Curtis Mayfield (June 3, 1942 – December 26, 1999)

Curtis Mayfield was a true musical genius…for the past month I’ve been listening to his soul stirring songs on a daily basis and with all that’s happening around the world his lyrics and harmonies have managed to keep me inspired. His music calls us to affirm our humanity  by choosing love over hate and peace over war.  While I used to only be familiar with his classics “Keep on Pushing”, “Move on Up”, “Pusherman”, “Ghetto Child” and “Superfly”, now I’m all about songs like “We The People Who Are Darker Than Blue”, “Other Side Of Town”, “So in Love”, “Wild And Free” and  “Jesus”.  To me, Mayfield took R&B and Funk to a whole new level and left us with a soundtrack for a time such as this, where revolution, the kind that starts from within, seems to be the only solution to the ongoing onslaught of the oligarchy and plutocracy.

She speaks the present

Since there’s no action in past

The future gasps for air

Welcoming mirages of moments

Dances with time

Nuances of laughter

Monologues through tears

In her child

Lies her world

In the world

Lies the children who sing eternity

Their unschooled artistry

Birth out of sun giving originality

Subdued by books

Voices vying for space in their minds

From rentals to complete occupation

Dreams wither

Inside instructional walls

Where rooms restrict wonder

Narrators demand submissions

Wonder full they are

Wonder less they become

The marketing of humanity

Standard tests of functionality

Gatherings inside a contentious graduation

They clutch bottles of celebration

Only to awake naked on cold pavement

Hanging over the curb

With their concrete experiences

Typed on a white page

Placed on the desks of hoarders

Who categorize and exploit

Manipulate and distort

According to age

Leading the former children to rage

Taught to pass

Trained to fail

Crying hearts eye an escape

While the rest sing of efforts to placate

Wonder full we are

Wonder less we become

http://fimormitchell.wordpress.com/

While we fight and hope for justice for Trayvon Martin, let us use that same spirit to demand justice for all the children of the world.

I found myself taking many pictures of the Rwandan flag

With a calm demeanour but stern voice, he reiterated that I would not be granted entrance into the country unless I produced a visa document. “You must have an acceptance letter like the other [tourists],” he said, with a sympathetic smile, after I offered to pay more than the 30$ that Canadians (not Americans and Brits) must fork up upon arriving in Rwanda.

As we conversed in English and French, it was obvious, despite my ability to make him grin and even chuckle, that he wasn’t going to excuse my ignorance (I seriously didn’t know that I needed to apply for a tourist visa) by stamping my passport and letting me walk through customs or take a bribe.

Yet, the thirty-something year-old looking man genuinely was concerned about my predicament and ultimately played a role in getting me out of it by making numerous calls, on his cell phone, to my Rwandan friend who was able to get a contact at immigrations to expedite my visa application form that I completed online in the customs area. He was fair, kind and courteous, which in my travels around the world, are rare qualities to find in a customs officer.

With that customs officer’s display of humanity fresh in my mind, the magnificent view of hills and lights from my passenger seat window and a cool evening breeze that was treating me to a prolong forehead kiss, I proudly told my friends during the ride to my hostel, that I was happy to be in Rwanda. I’m not sure if my statement surprised anyone in the SUV, but I surely wasn’t expecting to feel that way, at least not so soon.

When Joan and Anne, sisters I befriended during my college years, suggested that I paid them a visit in Kigali, since I was going to be backpacking around Africa, I was somewhat hesitant. Simply hearing the country’s name conjured up horrific images of the 1994 genocide and  the refrain of Corneille’s “I’ll Never Call You Home Again”. Sensing my nervousness, they both, in their respective ways, mentioned that Rwanda was on the move and would be worth experiencing.

It turns out, they were absolutely right.

Almost all the Rwandans I’ve met and spoken with are young and unbelievably optimistic. They wholeheartedly believe that the country’s best days are ahead and that they can and will play a key part in developing it. When I consider the work many of them are doing or have done, it becomes clear that young people are impacting today’s Rwanda in ways that I never imagined.

