http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=Jqtkb-dNA3c
Vandana Shiva, an Indian environmental activist, takes a stand against GMOs with the banner of indigenous, "open-source" farming and collective knowledge. This video is a short but clever synopsis of her position. For a more comprehensive account of the issue: see Al Jazeera's stream. India is currently at the forefront of a movement against GMOs, as exemplified in the country's suing of Monsanto - the notorious American agricultural biotechnology corporation that recently developed a modified eggplant seed. Allegedly, in using (or "stealing") a seed indigenous to India, Monsanto violated India's "Biological Biodiversity Act." But behind the surge in outrage and opposition to Monsanto is the somewhat recent failure of genetically-modified cotton seeds to produce crops for cash-strapped Indian farmers who previously used them. When the crops failed and the farmers were plunged into debt, thousands of them committed suicide. To read more: go here.
Conventional approaches to environmental ethics converge in only one way - a predominant focus on humans. Otherwise, their assumptions are completely different. When looking at the use of GMO crops and the explosion of this issue between the Indian government and Monsanto this past fall, two perspectives come to mind immediately. On one end, the deontological Kantian approach is rights-based, with a focus on intention (means) and not necessarily consequences of an action. The equality and freedom of the individual is sine qua none in ethical considerations. On the other end, the Utilitarian approach favors action taken to maximize the "greatest good" for the most people possible. Contrary to Kantian ethics, consequences of a particular action are of utmost importance and must be weighed or quantified. Things are judged for their utility or their use - for example, do GMO seeds produce a societal good? Will they successfully raise crop yields and subsequently reduce hunger in the developing world? Kant would retort: are the researchers and companies investing in and creating GMOs acting on principles relating to human rights, or are they driven by profit? Are the rights of indigenous farmers being upheld?
From these two perspectives, one would reach an utterly different ethical conclusion for the issue.
The case for genetically modified organisms (GMOs) as a means to both eradicate particular deficiencies in crops (e.g. giving them pesticidal genes) and to increase production of crops (especially in the developing world) has received fierce debate over the past few years. Staunch opponents are usually concerned with the environmental effects of these organisms on human health, biodiversity, and the disruption of historical, natural processes. (Perhaps the teleological perspective would fall in line with these critics).
But issues of quantifying possible consequences and possible benefits of GMO crops may serve to discredit the utilitarian position. A recurring problem with GMO seeds is that the first generation plants yield sterile seeds, which is unhelpful for farmers, who would then be forced to buy new seeds and perhaps face debt. There is also the question of who benefits: consumers in poor countries or what sometimes appears to be profit-seeking corporations? It is hard to calculate the trade-offs incurred, made more complicated by greed. Are intellectual property rights and patents necessary to continue and incentivize research efforts, or do they make access to affordable seeds more difficult for struggling farmers? Its hard to tell.
Moreover, India's issue brings new words into our environmental lexicon: "biopiracy", "seed monopoly", and "bio-terrorism". Could Monsanto control crucial agricultural input markets with its patent on the seed? If a seed is modified and accidentally or purposefully cannot generate a second or third generation of crops, how are GMOs in any way going to eradicate hunger?
And yet...
"While environmental and consumer advocates in the First World fight against the worldwide use of GM crops in agriculture, hundreds of millions of people in the Third World are malnourished. And while trying to protect the environment and consumers in developed countries, critics of GM crops block a technology that could be of immense benefit for the majority of people in the Southern Hemisphere." (Luis Herrera-Estrella & Ariel Alvarez-Morales)
Maybe GMOs are important. But the current sky-rocketing global food crises and the political unrest generated from the spikes does not show much in the way of progress in manipulating and increasing crop production for the global food supply.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Dia lindo, lindo país
A handful of sun and breeze drops over Beira. It tossles the trees and the countless sleeves of secondhand shirts sold on blankets in the downtown market area, where hundreds of people and schoolchildren mill about. Not a single corner or slab of sidewalk is left bare; business blossoms in every expedient site you can imagine. The back of an empty semi-trailer. A narrow alleyway. At the cracked windows of chapas stuck in traffic. Outside the bus station. Alongside the busy road, where cars can pull over in a sudden whirl of dust and drivers will quickly duck into a maze of stalls. All you need is cheap Chinese or Indian merchandise, foodstuffs you can sell on behalf of Lebanese grocery stores, or the produce you picked up earlier in the morning from farmers south of town. Brandish your goods on a blanket and then pray for a sale from the few shoppers with expendable income. If you’re an Adam Smith type, dreaming of your unfettered markets and free trade, this is where you’ll find it. Mozambicans have a knack for finding new ways to make money, even if half of this creative potential is illegal. In the ShopRite (the only major grocery store in the city) parking lot, men pay small children 50 METs – or about a dollar and change – to steal rearview mirrors from parked vehicles. Later that day, maybe even the next day, the men will sell the mirrors back to desperate drivers for 500 METs.
