What it was like growing up in America...

Freaks of Nature

You know how when you see two individuals exploring the insides of each others mouths with their tongues and you’re prompted to say, “Get a room.”? Well, I would like to revise that exclamation to “Get a PRIVATE room.” This became apparent to me last night when co-habitating with five other travelers in a room of three bunk beds at a hostel in Tofo.

To begin with, I was slightly delirious, almost feverish as a result of an ill-dinner decision. I was twisting and turning on the bottom bunk, attempting to escape abdominal pains and enter the soothing realm of sleep.The next bunk was but an arms stretch from my own, and its renter had arrived after my initial dabblings with slumber. I could hear a couple conversing in Italian as other sleepers rustled under their mosquito nets. Their conversation dwindled as the last house light disappeared, leaving the room in solid blackness. I was coming in and out of consciousness, my almost-sleep each time interrupted by the strident wire slappings of my neighbor’s bed. Had I decided to uncoil my right arm, my fingers might have encountered some bare Italian flesh. Probably disturbed by the iron orchestra of a well used bunk-cot, my roomies opted to move their nocturnal extracurricular activities to the hallway. As it was, I fell back asleep.

On the other side of the corridor was a room where my friend was dwelling. She had not actually fallen asleep yet and wanted to use the ladies room before hitting the hay. Unfortunately, the threshold to the loo was blocked by two rather naked backpackersexpelled from the sack, getting it on in the hostel hallway.To make matters more annoying, my poor insomniized friend was freaked out by the sex crazed Europeans who remained camped out in the open space, spying on my sleepy friend who had prevented the two from orgasmizing one another.

This had not irritated me as much as their rambunctious activities at the crack of dawn. You know what I look like, so you know I am not invisible. Thus, you know, as I know, that these emboldened butt heads saw me sleeping at 6:30 am, when they decided to traipse around our tight quarters in their panties, exchanging loud greetings in Italian. Had I not been on my death bed, I would have risen to strangle the cackling females, but they packed their bags before I gained enough energy.

We are all aware that, while abroad, we are tempted to behave in ways we might not when home. It is like when you are dreaming and you know that you are sleeping, so you are free to manipulate the elements. Still, a little consciousness of one’s environment never hurt.

A few weeks ago I was at a night club in Zanzibar. It was a weekday at the only discothèque in the city. I had gone out with some friends to hear the usual Tanzanian favorites. It was a club that had a dance floor surrounded by lounge couches that were in the shadows or the spot lit dance floor. It was still early, midnight, and there were few dancers taking advantage of the open space. Most of the club goers were seated on the abundant sofas, swaying their heads to the felicitous rhythms.My friends and I had been shaking our skeletons, and needed a break. At this point a European couple entered the light, next to a local group of ladies. At first I did not pay much attention to their embarrassing attempts to stay on beat. Poor babies. Probably, since it wasn’t exactly the beat that they were trying to stay on, Now, I am not sure how much Konyagi the two had consumed, but clearly the couple was three, perhaps four or five, sheets to the wind. They did not ever notice, or expose their care for, the 20-30 onlookers who could not help but stare at the two underdressed visitors who most likely were trying to make-out whilst swallowing each others heads whole. Dressed in khakis and a fanny pack, the blonde girl squeezed her lover’s arse, who in my opinion looked as if he could have been her brother. But don’t all white people look the same, anyway? She was backing it up to Taarab (which, by the way, is a no no) while he placed her hands inside her shirt, cupping the spaces where a bra would have been had she been wearing one. They continued to sloppily and nastily smear their tongues across the other’s cheek, grabbing every slab of flesh in palms reach while the audience lacked works in Swahili, English or any other lingua to explain the wrongness of it all. I mean, sheesh, what did they think this was, Brazil? (Just playing…)There are certain things you just don’t do in Zanzibar. And then there are certain things you just don’t do in public. I was so embarrassed for them, and yet I could not stop laughing. I am pretty sure half the club was cracking up and then Sean Paul came on and the party people rose from their seats to cover the over exposed strangers with their own moving bodies.

Sorry, No Safari

When telling friends and family that I was preparing to travel in East Africa, most people expressed their life long desires to go on safari. These individuals envisioned themselves cruising through the Serengeti or Kruger National Park, animated to witness the big five without the prisonesque quality of city zoo holdings. I adore animals just as much as the next heart-possessor, I am simply unwilling to walk so close to that wild side.

Maybe I’d have entertained the idea had it not cost $250 USD for a day trip from Maputo to Kruger, merely a few hours drive from the Mozambican capital. Had I been able to haggle the price, then sure, I would have thought about it.But then I recalled those times when, whoops, some visitors and park employees were a little bit eaten by mother nature’s impressive predators whilst sarariing. That was enough for me to put my Meticais back in my bra and be like ‘oh, hell no’.