Also, I get the sense that Rwandans truly respect President Kagame and believe that he’s steering the country in the right direction. According to government records, more than one million Rwandans have lifted themselves out of poverty in the past five years (In 2006 57% of the population was living in poverty, the rate dropped to 45% in 2011). Unlike North America, where leaders are indifferent to the poor, Rwandan leaders speak of eradicating poverty and growing to the middle-income.

Speaking at a conference on development and poverty reduction, this week in Kigali, Paul Collier, a Professor of Economics and Director of the Center for the Study of African Economies at Oxford University, made the following quote:

“What I see here is what should happen all over Africa. Despite numerous impediments, Rwanda continues to achieve what others have failed to achieve. The combination of growth, reduction in poverty and more equity has been achieved nowhere else in Africa.”

Government initiatives such as the One Cow Per Poor Household, a program launched in 2008 which seeks to provide 257 000 of the poorest families in the country training and support to raise milk for home consumption and Umuganda , a mandatory community service day held on the last Saturday of every month where all able bodied persons above the age of 18 and below 65 are expected to complete some form of community service, appear to have garnered the people’s support.

For the most part, all the Rwandans I’ve come across, strike me as being calm and reserved. But after a mere 13 days in Rwanda, there are some cultural and political nuances that I’m surely missing.  After all, I’ve heard a number of locals say, “we Rwandans are complicated people”.

As a capital city, Kigali is remarkably clean, safe and quiet (coming from Dar es Salaam, I did miss a bit of the chaos which tends to give a city its character). There are some areas that are far more developed than others, but I haven’t come across any shantytowns.

Walking around the city it’s hard to imagine that some of the worse atrocities, in recent history, transpired here and around this undeniably beautiful land of a thousand hills a mere 18 years ago.

What Rwanda has been able to accomplish during these 18 years has been exceptional and with all the hope and harmony that seems to be flowing around, I can’t help but buy into the idea that things will continue to improve.

Over the past two months, I’ve been trying to make sense of what I’ve been seeing, hearing, tasting, smelling, touching and feeling here in Africa. At times I wish I could share my journal with all of you so that you could get my viewpoints in a rather uncensored fashion. But since I’m not willing to share,in that way, I thought I’d offer some pictures and thoughts.

There are a number of African business tycoons, intellectuals, and economists who argue quite fervently that despite meeting some very basic needs, foreign aid has actually crippled many of the continent’s 53 countries. They argue that money from rich countries has trapped nations in a pattern of governmental corruption, slower economic growth and poverty. The reality is that contrary to how Africa is depicted in the Western media, this continent does not need to be rescued, rather, it desperately needs a square deal. I wonder what Africa would look like if it had equal access to international markets?   

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Just 44km south of Lusaka lies a small town of Kafue. I met these two boys at a service station off the main road. They showed up to drink water at the outdoor tap, which adults were strictly using to wash their hands. As I watched them repeatedly place their small hands under the faucet, lower their faces into them and guzzle down the water, as if they'd traversed a desert and were on the verge of dying of thirst, I wondered about their background. Where had they come from? Where were they going? We were unable to communicate in English, so I was left unknowing.

I was looking for the famous Soweto Market in Lusaka and came across this bustling place of commerce. Similar to my fascination with bus and train stations, markets, in non-western countries are always alluring. Rarely do I go to actually purchase goods, I rather enjoy observing the the relationship between vendor and buyer. Yes, such markets do offer cheap counterfeit products which are an obvious draw, but the conversations, the laughter, the disputes, the stares and the array of non-verbal communication are what bring markets to life.

Eight years after former President Frederick Chiluba officially declared Zambia to be a Christian Nation, Archbishop Mambo was quoted in the papers as saying, "There is very little to show that we are a Christian nation with so much wrong-doing, both in private and public life. There is nothing to distinguish us from secular nations. This is sad." Interestingly enough, throughout Zambia's twenty years as a Christian Nation there have been several other religious leaders that have pointed out the country's failure to live up to its name. In my conversations with everyday Zambians, the whole declaration is fundamentally perceived as a joke. Yes, there are preachers that get on coaches and urge passengers to choose Jesus or else face eternity in hell, but for the most part, the people just seem to want to live their lives the way they see fit. Shouldn't they be able to do that?

