In Search Of Character: An East African Narrative

An idea for a title came to me while reading Graham Greene's non fictional work by a similar name. Surely, the content would be dissimilar, not even pretentiously Naipaulian or Conradian in its observation. But the essence of the narrative would sum up the title: It is a search for the character of the people and their landscape.

After nearly three decades I will return to the land where it all began: mankind and my literary aspirations. Partly in search of material, partly to quell the pine for homeland, I desire that the journey and its encounters will inspire me; from it I wish narratives will emerge that form the basis of subsequent novels. For Graham Greene two feverish works resulted: The Heart of the Matter and The Burnt out Case.

Yet deep inside me lingers a tinge of ambivalence and apprehension from the enigma of arrival, the fear of rejection, and the sense of a stranger in homeland. Three decades is a long absence; it is a generation. With the knowledge that I have resided outside the country more than I have inside, can I still claim it as my homeland? What is my attachment to it, other than early memories, other than the idea that my forefathers traveled across the black waters of the Indian Ocean and established their roots before the turn of the century? But their history is sketchy and muddled; much of it has perished with them; and fragments of it were chronicled here and there as notes. Recently few descendants of these early pioneers have emerged to capture and narrate the untold stories of their forefathers. It is what we have; it is what we should preserve.

I have not entertained any preconceived ideas or expectations; instead, I have elected to travel with an open mind: let the altered landscape and its varied people awash, absorb and assault me with their sense and sensibilities, anger and joy, hope and despair, ambition and lassitude, progress and decrepitude.

What I don't wish to be is an apostate who has relocated and scourges with western sensibilities the escaped landscape and its people. Nor I wish to be sentimental and nostalgic about the loss of an era. Or an apologist. Yet it would be a disservice to narrative form without shedding light to injustice, without exposing hypocrisy, without ignoring unrest, corruption, and avarice of power and without reflecting the societal ills.

To comprehend and narrate peoples' stories, their travails, as citizens who have endured a gradual transformation of the opposing political and economical ideologies over three presidencies of Mwalimu, Mwinyi, Mkapa, and JK, one cannot escape from the underlying ethos and pathos. And in the country's hustling and bustling cities are people--young and old, sick and healthy, black, white, and brown--whose narratives of hope and despair, joy and sorrow, health and sickness, are waiting to be told.

We all have stories to tell: someone has to listen and chronicle them.

Nov 10th: The Return

Awaiting my return... ;-)

Nov 4th: Conversation with Nizar Fazal: The Whistle Blower

"Voice of Discontent"

Dar citizens voted Mr Nizar Fazal as "Citizen of the Year", because his intrepid, biting and nakedly candid weekly letters, signed as “Crusader for better Tanzania", to editors of The Guardian and Daily News lament the state of the country, amuse, and enthrall his readers.

His fans complain to the editors if a week goes by without his fiery column. In an odd way he reminds me of the character in the movie the Network, urging his audience and thumping his fists on the chest, shouting, before the camera: "We are mad as hell, we won't take it anymore…"

Perhaps a hyperbole simile, his essence and presence are felt among the denizens of Dar: he echoes, fearlessly, what local residents shy and fear to tell a tale of discontent.

While in Dar, I consumed the local papers—both the Kiswahili and English—at the coffee shops with the best brews. His name and bold signature, “Crusader for Better Tanzania”, piqued my curiosity, and I read his column, titled “What is happening to your dogs”, with befuddlement—and amused embarrassment.

He proclaimed, without offering any substantial evidence, that the recent disappearance of stray and pet dogs in residential areas, and particularly in Temeke district, where a large contingent of Chinese construction workers reside, is because the Chinese are kidnapping and eating our dogs. A similar allegation was echoed by Zambians in Lusaka district, reported in the Economist in an article ‘China in Africa’.

Mr. Fazal’s article created quite a bit of furor, but surprisingly nothing came of it. No recantation; no apologies offered; and no protests from the Chinese diplomats, or vexed letters to the editors from the Chinese community complaining about the nature of its accusatory and disparaging content.

Through a mutual friend, I requested a meeting with him, and was granted. It was agreed, over the phone with him, that we meet at his place of work on Samora Ave, Set-Afrik, across from the new swanky glass high-rise, The PPF Tower.

Upstairs on the second floor, past the African barber shop on the landing, is his nondescript office. Glass walls separate him from his colleague, a young African woman, who is the Chartered Account, and an African male clerk, who busily frowns upon the luminous computer screen. Languishing outside his office is a young African male, smartly dressed, perhaps from up-country, working the odd-jobs: running errands to the bank; making tea; fetching this-and-that, filing. The legacy of office-boys and office-girls, sadly, still exists—workers not qualified, less educated, resort to these tedious, mindless unspecific jobs: kibaruas.

“Karibu, Karibu”, said Mr. Fazal, getting up from behind his desk and extending a handshake. “Please sit down,” he gestured to a chair across from his organized desk, with files piled on one side and open folders on the other.

The white push-button phone rings, and Mr. Fazal says, “Excuse me. I have to answer this call. I am expecting a phone call from the editor of the Daily News.

“Set-Afrik”, he speaks into the mouthpiece.

“Ah ndiyo, nimesha andika. I will fax you the draft later this afternoon. Sawa, jumapili, siyo….Sawa,” he speaks into the mouthpiece.

He laughs sardonically at something said to him at the other end and then rings off.

“That was the editor. I am writing a piece on the Aga Khan Hospital and they want to run it next week in the Sunday Edition,” he declares, nodding.

He is an elderly man, in his late sixties with a receeding silver hair line and bushy gray arching eyebrows that contrast his tanned face. His gray Kaunda suit blends with the bare gray office walls, and is an outdated office attire in the new Tanzania, but then he is of the older generation; yet his ideas and mind are contemporary and sharp, his tongue vitriolic.