Hey, you should have seen how I freaked out when the baboon escaped at the National Park zoo in Nairobi. Okay, maybe “escaped” is an over-statement to express that baboons are free to roam the park, but are encouraged to stay in a human-free section of the park. This “encouragement” resulted in a two story separation between the ground and the visitors, where animal fans could walk above the habitats and peer down at the furry inhabitants. Still, the intelligent little buggers manage to skip the electric wires and climb to the garbage cans to snack on discarded treats. When I saw this monstrous ape coming in my direction, I flipped a footed u-turn and ran in the opposite direction, but it wasn’t like I had any where to hide so it was rather pointless. By the time I was assured this fuzzy guy wasn’t going to do me any harm, he’d gone back to the pack, ruining my Nikon moment.

That same day, the cheetah and leopard were no where to be seen, although they were more fenced off in a section of the zoo. Their cages were humungous with ample room to escape, in my opinion. Shoot, if Tatiana the tiger broke free in San Francisco then certainly these clever felines could circumvent their little caged situations and hightail it up country. This occurred to me when exiting the park as two visitors complained about the awoled cats, the employee stated, “Well, I’m sure they’re around here, somewhere.”Most people survive their safaris. And I bet that such an excursion would make a fabulous photo album on facebook. Maybe it was the story I read about a women on safari in Zambia who pissed off a herd of elephants and had to run for her life as 50 enraged tuskers charged behind her. Perhaps it was the animal attack footage on youtube that deterred me. Or maybe I am just being cheap. But honestly, why waste so much money on safari when I could go shopping with all those buckaroos.

Myspace

People in the US famously encounter significant others on the questionable cyber streets of Myspace, Match.com, Facebook, you name it. But I never thought I would be one of those individuals who meet people from online. I have never used a dating service, but of course I’m an avid user of these friend connecting pages like the good ol Book of Faces and Myspace. And yes, I have ‘friends’ on these sites that live in other countries, friends I have never seen face to face. For various reasons, I’ve connected with individuals who share common interests, usually having to do with music in the countries I intend on or already have visited. But like I said, I never thought it would go beyond the computer screen.

The other day I was standing in line at a movie theater on a Saturday afternoon in downtown Maputo. A line, well, perhaps a little huddle of move goers. Five to be exact. It seems few Mozambicans are interested in catching a Spanish flick at a Saturday matinee. Regardless, I was pulling out my 50 Meticais to pay for the entrance to see ‘El Orfenato’ when I noticed a guy talking to two girls. Nothing spectacular, just that I thought I new this man from some where. The logical side of my brain considered this as possible as I know few people in this capital city. Still, I knew him from some place. I was standing there, and noticed that he too was glancing my way and I could feel him thinking the same thing. Then all of a sudden he asked my name, I gave it and req uested his and when he told me he was Matchume, we both started laughing. See, back in September I was doing some research on Mozambican music and found a page on Myspace of a Timbila player who is well known in Europe and in the city. And it was him! We had recognized each other from our online photo albums and here I was, one year later, exchanging greetings with someone from across the world I had no intention of ever seeing face to face. Normally he’s in Europe playing at world music venues, but he happened to be in town for a show at the French-Mozambican cultural association. What a coinkidink.

Similarly a conscious hip hop artists from Maputo extended me a friends invite on Myspace last year, finding my picture connected to another Lusophone artist. We exchanged greetings here and there, I listening to his tracks online, nothing really major. He told me when I arrived in the city I was to contact him, which I planned on doing to check out different events, etc. I sent him a text message and went to the nail shop to get a pedicure where I saw him on MTV. I had seen his music video on myspace, but I didn’t think he was so famous.

And it doesn’t end there. The day I got to Zanzibar I received an e-mail from a guy in Kenya who had read my blog and simply wanted to extend an invitation to Nairobi. At that point in time I didn’t think I was going to be able to make it to Kenya, but in the end I was able to spend a few days outside the capital. I was staying in a city called Ongata Rongai and when I sent a message to him, I found out he also was living down the street. We were able to meet up and it turned out he had produced a documentary film while a student at the university: right up my research alley! We spent a few hours discussing each other’s work and making plans for the future,etc.

As I am writing this I have received a message on Myspace from another musician on tour in Europe who says that she can see on my profile that I am in Mozambique, her country and that although she is not here, I can meet up with her family or contact them if I need something. It’s really quite incredible the ways in which we can interact across oceans, across continents and cultures, through the internet. Through our spaces.