Where the journey to Dar es Salaam began

Reclining in his makeshift seat next to the driver, he devoured the roasted chicken and french fries with no apparent regard for the forty plus hungry passengers sitting behind him. Then, with his greasy fingers wrapped around a cold bottle of water, he took a gulp to wash down his meal. With my eyes fixed on his large frame, I shook my head in disbelief as he lifted the bottle to his mouth for a second and third time wondering how he, as a ticket collector and main guarantor of passenger safety and comfort, could behave in such a selfish manner.

He, who was often called big man by some of the male passengers, was absolutely aware that the last food stop we made was at six o’clock the previous evening and that it was now lunch time. He must have known that we were out of  food and water.

After spending the night parked outside the gate of the Zambia-Tanzania  border waiting on it to open at 7am and then waisting close to three hours going through customs, a breakfast stop was in order but wasn’t given.

According to the Zimbabwean woman sitting next to me, who got on the bus in Harare and a few other passengers,  he was upset about the money customs officers asked him to pay and complained about us being hours behind schedule due to delays at the border and an accident on the highway.

On the road to Dar es Salaam we had to stop for about an hour because of this accident

(He wasn’t the only one upset about border fees. I wasn’t thrilled about having to cough up 50 US dollars to enter Tanzania, especially when I only had 35 Euros on me and therefore had to walk over to the bureau de change hoping to get a good exchange, which, naturally I didn’t receive so I had to dig into my bag and pull out some Namibian dollars which luckily covered the difference)

In my view, he exposed his tyrannical tendencies at the bus station in Lusaka (where I boarded the coach) when he told me to move out of my first row seat. “But this is my seat,” I protested, calmly, not wanting to make any enemies. “No, it’s not you’ve made a mistake,” he replied, standing next to the second row seat that he wanted me to relocate to. I should mention, that the ticket agent had given me a first row seat so that I could enjoy the extra leg room and even guided me to it ten minutes earlier.

“Come move here, this seat is more comfortable,” he said, with a cunning smile. It took a lot of strength for me to accept his unfair treatment, but I felt it would have been unwise to start a verbal war with a ticket collector in a foreign land, especially since he seemed bent on ruling the bus with an iron fist. A few minutes after moving into my new seat, the bus pulled out of Lusaka Inter-City Bus Terminus and he proudly plopped himself into that first row seat.

This is the bus...I don't have a shot of the big man or the front row seat

During the first four hours of the journey, the bus stopped on numerous occasions. However, he routinely fixed himself by the door and rudely stopped some men from exiting the bus to relieve themselves in the bushes.

Yet, I must concede, that for the most part, he appeared to have earned the appreciation of everybody on the bus, excluding mine of course. The African music he played had people singing and the Tanzanian television dramas he put on the large Sony flat screen captivated everybody. He also handed out lollipops, which was an extremely popular act ( I must say, it was odd seeing so many grown men and women sucking on candy on the end of a stick. I gracefully told the big man I didn’t want his candy).

Just when I was beginning to forget about the seat incident, he bumped my shoulder on his way down the aisle, waking me out of a light sleep. I don’t know if the contact was intentional, but when it happened again later on in the night, when the bus was completely dark, I suspected that he might have been looking to start an altercation.

By late morning, on the second day of our trek to Dar es Salaam, I heard a number of loud sighs that eventually turned into faint grumblings. One female passenger asked that music be played or that something be shown on the Sony flat screen. Though her requests were not met, the big man did hand out candy and then passed out several lollipops to passengers he referred to as VIPs.

Taking into account the minor confrontation that occurred earlier in the day when he tried to bully me into staying on the bus by putting a hand on my chest and I refused, deciding to walk right pass him (when I returned to the bus, he was standing at the door conversing with a female passenger. He pretended not to see me and was deliberately blocking my entrance but I powered my way through him), I definitely wasn’t a VIP.

“We have not had our breakfast or lunch and you want us to use the bathroom,” said the Zimbabwean, translating the outburst of a gentleman sitting behind me after the bus made a bathroom rather than a food stop. The man’s words garnered to support of almost every traveler. An hour later, the bus stopped and the big man announced in a stern voice that we had 10 minutes to get some grub.