Hey, it puts food on the table.
So anyways. I’m sitting in an internet café, wasting time on slow-loading newssites when I should be collecting phone numbers and addresses for Sun Biofuels, Energem, and Maputo’s Ag ministry. Outside I see a disorganized mess of dusty buildings, some left over from the colonial days of Portuguese architects. Down the street, what used to be a hotel is brimming with squatters. But what a lively mess it is, full of beautiful people, laughing and eyeing each other. An emerging generation of youth, the first to be "globalized", strut around with brightly colored high-top sneakers, baggy t-shirts, baggy jean shorts, sun glasses, backwards caps, wristwatches, and cell phones. Virility rises like steam in their footsteps. Mixed into these crowds are the tarnished faces of mothers with their bright chapanis wrapped tightly around them, holding babies and balancing bowls of grain on their heads. The juxtaposition is almost dizzying.
But with this emerging connectivity and accessible internet on a tiny smartphone screen, axiomatic changes are well underway. It’s a buzz in the air, the kind you get from a few glasses of wine, or that tickles your fingertips and muscles and makes you want to enter a full sprint. It’s infectious. Give this country 10 years, and you’ll have another Tunisia. Or another Egypt. As the conditions align, like the symptoms of a repressive one-party government that loots every industry and gobbles the cash from aid and FDI, it will only be a matter of time.
And now, I’ve got to sign off again. So much for blogging frequently, but I’ve got to catch a double-decker bus to Maputo and need to grab some TP for the 18-hour non-stop ride. Wish me luck!
A few other tidbits: spent the first 1 and 1/2 weeks with Ken and Deb, two incredible people who own a cattlefarm about 80 km from Beira, near a town called Tikka. The African "bush" never yields a dull day; I'm so thankful for their hospitality. Now I'm off to the capital for interviews, market-wandering, and hopefully some late-night live jazz.
Hey, it puts food on the table.
So anyways. I’m sitting in an internet café, wasting time on slow-loading newssites when I should be collecting phone numbers and addresses for Sun Biofuels, Energem, and Maputo’s Ag ministry. Outside I see a disorganized mess of dusty buildings, some left over from the colonial days of Portuguese architects. Down the street, what used to be a hotel is brimming with squatters. But what a lively mess it is, full of beautiful people, laughing and eyeing each other. An emerging generation of youth, the first to be "globalized", strut around with brightly colored high-top sneakers, baggy t-shirts, baggy jean shorts, sun glasses, backwards caps, wristwatches, and cell phones. Virility rises like steam in their footsteps. Mixed into these crowds are the tarnished faces of mothers with their bright chapanis wrapped tightly around them, holding babies and balancing bowls of grain on their heads. The juxtaposition is almost dizzying.
But with this emerging connectivity and accessible internet on a tiny smartphone screen, axiomatic changes are well underway. It’s a buzz in the air, the kind you get from a few glasses of wine, or that tickles your fingertips and muscles and makes you want to enter a full sprint. It’s infectious. Give this country 10 years, and you’ll have another Tunisia. Or another Egypt. As the conditions align, like the symptoms of a repressive one-party government that loots every industry and gobbles the cash from aid and FDI, it will only be a matter of time.
And now, I’ve got to sign off again. So much for blogging frequently, but I’ve got to catch a double-decker bus to Maputo and need to grab some TP for the 18-hour non-stop ride. Wish me luck!
