River Days

“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.”

– Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It and Other Stories

I keep staring at the rivers on the wall; the rivers are on my map you see.

The cataracts of the Congo sit atop my head; the burden of the Orange is in my veins.

This of course does not explain the behavior of the Nile at its source -

Where Colonel Charles Gordon may be sleeping.

At night I break off down the Niger, past the mangrove swamps

And the mahogany trees lining the banks, with blank treaty forms in hand.

Zambezi, I know that name best; I have seen her Victoria Falls.

Senegal, I don’t even know your Upper or your Lower.

I am not here, however, for lakes: Albert, Kivu, Tanganyika, Nyasa, or the like.

Instead, I scan the Sahara for the lost rivers of Africa.

A Country of Accidents

On 26 October 2006, Sarah Meek, an alumni of the Monterey Institute of International Studies (MIIS) and a researcher at the Institute for Security Studies (ISS) at the time, perished in a tragic automobile accident in her home country of South Africa. She is memorialized on the MIIS campus with a bench in front of the Kade Building. In order to honor Sarah’s work and promote research in Africa, her family established an annual monetary prize for student research in Africa, known as the Sarah Meek Page Prize.

At about the time I was receiving the email informing me of the details and deadline for the Sarah Meek Page Prize, my colleague at the ISS, Henri Boshoff (aka Bossie), met his maker, as his car crashed on his way home from a memorial service.

What can I tell you about Bossie, a man I only knew for about three months. Well, when I met him in his office the first thing that stood out was the collection of guns hanging from the coat rack (he was ex-military), as well as the war memorabilia lining the walls, including military helmets from the Anglo-Boer war and WWI. As I was sitting with him, however, I happened to look over my shoulder and notice a life-size poster of MLK. Oh, the duality of Man. I wish I had more time to get to know this amazingly complex man.

In the short time I did get to know him, he managed to advise me on my project on several occasions, introduce me to dozens of people in the field, and educate me on the innumerable failings of his beloved Blue Bulls (the Pretoria rugby team).

And so yes, it is a world of accidents. Yet South Africa, or more specifically Africa, seems more prone to accidents than most places. So, today, I am reminded that even thousands of miles away from home I am not immune to loss. I am not immune to the insulting facts of sorrow. 

Situation Report: From Cape Town to Cairo

I believe it was Ferris Bueller that once said: “Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” With North Africa on fire, Cote d’Ivoire in shambles, Nigeria bracing for electoral bloodshed, Swaziland in revolt, I’m not sure truer words could be applied to Africa these days.

With that in mind, I thought I would share a few topical articles about Africa, both news and notes, which have come across my desk the past few weeks.

Paul-Simon Handy, the Director of Research at the ISS, wrote an interesting ISS Today in the beginning of April about the deteriorating situation in Cote d’Ivoire. His article, Cote d’Ivoire: The War is on, Let’s Give it a Chance?, was written before Ouattra’s forces captured Gbagbo, so it’s a little out-dated at this point, but he makes a good case against what he calls “dogmatic pacifism” that enraptures the African political establishment.  

Although the Ivory Coast is the sexy story out of West Africa at the moment, it is important to keep tabs on Liberia and Sierra Leone. Nigeria is also a hot spot, with Goodluck Jonathan poised to win tomorrow’s elections.

On the sort-of-related-to-Africa front, there was a great profile of the odd couple in Libya, which is Obama and Sarkozy (aka Sarko l’Américain), in the NY Times this past week.

South Africa is not immune to the acid winds that too often blow through the continent. This week Julius Malema, the African National Congress (ANC) Youth League President, made his way to court flanked by (illegally) heavily-armed bodyguards. To be honest, it looked like a scene out of a Tarintino movie. He’s on trial for hate-speech because at his youth rallies he likes to break into song, a song entitled “Kill the Boer.”

Then of course any article I’m quoted in is ok in my book: http://mg.co.za/article/2011-04-13-sa-joins-brics-club-to-punch-above-its-weight

All of the highlighted parts are hyperlinks, so you should be able to click on them and go right to the articles. I’m hoping that everyone will at least read one article that is of interest. Happy Reading!

República de Moçambique

“I like to spend some time in Mozambique/The sunny sky is aqua blue/

 And all the couples dancing cheek to cheek/It’s very nice to stay a week or two”

– Bob Dylan, Mozambique

I’m not sure if Dylan ever spent a week or two in Mozambique, but if he did, he forgot to sing about abject poverty and rampant corruption. I only spent four days in Mozambique and yes I saw white sand beaches and the aqua blue seascape; however, my Mozambican experience was also defined by all that Dylan must have left behind.