Although I hadn’t eating all day and didn’t have any Tanzanian Shillings to purchase a meal (all I could afford with my two US dollars was water and a box of ginger cookies), I felt vindicated watching the big man lose the admiration of most passengers. I was tempted to lead a mini celebration when he gathered his belongings and got off the bus in a small town near Dar es Salaam. The final hour of the trip was astonishingly more enjoyable without the big man.

 

 

 

]]> http://www.fimomitchell.com/blog/the-big-man-on-the-bus/feed/ 1 http://www.fimomitchell.com/blog/searching-for-authentic-experiences/ http://www.fimomitchell.com/blog/searching-for-authentic-experiences/#comments Thu, 15 Dec 2011 20:49:57 +0000 Fimo Mitchell http://www.fimomitchell.com/?p=352 I didn’t come to Swakopmund to go quad biking in the desert, but after hearing a few travellers rave about the experience, I began to consider signing up for it. Unlike skydiving and paragliding, two other activities that are offered here in the Namib Desert, quad biking is exhilarating but not frightening.

It’s the tourist’s longing for experiences and the local’s recognition of this longing which is at the root of the tourism industry. Regardless of whether a tourist prefers to travel in a tour group or navigate the foreign lands independently, like myself, the reality is that a tourist always ends up paying for an experience.

During my conversations with non-Africans tourists, here in Namibia, I’ve noticed that by and large, they’ve come to this country, and Africa, desiring  authentic encounters with its people, wildlife, cultures and landscapes.

As a result, many have rented cars to freely drive across the 824 268 square km of predominantly desert land, camped out in deserts and even volunteered in nature reserves. While others have done some of the activities and extreme sports listed above, visited townships as part of a guided tour (just like in South Africa, guided tours of townships here in Namibia are available for a price of 40 or 50 dollars) and of course gone to Etosha national park which is home to four of the “Big Five” (the lion, leopard, buffalo, elephant and rhino are part of the “Big Five”.  Tourists speak of the “Big Five” with such admiration, I keep thinking maybe I should try to at least see one of them…or maybe not, what can I say I’m not particularly motivated to go on a safari).

Nevertheless, after all this effort and not to mention, money spent, rarely do I come across a non-African tourist that has been overwhelmingly satisfied with his or her time in Africa. It’s alarming to see the amount of long and exhausted faces hanging around hostels. On some occasions, I’ve met travellers who’ve felt completely cheated, claiming to have received very little, in terms of experience, for the fees they paid to visit countries like Botswana, Zimbabwe, Mozambique, Kenya, Tanzania and Malawi.

I’m not a shrink and there are obviously many reasons why so many non-African tourists may  be disappointed or even bored, but I can’t help but think that it might have something to do with expectations not being met. Imagine journeying all the way to Africa and looking forward to having an authentic African experience (the key word here being authentic, which surely means different things to different people) and not having it?

As I reflected on this issue of unmet expectations I’ve wondered if it’s still possible for the traveller to have an authentic experience, when practically everything has been commercialized by the local.

Last Thursday afternoon, I was at Pick N Pay, a South African grocery chain that’s present across Namibia, to buy some food when I suddenly felt the urge to invite myself to a local’s house for dinner. “You’re joking right?” asked the young woman, with a quizzical look on her face as her two friends appeared to be discussing my request. “No, I’m very serious,” I said, grinning widely, “I’ve been in Africa for almost a month but I don’t feel like I’ve eaten many African meals so I’d like to eat something Namibian.” After a fifteen minute discussion, they agreed to have me over for dinner so long as I brought non-alcoholic beverages.

That dinner, will remain one of my favourites for many reasons, but mainly because it was organically spontaneous (the food was great and the conversation was very engaging).

Sure, there are some hunter-gatherer tribes scattered that I would relish the opportunity to commune with, but in this day and age, I may have to pay hundreds of dollars to make it happen. And perhaps even more troubling (if I was looking for a non-Westernized experience),  is the possibility that due to the previous travellers who paid them a visit, they may not only understand my English but respond to me in the language (heck, they may even wear Western clothes and have iPhones).

A few weeks ago, I was fortunate enough to meet and interview a group of artists.

