma - all they want to spend their time doing, is to dance'.

I'm not passing on that stereotype, and the Dar Es Salaam Visa2Dance festival does take you beyond the ngoma, though I'm sure the ngoma will sneak in one way or the other.

In fact, it is a rather unusual event, and a lot of hard work has been put in the fundraising and getting the international dance performers to Dar Es Salaam, now awaits the coordination. Though Tanzania isn't generally associated with modern dance festivals, I believe that creative spaces like this is a very important ingridient in development and in the making of a modern cultural identity. 

Read more at www.Visa2Dance.com.

Please, link and forward.

A postcard from Tanzania to the Danish People's Party

Dear Danish People's Party,

Yesterday's Parking Guard in Moshi at the foot of Kilimanjaro was a woman.

She wore a veil.

I'm writing you as I want to tell you that it is completely normal in Tanzania, and that I was the only person in the street paying attention to it.

Probably because I'm Danish.

Probably because I'm absolutely fed up with the blurred debate in Denmark on women wearing veils or burkas, or not, the debate on mosques, on Islam, Muslims and on how Danish politicians treat refugees and immigrants. I am sick and tired, and deeply embarrased on how Danish values have been redefined into something I can't associate with.

I asked the parking guard if I could take her photo, as I wanted to prove to the Danes supporting the policies of the Danish People's Party, that at this end of the world, a famous 3rd world country, it is possible for a woman to wear a veil while holding a position as a civil servant.

And smile...!

Greetings from Tanzania

Impressions from Marangu and Moshi

Photos from a good, long and exhausting day at Marangu and Moshi.

Me behind the camera till the end where the children took over.

I'm working on an article about a young man who went to Denmark to participate in the Bright Green Youth camp together with a group of friends from Moshi. The article will focus on what he learnt. So far, we tested his friend's cooking skills - his friend had prepared dinner for us this evening, inspired from his stay in Denmark.

We were highly impressed by the two guys' skills and their drive. Very inspirational to meet to young guys who just move.

Sometimes, it actually really is fun to be me, doing this job. On the mission for one more day tomorrow.

More photos here.

Kilimanjaro in the rear view

I arrived at sunset to Usa River with Kilimanjaro in the rear.

Oh, I love the sight of this mountain, and it feels like a present whenever the mountains decides not to be shy (as the Chagga say when the mountain is hiding behind the clouds).

Mambo iko huku. The good stuff is here.

Sorry, but I promised not to pass on the exact position of where this fantastic place is - where I went to on Saturday.

Lakini, this is the Swahili Coast at its absolutely best.

Facing my fear of dancing in African bars

Friday night I went with a group of people to an open air bar in the centre of Dar Es Salaam, right opposite the famous nightclub Bilicana (photo above).

One thing on this continent freaks me out on occasion, especially if I am too conscious about my own role in it:

Dancing in bars.

I'm not a teenager any longer, but I probably go out with a higher frequency, and have been to more parties in places with exoctic African names like Juba, Yei, Kajo Keji, Moyo, Arua, Adjumani, Kampala, Harare, Johannesburg, Durban, Mbabane, Arusha, Mhingo, Nairobi, Dar Es Salaam and Stone Town, than the average female Dane my age.

In fact, it ought to show on my CV.

However, I can't claim that I get the rules (if there are any); and I feel like the worst dancer next to the overconfident average African who appear to have been practising daily since birth. People who don't give a thing about my Scandinavian inhibitions, and believe me (unless I've had a lot of Konyagi) I face them all when I'm on a dancefloor in Africa.

In Europe each person is granted a personal space, which practically means that other people keep a distance, they don't stare concentratedly or start touching you, unless you have established a relation. That phenomenon is practised way differently here, and in a bar after midnight it is as if it doesn't exist at all. Additionally, in Europe you'd do your best to hide your hips, ass and belly. Here it is all part of the game (which is the part I really do like). In Europe, conventionally, you dance in couples or in a group with people you know. Here anybody can take the space next to you. In Europe I'm used to establish contact via conversation, here it goes through the eyes, or direct touching.

I simply can't overcome the fact, that I feel so invaded when a guy, I have never ever met, shows up next to me; smiles; lays his hands on my hips. As if that is the most normal thing to do.

Dancing in bars in Africa makes me feel part of an anthropological experiment.

Maybe I am?

Where do you get your best ideas?

I've just completed editing a 70 pages long document which can be counted among the most boring pieces of paper I've ever had my hands on.

I'd rather drive 10 hours, than doing it again (unless I get paid specifically to do it).

