4 months ago, I thought 6 months was really long. Now, 6 months seems way too short. I wish I knew what’s going to happen in 2 more months.
4 months ago, I thought 6 months was really long. Now, 6 months seems way too short. I wish I knew what’s going to happen in 2 more months.
I’ve got an awesome holiday plan coming up. I’m travelling overland to Harare, Zimbabwe to visit a friend. A Zimbabwean friend I met in Norway. (What a world, eh?)
I just got my train ticket on Saturday. I was so excited I literally skipped out of the TAZARA station (Tanzanian Zambian Railway Authority – funded and built by the Chinese; random Simplified Chinese writing in the station was very entertaining) with my second class sleeper ticket. I was in such a good mood in the overstuffed dala dala stuck in a traffic jam that I held a long conversation with the creepy “marry-me-now” conductor.
38 hours on the train from Dar es Salaam to New Kapiri Mposhi (small town in Zambia). 38 hours if there’re no delays. Actually I want a bit of a delay, because if it’s on time, I will pass through the Selous Game Reserve at night and won’t be able to see the animals. If the train is delayed for a few hours, I’ll be able to the go through the national park on a free safari!
I’ll arrive in Zambia, then I’ll probably have to take a bus to Lusaka, the capital, and then another bus to Harare. Maybe there’ll be buses straight to Harare from Kapiri Mposhi, but I doubt it. As I can’t predict how long the train can be delayed (according to stories, anywhere from an hour to a day), I have no idea what time of the day I’ll be arriving…
Either way, I think it takes about a day to bus down to Harare, where I’ll meet my friend! I’m so excited! Wah!
The downside? I have two weeks of holidays and at least 6 will be on transport (3 to go and 3 to come back. I’m coming back in the car of my supervisor, who’s also Zimbabwean). I won’t even get time to go to Victoria Falls which everyone tells me is beauty beyond this world.
But I can’t wait for this solo trip (although in reality, I’ll only be alone on the transport to Harare). I love travelling alone. And my feet are getting so itchy just thinking about it!
Sweat dripped from my nose. One arm crossed over my head, awkwardly grabbing the nearest pole. Toes gripping hard at the small piece of stair I fought to keep. Face centimetres away from the dala dala conductor, his breath on my cheek. Super overstuffed dala dala in a traffic jam; nothing new anymore.
“You teach me some Mchina language.” The conductor stroke up a conversation with me.
“Mimi sio Mchina. I don’t speak Chinese.” I automatically replied.
Before you bash me about not being proud of my roots, yadayadayada… I have to make a disclaimer – I’m equally super proud of being Chinese, being Canadian, and being pretty snarky and dismissive about these labels.
When I’m travelling I almost always say I’m Canadian, though. Why? For the shock effect. I love it when I see people getting confused as to why I look Asia yet say I’m Canadian. I love to, in a silly way maybe, dispel the myth that Canadian equals Caucasian.
Of course, once you get to know me, you’ll know just how “Chinese” I can be when I want to. And just how fast I can flip the “Canadian” switch. I see no contradiction and I see no need to define myself in either category.
A few months ago, I heard a presentation about cultural identities. Apparently the new trend is to say Chinese/Canadian instead of Chinese-Canadian. My Chinese-ness and Canadian-ness fluctuates depending on situations and moods. I’m not always half-half. I can be 99% Canadian and then 99% Chinese and everything in the middle. I like this new trend.
One of the groups of farmers we work with farm in a controversial area – the Msimbazi Valley. In the past few months, there’s been lots of media attention on the valley, mainly due to research findings (confirmed or not depends on who you ask) about the toxicity of the water and soil.
The Msimbazi Valley runs along the middle of Dar es Salaam. It’s huge, with estimates of hundreds of, maybe even a thousand, people who directly make their living from urban agriculture here. It’s also a politically charged space because a palm oil company (SUKITA), controlled by the CCM (political party that has been in power since independence), owns the valley land. But rampant corruption means that company officials have started selling individual parcels of land without legal land tenure. People have bought land, built their homes, and set up their farms (see aside below*). Yet, none of them actually own the land they have spent their lives’ fortune on.
Msimbazi Valley is downstream to many of the industrial factories. Hence, untreated toxic by-products and sewage pollute the river, which is the only source of irrigation water for the farmers. The valley also floods during rainy season, so even if the farmers don’t irrigate with the water, the water still contaminates the soil.
The recent media attention means that nobody wants to buy vegetables from the valley anymore. Understandably so. The area has been declared illegal for urban agriculture. Forced removals happen all the time. My former roommate saw farmers beaten by the police; when asked, nobody says anything. The head of the municipal Agriculture and Livestock Department has no sympathy whatsoever. Whenever we try to bring this issue up when working for demarcating land for urban agriculture, the answer is always a strict no. It’s also hard for my organization to advocate on the farmers’ behalf, as too much controversy would gain us more enemies and slow down the process of legitimization.