In the Cards

When I was in high school I used to go to the psychic. On Thursdays at the Elks club, they’d give free readings, so Takiah and I would go after class. Consultations occurred like this: you’d sit in a chair facing seven seated psychics. One lead psychic would find the color of your aura and the seven sub-seers would channel into your shade, sort of like a rainbow radio. When in contact with the psychics, one could never cross one’s legs of hands in order to allow all of the telling energy to flow freely.

In retrospect, I never gained any great knowledge from those visits. They only seemed to tell me facts that I already knew or that I was feeling. Obviously, it was cool that a stranger could know something so private, but no great prediction was ever made. Well, except that one time they said something big was going to happen to me when I was 26 years old. But, they would not tell me what it was. That, I had to pay for. So I opted to wait, for free.

Sophomore year I had a friend who kept complaining of a recurring dream involving a spider. Takiah and I tried to convince her to see the psychics, but this friend was an evangelist who called psychics “Satan’s workers”. So, after weeks went by and she could not sleep, she finally decided to contact the devil. Not the devil precisely, but one of his employees.

We took her to the consultation and she described her dreams in every detail she could recall to the seers. The head psychic then proceeded to ask her questions to which she responded. These inquiries were basic wantings-to-know about what had occurred the day before, what she ate, her birth date. He then asked her where her twin sister was. We all knew she had a twin, but the psychic did not, because her sister was in another city. He then said that what he was seeing might be too personal for my other friend and I to bear witness to and asked if Takiah and I should leave the room. But my friend said it was fine, we could listen to what the man had to say.

The psychic told her that the dream was connected to her birth, that there had been complications due to her mother’s addiction to cocaine and that her birth had been a quasi-death and the dream was left over from that time.

That was the end of our trips to the psychics, the novelty of hearing an unknown person tell you tid bits that only you could know, had worn off when we realized that all these recountings of our past did nothing to change anything that had ever occurred. If anything, they opened new wounds that we didn’t know what to do with. I suppose my friend’s dreams went away on their own, not because of any consultation, but because new experiences and thoughts naturally changed the course of her dreams. It’s curious how we always wanted to know what those psychics had to say, but the greatest lesson we acquired from our times there was that it’s best to leave the past where it belongs.

Dockanema

In Economics, they say that there is no such thing as a free lunch. Luckily, in Mozambique, there is such a thing as a free film, thus people are not forced between eating and viewing a movie. It is all about alimenting the mind in the 3rd annual edition of “Dockanema”, the Mozambican Documentary Film Festival to be held this year, 2008, in Maputo from the 12 – 21 of September. www.dockanema.org

Minha Amiga brasileira

I thought I was going to be white. Or at least bear a title to match. In Tanzania and Kenya I was called, among many things, “Mzungu”. “Mzungu” is an East African version of Gringo/a. When I arrived in Maputo, I was sure that I would wear the same name. Mzungu, too, is a term used in Mozambique to describe foreigners. To my surprise upon engaging in conversation with locals they say, “Ah, minha amiga brasileira! Tu és de onde?” (My Brazilian Friend! Where are you from?) If I do not give time for them to guess, they begin asking, “Baiana? Carioca? Ou Paulista?” (Are you from Bahia, Rio or Sao Paulo?)

The first day I said with appropriate accentuation that I was Berkeliana. Technically, it would not be a lie if I said that I saw Bahiana, of the San Francisco Bay Area, not the Brazilian one. My new friends scratched their heads and repeated, “Berkeliana?” Since I did not wish to lie, I confessed that it was a city “que fica na California.” It is at these moments when my actual nation of provenience is clarified and then they say, “A senhora é Americana, mas porque fala brasileiro?” (Miss, you are from America! But why do you speak “Brazilian”?)

Many people here want to know what’s up with this love for Brazil. Why is that so many traveling Americans in Mozambique speak “Brazilian”, as Mozambicans lovingly term the ways in which Brazilians express Portuguese.

In the US, when learning Portuguese, most schools teach Brazilian Portuguese, giving small mentions to the other aspects of the Lusophone world. I, too, was a student of “Brazilian” language, but at the same moment it was the space that connected me to Portugal, Luso-Africa and Luso-Asia. It was what led me here.

Why this so-called “everyone” loves Brasil, is a misterio to me. At least for those dwelling in California, it’s cheaper to fly to than Portugal. People have all kinds of motives for going to Brasil, be it: Carnaval, beaches, futebol, Samba, Capoeira, or learning Portuguese. It’s a place that exudes images of enchantment and sexiness. For many it is a fantasy realized to go there. Clearly, the exaggeration and objectification of Brazilian culture is a major issue, but in terms of traveling style, it is what’s hot, now. Think about Portugal, what do most people know about it beyond Saramango and Port? Perhaps even Fado music, which is gorgeous, but not the type of tune the youth are itching to shake a little something to.