“And what is it about?”

“Why the Aga Khan schools and hospitals have become so expensive,” he declares. And then he adds, vituperatively, “There is no justification for such high prices. It defeats the purpose of why these service institutions were created by the Imam!"

“The amount of money they are paying expatriates and administrators from India, Pakistan and abroad instead of hiring local talent is deplorable. Someone has to pay for their exorbitant packages and perks. And it is us, the local citizens, who endure the burden of the rising cost. I have documented evidence of salaries of some of the most incompetent expatriates,” he exhales, as if relieved.

He gets animated when illustrating a certain point with facts and figures that he draws from vast repository of accumulated knowledge over the years.

He is for a full-time bookkeeper for an Abu Dhabi based mobile operator, and the rest of the time, he tells me, he just reads ravenously and writes letters to the editors as a whistle blower: an investigative reporter.

“I look forward to read the piece. You are very bold in your expose, in your letters to the editors about everything happening in Dar or in the country in general. Where do you get all the ideas and information?”

“Are you married?” he asks, whose relevance I failed to grasp.

I dismiss the question.

“You see I am married to my books. I read a lot, and over the years I have cultivated my sources in all sectors of the community as well as in the civil service. They [people] come to me, because they know I will tell the truth. I trust them. They trust me. These are people I have known, and I know what they have to offer is genuine,” he declares somberly.

“Don’t you fear retribution, from the government, from the community, from the accused?”

“No. I don’t fear anyone! The security, the police, the Ismaili council, the corrupt leaders or their Asian cabal,” he says dismissively, with a tone of aged defiance in his voice.

Born in 1946 to parents from Morogoro, he then moved to Dar to attend primary school and only completed, at that time, Cambridge Level Eight. Mr. Fazal admits that he is a self-educated man, and has never attended fancy schools or a university. Everything he knows, he emphatically and boastfully declares, he has taught himself. An avid reader, his intimate knowledge of social and political history of Africa and the world, as well current affairs, is impressive.

“What is the time?” he asks, as if remembering an appointment.

"Almost noon."

He dismisses me and says, “Sorry, come tomorrow, we can talk more about the our oligarchy and mafia in Tanzania. I have to listen to my BBC News Swahili Service,” and gestures me to leave.

I signed a copy of my book for the ‘Watchful Citizen’ in honor of his chutzpa, dedication, and unfettered and relentless investigative journalistic forays into the Tanzanian society.

A sample of Letters to Editors by Nizar Fazal:

1. Organized white collar crime syndicates taking hold (The Guardian 6/9/96)

2. Role of Bureau d’change, banks in money laundering and tax evasion (The Guardian, 28/9/06)

3. World Bank and our government bloated (The Citizen, 8/11/2007)

4. Like Kenya, Tanzania too has Ketan, Somaiya, Kamani Brothers (Sunday Citizen, 14/1/2007)

5. Why Aga Khan schools and hospital have become so expensive (Sunday News, 14/10/2007)

6. Asian role in Tanzania economy (Financial Times, 12/1/2000)

7. Ismailis: Let’s choose leaders on merit. (The Guardian)

8. Kariakoo area of Dar es Salaam where the Asians started their first cottage industries (The African, 2/10/2003)

9. Uzawa: Ruffling the feathers in Tanzania (The Guardian, 25/8/2005)

Nov 3rd: A Day at the schools: Muhimbili Primary and Aga Khan Mzizima Secondary School

Entrance to the Aga Khan Secondary School

Class rooms where I attended Form I-IV

Courtyard where student congregate under the shady trees during recess

Center courtyard now converted into a basket ball court.


Muhimbili Primary School Entrance


Assembly student area.

“Teaching is a cursed profession in Tanzania. Teaching in Tanzania is a punishment,” fumed one 27 year-old primary school teacher, reported in This Day.

I had read this gloomy article in This Day on Nov 2^nd. Propelled by an overpowering sentiment and the plight of the primary education sector depicted in the paper, I chose to visit my school Muhimbili Primary School on United Nations Road, fearing that it too might have fallen prey to similar fate that Mtambani Primary School—and others up country—chronicled in the paper had: unpaid, underpaid, and overworked teachers; overcrowded classes; under qualified teachers; and disrespect for the profession.

It is ironic that the late father of the nation, Mwalimu, was so dedicated to ensure that primary education was an inalienable right and free to every citizen, just as clean water and primary health. Yet the country’s education system today, at its rudimentary level, falls dismally short and unable to deliver its populace one of Mwalimu's visionary goals.

Why? What went wrong along the way, in the transition from Mwalimu's socialist policies to the liberalization polices of Mwinyi, Mkapa and JK? Is it too early to judge? Do we need three decades to realize a vision? Do we have any tangible results to prove the policies presently adopted have met the stated goals—or some of the goals?

Or are our current leaders devoid of vision? Is the Minister of Education and Vocational Training, Mrs. Margaret Sitta, not up to the task? Or did she inherit a flawed set of policies dictated by the donor NGOs? Should Tanzania model and formulate its own social policies, from the grass roots, from bottoms up—at the village and rural, working it way up to the metropolitan areas, and finally up to the regional and national level— and not dictated by the donor nations with their grandiose Millennium Development Goals ?

These are not easy questions to answer, and depending who you cast these questions to —whether the NGO think-tanks or the government officials—the debate is invariably futile—and often circuitous and contentious.

Regrettably, my day at my own primary school, attended over 3 decades ago, unraveled certain unpleasant realities of the issues and echoed sentiments raised in the aforementioned paper. To compare it then and now is unfairly and invidiously cruel—it would lend itself to nostalgia, to times of inequity. Yet one cannot dismiss the reference to it.