A few other tidbits: spent the first 1 and 1/2 weeks with Ken and Deb, two incredible people who own a cattlefarm about 80 km from Beira, near a town called Tikka. The African "bush" never yields a dull day; I'm so thankful for their hospitality. Now I'm off to the capital for interviews, market-wandering, and hopefully some late-night live jazz.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Surprise! Zuma visits a township. It must be election season.
After teaching class on Friday, the street on which Ntyantyambo stands was a blurr of yellow ANC shirts, flags, and signs streaming towards the local, rusted stadium. Bursts of cheers erupted from buses trucking people into Zwide. Bus after bus. As they passed by the school, appendages and banners waved zealously from the windows - where did these people come from? With a mixture of enlivened curiosity and confusion, Scott, Michael, Phil, and I asked our students what was going on. Thousands of people don't congregate without good reason, unless its a rugby match. Amidst unbridled and fervent chatter, a few kids answered, "Zuma is here! Zuma is here!" Dismissed, they broke into a run to join the flow of yellow. I could hardly believe my ears, even after confirming with the principal and other teachers. And I had to see it.
Zuma? In Port Elizabeth? In the townships?!
The municipal election season broke upon PE two months ago. Overnight, a spate of campaign billboards and posters, which occupy virtually every pole or lamppost in town, appeared. ANC, DA, VF (an Afrikaner party), COPE,... (No joke. There are so many that I doubt that the 2 we stole for Annie's Cove are sorely missed). A pronounced lack of discussion or interest followed, excluding certain student organizations, like SASCO. Weird. Voting opens this Wednesday, and there are about 60 seats up for grabs in this region. According to an ANC campaigner at the rally, there is a lot at stake. To everybody else I've talked to, the elections are already decided - for the Eastern Cape, that is. The man who opened a checking account for me at FNB assured me that the ANC has unrivaled support here - the real battle is over the Western Cape Most students I speak with aren't even voting; they are smitten with apathy. Skeptical that the DA, the ANC's largest contender, can even compete - many did not even take the time to register.
Fair elections? As we walked down the street towards the stadium, were felt up and down by security at the gates, and filed in - our jaws dropped more and more. It was like walking into the biggest, most unhinged afternoon party the area had ever seen. People were stoked to have officials visit them - Zuma was, at that moment, door-knocking on homes rumored to have been won over by the DA. Why was there all of this excitement and support for a party that has systematically left out their communities and underfunded their schools? I guess if you show up every couple of years - bearing free groceries, free t-shirts, blankets, and a big "I'm your daddy" smile - you can win a lot of votes among the poor and disadvantaged.
Sorry for the brash cynicism. I don't mean to insinuate that the thousands living in the Zwide, Kwazakeli, and New Brighton townships don't understand the insidiousness inherent in the ANC's lust to maintain its consolidated control over government...but it seems as if the ANC depends upon the uneducated and jobless masses to keep support. Almost all of the educated black people I talk to are strictly for the DA, not the ANC. They understand the kind of stagnation and dissolve of democracy that occurs when a party rules for 17 years, effectively as a patronage network. Is it too conspiratorial to suggest that it may be in the conscious interest of the ANC to maintain a poor black majority? And provide only the bare minimum to better their socioeconomic position? Do they realize that the educated portions of society are shifting their support toward the DA, or not voting at all? What a terrible thought.
To be fair, the DA doesn't really campaign in the townships - some of the stigma and fear may be apocryphal, but the ANC is cunning in its projection of the DA as a "white party" to township citizens, ensuring that these areas will be somewhat hostile to other parties. The more people I talk to, the more of the townships I see, the further my disappointment and anger increases. Their government drops by during election season and then disappears. Other parties are hesitant to engage.
Of course, I wouldn't open my mouth at the ANC rally. Before following the campaign volunteers to their home to receive free XL t-shirts, stickers, and a flag, we marveled and mingled with supporters. Vendors sold cheap fruit, candies, and hot pies. Marching mixed with dancing; groups broke off into separate songs, indiscernable to our ears. Groups of schoolchildren wove their way through the crowds; men were peddling cigarettes and an odd array of trinkets. A man demanded 2 Rand from Phil when he quietly admitted his un-support for the ANC. The sun glistened on gold banners, on shaved heads, in supporters' gleaming eyes.