Two Fridays ago I did drive 10 hours on a Thurday, and was out of my office and in Mtwara on the Friday. While sorting my photos from this trip, it appeared to me that this is so much more the real thing: Serene, blue sky, people wearing nothing but basics, simple food from the ocean next door and direct contact to the soil.

I've been trying to find time for the Economist' Thinking Space, answering the question on where I get my ideas. A lot of people have used their desk/office as the case illustrating their source of inspiration.

I ask myself why?

Because that's what you do in Europe? Get ideas in your office? Are European office environments so much more stimulating than mine (which on occasion is a little conservative in comparison to the European offices I've been around, I must admit)? My office here in Dar Es Salaam from the inside resembles a European one if I shut my ears ears and turn on the air condition. This is the space where I process, not the place I get my best ideas.

For that I have to be out there. So, every week I grant myself a trip into Kariakoo or to Kisutu to find the perfect kanga; a dinner at the Badminton Institute to eat kachori and check out the wonderfull appearance of men experimenting with black hair dye. These places out there are exactly what good ideas are made of.

I don't know what I'd do back in Europe.

3 men on a beach

The photo is from the beach in Lindi, taken on my trip to Mtwara some two weeks ago, where we made a way too short stop.

Coming Up: MTV Africa Music Award (MAMAs)

Originally African artists were awarded an MTV Europe Music Award voted by MTV, but then the MTV Africa Music Awards (also known as the MAMAs) were established in 2008 by MTV Networks Africa.

On 25 August 2009 MTV (and Zain) disclosed the contenders for the 2009 MTV Africa Music Awards in Nairobi: See the list here.

The winners will be unveiled on 10 October 2009 at the Indoor Arena, Moi International Sports Centre, Nairobi, Kenya. Read more here.

My favorite nominees are P-Square from Nigeria, and the South African Cassette.

Anyone who can get away with singing 'Taking back Zimbabwe. Fuck you, Mugabe!' deserves the MTV Africa Music Awards!

Kariakoo: Tanzania's Pulse

You thought the centre of this nation was the Bunge in Dodoma. At least that was the intention when the Mwalimu tried to reorganise this nation which had already had the Germans messing round with their indecisive ideas of German East African capitals.

Lakini, the heart beats at its fastest in Kariakoo, the central part of Dar Es Salaam.

Here all goes in, and eventually out.

Swahili, Pemba and Sikukuu Streets flow like main arteries, circulating blood to and from the heart which takes the material shape of a concrete piece of East European architectural style: The Kariakoo Market.

The streets are overflowing with people of all varieties. Few of my kind, the wazungu, but otherwise here you probably find the greatest tribal vairety in one spot.

Along with all that your heart desires in terms of East Africa anno 2009.

In fact, to me this is better than IKEA. Here are things I did not even know existed; which cannot be catalogued or googled; or which will never find their way into a website from where you can order it on-line from your home.

You have to go there. And if you can't go bara ya Afrika, go to Kariakoo.

Inhale the smell of freshly cracked coconuts, spices and oranges; body odour mixed with diesel, decaying rubbish and greasy oil fumes from someone's half eaten chips mayai. Mind your steps; watch the traffic and the people dragging heavy-loaded carts; You're nothing but in the way. Step aside; take in the colours of fresh green pepper landed from Morogoro; or have a cup of coffee from the street instant coffee maker.

The Tanzanians say 'Kariakoo' when you ask them:

• What does the K/KOO on the daladalas mean?
• Where can I find a cheap hotel?
• Whats the Tanzanian equivalent to Owino Market in Kampala?
• Where are you going after work?
• Where did you get this and that?
• Where do you buy your seeds, your fertilizer and your panga?
• Where can I buy Congo-style trousers?
• Where did you buy those fancy, spiky shoes?
• Where can I get a one-size-fits-all kitenge dress? Or a niqab, a kanga or some decent kitenge?
• Or where are all the Chinese during daytime?

Kariakoo is the answer to many questions.

Possibly also the root of many troubles. In fact, Kariakoo is the material the best excuses are made of: 'Sorry, I'm late - I just came from Kariakoo.' Or 'Oh, yes, my sidemirrors were stolen in Kariakoo.'

Kariakoo was back in history a small village which the slave traders raided; then the German carrier corps resided in the area, and gave name to the place via a corrupted translation of 'Carrier Corps'. Carrier = Karia, and Corps = koo.

Ryszard Kapuściński wrote about his experiences in Kariakoo in his book Ebony. And when Aidan Hartley was a stringer in the 90ties in Dar Es Salaam, I'm sure Kariakoo played a part, too. To me, for sure, the heart of Dar Es Salaam is an endless source of inspiration.