Maputo

Maputo is a little over 100 kilometers from the South African border post of Lebombo, which is located just north of Swaziland and just south of the Kruger National Park. The 100kms rolls gently through hills and down toward the mangroves that lead to the low, sandy coastline. The coastline is there, I’m sure of it, but the city has consumed everything in sight. You first pass through the shacks and shanty towns that accompany most African cities, but the sprawl of Maputo moves ever-inward, building up and out as you move in. A two lane bumper-to-bumper street runs through the heart of Maputo, with hollowed-out and pockmarked (possibly still remnants from the civil war) buildings lining this main thoroughfare. The road is hectic, the action fierce, yet the faces out the window seem still, eyes tracing the jerking movements of the Toyota Yaris. The only trace of the Portuguese is the art deco architecture that gives the city a sense of charm, as well as the occasional tanned face beneath a helmet of dark hair gliding in and out of lanes – surely not a foreigner. On the whole, however, the city is a squalor, a postcard that conceals the misery the lens avoids. At night, down by the harbor, where a few bars emerge from the sidestreets, this seedy town feels that much seedier. And the only escape from it is north, for one cannot head south unless one has four-wheel drive, as the roads turn to deep sand 50kms out. You don’t know when you actually leave Maputo; the city sprawls northward with you, spreading its tensions with you all the way.

Magic in a magical land

Bilene, Mozambique is a solid 3 ½ hour drive from Maputo, but feels like a lifetime away. The white sandy beaches instantly washed away the stress of the city. The locals were villagers, carrying with them the pace and attitude of the countryside. In addition to the locals, there were immigrants from Zimbabwe, really Rasta-types. (On a side note, it was a shame to see so many educated, capable, confident, well-meaning young men and women fleeing Mugabe’s Zimbabwe.) The Zims, my travel companions and I sat out in the square one night, drinking a few pints of 2M beer, talking politics. At night the stars came out, seeming to drift out into the Indian Ocean. The prawns and Portuguese chicken was as good as I read about. Reading and reflecting was the order of the day – a great respite from the worlds we create for ourselves.

In some ways, it’s as if I never left Mozambique

My (and my travel companions’) Mozambican story begins and ends at the border crossing. Now, I’ve crossed a handful (or more) African borders in my life, making me neither an authority nor a novice on such matters. That said, I carried a casual disposition into the Mozambique border…at first.

Driving from Pretoria to the Mozambique border takes about 6 hours, so by the time we arrived we were hot and tired. Once at the border, we were surrounded by hawkers trying to sell us insurance and currency and the like. Others were trying to “help” us through the border, which means they “showed” us where to go and what to sign and all the rest. Then it was time to grease the skids, meaning it was time to pay off the Mozambican “cops.” They only wanted R200 (about $30) to “check” the car, while the “helpers” were asking R250 in tips. We obliged. Needless to say, we, or at least I, left the border depressed and disoriented, the experience souring most of the trip.

On the way out of Mozambique on Sunday we swore that we would not be bamboozled again. Forget these guys. We came focused, with an edge, an attitude. (For those that may not know, you need to get stamped in to a country when you enter and stamped out when you depart. For example, when we left SA on that Thursday, their border agent stamped us out.) Pulling up on the Mozambique side we saw the same old hawkers whistling us in, so they could “help” us get stamped out of Mozambique. This time we skirted past them, driving directly to the South African parking lot. The cops didn’t seem to take notice. So, we got in a long line on the South African side to get stamped in to the country. As we were waiting in line, one of the “helpers” made it over to us and asked if we got stamped out of Mozambique. No, no we hadn’t, was our reply. “You gotta come back, you gotta come back then,” he demanded. He then asked, “did you get your car checked yet?” Nope. He continued to badger us until I asked him who exactly he worked for. And then I informed him that we will see if things work out here on the South African side; if not, I told him, then we would be happy to come back. Leverage had shifted, the momentum had turned. Now all we needed was a bit of incompetence from a South Africa official. Sure enough they were very accommodating and we were officially stamped in to South Africa.

As it stands today, I am without a stamp out of Mozambique. I guess you could say that in some ways, it’s as if I never left Mozambique.