To live is to experience, so maybe it’s a question of not over-thinking the sort of experience one wants to have but simply being present and making the most of the environment that one is currently in. I concede that has a traveler, it’s frustrating to watch how people attempt to commercialize any and everything, but there are ways around this phenomenon: take in every moment and appreciate it as an experience.

It was an intense run to the top of Dune 7 here in Swakopmund...I felt good!

]]> http://www.fimomitchell.com/blog/searching-for-authentic-experiences/feed/ 0 http://www.fimomitchell.com/blog/border-crossing/ http://www.fimomitchell.com/blog/border-crossing/#comments Mon, 12 Dec 2011 14:37:08 +0000 Fimo Mitchell http://www.fimomitchell.com/?p=343 Rummaging through the Rasta’s suitcase, determined to find something that would warrant the amount of attention they were paying him, one of the custom’s officers pulled out a roach (not the insect). As he held it up to his face, wanting, along with his colleagues, to examine it further, the tall and slim dreadlocked man, wearing a white wrap on his head, seemed to be attempting to explain himself. The officers didn’t appear to be convinced by his words and quickly escorted him off the platform, where many of the other passengers were standing, into a back room.

While the Rasta, and I assume his belongings, were undergoing intense examination in some dingy office, a short and stalky officer pointed at the man that I was conversing with demanding to see his luggage. Forced to obey the officer’s wishes, the two bus drivers with the help of the targeted man, who happened to also have dreads, dug out the large suitcase and placed it down on the platform. After not finding anything incriminating in the man’s possessions, all passengers were ordered back on the bus. Many travellers, me included,  did not have our effects inspected.

Border crossing, to me, is often the most frustrating part of any journey. After observing far too many instances of border officers practically bullying travellers and being involved in some of my own border disputes, I’ve developed a slight disdain for not only the notion of borders but the armed men and women who apparently keep them safe (I understand that everybody needs to work, but if you’re job involves tyrannizing people it’s hard for me to respect you).

So when we were finally allowed to drive out of South African territory and enter Namibia, some ten seconds later, I wasn’t in the best of moods. Listening to the seated officers press decent human beings for answers to questions that don’t or shouldn’t determine whether a person has the legal right to enter a country, began to frustrate me (I should mention that it was 2am and I hadn’t eaten since noon).

“How come you don’t have a contact person?” a well groomed officer asked me, his tone undoubtedly accusatory. “Because I don’t know anybody in Namibia,” I answered, swiftly. He clearly understood my response but still asked why I didn’t know anybody in Namibia. Knowing that I would get nowhere by being rude, I calmly explained that I’m just backpacking around Africa.

Looking down at my passport, he decided to inquire about my contacts in Canada. “You mean, you really want me to give you the name and number of someone in Canada?”, I asked, in almost disbelief. Smiling, he said, “Yes, that way if something should happen to you in Namibia we can call them”. (There was something unsettling about his words, but I nonetheless wrote down my mother’s name and telephone number, which I should mention is clearly written in my passport…the same passport that will be on me if anything “should” happen to me.)

A few feet to my left, the Rasta, who I was pleased to see was released from South African customs was being grilled about not having listed an address on his Namibia entry form. “If you don’t have an address you will not be allowed into Namibia,” the female officer declared, angrily.

I happen to be holding a pamphlet for a hostel in Windhoek and wanted to slip it down to him so that he could jot down the address at once. (While being stuck in the middle of nowhere for about three hours, due to mechanical problems, I and him struck up a good conversation about life and the arts so I naturally wanted to help him out). But considering that the officer dealing with me had just stamped my passport, officially allowing me into Namibia, I didn’t think it was wise to show such overt disrespect for a policy that I deem utterly idiotic. I quietly left the room and the Rasta behind.

Ten minutes later, I along with a dozen other passengers were sitting inside Wimpy’s, a fast food chain, eagerly awaiting food. With only one cook in kitchen, the wait was long, but at least we had successfully crossed the Namibian border and closer to our destination: Windhoek. For those of you wondering what happened to the Rasta, he, after much questioning and other forms of scrutiny, that from his description sounded very much like harassment,  was allowed into Namibia.