Brasil is the kind of place, like the US, that has outshined it’s European counterpart. Portuguese speaking countries in Africa and Asia need not direct their attention merely to Europe for help, Brazil is doing big things for it’s Lusophone brethren.

Sure, in Mozambican restaurants, the well-to-do sip on Portuguese wine and imported bottles of Pedras sparkling water. But at night, the young drink caipirinhas and listen to Samba, Brazilian pop and other American and African beats. Fado in the club? I doubt it.

On television in Mozambique, there is a contrast between two Brazils: Daily broadcasts of Brazilian soap operas entertain the connected masses, while ambulant street venders sell pirated copies of “City of God” and “City of Men”. When discussing Brazilian cinema with these merchants they affirmed the fabulousness of these films, but also took these fictitious flicks as fact. “In Brazil,” the vendors say, “In Rio, bullets spray through the streets. It is dangerous there.” Even so, I asked if they really thought that was a reality. These same vendors were selling copies of Blood Diamond and Hotel Rwanda. Naturally, these films were inspired by real events, but we can all agree that these high productions over dramatize and embellish the truth to make money. As someone who has lived in Rio, I tried to convince them it was not guaranteed that a person would be caught by a stay bullet while strolling down the spectacular boulevards of Zona Sul. Yes, there is warfare in the favelas, like there is warfare in guettos, but I never knew anyone who got shot in Brazil. But in Berkeley, yeah, I know someone who got shot. More than one.

Media is an exciting weapon, a dangerous tool that can be used in or against the defense of a people’s image. Especially if one only has a limited source of this (mis)information. One time in Portugal I met a man from Angola who said that he would never dare step foot in the United States. Even though he had fled his own homeland due to one of the longest civil wars in Africa, he believed the states to be a breeding ground for indiscriminate violence. “I’ve seen TV, I know what’s going on there,” he told me this at a hostel in Lisbon, “I know that if I go there, people will just shoot me in the streets. That’s how America is, everyone has guns, and the people shoot each other.” His name was Quim, and even though he could speak English fluently, and would totally blend in on Telegraph, he was unconvinced with my assurance that he probably wouldn’t get hurt if he didn’t go looking for trouble. I asked him. “What about Angola? Even though the war is over, people say that Luanda is dangerous. I doubt the US is worse than that.” But oh no, he swore I would never encounter a problem in the Angolan capital. It was my land that was viciously marketing itself as a gun-toting freak fest.

Luckily America’s image has been boosted in East Africa with Obama’s candidacy. Before when traveling we had to hang our heads in shame, pretending to be from Canada. But now, from Kenya to Mozambique, supporters of Obama wear his face on their shirts and say, “Do you like Obama?” If you say yes, and you’re trying to negotiate a price, you’ll pay half. People love Obama. Luckily, they love Brazil, too, because now that I’m communicating in Portuguese, my accent gives me away. “Brazilian?” They say, “Well then, we’re family.”

Maputo: First Impressions

At the edge of the balcony, bellow in the small quart yard there is a place to hang laundry. Had it not been winter right now, the little green fruits on the papaya tree would be large, yellow and ready to eat.

If it were not for the neighbor singing in Portuguese, or the coconut trees that line the coast, I would have thought that I was at home. It is 65 degrees, and this polluted portion of the Indian Ocean looks like The Bay. The section of the city where I live is called Upper Baixa (ironically) and gives an advantageous view of the entire metropolis.

For a capital city, the streets are strangely empty. Coming from Nairobi, I was shocked by the silence. Well, it is not necessarily calm, but in comparison to Kenya's chaotic capital, I might as well be in an urbanized village.

In Zanzibar, when telling people, both locals and internationals, that I was bound for Mozambique, almost all posed the question, "Wow, isn't it poor there?" Like everywhere on the third sphere from the sun, there are those who have what some do not. No matter which city, state or nation, one finds extravagant chic dwellings inches, feet or miles from shacks, tenements or other humble housings.

Walking down Avenida 24 de Junho, there are less people begging for money than on Telegraph Avenue. However, I have noticed that people do not plea for money as much as they try to sell you everything under the East African sun. On my street, Batiks are the product of choice, and even though I have told the same ambulant vendor that I have already purchased ten batiks and do not wish to buy any more, he still follows me down the street trying to convince me to acquire the 11th for 50 Meticais.

I am quite aware that this area of the country is not entirely representative of the lesser developed sections of other provinces, and that despite appearances, most of the population dwells in more modest conditions. Still, if people were to see this city, they might not believe it were the place they thought was Mozambique.