Source: Wikipedia

The Zanzibar they never show you: The fishy smell

I'm not as cool as I try to come on.

While taking this photo yesterday somewhere between Bwejuu and the airport on Zanzibar, you'd hear me talking very fast and in C A P I T A L letters: I don't want this fishy stuff on my clothes or my luggage!

Our driver, Isidori was fasting, but it didn't prevent him from shopping food on his way home. We stopped at a road side tree, whereunder, I thought, the women were selling nuts or vegetables. No, they were selling mussels of all sorts!

A tray went in through my side screen, faster than I could prevent it. Dripping off mussel juice and salt water, and soon the whole cabin smelled dense and raw like the Indian Ocean.

While the driver, his cousin and the four children and my Italian companion on the backseat, picked the best.

'Are you gonna prepare them with coconut?', I joked, referring to our meal the night before.

Isidori smiled back confirmingly.

Zanzibar: The first meal of the Ramadhan

Saturday was the first day of the Ramadhan, the ninth month in the Islamic calendar where the Muslims fast, initially in order to concentrate on reaching a higher degree of patience, modesty and spirituality. Amongst others. In Dar Es Salaam, a Muslim friend of mine is hoping that the Ramadhan might help him combat his smoking habit.

In Stone Town during this period of time a lot of restaurants close at day time, and you are advised not to eat or drink in the street when others are going through the hardship of fasting. At 18.32 yesterday, the fast was broken, and eating was allowed. I know for certain, as yesterday evening I was sitting in the car of Isidori with his cousin brother, Hamisi, and our common Italian friend, Simona. We were stopping to buy passion juice in a little duka at the outskirts of Stone Town on the way to Isidori’s home where dinner awaited us, when we heard the call for the fourth prayer of the day, Maghrib.

Obviously, I feel lucky to be invited inside, to someone’s home. Possibly also due to the fact that I’m Danish. I come from this country in Scandinavia which previously and rather randomly has offended Islam, its culture and its people on several occasions. Most infamously, probably, through the publication of the cartoons, however, less known are all the indirect ways the Danish politicians try to distance Danes as a nation from other cultures and religions which, according to our democratically elected politicians, appear strange.

I’m not proud of it. In fact, it makes me both angry and ashamed every time I have to read in a Danish newspaper that another Danish politician tries to define what is strange and ‘non-Danish’. Last week the Conservative People’s Party suggested banning women wearing the bhurka, (un)aware that possibly only 50-150 women wear the bhurka in Denmark (!)

I do understand the dynamics which occur in your head, when you find yourself in a culture which works completely differently than the one you grew up with, and that this can evoke a certain degree of confusion and fear. But I can’t watch silently when politicians use this fear and confusion to create unnecessary stir, when the politicians move people’s attention from the real problems, or when no proper research is being done.

Last night back in Stone Town on the island of Unguja we celebrated the first meal of the Ramadhan with a Zanzibari family. Not a traditional family, but food wise we certainly went along the classical Zanzibar dishes: We had mhugo wa nasi (cassava with coconut); mwali wa nasi (rice with coconut); pweza wa nasi (octopus with coconut), jodari (tuna) and kaimati (small, sweet and spiced donuts).

And of course, the passion jusi. ‘No beers’, our host smiled and apologised rethorically.

After all, this is the Ramadhan, the holy month, and in spite we deal with young Muslims who declare themselves 'happy muslims', who don't go to the mosque to pray five times, and who refer to their Ramadhan practice with a 'nusu nusu' (half half), they do fast during day time. In my opinion and in regard of the few young Muslims I know, I reckon that trying to do your best to follow the concept of the Ramadhan is in fact not such a bad idea. Researching for this blog post, I read that there is an increasing group on non-Muslims practising fasting, too, during the Ramadhan, pursuing the same aim. 

But to be honest, I have no clear, conceptual idea of a good way to get familiar with a new culture which on many levels is far off your own. I was raised in a home where at least one adult throughout life has been voting for the Conservative People's Party and the other for the Liberals ('Venstre' in Danish), but I was also taught to behave politely towards strangers, say 'yes' and 'thank you very much' when offered something, and to greet people with respect. I know for sure that the adults raising me with these values had no idea - what so ever - that I'd be practising these in Zanzibar.

However, I know that there is a lot to learn by observing how others go about it. The majority of wazungu hang out in the regular tourist places, and so would I have done last night, if not for my Italian companion, Simona, who is so much better than me about this. Curiousity is another good thing - apropos trying to figuring out the differences of another culture - my sympathy goes to this guy. Curiousity is probably my main strenght in this perspective.