Dusty-green iron gates, manned by an Askari, barricade the once open entrance to the drop-off area. Inside parked SUVs crowd the gravel staff parking lot. An imposing jacaranda tree casts is shadow on the cars and path to the low white and blue cement dwellings that house principal and administrative offices. Along the front of these offices are potted fern trees between blue poles. On the ground, before a small raised step, lies a fallen tree trunk.

I recall my days of receiving corporal punishment in the offices in front of me for my devious and disruptive behavior at the hands of then headmaster Mr. Meghji.

Immaculately dressed African boys and girls in uniforms (white shirts and blue shorts or knee length skirts), with their colorful backpacks, congregate in the courtyard. When I had attended this school, it was an exclusive boy’s school. Now it is a co-ed, and girls, some Muslim with their head white headscarves matching their shirts, play alongside the boys.

And behind the low administrative office block loom the two-storied class rooms with their distinctive bee-hived walls for ventilations facing the open courtyard, the assembly area, the dusty track and the patchy football pitch.

Scattered around the school compound, planted randomly, are trees—mango, jacaranda, ferns; it is a new addition to the landscape, as I don’t recall as many trees then.

Blooming crimson hibiscus and bougainvillea flowers add contrasting hues to the outside stained white walls of the teachers’ staff room.

I peer inside the dark staff room from the open windows without panes, and notice three teachers sitting in a room talking. They stop, and one with the head scarf addresses me in English: "Yes, can I help you."

I respond in Kiswahili, and told them who I was and that I wished to speak to them. They effusively welcome me inside the staff room, which a long time ago I had frequented to collect my marked homework, or receive detention notes, and have student-teacher chats.

Why the dark room?

The electricity has been cut—a common occurrence in Dar because of the recent overloaded grid—jokes they youngest teacher.

Does the school have a generator?

The question prompts a deriding laugh—and it was queue for me to prod, so I broach the issues about the state of primary education in the city discussed candidly in the paper. They studied the newspaper, scrutinizing in the dark, trying to make the gist of it from the filtered light pouring through the broken glass window.

Yes, it is a problem they acknowledge without reading the entire piece.

Are you being underpaid, overworked?

“Are you a reporter asks the older one, who had welcomed me?”

“No,” I assure them. But my assurances do not convince them. They evade my pointed questions, just as others had for the newspaper. But it was apparent from their initial reactions—and my observation and walking around the crowded class rooms—that the problem is prevalent and old.

Ms. Ayasa, the Kiswahili teacher, guides me around the class rooms. It is recess time so most of the pupils are out and about. In the assembly courtyard, I recall my early years, not any different in wonder and delight from these African pupils, their eyes showing a glimpse and sparkle of a great future and promise. But will they go ahead to the next level? One report suggests that only 9% of the primary school children go onto the secondary schools. The drop out rate is dismally alarming, attributed partly to secondary school fees, and partly to lack of quality education to prepare for the next level.

In 2005, Milton Nkosi of BBC One Planet explored if Tanzania had made strides in primary free education, with respect to quality, overcrowding enthusiasm, dropout rate, and vocational training, as one of the Millennium Development Goals laid by the UN. With donor aid pouring in and the ubiquitous NGOs overlooking and implementing bulk of the policies, has it made any difference, do they have any tangible statistics to prove its efficacy? Like the article in ThisDay, it is a gloomy exposition of the system back then—and unfortunately holds even true today.

I left to discover if the privately owned Mzizima Secondary School, up the road on United Nations Road, past the Jangwani Secondary School—which for me has had a soft spot in my romantic psyche; more so recently as some tender moments have unearthed from a buried past—is afflicted with similar policy malaise.

Also, I wished to visit for sentimental reasons, for it was at Mzizima Secondary School, in the English literature class, taught by Mrs. Almeida, that I first entertained the idea of writing. I was moved by her reading list, which included Alex La Guma’s Walk in the Night. More than any book, it was his work of realism, of the portrayal of effects of apartheid in South Africa, particularly in Soweto, that propelled my passion for literature—and fiction in general. And I wanted to present my first novel to the school library to honor her—and all the English literature teachers at that school.

The outward facing white-washed walls and the freshly green painted iron sentry gate, manned by two burly Askaris, with mandatory sign-in book, keep the stragglers from wandering inside the school compound. After time, and pleading of my purported visit, they finally let me in.

Leaving behind the two sentries, I stroll across the dirt patch toward the principal’s office, once occupied by a formidable lady, Miss Datoo, who was renowned for her ferocious temper, control and the swift paddle (many recall their welts on their bottoms from it).

To my right is a school garden with shadowy trees and wooden benches, where older students (probably form six) languish under the shady trees, escaping the mid-day heat. During my secondary days we had tilled these fields for the self-reliance period under the educational policies of Mwalimu.

In the office I request to see an English literature teacher, after speaking to the assistant principal Mrs. D’Souza, who was forthcoming and cooperative. I peer inside the familiar principal office now occupied by an austere looking European lady—the new headmistress.

There is the usual buzz of activity—teachers, students, visitors or parents awaiting their call for visitation. Some youngsters in civil clothes linger around nervously. Banners proclaiming Excellencies and wooden plaques proclaiming Merit awards adorn the walls. Next to it, a framed plaque boisterously announces the two track educational system—National and Cambridge—offered at the school.

I explain to Mrs. D’Souza my desire (and reasons) as an alumnus to see an English literature teacher—and if Mrs. Almeida is still alive.

“We don’t know, really. It has been a long time. I have only been here few years. I know it was a different era then. I will ask my assistant to locate our staff for you, if you don’t mind waiting,” she said.

I am led to another building with the teachers’ study area.

“It is our teacher’s recreation area, where they can relax or surf the Internet or socialize. Some even prepare for their next class. It is their general purpose area,” my escort, a delightful and well spoken African woman explains.

“So you were a student here, right?”

“Yes, almost thirty years ago. The school layout looks the same except got a face lift and there are more trees, I notice. I recall everything. Over there, is where I did my form 1 and 11, then down by the courtyard were my form III and IV. Are those science labs?” I point towards my left, across from the central square.