We were excited to get our hands on the t-shirts. But there is a certain sick nuance that accompanies my attainment of such (for me) valuable political artifacts. What is fascinating to me is for others the symbol of an increasingly arbitrary government that should no longer be ruling and that does not seem to care about the situation of the townships. I hope the t-shirts truly do become artifacts sooner than later - when citizens vote in a worthier party that is not leaning, as the ANC is, towards more radical "nationalist" rhetoric. Their Youth leader, Julius Malema, has recently been highlighted in a controversy surrounding what is clearly hate speech - he publicly sang a struggle song which includes the lyrics "one bullet, one Boer."
A final note: a friend's political science professor is not voting. She is fed up with the ANC, but she will not vote for the DA either. Why? Because the party is still "too white." When will the legacy of race dissolve?
Read more: http://mg.co.za/article/2011-05-16-zuma-malema-creating-racial-divisions-says-zille
Zuma? In Port Elizabeth? In the townships?!
The municipal election season broke upon PE two months ago. Overnight, a spate of campaign billboards and posters, which occupy virtually every pole or lamppost in town, appeared. ANC, DA, VF (an Afrikaner party), COPE,... (No joke. There are so many that I doubt that the 2 we stole for Annie's Cove are sorely missed). A pronounced lack of discussion or interest followed, excluding certain student organizations, like SASCO. Weird. Voting opens this Wednesday, and there are about 60 seats up for grabs in this region. According to an ANC campaigner at the rally, there is a lot at stake. To everybody else I've talked to, the elections are already decided - for the Eastern Cape, that is. The man who opened a checking account for me at FNB assured me that the ANC has unrivaled support here - the real battle is over the Western Cape Most students I speak with aren't even voting; they are smitten with apathy. Skeptical that the DA, the ANC's largest contender, can even compete - many did not even take the time to register.
Fair elections? As we walked down the street towards the stadium, were felt up and down by security at the gates, and filed in - our jaws dropped more and more. It was like walking into the biggest, most unhinged afternoon party the area had ever seen. People were stoked to have officials visit them - Zuma was, at that moment, door-knocking on homes rumored to have been won over by the DA. Why was there all of this excitement and support for a party that has systematically left out their communities and underfunded their schools? I guess if you show up every couple of years - bearing free groceries, free t-shirts, blankets, and a big "I'm your daddy" smile - you can win a lot of votes among the poor and disadvantaged.
Sorry for the brash cynicism. I don't mean to insinuate that the thousands living in the Zwide, Kwazakeli, and New Brighton townships don't understand the insidiousness inherent in the ANC's lust to maintain its consolidated control over government...but it seems as if the ANC depends upon the uneducated and jobless masses to keep support. Almost all of the educated black people I talk to are strictly for the DA, not the ANC. They understand the kind of stagnation and dissolve of democracy that occurs when a party rules for 17 years, effectively as a patronage network. Is it too conspiratorial to suggest that it may be in the conscious interest of the ANC to maintain a poor black majority? And provide only the bare minimum to better their socioeconomic position? Do they realize that the educated portions of society are shifting their support toward the DA, or not voting at all? What a terrible thought.
To be fair, the DA doesn't really campaign in the townships - some of the stigma and fear may be apocryphal, but the ANC is cunning in its projection of the DA as a "white party" to township citizens, ensuring that these areas will be somewhat hostile to other parties. The more people I talk to, the more of the townships I see, the further my disappointment and anger increases. Their government drops by during election season and then disappears. Other parties are hesitant to engage.
Of course, I wouldn't open my mouth at the ANC rally. Before following the campaign volunteers to their home to receive free XL t-shirts, stickers, and a flag, we marveled and mingled with supporters. Vendors sold cheap fruit, candies, and hot pies. Marching mixed with dancing; groups broke off into separate songs, indiscernable to our ears. Groups of schoolchildren wove their way through the crowds; men were peddling cigarettes and an odd array of trinkets. A man demanded 2 Rand from Phil when he quietly admitted his un-support for the ANC. The sun glistened on gold banners, on shaved heads, in supporters' gleaming eyes.