Our evening ended at the Forodhani Gardens (photo above), which has been renovated with the support from the Aga Khan Foundation, and has finally given Stone Town back its vibe. Zanzibarians were munching food, sugar cane juice and smoking cigarettes. According to the rules of the Ramadhan you must get up before dawn to eat Sahur, the pre-dawn meal, and then perform the fajr prayer. There is no eating or drinking before the call for prayer starts until the fourth prayer of the day, Maghrib. You may continue to eat and drink after the sun has set until the next morning's fajr prayer call.

Basically, it is about getting a routine going and planning. For some people, I guess, it turns day and night around, and probably lowers work efforts in some offices. The Ramadhan is ending at September 19th, and will be marked with an important celebration; Eid Ul-Fitr.

Now, my question is; Who's gonna invite me for this?

Read more about the Ramadhan here, which has also been used as the source for the Ramadhan facts in this blog post.
 

Sunday ranting from Kampala

Glad I am not the only blogger out here who occasionally has had it with the missionaries. However, a lot said on the account on the missionaries, could also be said on the account of Danish development workers.

So, I'll leave it, and pass on the word to the Ugandan Insomniac here.

Copenhagen. 7341 kilometres away. Not just geographically

A friend of mine is visiting Copenhagen.

Our home town.

He took this photo of one of the biggest cathedrals in Copenhagen - during World Outgames.

Imagine, what a different world I come from, compared to the world I live in now.

Why rainbow colours? Please, check this link.

Photos from the MaKuYa Festival in Mtwara

 

 

More to come, but check out these photos here in the meantime.

Gone Tribal. MaKuYa Festival in Mtwara

You should have been here.

It's cheap, wild, tribal and hot.

Woman looking out of her mgahawa. Mikindani

Up-coming Safari: Travelling Dar Es Salaam to Mikindani

Tomorrow I'm driving from Dar Es Salaam to Mikindani, the second-last town before the Mozambiquan border if you go south along the coast. 

A trip which lasted 10,5 hours, the last time I went there in March 2008, including stops - and where the GPS noted an average speed of 62 km/hour and a top speed of 123 kph.

Last time I also noted that the lush, green, coconut palm tree forests outside Dar es Salaam; when the 60 kilometres of dirt road ended around Songema; and the spot just before Lindi Town where you can finally see the turquoise Indian Ocean as highlights.

See map here.

I also noted that bringing coffee and a decent lunch is a really good idea. It is a bloody long trip. Last time I also fell in love with the idea of owning a GPS, and went as far as googling the thing. But still think it's too much money*.

This time I'm travelling with a diverse group consisting of 8 people, who're going to be stuffed into 3 cars. We're staying in The 10 Degrees South Lodge in Mikindani, which will be our base for attending the MaKuYa festival in Mtwara, 20 minutes further down the road.

Safari njema to us. I think it is going to be quite an expedition, partly into the unknown.

Just the way it should be when you can't get enough Africa.

*Should have thought of getting a GPS sponsor and write about the places I'd take it! Is it too late?

My friend is a taxi driver

Only in Africa...

...do I get text messages from 9500 metres in the sky.

Napenda.

Remind me again; Why am I supposed to leave this place?

Late afternoon under a blue sky in the centre of Dar Es Salaam

More here.

Photos for a Fair Trade Festival Kitchen in Copenhagen

Last Friday I made this compilation of photos for banners for the kitchen at this August's fair trade festival in Copenhagen - FAIR Fælled, organised by the NGO I work for - a task which was done in a hurry while I was in the middle of three other things and the deadline was sasa hivi. However, it belongs in the fun category, namely as these photos are amongst my favorite motives; food, people, tableaus, colour and texture.

 

It made me think about approaches - what ways we choose to put Africa on display back home. In this case, I picked photos based on a gut feeling and my personal idea of aesthetics, not paying attention to the confinement of representation in terms of geography (the districts we work within), partners or the NGO I work for. Only that it had to deal with food.

 

This is the way I prefer to go about a task, but obviously that doesn't always work. The NGO I work for normally puts 'right to access to land' up on an abstract level in its policy papers. I like to boil it down to essentials; What's there to eat? What does it look like? People might be poor, but we all party, eat, drink and put joy and energy into it. In my photos I go for close-ups of people, and intimacy when it comes to space - getting close, taking a smaller part of the bigger context to become familiar with and maybe suddenly see it from a different perspective.

 

In fact, that's how I like to go about Africa, I think.

 

The NGO I work for is usually good at appreciating this, and I am happy that they generally also choose to use my photos for other purposes than the regular way.  