 

 

]]> http://www.fimomitchell.com/blog/border-crossing/feed/ 0 http://www.fimomitchell.com/blog/robben-island/ http://www.fimomitchell.com/blog/robben-island/#comments Thu, 08 Dec 2011 14:22:09 +0000 Fimo Mitchell http://www.fimomitchell.com/?p=326 After briefly detailing the despicable living conditions of prisoners on Robben Island, the soft-spoken guide, a former prisoner himself, asked if there were any questions. One man, possibly in his thirties, said that he simply wanted to visit Nelson Mandela’s cell. “That’s not a question,” said the guide, calmly, “we will go there after as I’m sure most people have come here to see Mr. Mandela’s cell”.

Our prison guide detailing life behind bars

I had several questions bouncing around in my  head but didn’t pose a single one. For starters, I felt slightly uncomfortable touring the prison with a group of thirty plus visitors (whenever I travel, I do whatever is possible to avoid being part of such groups but with Robben Island there was no alternative).

Also, the guide’s overall tone and body language gave me the impression that he wasn’t enjoying his duties. Bearing in mind that he spent almost a decade on the island coping with the cruel treatment he described, his manners were completely understandable. At any rate, I found myself tiptoeing around the older man, when under different circumstances we could have possibly had a wonderful dialogue. But the instant I overheard the man who pressed the guide about seeing Mandela’s cell say, “So I know you had to forget the outside world when you were in prison” and the guide’s irritable response of “what are you talking about?”, I  knew better than to make any inquiries.

I had never visited a prison, much less one used to break the bodies and minds of so many freedom fighters. While the group was led to the section that Nelson Mandela’s cell is found, my friend and I lingered in the courtyard where he maintained a small garden (in his autobiography titled A Long Walk To Freedom Nelson Mandela  discussed the time he spent gardening and the pleasure it brought him).

Wanting to have a quiet moment at Mandiba’s cell, we waited until our group finished viewing the main attraction before entering the wing. Standing in front of the tiny cage that he spent 18 years of his life in I had my friend film me expressing my thoughts on the moment. Not wanting to break down on camera, I stopped talking after a mere 40 seconds. I just couldn’t shake the image of Mandiba existing in such an inhuman environment all because he refused to live under Apartheid.

Mandiba's cell

When the prison tour was finished, we were driven around the island on a large bus . Speaking with a microphone, the young female guide explained that Robben Island was once a place where lepers and those labelled as lunatics were sent to. She also talked about the maximum security prisons that were used to house regular criminals. To think, I was surveying an island that for centuries was a place of imprisonment, banishment and isolation and that is today an intentionally recognized World Heritage Site.

The bus paused in front of the tiny house that Robert Sobukwe, former leader of the Pan Africanist Congress, lived in, under solitary confinement from 1963 to 1969. The Apartheid government considered Sobukwe to be the country’s most dangerous leader and went out its way to ensure that he wasn’t given the slightest opportunity to speak to a single prisoner.

While on Robben Island this was Robert Sobukwe's home

The guide indicated that as much as Sobukwe respected Mandela, he vehemently disagreed with his politics. As she spoke, I felt guilty about only knowing a few details about him and those were presented by Mandela in his book. She moved me when she, in a powerful storytelling tone, described how Sobukwe would communicate non-verbally to passing soldiers by taking  sand in his hand, lifting it above his head and letting it fall through his fingers. Apparently, he did this to remind and encourage the prisoners to fight for a South Africa that belongs to Africans.

I’m certain that I wasn’t the only visitor desiring to step off the bus and take in the fenced off area while reflecting on the life of a man that was targeted by the Apartheid regime until his death in 1978.

Thus, following his release from Robben Island, he was kept under house arrest in Kimberley. Because he was a banned person, he could not be quoted in the media. Evidently, the government didn’t want his words reaching the people of South Africa or the world.

Robert Sobukwe

 “World civilisation will not be complete until the African has made his full contribution…I wish to make it clear again that we are anti-nobody. We are pro-Africa. We breathe, we dream, we live Africa; because Africa and humanity are inseparable. It is only by doing the same that the minorities in this land – the European, Coloured and Indian, can secure mental and spiritual freedom. On the liberation of the African depends the liberation of the entire world.”  Robert Sobukwe

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