We were excited to get our hands on the t-shirts. But there is a certain sick nuance that accompanies my attainment of such (for me) valuable political artifacts. What is fascinating to me is for others the symbol of an increasingly arbitrary government that should no longer be ruling and that does not seem to care about the situation of the townships. I hope the t-shirts truly do become artifacts sooner than later - when citizens vote in a worthier party that is not leaning, as the ANC is, towards more radical "nationalist" rhetoric. Their Youth leader, Julius Malema, has recently been highlighted in a controversy surrounding what is clearly hate speech - he publicly sang a struggle song which includes the lyrics "one bullet, one Boer."
A final note: a friend's political science professor is not voting. She is fed up with the ANC, but she will not vote for the DA either. Why? Because the party is still "too white." When will the legacy of race dissolve?
Read more: http://mg.co.za/article/2011-05-16-zuma-malema-creating-racial-divisions-says-zille
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Rainy Day Thoughts
Before I begin: readers should know to check my facebook profile for hundreds of recently posted pictures, as it is very difficult to post them on this blog.
Sheets of rain move over Port Elizabeth; the pages of the storm are like that out of the longest book, it is in this fashion that the torrent claims the entire day – dawn until dusk. Mini-bus horns trill in the distance and the streets are still cluttered with people, though the pace picks up in these conditions. I’m happy for the downpour. My thoughts dissipate throughout my flat and I finally have hours to organize them.
Lately I’ve been collecting various editions of the Herald, which is one of the largest newspapers in the Eastern Cape. For a mere 5 Rand, I can keep checks on the pace of the May 18th municipal elections and the various outbursts and controversies erupting around the ANC and the DA, the two significant contenders. Story one: ANC official’s plans to build a mansion in a notoriously poor township district are scrutinized; he claims that it is only by coincidence that the billion-dollar road plans for the area are altered to included a paved section next to his home. Story two: housing distribution is riddled with fraud, nepotism, and defective homes; uncompleted housing and a lack of organization by unskilled project managers is met by the DA’s statement of plans to revamp the accommodation projects should their party win seats. But there is a third story that catches my eye – on critical education in the townships. First, to give you context:
The promises of these parties are met with intense skepticism on the part of community leaders in the townships. As I was told by a grandmother who voluntarily runs a cafeteria at the secondary school (down the street from the school I teach at), she finds it sad that she and many others can no longer put faith in the party that ushered in their liberation. After 1994, many expected a protracted engagement of disadvantaged communities by ANC officials. Now, not only do many of the township schools no longer receive any funding (many teachers work without pay), but the only time that they ever do see the ANC is during the elections. Their repeated campaign strategy is a running joke – entering particular township neighborhoods ever 5 years to hand out groceries and blankets in turn for support. After that, besides stopping by to install a few more billboards with Zuma’s face plastered everywhere, the ruling party is a ghost. “They don’t care about us anymore,” said Mr. Qunta yesterday, the principal of a township secondary school. “But we’ve learned to come up with our own solutions and find sponsors for our materials and our children.”
I too find it incredibly challenging to give the 55 children in our English class a proper lesson plan when we lack so many basic materials. Though the students are nevertheless adamant about their education, what I want to find are books and articles that are accessible to them and that speak to their particular struggles, passions, and personal histories. I want them to relate to the characters in the stories and, furthermore, inform or measure written accounts against their own. So you can imagine my elation when I came across this final article in the paper: a book project called “Harmony High” – a fictional township high school series written to enthuse young readers with stories relevant to their lives. How awesome is that? I’m looking to pick up a copy to distribute among some of my students.
Sheets of rain move over Port Elizabeth; the pages of the storm are like that out of the longest book, it is in this fashion that the torrent claims the entire day – dawn until dusk. Mini-bus horns trill in the distance and the streets are still cluttered with people, though the pace picks up in these conditions. I’m happy for the downpour. My thoughts dissipate throughout my flat and I finally have hours to organize them.