 

Take a closer look at the photos (descriptions in Danish), or go to FAIR Fælled, and tell me what you think!

Karma. Do good stuff, and it multiplies back to you

I think I was way more alive yesterday than today. But I'm alive. Life's a party, and last night I gave up the high-heeled and walked barefeet. This Sunday was spent at Kipepeo Beach with good friends.

I made a New Year's Resolution to get more out of life on a personal level. I wanted to stress less in terms of my work, meaning that I didn't want to work in weekends or evenings (unless exceptional); and I didn't want work related problems, to which potential solutions I had no power of executing anyway, take up valuable space on my mental hard disc. I also wanted to spend time pursueing some creative, artistic ideas of my own. I wanted to take all travel opportunities being me granted, preferably the routes less taken. I wanted to spend more time with cool people, not waste it on whining expats who think that the traffic jam will go away if they mention it every day.

Sort of a karma thing, I believe. Do good stuff, and it multiplies back to you. The more you generate, the more you get. The more you talk about the traffic jam, the longer it takes.

Here, more than mid-way through the year, it seems to work. I have slowly started the process of the making of the coffee table photography book, something which both makes me excited and a little nervous. On Thursday I'm off to Mtwara, and I'm also planning to to go Nairobi for the Kelele Blogging Conference in October/November. Later one of my favorite Danish friends will move into my house for a couple of months while preparing a research project.

The past week I read an article in a women's magazine about life quality, and one question was to what capacity you live your life. I realised I feel like I'm living my life close to 100%. Of course, things are not perfect, probably never will be, and there is still space for improvements, things to be done, plans to be made and people to be met. Not to forget identifying my next job, pushing the balance on my bank account, and making it to the fittness centre more than once a month.

I'm in Africa and roads here are not smooth for long. On the other hand, that's the unpredicability I like.

Talk of the town: Five-day blackout in Dar Es Salaam

Tanesco cuts off the power in selected Dar Es Salaam areas next week. In an article in the Citizen here the areas which will be affected, are referred to as 'posh', and additionally it focuses on all the ministers and embassies which will suffer from the outage.

Interesting perspective. Not as informative as I'd liked it. The area where I live isn't mentioned, even though it is right in between Namanga and Mikocheni. Lakini, what does it mean in preactice?!

Seems like the perfect time to do this.

Going to the MaKuYa Festival in Mtwara

The Mtwara region of Tanzania contains a rich and unique tradition of performing arts among the Makonde, Makua and Yao tribes. Because of Mtwara’s isolation many traditional dances have not yet been lost to modern trends, until now.

With development, radios and televisions are making their way into rural Mtwara, and many people are being drawn into current modern trends of music and fashion, abandoning their interest in traditional dance and music.

But there are some who still treasure it and wish to perform, and many village elders see the value of preserving it and wish to serve as advisors to young performers.

Check last years festival out here, from where the above text derives.

I'm off next Thursday to Mikindani and Mtwara - the road less travelled.

Had Freud been put on a daladala in Africa, I bet the psychoanalysis had looked very different

'Duni ni mapito', the streamer on the daladala says. It just passed me in one of these moves which make you doubt whether it has seen you or even cares.

Many of the texts on the daladalas have religious meanings, and a colleague of mine adviced me to translate it into 'the world is in transition (not permanent), meaning 'you will get to a better place when you come to heaven'.

I wonder why the daladalas tend to put forward these rather poetic statements when it would be way more truthfully simply to write 'I don't give a fuck, we're all going to die!'

On Saturday I returned from a 1800 kilometres drive to the Southern Highlands spread over 7 days. When I reached Ubongo, the treshold to Dar Es Salaam I found myself about to explode. This daladala in the photo didn't exactly help.

The traffic in this country is horrific, and it sort of culminates at Ubongo, increasing in both size and idiocy.

I'm sorry, Tanzanians, but I simply don't get the major part of the people whom your police has allowed behind wheels.

I drive myself, and I'm usually confident doing so though previous experience always stays at the back of my mind as a constant reminder of what traffic can do to people; People who died or got injured, body parts strewn over on a Johannesburg highway, and plenty of wrecks in ditches all over the Africa I have travelled.

When I moved to northern Uganda in June 2005 it was a bigger issue to me, than it is today. But coping with it, is not a thing I take for granted.

Questions differ when I explain that I drive on my own; from 'How do you find the way?' to 'Do you really dare driving on your own?'  The Tanzanian highways usually go straight from A to B according to the maps and without much fuss. Besides coming from 26 months along and across the Ugandan border to Southern Sudan, Tanzania appears lighter. Here are risks, but not a crazy, scattered rebel movement planning random ambushes, army checkpoints, landmines or areas where you'll need military police escort. On the other hand, the roads in Tanzania are in a better condition (amongst others thanks to the Danish government), which means you can drive faster.