On Lumumba street, staring at the houses one is led to believe that they are in some upscale section of Rio de Janeiro or Bahia, it is only during the brief moments where sidewalks go missing, perhaps destroyed in the civil war, or simple neglect, that the difference occurs. Perfectly gated houses line the streets and all of a sudden a peak of sunlight from the ocean slips through the gapping holes of destroyed, abandoned properties, alongside the satellite dish,/SUV equipped casas of the elite.

Speaking of streets, walking down these curious avenidas is much like a game of “Follow the Leader.” Today I made a journey to the other side of town to the surreal “Summerscheild” neighborhood that houses ex-pats, NGO and other government workers. It seems each street is named after a famous leader. For example, I live near the corner of P. Lumumba and Salvador Allende Past the 24th of June is Nkrumah. You take Nkrumah all the way to Mao and then Mao to Kim II Sung and then take Kim II Sung to Zimbabwe street. Somewhere over there you will find a plaza called East Timor and another called Mugabe. To get to the overpriced shopping center that no local can afford, one need only take a left on Lenin Boulevard. Need to get somewhere? Follow the leader.

To be continued…

Finding Home in Zanzibar

Make a right when you come to a canon, past the men carving wooden boxes and bao games. On the right hand side you will see a gaggle of chickens chilling on a garbage pile beneath a coconut tree. If you don’t see the chickens, they’ve most likely been eaten by ravenous cats. It’s okay, keep gong. At the end of the pathway you will find a group of young men who will probably ask you to marry them if you are a lady. If you are a man, they possibly won’t.

Okay so now you are going to see a red spa that only people with Euros can afford, and if you are as financially challenged as I am, you must keep going straight until you run into the large peace sign. At this point, you make a little right past the guy who calls Glenda “Grenda” and overcharges for his batiks. Keep ahead, don’t forget to say hello to people on the way and try not to get run over by motorcycles, bikes, or wooden carts. When you see the lady who makes delicious mango juice, try some, then say hi to the Kenyan merchant who embroiders “Obama” into all of his merchandise.

Okay, so now you are probably tired, sit and chat for a bit. If you didn’t want the juice, try some ginger or black currant soda. Yum. After you return the glass soda bottle to the shop keeper, pass the ladies who play cards all day long, past the gallery of henna art and when you see the Mozambican seller of Tinga Tinga paintings, say “Ola” and make a left. Go all the way to the end of the street past the rusted fence, through a tunnel, past two bright green and teal doors, and swing a right. Then ask someone for help because you most likely will have ended up a wee bit lost. Then make a left, turn around and I bet that it’s right there.

Two hours in Zimbabwe

Borders are funny places. I thought it was a joke when I was informed mid-fight that our plane was destined for Harare, Zimbabwe before going to Mozambique. It did not quite bother me that I would spend a few hours inside the country recently made famous by mad Mugabe. Still, a little warning would have been nice.One time I went to Spain for twenty minutes. I was in Northern Portugal, near the border, where I took a ferry across the river, walked around for a few minutes and then returned to Portugal. There was very little to do in that part of the city so my professor decided to return our class to our country of origin. How arbitrary, I thought, to move across a miniscule body of water where everything looks, sounds and smells the same to call it different. Another nation. A new world.Anyway, I was coming from Kenya, trying to reach Mozambique, when the pilot announced our stop in Harare. This was funny since when purchasing said ticket in Zanzibar, I was promised that after inconveniently flying to Nairobi, I would be taken directly to the capital of Mozambique, not Zimbabwe. Our plane landed in Harare and even though I never exited the aircraft, it was strange to stop in and stare at a land I had no intention of staying in nor returning to. The un-crowded airport contained one “Air Zimbabwe” plane and a sign that said “Welcome to Zimbabwe.” The few passengers destined for Harare disembarked while the remaining riders waited for Kenya Airways to refuel. From the small Plexiglas window I watched porters unload baggage, while others loaded heavy sacks of snow peas into the cargo hold. Later, Zimbabwean airport employees entered the plane to vacuum the air craft and restock in-flight snacks. The familiar sounds of Swahili were replaced with the intriguing melody of what I assumed was Shona as airport workers chatted amongst themselves and cleaned the plane. When the clean-up finished, the local employees exited the aircraft, and on came the new passengers who would join us to Mozambique. And then, as simply as we had entered Zimbabwe, we took flight and exited. What a weird diversion into a space so close to the others I had been in, yet so isolated, so badly bordered by unfortunate politics, so far from where I intended to be. Now I am in Maputo trying to figure out how this is not Brazil or Portugal. Is it only because it exists within the confines of Mozambique, within the edges of the African continent? Is that what defines us? This reminds me of crossing the Tijuana border. Two parallel worlds divided by languages and bureaucracy. Borders lie along identical land masses, with an intention to trick one into seeing something different. Somewhere else. Borders, essas fronteiras, are funky spaces where one is almost compelled to believe it. .