Lately I’ve been collecting various editions of the Herald, which is one of the largest newspapers in the Eastern Cape. For a mere 5 Rand, I can keep checks on the pace of the May 18th municipal elections and the various outbursts and controversies erupting around the ANC and the DA, the two significant contenders. Story one: ANC official’s plans to build a mansion in a notoriously poor township district are scrutinized; he claims that it is only by coincidence that the billion-dollar road plans for the area are altered to included a paved section next to his home. Story two: housing distribution is riddled with fraud, nepotism, and defective homes; uncompleted housing and a lack of organization by unskilled project managers is met by the DA’s statement of plans to revamp the accommodation projects should their party win seats. But there is a third story that catches my eye – on critical education in the townships. First, to give you context:
The promises of these parties are met with intense skepticism on the part of community leaders in the townships. As I was told by a grandmother who voluntarily runs a cafeteria at the secondary school (down the street from the school I teach at), she finds it sad that she and many others can no longer put faith in the party that ushered in their liberation. After 1994, many expected a protracted engagement of disadvantaged communities by ANC officials. Now, not only do many of the township schools no longer receive any funding (many teachers work without pay), but the only time that they ever do see the ANC is during the elections. Their repeated campaign strategy is a running joke – entering particular township neighborhoods ever 5 years to hand out groceries and blankets in turn for support. After that, besides stopping by to install a few more billboards with Zuma’s face plastered everywhere, the ruling party is a ghost. “They don’t care about us anymore,” said Mr. Qunta yesterday, the principal of a township secondary school. “But we’ve learned to come up with our own solutions and find sponsors for our materials and our children.”
I too find it incredibly challenging to give the 55 children in our English class a proper lesson plan when we lack so many basic materials. Though the students are nevertheless adamant about their education, what I want to find are books and articles that are accessible to them and that speak to their particular struggles, passions, and personal histories. I want them to relate to the characters in the stories and, furthermore, inform or measure written accounts against their own. So you can imagine my elation when I came across this final article in the paper: a book project called “Harmony High” – a fictional township high school series written to enthuse young readers with stories relevant to their lives. How awesome is that? I’m looking to pick up a copy to distribute among some of my students.
Chasing fairies and cows on the Wild Coast
23 April 2011
After 4 hours of mid-intensity hiking through the rolling hills that slope down – sometimes gently, sometimes violently in the guise of jutting cliffs – to the sea, Terry and I could hardly tame our groaning stomachs. We cut a line parallel to the rhythmic ushering of the tide, which broke on shores crowded with cattle. Quite a hilarious sight. Imagine going for a swim on the most beautiful, isolated beach and topping your afternoon off chasing fattened cows through the white sand. This is truly the more rural South Africa we’d been dying to see: the Transkei, or the Wild Coast as it is widely known, is where the agrarian lifestyle of small Xhosa villages remains somewhat untouched by the globalizing tendencies of its urban counterparts. On the one hand, the entire display of forest, green hills, and sea coupled with a spattering of huts is captivating. But on the other hand, the region is impoverished – children run after your car begging for sweets or spare change. Older kids begin to sell crafts and jewelry (and hostels promote these healthier activities to guests seeking to give back), but many also sell drugs (in Coffee Bay – psychedelic mushrooms were offered by all ages). We were once approached by a man, who, after we turned down the shrooms, whipped out a huge black bag filled with live lobsters. R100 each.
Clusters of huts typically belong to one family: that is, one man with multiple wives – each with her own hut. The principal of the secondary school that we visited last week believes that this tradition of polygamy is a major cause for the continuing spread of HIV/AIDS.
Lumbering along a trail that occasionally became confused with the attention-deficit meandering of goat paths, we eventually decided to scale a sizeable cliff so as to regain a view of where the actual trail might be. As we scrambled to the top a half hour later, far below we saw a boy waving his hands and running after us. This isn’t unusual. Along the way to “Hole in the Wall”, at least 20 children will, for money, try to guide you to the landmark. Thinking it impossible that the boy would catch up, imagine our surprise when he stumbles beside us a mere 5 minutes later, barefoot. Impressive climbing deserves reward. The boy’s name was J.J; I gave him 10 Rand to help us find the trail – his eyes widened in glee. Below us, fishermen hauled huge hake into the small towns clustered by the beach.