In Tanzania I mainly operate with risks in the following categories:

• Other drivers: Especially of trucks and busses, who drive as if they are on LSD, or had their fear of death surgically removed. I absolutely fear and loathe this category on a primal level. They generally drive too fast; they overtake even when visibility is low; they lie behind your car and push you into unsafe positions. These drivers do not respond to common sense, but should be approached with it.

• Speed: My Nissan Hardbody can reach 180 kph. The higher speed, the higher risk. The lower the speed, the lower risk.

• Awareness: Always safety belts; lots of coffee, lots of Red Bull; many pauses (good to combine with photgraphy and short calls).

• The risk of having an accident: In particular an accident which will make me unable to look after myself, i.e. call for help or get to the hospital. It is not unthinkable in this peaceloving country to be robbed or left to die in your car. I'm just saying that I have absolutely no illusions in that regard, and that it is all about staying alive and keeping up your authority, if you get a problem. In fact, I learnt early on in northern Uganda that being a single white woman means you do need to boost your ability to make quick decisions and appear clear.

The day before I left for my trip to the Southern Highlands I had a negative experience:

At noon I drove through Oysterday from Saint Peter's Church in Dar Es Salaam, and came to the zebra crossing, where I halted my car when I saw that the children were about to cross; the children noticed it, but looked no further. In fact they often cross along the whole distance, not paying attention to the zebra crossing. I sat in my car and waited for the long line of children to cross, when a pick-up approached the zebra crossing from the opposite direction. At full speed. I was automatically assuming he'd stop, after all there are children all over the road. And me. But the freak didn't! He didn't even lower his speed, but navigated right through the line of children while the pick-up lingers from side to side. It leaves me with three seconds to imagine what will happen when his car hits mine: I thought that I probably won't die, but that I might break something and get bruises. I thought of the fact that my car stands still, and that it is constructed with a special steel frame which should minimize the risk in head on crashes. I calculated that he'll hit my most vulnerable side, my door. I thought of the cars of colleagues, left as wrecks in our compund; colleagues who have had their cars smashed, and I think that if they made it without injuries, so will I.

But he didn't hit me. Somehow the maniac managed to get his car straight and pass mine with less of a metre. It was so close. My heart went ballistic. I started to shake. Clutch, speeder, come on, go on, get out of here. And take it fucking easy. I kept thinking that this was so incredibly unnecessary, and would have been bloody unbearable had he hit the children or me for no reason, but him being an idiot.

Secondly, I get the feeling, which I also had when I experienced a similar thing on Jinja Road in Uganda back in 2006; I want to face the driver, make him understand the consequences, and then rip off his private parts with a slow panga. Rather primal, but I guess that is exactly what fear and anger is. Sometimes it seems that drivers in Africa operate at only one end of the scale; fearless. Had Freud been born put on a daladala in Africa, I bet the psycho analysis had looked very different.

I'm sure I could entertain a Danish psychotherapist for several sessions on this topic. Traffic is the thing I fear the most, and what makes me the most angry in this place. Here, everyone has experienced something similar, and they will take your story as an invitation to tell theirs before you finish. Or they will share morbid jokes. All to make a convenient distance. I do that, too.

We all want it out, and make it go away. I think we all fear that the experiences will corrupt us; make us cynical. I know, if an experience like this stays with me, I'm fucked if I still wanna drive in Africa. For me it is all about the balance of not forgetting the fear, but even it out with a realistic approach to driving. For me it works to write it out of my system.

On my way back from Njombe a traffic police officer stopped me, and asked me to give him a lift, as there had been an accident ahead. Sure. Two cars crashed head on, and people rushed to hospital. 50 bystanders watching the scene. Some two hours later on the road to Iringa I met a similar accident. And in the Baobab Valley a big truck. lying down, blocked the road.

No, I'm never getting used to the fact that life and death travels closely together on this continent.

Safari njema, the Tanzanians say. Travel safely. I wish!

(Apologies for a very long post, way too long.)

Lords of the Bling

A presentation depicting the amount of treatment that could be paid for with the amount of money spent on extravagant purchases and events by political leaders. Check it here.

What's your Thinking Space?

The Economist is asking opinion leaders from around Europe to share where they get their ideas (their ‘Thinking Space’). Over the next few months The Economist will be featuring the best contributions in the main section of this site, alongside those of the leading personalities already featured like movie director Claudia Llosa, musician Jamie Lidell and Spotify founder Daniel Ek.