Subira

Waiting was my name by accident. “Subira” the man called me by the wrong title. “Ashura. My name is Ashura.” “Yes, but Subira is the same thing.” This he spat at me under stars over holed concrete. Damion Marley on blast, 350 ml of ginger soda, a sip and Subira, he said so I became waiting.

It is often strange how the loudest spaces offer so much time for pensation. Feet obey the rhythmic laws of Reggae, frequent glances to my partner prove I am here. I crave these encounters under moon light so loud I rethink thoughts. This, tonight on the edge of the Indian ocean, water sparkles, a light house. I remember waiting to arrive and now I am here waiting. Subira, the man spoke, so I blessed haste to move.

Soon I will be entering Aunthood

My younger sister Jessica will be having a baby girl in October. Since I am leaving for Africa she had her shower early and here are some images from the felial fiesta.

Zanzibar International Film Festival - BBC

World: Africa

Festival celebrates Zanzibar's cultural mix

A still from the Somali film Fire Eyes, being screened at the festival

By Ruth Evans in Zanzibar

In a small park in front of the legendary House of Wonders, the ornate palace built by the Sultan of Zanzibar and Oman in the 19th century, Zanzibaris and tourists gather to watch a performance of traditional stick dancing from the islands.

In the background, triangular sails of wooden dhows are silhouetted against the setting sun. These wooden boats have sailed the Indian Ocean for centuries, transporting ivory and spices, textiles and mangroves and , of course, people.

The second International Festival of the Dhow countries - which is taking place from 2 to 10 July - is a celebration of this rich legacy of trade and exchange.

Filmmakers, musicians and artists have gathered in Zanzibar to display and demonstrate their contemporary wares that have been so influenced by this historical legacy.

The best new films and documentaries will be judged by an international jury, and the winner will receive the Golden Dhow award of $5,000.

'Unique culture'

Emerson Skeens, an American who has adopted Zanzibar as his home for the past 10 years, is chairman of the festival committee. What he finds so enchanting about Zanzibar is the mix of culture that has come to the island from its African, Arab, Indian and colonial history and influences.

"This mix has created a unique culture here. When you listen to almost any Zanzibari song, especially traditional taarab music, you hear these influences.

"That's what makes this place so magic_it's a blend of things over time, which has been enriched by so many cultures."

The festival programme is also a rich blend of feature films, videos, dance and debate. There are films and videos from India, Iran, Kenya, South Africa, Tanzania, and some from west Africa too.

Fire Eyes is a Somali film directed by Soraya Mire, which documents the experiences of African women who have been circumcised.

Transcending boundaries

The dhows which connect the countries around the Indian Ocean are the symbol of the festival

But one film in particular seems to have captured the spirit of the festival. It's called Bombay and Jazz, and, as the title suggests, it's a documentary about music in Bombay.

This film has already won several international awards and now it has won a special award here in Zanzibar, which Goan director HO Nazareth is thrilled about.

Despite the diversity of the programme, he thinks the concept of Dhow culture really pulls the festival together precisely because it is so fluid and transcends national differences and boundaries: "One of the themes of a future festival perhaps ought to be the dire consequences of nationalism in the arts."

Small beginnings

This is only the second year of the Zanzibar festival, known locally as Ziff. Funding has been severely hit by a donor boycott following the disputed outcome of the last elections here, so it is still fairly small compared to Cannes or FESPACO , the annual film festival held in West Africa. But the fact that the festival is still in its infancy can have advantages because it is easier to meet other directors and distributors, Mr Nazareth says.

Most of the films have been shown in an open-air amphitheatre in the 16th Century Arab fort, and festival Director Imru Bakari is delighted that this year so many local people have been attending the events.

"We have been able to make people aware that this festival is their festival," he says, "but the events aren't just confined to the town.

Village screenings

"We have also organised a 'Village panorama' taking films and videos out to the villagers who would not normally have the opportunity to view them, and this has been tremendously successful and popular."

The festival hopes it can provide a shot in the arm to budding filmmakers in east Africa and help them sort out the distribution problems and general lack of intellectual copyright laws that have hampered the arts in the region. Part of the aim of Ziff is to provide a platform for these issues and to seek solutions to the problems.

"Ziff is a significantly concerned with east Africa because it has the lowest traditions of cinema and production on the continent," says Imru Bakari. "It's an organic process of interaction and stimulation."

Chairman Emerson Skeens, meanwhile, is already thinking ahead to next year's festival and how it can be expanded and improved to ensure that, as the new millennium dawns, African cinema will no longer be dwarfed by "Hollywood and Bollywood."