She laughs and says,” Yes, Thirty years, and you still remember. I wasn’t born yet.”

We both laugh.

“Did you study here?”

“No... No. I went to Zanaki Girls Secondary School. And then business college.”

“Do you like what you do?”

“Yes, I handle accounts, administrative duties, and students’ appointments…many things.”

Up a flight of stairs, we walk through two sliding doors into a well lit air conditioned room. Along one side of wall are computer terminals over which a few teachers are crouched, typing or surfing. On the desks pushed against the opposite wall lay half-dozen overhead projectors, and along one wall facing the center courtyard are sets of white boards with markers and dusters. Wall-lined bookshelves house reference books, dictionaries, and other bounded volumes of encyclopedia.

In the center of the room, on one desk, two student—Asian and African—work diligently work on their assignments, and opposite him sits an austere young European teacher, marking student papers, his hand with the red pen swiftly moving across the pile of unmarked papers.

A middle aged, bespectacled and dignified African woman with head scarf approaches us.

“This is Ms. Asha Kamagha, one of our English and Swahili literature teachers you requested to speak to.”

Ms. Kamagha gestures me toward an empty desk with two chairs while my escort departs and disappears through the doors. Her narrow hooded eyes behind the glasses are wistful, and her equanimity puts me at ease.

The naked contrast between the two staff rooms is ostensibly abject and depraved. Perhaps, unfair—one being a government primary school, with no school fees and meager budget, and the other a private secondary school, with substantial fees and abundant budget, but the ambiance, quality of education, the amenities and the state of the buildings is a stark reminder of the two inequitable sectors of education: private and public (at one point after nationalization the Government Schools produced the top quality students; now sadly, it has the highest drop out rate.)

“You have an impressive staff room, well equipped,” I said.

She looked around and gave me the approving smile, and said, “Compared to where I worked eight years ago, yes, I could say it is. Half of the stuff available here for teachers, I have no idea, because I don’t know what does and does not exist.”

Where had she worked before she joined?

She said she came back from retirement after her husband had died, merely out of boredom, but primarily because her government retirement could not sustain the cost of living.

A teacher for nearly 20 years up north in Moshi in the government school she has seen the transition—from once a reputable and prestigious government sector to declining and disreputable one. And it echoes deeply her comments.

“There is a stark difference between the two sectors [private and government]. When I first came to Mzizima, about three years ago, I was astounded at the abundance of resources and equipment at teachers’ disposal. You know, teachers’ private desks, presentation materials, clean black boards, chalks and dusters, photo copy machines. I mean, yes, private sector has schools, but so do government, with all the donor funds.”

So why is there such a disparity?

She thinks it is the education policy and lack of vision and leadership.

“Teachers need to have incentives, both in the government as well as private sector, to teach. They need constant training to advance their qualification, and awarded with adequate compensation.”

She has strong opinions about the present readership levels in the country at large and student aspiration in both sectors. She claims reading is substituted with watching television and playing video games (not any different in the some of the industrialized nations, one would contend).

How do you explain it?

“Parents,” she says, shaking her head with disapproval. “They are too busy making money. The kids go home from school, seat in front of TV and watch junk. They hardly read.

“Have you recently watched the disgusting episodes of Big Brother Africa? How can they show such distasteful episodes on prime time national television? What is the underlying message to the kids? That such blatant promiscuity is okay?”

“Yes,” I have and knew what she was referring to.

Of course, she adds there are professional parents, and one sees in their children values instilled to embrace education, to strive academically, and literacy and merit is vital to the future of the country, to build a civic society.

How do you view the transition from Mwalimu days?

“Of course, I mean yes, it is progressive. And progress has its negative aspects as well. For women it has opened up doors to sectors of the society such as media, politics, enterprise and business. They [women] no longer aspire to be ‘assistants’. They go for the extra mile to empower themselves. Education is the key to self-empowerment and independence.”

She cites examples of her two daughters, who chose not to go into traditional roles of teaching. Instead, they elected careers in business and finance, and now hold reputable and high positions.

Though Tanzania has made strides in providing free education in the government’s private sector to its masses, it has suffered in quality, along with other problems that have plagued it.

What can be done about it? I am not sure I have the answers, but the policy makers in the ministry of education, the academics and educationalists must address the long-term development goals of the country’s children.

For without the basic quality of education, without the qualified and well-compensated teachers, and without the adequate facilities conducive to learning, it looses its bright future—and as an emerging developing country like Tanzania, it cannot afford to neglect this vital fabric that is the cornerstone that builds a civic society.

References:

1. Interview Notes

2. ThisDay Nov 2, 2007

3. http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/4687083.stm

Oct 22nd-Oct 26th: Visiting the Island of Zanzibar

Not a travel brochure or a book about Africa is devoid of reference to this island of spices, splendor and enchantment. Novelists have employed Zanzibar as their backdrop landscape. Its white sandy beaches and turquoise shores and the promise of wealth have lured visitors, explorers, lovers and traders as early as the 14^th century—and more recently the rich and the famous as well as foreign investors have gobbled up swathes of pristine coastline to construct exotic and luxurious resorts as play ground for the westerners.

But the island is notoriously known for its Arab slave trade during Omani dynasty; cloves trade, hence the island of spices; and the early visitors—Persians, Portuguese, Indians—and colonizers—Germans and British. Its charm is not in its present lure of vacation getaway for the wealthy. Its enchantment and romance is in its history, its coastal Swahili culture, its taarab music, its fishing villages and iconoclastic dhows, its peoples’ exotic heritages and mannerism, its food and ancient architecture of multi-storied crenellated cement dwellings with large engraved wooden doors and narrow and labyrinth streets that shun the daylight. And lastly, the alluring and enticing women folk, covered in black buibui, who flicker their seducing khol lined-eyes at you.