Yet, it seems like nobody (except the farmers themselves) recognizes the large white elephant in the room: the farmers aren’t the ones causing the pollution. They grow toxic vegetables because of unregulated factories and non-existent sewerage treatment facilities. They are unable to invest in soil remediation or boreholes for cleaner water because they were sold illegal land through corruption (who would put money in when you could be kicked off any day?). The real blame is the unwillingness of the government to force the actual polluters to pay. Keeping foreign-investment is obviously more important than backward rural activities that don’t belong in a city. Neither is the government willing to spend money to ensure safe disposal of sewage. Nor anger people of power who illegally sell land. No, the blame has to be put on the farmers – marginalized, poor, and politically voiceless. What a convenient, apolitical scapegoat.
And that is the problem I have with the way most of us are taught to think – it’s too apolitical. During my political ecology class, I was taught to always ask “for whom.” Such and such practice is beneficial…for whom? We should make this policy because it is good…for whom? We often forget that behind most actions, there are the beneficiaries and then there are those who lose out. By asking “for whom” it clarifies the seemingly apolitical recommendations we make.
One example that really struck home is the accepted notion that soil erosion is an evil that should be stopped. But is that a universal statement? Who benefits from stopping erosion? What about the farmer at the bottom of the valley? Erosion is when the fertile top soil from the top of the mountain slides down to the bottom. The farmer at the bottom of the valley actually stands to grow better crops because of erosion. Certainly, I’m not saying that erosion shouldn’t be stopped because it benefits some farmers; soil erosion destroys other parts of the ecosystem also. I’m just trying to demonstrate that many of the facts that we take for the truth actually have hidden “for whom” statements that can prod us to rethink our, often “scientific” or “unbiased,” recommendations.
*(aside: I always get frustrated when people don’t see farm land as a structure on the same level as a building. I get it all the time when town planners say that you can’t knock down buildings but can kick people off farms, even if they were both built without permission. Farmers are built. It takes a lot of work to build a farm. I’ll like to see you clear off the vegetation, pick out the rocks, till the land, plant, weed, and irrigate. All back breaking work. Sigh.)
Our housekeeper (yes, it’s a strange concept for me too), Rachel, invited my roommate and I for dinner over at her place one evening last week. I was thrilled to go, even though I had to pull an all-nighter afterwards to finish revising my essay.
We took the daladala (local bus) to the station where she lives – not very far from our place, but in a distinctly different neighbourhood. She came out to meet us at the bus stop. We walked down her street and I could see that she was walking differently: somehow more proud; probably because we, as ‘important foreign guests,’ were with her. It’s strange. I really don’t like the extra attention and privileges I get because of how I look. Yet, it’s so easy for us to make Rachel happy, just by walking down the street.
We arrive at her place. She’s a single mom with a daughter and a son. I’m not sure if the women living around her were also single moms, but I didn’t see a single man in that compound. Maybe it was too early for the men to come home.
She invited us to sit down. She had three large, over-stuffed, couches crammed into a very full room. I see the same set up in most of the homes I visit. I figured since sitting and socializing is such an important activity, it’s important to have huge couches even if they don’t really fit into your house.
Then she started serving us drinks (water, soda, and juice). And small plates of what I assume are appetizers. Then, wait for it, chipsi mayai! Wow freshly made chipsi mayai is soooo good it’s unbelievable.
There wasn’t much space, so setting up the place with so many plates of food required some skill. Rachel had her sister’s daughter over (because she had to leave for the night and couldn’t leave her young daughter alone) and was clearly teaching her how to host guests. I’m glad I came with Leslie; guests are general left alone when the hosts are preparing food and drinks, unlike at home where the host is in charge of making the guests are entertained.
We all had dinner together. Lots of chatting…including why Rachel’s daughter doesn’t want to live in China (because there are many wars and floods), why Rachel’s daughter wanted to work in a large factory as a tailor and why Rachel wanted her to have her own small shop, why I would cut my hair short, our tribal/family names, why Obama’s photo is on absolutely everything, how west coast North America is, …. And just so many things I fail to retrieve from my memory. It’s quite amazing actually. Not only did I manage to pick up the key points most of the time, it was just nice. Experiences like these are probably THE reason I came.
I was reading this article, which I found really interesting, the other day…
So here were my top three values that just flew into my head in under 3 minutes:
“Sisi kwa sisi” literally translates as “us for us.” But it actually means amongst us. For some reason I really love this word. I learnt this because it’s the name of one of the mtaa (pl: mitaa) or sub-wards (smallest government level).
“Any intelligent fool can make things bigger, more complex and more violent. It takes a touch of genius—and a lot of courage—to move in the opposite direction.”
– E.F.Schumacher
My favourite weekend afternoons are still those with interesting conversations that effortlessly jump from topic to topic, a delicious home cooked meal, and laughter. I find you can have conversations like these anywhere in the world. It makes me feel at home.