Overall, our trip to Coffee Bay was quite eye-opening. Packs of horseback riders would form caravans near the roads, transporting goods between villages. Sitting in circles or playing games near the roads or power-line poles were groups of children. As you come over the crest of a hill, a burst of color will break the undulating rural landscape: soccer games. Indeed, all activity is organized around roads; where we use the airwaves to stay connected, in the Transkei, roads form the medium of communication and the locale for news or means of transportation. Hitchhikers jut out into the road waving signs; in Africa there is always a way to fit one more.
On a separate occasion, a friend travelling in our car had seen small children filling the potholes with tar and asking cars for 2 Rand in return. The uncomfortable gap between the tourist spots along the Wild Coast route and the widespread poverty just on the outskirts of guesthouses or hostels is appalling.
While trying to avoid potholes and livestock, the bustle of people also weave in and out of the pavement. Women carry 10 foot long bundles of wood on their heads and small children lead donkeys, topped with their siblings, bumping along beside their mothers. We drove by ruins of schools, breweries, or simply incomplete buildings, abandoned during construction. Signs for all businesses were the same: either Coca-Cola or Vodacom are the standard backdrop, even if the business is a hospital, not a cell phone company.
Side-note: Driving norms are especially interesting in South Africa. People are certainly a lot less hostile. When you are looking to pass somebody on a two-lane highway, they move over into the shoulder to make it easier for you to get by with oncoming traffic. An absolutely brilliant system. After you pass, the unspoken and widespread norm is to flash your hazards in gratitude; sometimes they will flash their brights back. I can’t think of any similar gesture in the U.S; we usually only express anger, using hands, fingers, and horns.
The Transkei was unquestionably my favorite part of South Africa. When hitch-hiking back to Coffee Bay at sunset, we were picked up by a large and generous Indian family. We hopped onto the back bumper and held onto the roof for dear life as we clamored and rattled over each hill on the uneven road. As the last of the sunlight bathed the green hills and the metal cone roofs of the huts, we waved and yelled what we did know in Xhosa to bands of kids, who laughed and returned our imperfect greetings. It was the finest 4x4 ride I’ve ever had.
After 4 hours of mid-intensity hiking through the rolling hills that slope down – sometimes gently, sometimes violently in the guise of jutting cliffs – to the sea, Terry and I could hardly tame our groaning stomachs. We cut a line parallel to the rhythmic ushering of the tide, which broke on shores crowded with cattle. Quite a hilarious sight. Imagine going for a swim on the most beautiful, isolated beach and topping your afternoon off chasing fattened cows through the white sand. This is truly the more rural South Africa we’d been dying to see: the Transkei, or the Wild Coast as it is widely known, is where the agrarian lifestyle of small Xhosa villages remains somewhat untouched by the globalizing tendencies of its urban counterparts. On the one hand, the entire display of forest, green hills, and sea coupled with a spattering of huts is captivating. But on the other hand, the region is impoverished – children run after your car begging for sweets or spare change. Older kids begin to sell crafts and jewelry (and hostels promote these healthier activities to guests seeking to give back), but many also sell drugs (in Coffee Bay – psychedelic mushrooms were offered by all ages). We were once approached by a man, who, after we turned down the shrooms, whipped out a huge black bag filled with live lobsters. R100 each.
Clusters of huts typically belong to one family: that is, one man with multiple wives – each with her own hut. The principal of the secondary school that we visited last week believes that this tradition of polygamy is a major cause for the continuing spread of HIV/AIDS.
Lumbering along a trail that occasionally became confused with the attention-deficit meandering of goat paths, we eventually decided to scale a sizeable cliff so as to regain a view of where the actual trail might be. As we scrambled to the top a half hour later, far below we saw a boy waving his hands and running after us. This isn’t unusual. Along the way to “Hole in the Wall”, at least 20 children will, for money, try to guide you to the landmark. Thinking it impossible that the boy would catch up, imagine our surprise when he stumbles beside us a mere 5 minutes later, barefoot. Impressive climbing deserves reward. The boy’s name was J.J; I gave him 10 Rand to help us find the trail – his eyes widened in glee. Below us, fishermen hauled huge hake into the small towns clustered by the beach.