Time slows down, as it were, in Zanzibar or Unguja as if the narrow streets, the enclosing buildings of Stone Town, the heat, the bright light of the day and lingering humidity from the Indian Ocean, warp it, and induce or cast a magical spell of infectious lethargy. It is an echoed experience among mainlanders—and others—who arrive here by a two hour smooth ferry ride from Dar.

Approaching Unguja from sea, the first sights are of white washed walls of palaces, now museums or tombs, and public buildings with intricate wooden balconies, along the harbor front, where ferries, sailboats, and classic dhows with lateen sails are anchored. Palm trees and coconut groves intersperse grimy old forts, constructed as fortification and slave markets. Men in Kanzus and Kofia and women in bui bui walk about unperturbed by new arrivals pouring into their streets.

Along the harbor front is the Forodhani Area, an open grassy field where at night the place is transformed into a bustling market place, selling curios, artifacts, food and drinks; a meeting place for the locals who languish in the cool air along the ocean front. Kerosene lamps, naked bulbs and tube lights illuminate individual kiosks and food stalls. The air above Forodhani fills with sweet aroma of roasted fatty juices of beef and seafood: crabs, calamari, prawns and fish. At the edge of the grassy area is the Café Zorro, and in the middle an open rotunda, offering its open area as a congregation for youngsters.

Out at sea anchored sailboats and ferries sway in the gentle waters, their dim lights shimmering in the balmy night.

I frequented the area every night and devoured the local delicacies: mishkakis and Zanzibari mix, a dense soup made of Indian Bhajias, yellow coconut curry, and flavored potatoes.

From Forodhani stretch along the ocean front, narrow dirt streets lead and fan into the Stone Town. UNESCO has declared the Stone Town as an architectural and historical heritage site and exhorted its preservation, and since then donor funded preservation projects are underway to refurbish dilapidated and historical buildings all over Zanzibar. Its Asiatic charm is being restored for it is the jewel of the island; it reflects and embodies peoples' cohesiveness, warmth and hospitality.

Far from the Stone Town paved roads lead to distant parts of the isles where, after the liberalization of the economy in 1992, foreign investments from South Africa and Europe have contrived another Zanzibar—not for its local people, but for westerners and tourists—with luxurious resorts along its pristine coastline to the north and east of the island. It is, indeed, a play ground for the rich.

Yet it is essential for the economy and job creation. Tourism and the hospitality service industry are the largest employers on the isles. Foreign language schools—Italian, French, Spanish, and English—are a cottage industry, and being a tourist guide is what most youngsters aspire. Secondary education, one disgruntled drop out student lamented, is in pathetic state. He said, “Classrooms are full of students, but no teachers, no facilities. I dropped out, and am learning French and Italian so I can become guide during the tourist season.”

During the summer international festival like ZIFF (Zanzibar Internal Film Festival) attracts international attention, induces cash flow and fosters seasonal employment for the locals. But how is the average Zanzibari benefiting from this inflow of cash? All goes into the private investors said one source, and a sliver of it is received by the government in form of taxes, but how much of it goes into the national treasure is questionable. Even if paltry does, it never trickles down into improving the basic facilities for the masses. You will have to ask for accountability and address that with the Minister of Tourism, my source chucked cynically.

Poverty, lack of education, poor health services and insufficient infrastructure issues are no different than the mainland. Just that one does not see them on the surface—they are rampant in the poor areas of the island, and so is the spread of HIV/AIDS., but the presidential administration’s recent national campaign on HIV/AIDS education is a positive sign of social work, both on the mainland as well as on the spice isles (Zanzibar and Pemba).

Like any cultural chasm and apartness, the people of island pride themselves to be different from those of the mainland, not any different in the US between those of the mainland and people of Hawaii. And that cultural disparity and its ethos is well captivated by Paul Theroux in his book Hotel Honolulu, just as well by the Abdulrazak Gurnah, the exiled Zanzibari native, in his novels about the people of Zanzibar. Reading Gurnah gives one a fictional account of its various peoples’ histories during the colonial as well as post colonial era.
For those lyrical or poetically inclined, Taarab music, a combination of African, Arab and Indian influence, is melodious and seductive. Often heard at night during summer at open concerts at the Forodhani or music festivals at the Old Fort, now converted into an open restaurant and semi-amphitheater, the musicians with their ensemble of instruments and entourage of voluptuous women dancing, gyrating and singing can be uplifting and stimulating to all human senses.

As is often the case that the islander views the mainlander with suspicion, so it is between those from Unguja and Bongo, yet they coexist harmoniously as each needs the other, like symbiotic organs.

For a stressed and overworked visitor, Zanzibar offers tranquility and serenity: an exotic equatorial paradise; to a student of human character and history it offers past in its architecture, its poetry, its music and its exotic people—and their ways and habitats, which are intensely and picturesquely captured by a famed photo journalist Javed Jafferji in his book Images of Zanzibar.

A glimpse into the spice island.

Oct 17th: Conversation with Jhaveris

The first time I heard of Jhaveris was on a yahoo newsgroup for East African Asians in the diaspora, of which I am a subscriber and member.

Mama Jhaveri had responded to a posting on the newsgroup in which she self-effacingly referred to her husband as the author of a recently published book, “Marching with Nyerere: The Africanization of Asians.” The book, she said, was presented to Mama Maria, Mwalimu’s widow, at the ceremony held at the widow’s residence in Msasani.

I knew then I had to meet the couple during my visit to Dar.

Mama Jhaveri promptly and graciously replied to a request for a meeting. Telephone numbers were exchanged, and upon my arrival, I rang to arrange a meeting.

A fragile old woman, wearing a blue sari, her silver hair combed back and tied in a tight bun, welcomed me at their Sea View flat, a house where encounters and meetings shaped the future of the country—and fostered their close relationship with Mwalimu and early founders of Tanganyika African National Union (TANU).