Minha vida no Brasil

Portugal and Spain: o que vi

Cachoeira and Santo Amaro, two cities in Bahia

Turistas

I’m sure you don’t need all those kidneys so bring yourself to Brazil and the cannibalistic locals will rid you of underappreciated arteries, organs and entire bodies. I mean, what else could one possibly do as a Brazilian? Well, except for being a big booty mulata, carnival queen, soccer star, or a favela-dwelling shanty thief because really this is basically all you will find in South America’s Lusophone powerhouse
…
When the Hollywood disaster “Turistas” was released people began to ask me about my safety in Brazil. I tried to tell them that I didn’t have to beat glue-sniffing fiends off me with a stick and hold on to my organs and run for my life, but how can I compete with Hollywood imagery? This is not to say there is no truth in the ideas behind these representations, but the conflation is sickening. At least since I’ve been to Brazil a few times and can vouch for the place my family and friends know that it’s a fantastically misrepresented country that has never robbed me of anything, least of all my internal parts. To a certain degree Brazil is seen as extravagantly exotic and despite the fact that Rio de Janeiro has been called “the capital of stay bullets” by certain over-exaggerating newspapers (what about The Estados Unidos?), all the violent descriptions has not barred international fans of fun from experiencing the heavenly scenery and unparalleled hospitality of Brazil’s vast cultures. And just when my family had gotten used to the idea of my going to Brazil and running wild in the streets, I told them I was heading to Africa.
Given the fact that I am working on an MA in African Studies, it only seems natural that I spend time on the continent, right? Movies like Darfur Now and Hotel Rwanda have not helped my case when it comes to people who receive the bulk of their geographic information from box office hits. And the fact that Africa is called Africa means that in the general imagination, what happens in the Sudan is representative of Angola, despite the fact that the two countries share little in common, except for the fact that they are both countries of the same continent. After all, the US shares the same continent as every other country from Canada to Panama and what’s the difference between Detroit and Guatemala city?
I tried to break the information down into pieces. Zanzibar was my strongest seller since it looks much like popular images of paradise and the name in and of itself evokes a strong sense of tropical allure. Step two was to say that Zanzibar is off the coast of Tanzania and that, like the mainland, it is a safe and fascinating place which also hosts the annual film festival (in Zanzibar) and that people from all over the world go to Zanzibar every year for this infamous cinematic event.
Every since 2004 when I first began to learn Portuguese I slowly commenced to mention Mozambique and my historical desire to go there. Mozambique is not as recognized as Tanzania, probably because Tanzania was colonized by the British and also, together with Kenya, is a popular Safari hot spot. Mozambique was colonized by the Portuguese and ever since the civil war ended in 1992 it rarely makes international Anglophone headlines that are unrelated to the yearly flooding and the AIDS pandemic.
I’ve wanted to go to Maputo, the capital because I have heard about the jazz cafés and Latin rhythms. The most prolific and inspiring writing I’ve ever experienced has come from Mozambique’s Mia Couto. Also, I love Timbila music. Timbila is the Chopi word for Xylophone (in fact the singular is “mbila” and the plural is “Timbila”) They are huge xylophones that are played by one or more people with an entire orchestra resounding at the same time. I have a friend who plays Timbila in Portugal and will be home in Mozambique in August and has offered to give me lessons. Finally my marimba dreams are nearing realization.
Aside from dawdling about the roads of Tanzania and Mozambique, speaking Swahili and Portuguese I am also conducting research on the Zanzibar Film Festival and the Documentary Film Festival in Maputo which will be held in Mid-September. Additionally I am working with a small NGO in Zanzibar and will be doing some AIDS-education work for Over the Rainbow, the NGO I worked for in Bahia.
Most of my family and friends know that I am going to East Africa and almost all of them know pretty much know where Mozambique and Tanzania are. They also understand that I have studied Swahili for a year and Portuguese for four years and that I’m familiar with local cultures and customs. They don’t know much about these two countries because Don Cheadle hasn’t made a film about them. I never know where to begin when explaining the two places so I will begin with images. Images, visual, oral or written, are our first introduction to a place, like Hollywood’s use of destructive imagery of Brazil.
This is what fired me up into wanting to take pictures, to being a photographer. I was so fed up with not seeing photographic representations that matched my own vision that I had to take a stand, or a snap. Last year when I was looking for pictures to show my student (of Portuguese language) of Brazil I found so many stereotypical shots and very few pictures of what I thought the culture really looked like that I began to realize how much power image controllers have on cultures. Every image we produce effects the interpretations of others. And so it was with that that I began the Bahia Photo Project and to my family members who are unable to visit Brazil or other places, I bring Bahia, Rio, or Zanzibar to them through pictures, images that I interpret through the lens of my non-professional but just as capable, camera.
My Sony cyber shot and I are preparing for our upcoming escapades in the countries of Tanzania and Mozambique. You’ll see us soon.