If you have a blog, they would love to see what your thinking space is. To take part, all you have to do is check out this site.

...now, right - it focuses on Europe, however, I'd loved it to have asked Robert Mugabe. Or Kikwete. Or maybe the person who designed the traffic system in Dar Es Salaam.

1800 KM in 7 days

I'm back in Dar Es Salaam after 1800 km in 7 days to dusty places crying for decent tarmac; where people call condoms for 'tatu bila', but still die of HIV; and where the wazungu wear two-tone shirts and call my safari boots for 'vellies'.

I need sleep. And later the breeze from the Indian Ocean.

Nothing beats Dar Es Salaam.

It feels like having sex without a condom....

...when I have to plug in the great variety of USB flashsticks in my laptop, when I cooperate with people here.

I'm so left with no choice, but that or laying down the work. And yes, give me all your good advice, but this is rural Africa, and we plug the USB sticks in whereever, forgetting the anti-virus protection, or maybe it just isn't an option, when here's no Internet.

My laptop is now suffering from a wide range of virusses popping up, while I try to kill them with a virus detection programme, slowing down my machine. I hope it doesn't die before I reach Dar Es Salaam!

Man, I'm tired of this.

Today's Best Photo: Woman with a healthy laughter

I feel absolutely on top of the world, when I come home with a photo like this. Best thing is that I have a range of them.

In spite of the fact, that I need a hot shower, power is cheating on me, I freeze (not as much as yesterday), and I long for a cold beer and the tropical climate.

After all I'm a Dar Es Salaam girl...

But for now, it can all wait, this photo is worth all the kilometres, the cold bucket showers and the people observing me repeatedly.

Yeah!

Southern Highlands: Vastness & Solitude

It is Sunday night around eight o’clock.

 

Above me is the serene, dark sky, edged by the four walls of the little yard of the house of the family I’m staying with.

 

The moon and the stars are shining bright. The view is healing. I don’t know why, but it gives me the impression that there is more to life that an office job in the big city, though I doubt I could ever exchange the remote vastness of the Southern Highlands for a longer period of time with the kilele of the big city.

‘Have you ever seen such a clear sky?,’ my host, John asked last night.

 

I have. Once in northern Uganda, where we drove by the back roads between Arua and Koboko one night. And once I went by dhow from Bagamoyo to Zanzibar. But it doesn’t happen often. To see such a clear sky you need to be far off the infrastructure. In Denmark it isn’t possible.

 

I have no exact idea of where I am, but far off the infrastructure. The village is called Kanani, and it is no more than a few scattered houses, two churches and a school. I left Iringa Sunday morning at 9 o’clock, and met with John in Makumbako two hours later. Makumbako is a trading centre and a junction for the traffic moving up from Zambia via Mbeya, and to and from Songea, a town close to the Mozambique border.

 

BuI lost track when we drove off the road at Halali Village 22 kilometres after Makumbako on the road to Mbeya. We circled for 30 kilometres through Ilembula Village, where I waited for John to have a haircut; then to Mambegu junction; and finally the last 2,5 kilometres to Kanani.

 

To our right we had the blue Livingstone Mountains at Lake Nyasa. Livingstone made it all the way down here, entering from Mikindani at the southern coast of Tanzania. Years before he did another trip, the one he died of. (I think) 

Someone is beating the drum, walking round the few houses which make up Kanani.

‘All people are requested to show up to make bricks tomorrow for the school toilets,’ my hosts explain.

We are far out. At least that is what I’m thinking as the life here is such a contrast to where I come from.

Even to Dar Es Salaam, which in this perspective has got it all; power, newspapers and people; network and tarmac.

 

The wind rustled the house all night. It was freezing cold when I woke up this morning, and slid my feet into a pair of cold malapa. The procedures for my morning toilette were another cold affair, and I’m soon to long for a warm shower.

Nevertheless, how often does an mzungu get a chance to stay with a local African family? I get it too seldom. And if offered we are likely to say no, because it takes extra energy to stay without these amenities we have grown into not living without.

 

Today I have been facilitating a training session on how to make a newsletter for John’s organisation, Njombe Agricultural Development Association (NADO), and right now, here at the end of it, I’m impressed with our progress, and the fact that it got concrete. Tomorrow will show if I’m too optimistic.

 

More about it later, my laptop battery is running low.

Iringa: May I recommend the Copenhagen Suite?!

I still find it overwhelming and far out to take my car and drive into Africa, and find a hotel. All on my own.