“Karibu Jules, Karibu nyumbani,” she welcomes me effusively, smiling, showing her small gap between her front teeth.

She leads me to a sparsely decorated and furnished living room, where her husband Mzee Kantilal L. Jhaveri is seated in a sofa. He is wearing a long Indian tunic and matching pants. His face is gaunt and a dark skin patch shows below his silver glasses. He has sight problems in his right eye, ravages of time on human body.

He gestures me to sit down on the long sofa and Mama Jhaveri takes her position next to me. She says, smiling, “I can’t hear very well, so I have to sit close to you.”

In stuttered but measured sentences, his frailty from old age showing in the effort to speak, he says, “Where you are sitting, that sofa is where I first met Mwalimu. He was introduced to me by the late M. N. Rattansy, whom I worked with as a lawyer. We defended Mwalimu for a liable case. The rest is history. It is all in the book,” he gives his hearty laugh, and gingerly gets up, walking across the floor to retrieve the book from the shelf.

Mama Jhaveris also smiles, acknowledging and nodding, which she continues through out our meeting, always showing her support, adding her anecdotes to augment her husband’s narrative details.

The set of pictures—handsome and distinguished Jhaveris flanked by Mwalimu at the state banquet; Jhaveris delivering speech with Mwalimu seated beside him; Jhaveri addressing the East African Lawyer’s Association; Jhaveri with then President of Uganda Milton Obote; Jhaveri addressing the Parliament while serving as MP; Jhaveri receiving an award from Mwalimu—in the book portrays a close friendship over the years.

I probe further and Mzee Jhaveri recalls, even at his tender age of 87, vivid details and anecdotes of his early involvement. The unsung hero of the early days explains. Much of what emerged was also chronicled in The Daily News by the staff writer Boniface Byarugba in a profile on July 14^th 2007.

How did you end up in Dar?

He beams and Mama Jhaveri chuckles, as if the answer to the question has been repeated many times—and each time it amuses them.

In late 1945 he had met an old friend and his wife. The couple had just returned to India on a dhow from Dar. At the port, he says, he serendipitously met the couple as he had gone to receive his sister-in-law who had traveled from Mombassa. The couple had told him of Dar, the people, and the promise.

Then he had finished reading law in Bombay and was urged to study further. Upon advice he had sailed to London to purse studies at the London School of Economics.

He recalls with a deriding smile what one interviewer at the panel asked him whether he would return to “British India” after completing his studies. He told them he would return to an independent India not British India.

He pauses and then says, “They were stunned. I never got the admission, and I sailed to Dar. I have not forgotten that day. It was a turning point in my life.”

As old as he is he still recalls his early years for Tanzania’s independence struggle and his close friendship with the father of the nation in vivid details, sometimes even with nostalgia.

“He was a man and leader of rare qualities. You see Mwalimu was very much interested in the Asian constituency to be part of the TANU. He wanted to have strong links with the Asian Association. Then it was led by Dr. Malik. And both Rattansy and I worked for an advocate Vellani. You see back then, you could not practice legally until you chambered, so I was chambering with Vellani.

“Overtime my political interests and those of Rattansy and Dr Malik and Mwalimu were similar. We wanted an independent Tanganyika. And Mwalimu wanted every Tanganyikan as much part of the founding country.”

What about your ethnicity? Was that an issue? The response he gives me, I later discover, is no different than one accounted by Boniface Byarugba of Daily News.

“No,” he retorts, “never an issue. I will tell you.”

TANU appointed Jhaveri as a candidate for Dar es Salaam parliamentary seat, and he was ardently supported by Joseph Nyerere, who was his campaign manager. At rally, Jhaveri recalls, “At the rally in Buruguni people were shouting at me, heckling. They were asking me about my religion.”

Mzee Jhaveri takes a deep breath, and says, “Nyerere intervened and silenced the crowd. He told them ‘his path is the path of Mahatma Gandhi.’

The crowd, he recalls, became quiet and somber.

Then he ceases to speak and sighs; Mama Jhaveri intervenes and says, “Have some food, I cooked some muhogo. We break for lunch and quench our thirst with freshly squeezed orange juice.

The room is cooled by the fast ceiling fan. Power shortages, sometimes during the day and nighttime, are common in Dar. Often during hot days, when people overwhelm the grid with usage of their air conditions, it often triggers a shortage. That day we were lucky. Outside the heat of the morning and humidity is peaking at mid day.

Mama Jhaveri cares for her husband of many years; their relationship in their golden years is endearing. What role did this gentle silent heroine played in the movement I wonder as I see her attend her beloved companion?

She tells me he gets tired easily, has to rest during the day because of the heat, and has sight problems. It is quite apparent in his drawn face, thinning white hair, skin discoloration on both cheeks and his frail walk, his back slightly arched forward.

Yet old age does not deter him from being active. He boasts that he reads 10 newspapers online everyday, and is presently researching a book on Globalization and Africa. His mind is sill sharp, and likes to argue, just as he did in his early days as a defense lawyer for Mwalimu. His knowledge of the present world astounds me as he queries about the election campaign in the United States, about the U.S involvement in Iraq, about the deteriorating and hubristic leadership of the present U.S Administration.

I listen—and cringe.

We resume after the lunch respite. I turn to Mama Jhaveri who had remained very quite during the discourse, only occasionally nodding in affirmation to her husband’s account of anecdotes.

Her modesty, perhaps because of age or a cultural attribute belies her profound contributions for women’s issues in the country’s early years. She was born in Pemba, but grew up in Bagamoyo and later in Dar es Salaam.

While Mzee Kantilal was part of the TANU what did you do?

“From early on I was interested in women’s social issues, so it came very naturally to me to be part of a movement echoing and addressing issues related to women of all races. Women are same everywhere. They have the same problems, regardless of their color. Yes, “she says softly, nodding her silver-haired head.