Comprender

Who could possibly?

Yo ya lo sabía
Ao te ver
con aquella botella en tu mano
a mesma mão habitual
el golpe
bean bag face

ninakufahamu
sasa
estas palabras
essas velhas palavrinhas
disgust me
history is just one redundant puta
se vende se vende
me compra

jana jioni nilikuona
the man said
ninataka ujue kwamba
tunaweza kucheza samba
pamoja
dance floor afire
these temple rituals taste nothing on atheists tongue

e tudo que queira
era te mesmo

now all is have is
o desejo de muxoxear

Going to Tanzania and Mozambique

July 8th I leave for East Africa. I will be going first to Zanzibar, an island off the coast of Tanzania, near Dar es Salaam. Dar es Salaam was the capital of Tanzania until a few decades ago when it was moved to Dodoma. However, Dar remains to be the most bustling of Tanzanian Cities. I am going to Zanzibar because from July 11-22nd is the 11th annual International film festival. ZIFF, as it is called, was the first film festival in East Africa and is not only an important African film festival, but also one that celebrates the cultures of the Indian Ocean. My two friends and classmates, Agazit and Glenda are joining me in Zanzibar to experience the unique culture of the Swahili people, as well as to attend the film festival and watch many great films from Africa, Asia, the US and Europe.
For the past year I have been studying Swahili language and culture. Swahili is the official language of Kenya and Tanzania. It is also spoken as a second or third language in Eastern Democratic of the Congo, Rwanda, Burundi, Northern Mozambique, Uganda, Zambia, Malawi, Southern Somalia, the islands of Comoros and Mayotte and parts of Oman. The Swahili language is the first language of the Swahili ethnic group, which has historically inhabited the coastal areas from Northern Mozambique to Southern Somalia. The non-Swahili ethnic groups of Tanzania and Kenya learn Swahili in school and speak it as a second language. This is true for the other mentioned countries. Most viewers of the Lion King may recall the phrase “Hakuna Matata” which really does mean no worries, about the only culturally-correct part of that Disney disaster.
Additionally, I am set to join forces with an incoming Masters student at UCLA who has been living and working in Zanzibar for the past year. He has a small NGO that works with local artists to transfer henna body art onto canvas. Like my photography project in Brazil (see Bahia photo project 2007), I am bringing a few cameras along to introduce the artists to a few photographic techniques to add to their artist’s portfolios. We are also hoping to build some online portfolios. I will keep you all updated on this.
In mid-August I am heading to Mozambique. As you know, Mozambique was colonized by the Portuguese, and is one of five Lusophone (Portuguese-speaking) countries in Africa, the other four are: Guinea Bissau, Cape Verde, São Tomé and Príncipe, and Angola. I will be going to the capital, Maputo, which is in the very south of the country. When the Portuguese people first arrived in Mozambique they placed the colonial capital in the North at Ilha de Moçambique (Island of Mozambique), an Island just off the coast, which they used for trade with Goa, the former Portuguese colony of India. They later moved the capital to the south to block other European powers from encroaching on their colony.
I am going to be working with a friend of a friend with AIDS education. I am a newbie when it comes to “NGO” work, although in 2006 I took a fabulous course on AIDS and NGO’s in Africa when I was finishing up my BA at UC Berkeley and leaned all about the politics of grass roots organizations, etc. In fact, my research was on the role of condom social marketing in Mozambique and Angola so I feel like I have a small clue about what needs to be done, but clearly I am no expert. I was given a donation from Over the Rainbow of 1000 condoms, which will be brought to Mozambique, in addition to 200 toothbrushes from Over the Rainbow’s oral health initiative in Brazil. This work-in-progress project is more of an initiating step for 2009’s Mozambican internship program, which would allow students to volunteer in Mozambique for credit through the University of Northern Iowa (where the founder of Over the Rainbow is a graduate student).
In addition to some NGO work I am attending the 3rd annual Documentary Film Festival in Maputo. This festival is held from the 16th – 21st of September in the Mozambican capital and will include films from the continent and beyond. This is the second part of my summer research on the two African Film Festivals, which will be the first part of my Master’s thesis.
I have been planning my trip to East Africa for a long time and am so thankful that it has finally come together. Here’s to amazing adventures! Tchau! Kwa Heri!

The Bahia Photo Project

In Summer of 2007 I worked with a group of young girls at an NGO in Salvador, Bahia, Brazil. The young ladies were introduced to the art of photography and began to take pictures around the city for the first time. They continue to work with digital photography and are inspired photographic artists.
The NGO I worked with is an American-based non-profit, see their website at
http://www.over-therainbow.org/

Salvador: Capital of the State of Bahia, Brazil