Several times I have also hung out the car, asking my way, in spite it now seems obvious. The first time I drove to Iringa two years ago, I couldn't find the town itself.

I now know that it is hidden away on a cliff 1600 metres above sea level. But nobody said anything about that.

A classic European idea, in this case the German colonisers, to build a town here where the climate is cool. The Germans though had trouble settling issues with the local chief from the Hehe tribe, Mtwa Mkwawa, who later committed suicide in 1898 rather than surrendering himself to the Germans. Tanzanian core history took place in this area.

On Uhuru Avenue I parked my car outside Annex of Staff Inn. The place has this peculiar thing - every room has a name after a town.

No evident system, but I got the Copenhagen Suite.

Photos: Baobab Valley and the Great Ruaha River

I have arrived from Dar Es Salaam to Iringa. Quite a drive, I must say, partly due to road works along the way. Sponsored by the Danes by the way. Almost felt proud to be Danish for a moment here today; frequent readers know how happy I am of tarmac.

It is almost two years ago I drove this distance, and I kept thinking of it as longer.

Stunning scenery, nevertheless. The drive from Mikumi along the Great Ruaha River in particular is a breathtaking experience. The river flows massively through green vegetation below reddish brown cliffs which are covered by thousands of baobabs.

Today the sun made the baobabs beam like silver lathered over the mountain sides; their branches reaching for pieces of the blue sky.

And I caught a bunch of smily bi-cyclists shouting 'mzungu' and 'picha'.

Nakwenda bara ya Africa: Off to the Southern Highlands

I have made strong coffee, fresh tangerine juice with ginger and a packed lunch, burnt soundtracks on CDs (lots of Morcheeba and obviously Johnny Clegg), found warm clothes for the Southern Highlands (which is very cold at this time of year), organised medicine, malaria test kit and a net, sorted the photo equipment, the cables, the laptop, the external harddrive and the Vodafone modem (believing I'll be online in bara ya Africa). Now trying to localise the panga for the car; up-dating my Facebook status; then off to Iringa; Sunday to Njombe.

Buying the coconuts for Njombe on the road. Life's an adventure and I'm taking a big part of it.

Follow my trip here.

Contemporary Tanzanian Design: The Watchman's Chair

I'm shaped by a culture which puts an enormous pride into its design of i.e. furniture.

Danes pay a lot to decorate their homes with furniture and assecories carefully selected. Design is part of Danish culture and the identity of our home.   

Personally, one side of me loves Danish design, and I do appreciate that it is characterised by Nordic lightness and pure, natural fabrics of good quality.

But in most cases I can't afford it, or I simply find it too 'clean' or 'thought about'. Within my collection of furniture and items, which at present are stored at my brother's farm in Denmark - and supposedly are to re-make my home in Denmark - I do expect to relocate a few items which can be tagged 'classic Danish design'. But they are either inherited or bought second-hand, and besides, after four years in boxes I don't even remember what I have, and I don't really care that much.

Living here - on a way more minimalistic level - makes me feel conveniently free of the demand to come on as someone who has got her Danish design in place.

The Tanzanian street design is based on what you have, is what you got. And to make that function. Functionality appears to be key. A classical Tanzanian design is the 'watchman's chair'. Any compound or shop has a watchman who needs a chair. It often appears that if it wears out, he'll have to fix it himself. And he does.

Resulting in the fact that watchmen's chairs are highly, personalised items of contemporary Tanzanian design.

This one on the photo is from Kisutu in central Dar Es Salaam, and is in fact constructed by two different chairs, living fully up to the principle of making what you've got,  function.

Link: Bongo the Film

I'm passing on this link to Bongo the Film. Check it out: 

From the streets of Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, comes a film about opportunity. Bongo, from the Swahili word for “brain”, represents the cunning resourcefulness that it takes to survive on the streets of Dar es Salaam and, for that, the city takes its nickname.

Also thanks to Bongo the Film for Twittering a cool reference to me: 'bongofilm - Came across some amazing shots by artist/aidworker/blogger living in Dar es Salaam. Check it out: http://tinyurl.com/lyhkhd @PernillaAfrika.'

(Makes me feel very cool).

Tanzanian Logic: How to serve Konyagi correctly?

I was at a party some weeks ago at a roof top terrace in Namanga, in Dar Es Salaam, where people were drinking Konyagi.

A witty guy explained that when to serve a bottle of Konyagi correctly, it has to lie down.

'Why?,' the ignorant mzungu asked in anticipation as were the guy about to reveal a national secret.

'Because the man on the label will get tired if standing up all night.'

I hope they have Konyagi in stuck for the Bongo Flava party in Copenhagen (below), or it just isn't right.