“A visiting British Labor party member noted that TANU did not have a women’s wing or an organization. He suggested that one be formulated.”

Then, she explains, Bibi Titi Mohammed was quite courageous and outspoken, and it was natural that she head that part of the movement. So a movement called Umoja wa Wanawake wa Tanganyika (UWT) for formed, headed by Bibi Titi, and Mama Jhaveri was a prominent member of it.

She says, it has been the most fulfilling moment of her life, to be part of the women’s movement from those early days, where women were hardly representative in politics. She grew inside, she reveals to me.

Mama Jhaveri has the grace of a coastal Swahili woman, her mannerism and warmth and hospitality and charm melts you. Yet, when crossed, she has no qualms about expressing her displeasure.

“We would go on field trips to villages in the interior to listen to women and report back the issues to TANU. Sometimes it does get contentious and we have to stand for it. But Mwalimu was very keen on these reports.”

Are you still active?

“No. our time is over, “she laughs. “I am old now. Times have changed.”

Mzee Jhaveri interrupts and says, “We travel now. Visit our grand children in England and India. But this is our home. We have had this house for five decades and it has so much history.”

Indeed history it has, I acknowledge, and it speaks for itself. Part of that history is chronicled in his book, “Marching with Nyerere: Africanization of Asians.”

To be with the Jhaveris for two hours is an illumination; even at their age, their active mind is an inexhaustible reservoir of knowledge and wisdom. Out there, in Africa, there are many Jhaveris. As writers it behooves that we seek them—and write about them.

References:

Daily News, July 21^st 2007

Personal interview notes.

Oct 14th: Nyerere Day

Mwalimu’s legacy, eight years after his death and nearly twenty years after his resignation as the president and chairman of Chama Cha Mapinduzi (CCM), lives on among the intelligentsia—and veteran politicians. On this day of remembrance, the current political leadership was challenged by the veteran politicians, academics, and renowned journalists at the “Nyerere Day Debate” held at the University of Dar es Salaam. Dons criticized the present government of pervasive graft, donor dependency, and the growing inequality among the Tanzanians.

A renowned journalist, Jenerali Ulimwengu, implored that “it is a total misconception to think that peace, national unity and solidarity, came from thin air. These were created by the Mwalimu’s good policies and leadership.”

It is likely that what Mwalimu achieved over the years may disintegrate if current levels of corruption, bad governance and donor dependency are not curbed. Equally critical was Prof. Issa Shivji who said that country lacks a clear “national social vision geared at benefiting all.”

Is this all partisan rhetoric? Whatever, for me it is heartening to read of this open criticism in the press and at symposiums in presence of current high ranking government leadership. We have come a long way to hold and preserve this liberty and the expression of thought, which during early years of Mwalimu, were curbed and censored. It is not uncommon to hear Tanzanians today express their displeasure of current government openly.

“Are guidelines set by the government on editorial content,” I asked The Guardian journalist.

“No. We are at liberty with the content. Nor do we tow the party line, though I think the managing editor does exercise his or her judgment.”

But the deference and awe towards African state leaders displayed earlier, by the older generation, is waning, or not present, among the young generation; they are not tolerant of the rhetoric; they see through it. They want to see the results.

Undoubtedly, JK’s leadership is under close scrutiny, with all the corruption scandals surfacing at the behest of PCCB, an official governing body that adheres to the principles of transparency and accountability. Ironically, reports have surfaced on the net, as well as in the media, that the head of the PCCB has been implicated in charges of graft, which he has vehemently denied.

A well placed official in the government told me if I had a magic wand, the first thing I would want to do is brandish among the pack of wolves in the cabinet and high places that are corrupted to the bone—and cure them of this evil and pernicious malady that has afflicted us. But he told me secretly that he has faith that over time it will wane.

A voice inside me, without justifiable or tangible results, echoes his optimism.

Oct 6th – Oct 13th : Dar es Salaam

Outside the air conditioned airport buildings the humidity and heat of the bright light pouring from incandescent sky above Dar warns new arrivals of what is expected: discomfort. Local heat and humidity is nothing new to me; I was born and raised here. What was to follow in the days ahead disalarmed me—and ushered me out of my comfort zones of where I have lived for the last three decades and of the Dar I had left behind: simple, easy-going, open, accessible.

Progress is an inevitable force of change, often for the better and not worse, even though ideologues and romantics would want to cling onto the old. History accounts for such inevitable changes: the end of the cold war; the liberalization of communist China; decolonization; and end of apartheid, etc.

At the party, held at Trinity the day arrived, I failed to explain to inquiries of “so how do you find Dar after all these years? ….what do you think of Dar...are you surprised..?”

I am not sure, I replied to most inquiries, as I had not seen much of Dar yet, from the street level, or held conversations with people from various backgrounds. But the drive from the airport along the new two-lane divided Pugu Road, merging into Nkrumah Road, past the clock tower and into Samora Ave and along the scenic Ocean Rd, with the turquoise Indian Ocean to the right, assaulting you with its salty smell, past the Salendar Bridge on Bagamoyo Road towards the Oyster Bay and Msasani, was an introduction: a glimpse of its teeming inhabitants, of traffic congestion, of an abundance of four-wheel-drives and SUVs, of reckless driving, of the new glass skyscrapers replacing the old (historically precious) dusty, blackened buildings with steel grills and clothing lines, of the old street names accommodating new, was not enough I said.

The party, held at Trinity, a lavish backyard house converted every first Saturday of the month into a club, was an exclusively expatriate affair, with paltry locals of returned Asians with dual citizenship or children of well-to-do Africans and African women, some escorted with their Mzungu lover or friend, others associated with the NGOs, a cottage industry here, in every capacity dealing with social and economic policies funding donor projects.

“I don’t feel I have left the States,” I declared as I looked around.

A local patron at the bar said, “This is the NGO and the UN crowd.” Then he added, with slight derision, “The South African crowd is absent. Their watering holes are Sea Cliff and Yacht Club.”

All around me I heard English spoken with various accents: British, American, and European (German, Dutch, and Scandinavian).

Later, at the party, I learned from another local resident who said to me: “The NGO and UN crowd is rather exclusive. In the old days the expats would mingle with the local, go out of the way to learn the language. Now, everything is available for them. They live in Africa, work in Africa, but live as if they are at home—among themselves.”

“Is that your perception or general perception,” I asked.

“Both he replied,” confidently, and turned to his good looking African female partner and led her to the dance floor to join among the sea of white faces, dancing to Fifty Cents: Candy Shop.

Over the week, from conversing with local business people, I learned that South Africans are heavily invested in mining, banking, tourism, food chains, hospitality services, and telecommunications sectors of the liberalized economy. There is an undercurrent of resentment among the Tanzanians (both Asians and Africans) towards them, just like, almost thirty years ago, when similar industry sectors were controlled by Asians, before massive nationalization then by the government of Mwalimu.

“South Africans [white] have their own identity. They stick to themselves. No matter how sophisticated they may be at the jobs. They come home, put on their shorts, bring their castle beers to the pub, get drunk, show their true colors, and often treat the locals with disrespect.”

How often does that happen?

“I have seen it many times at pubs,” said my companion.

Does the government or local authorities intervene in such incidents?

I was told that a few have been deported on charges of racism.

A Walk in the Day in Dar

This week, during the day, I walked aimlessly around Dar town center in a surreal daze, with the heat and humidity draining me. I trotted from end of the town to the other, wading through its congested center—cars, pick-up trucks and suvs parked boisterously and recklessly along the curb and on it; by the little Bombay (Odeon Cinema and Naaz Mansion); along the Azizikwe St that emerges from the Askari monument roundabout and meets Upanga Road at the other end; up and down the Mosque St where the Darkhana is still an imposing landscape, along with other nearby newly erected Shia and Sunni mosques; along the Kuvokoni front with the harbor to the left, equally congested with rusty container ships harbored at the ports, the majestic newly renovated St Cathedral Church on the right, the salty-oiled stench filling the air; around the Libya Street, with decrepitude post office, showing its decay and neglect; up and down the Jamhuri St and Morogoro Road: all manifest ungoverned growth, exasperating human and car traffic, darkened and unkempt buildings.

The Indian names and the dates (mostly 1900s) that adorn the cornices and terraces of the storied buildings with shop downstairs and leaving quarters upstairs are fading and chipping away with time and neglect as if that history is not worth preservation. A few of these mansions that hold old charm of Indian character of Dar, I am told, are being razed to the ground, and in its place new high-rises apartments and skyscrapers are erected.

What about preserving the old character and charm of Dar? Is not the ministry of land reform or ministry of culture interested to maintain the old character and history of this city?

An old architect friend of mine explained: “An average building in town life span is 50 years. And the average rent income it generates from tenants is very low. It does not make economic sense for the government to hold and preserve the building for additional years, when it can tear it down, raise a skyscraper, and house 200 tenants. We tend to attach emotional and sentimental value to these buildings because they were built by us [Asians]—some of the original owners still live in them.

“So if I am the government and I have several or dozen of these short four story buildings in town, I would rather tear it down or sell it to the developer from whom it [government] can garner more money. It does make economic sense.”

These old street names were once open, accessible, and simple; now they’re narrow and crowded with makeshift small shops, street vendors, hastily built skyscrapers, some still under construction, and ugly painted half blue and white buildings, Vodacom colors of the South African mobile company that employs buildings owned by government as billboards!

It is a disheartening and aesthetically displeasing image of this old and new. Worse are exhaust fumes from the abundance of diesel propelled SUVs and the dala dalas, a replacement for the public transport. These shabby multi-colored minibuses transport packed masses of workers from the neighboring townships of Temeke, Magomeni, Ilala, Kariako, Mzimbazi, Kinondoni, Namanga, Mwenge, and Mbezi into town, and their drivers are reckless. Countless road accidents and fatalities have been attributed to them: they are public road hazard with no traffic governance. And the police recently have been cracking down on them.

“The government abandoned the public transport because it was too expensive to maintain the fleet of buses,” said one businessman to me.

So all round town, at the old bus stops, now dala dalas reign and rule the right of way on the Dar roads with their breathtaking speeds and reckless driving and unpredictable turnings and overtaking.

Kariako always has had a reputation of a bustling and hustling district of Dar. It is not any different today, except the scale is tenfold. A walk up along Uhuru St, the setting of M.G. Vassanji’s short story collection, Uhuru St, is far from it. Of course, the old fading buildings are there that provided the writer its setting; its occupants long gone or dead. Only memory lingers among those who come to it. The dirt roads off it teem with stores flowing with wares into the street. Street hawkers, dressed in kanzus and kofias, infest these narrow streets. And on Swahili St farther up, Chinese dukawallas peer at you from their enterprising caves. They are the new comers, new dukawallas. Where once these stores were manned by Arabs and Asians, now they are run and owned by Chinese.

Not too far up the road, past Mzimbazi St is Tandamti St. I have fond memories of that bustling district. My grandparents lived in a two story building, Gulamhussein Nathoo Mansion, 1959, directly across the grand old sokoni (market). The first formative years of my life I spent here, before moving to Upanga in a house on the bending Upanga Road.

I am confident and optimistic that Dar, and Tanzania in general, is heading in the right direction. Well come to the new and progressive Dar, the burgeoning and booming capital of East Africa. For a new comer from the western world Dar can be trying; for a long time absent returnee like me, it just grows with you, day after day—and eventually absorbs you as part of it.