Overall, our trip to Coffee Bay was quite eye-opening. Packs of horseback riders would form caravans near the roads, transporting goods between villages. Sitting in circles or playing games near the roads or power-line poles were groups of children. As you come over the crest of a hill, a burst of color will break the undulating rural landscape: soccer games. Indeed, all activity is organized around roads; where we use the airwaves to stay connected, in the Transkei, roads form the medium of communication and the locale for news or means of transportation. Hitchhikers jut out into the road waving signs; in Africa there is always a way to fit one more.
On a separate occasion, a friend travelling in our car had seen small children filling the potholes with tar and asking cars for 2 Rand in return. The uncomfortable gap between the tourist spots along the Wild Coast route and the widespread poverty just on the outskirts of guesthouses or hostels is appalling.
While trying to avoid potholes and livestock, the bustle of people also weave in and out of the pavement. Women carry 10 foot long bundles of wood on their heads and small children lead donkeys, topped with their siblings, bumping along beside their mothers. We drove by ruins of schools, breweries, or simply incomplete buildings, abandoned during construction. Signs for all businesses were the same: either Coca-Cola or Vodacom are the standard backdrop, even if the business is a hospital, not a cell phone company.
Side-note: Driving norms are especially interesting in South Africa. People are certainly a lot less hostile. When you are looking to pass somebody on a two-lane highway, they move over into the shoulder to make it easier for you to get by with oncoming traffic. An absolutely brilliant system. After you pass, the unspoken and widespread norm is to flash your hazards in gratitude; sometimes they will flash their brights back. I can’t think of any similar gesture in the U.S; we usually only express anger, using hands, fingers, and horns.
The Transkei was unquestionably my favorite part of South Africa. When hitch-hiking back to Coffee Bay at sunset, we were picked up by a large and generous Indian family. We hopped onto the back bumper and held onto the roof for dear life as we clamored and rattled over each hill on the uneven road. As the last of the sunlight bathed the green hills and the metal cone roofs of the huts, we waved and yelled what we did know in Xhosa to bands of kids, who laughed and returned our imperfect greetings. It was the finest 4x4 ride I’ve ever had.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Short and sweet
I realize that my posts completely defeat the point of blogging (and maintaining readers), because they are horribly lengthy. Also, I haven't really included other noteworthy happenings:
-Spent last Saturday night in the townships passing out fliers with friends for a "Jazzalicious" festival. Townships at night are something else altogether; a few white South Africans who found out on Monday were myphed at my willingness to go there. Running from shebeen to shebeen, and occasionally a small jazz joint tucked away on a sidestreet, it was probably one of the more crazy experiences I've had in South Africa. Being the only white person amongst hundreds of locals drew uncomfortable amounts of attention, both positive and negative. Not sure how to feel about being an American celebrity, but unfortunately its true. Parties in the streets and on-top of cars. Police beatings behind vans. Shaking hands and constantly explaining myself. The festival was for Human Rights Day (today!) and one particularly drunk man assertively told me that human rights were for black people, that a white lady cannot fathom rights. Very interesting, teary-eyed conversation. My friends promptly stepped in. The thing is, I can't completely disagree with him. Afterall, I've never had my rights abused. When will we move from declaring individual rights universally to actually developing mechanisms that step in to protect them? One step at a time, I suppose.
-Am obtaining a free surfboard from a new friend I met on campus last week. What does that mean?: 3-day weekend of surfing in Jeffrey's Bay! Hello, now-inexpensive recreation. Cheers to Josh Wood.
-Went to a festival called "Transfest" at Wacky Woods, which is nestled in the most beautiful African countryside on the way to East London. Imagine rolling green hills cut with enormous valleys and misty peaks in the distance. Gorges greet us around every corner, boasting rivers. At the festival, fire lanterns drifted through the sky and we watched the spectacle of lights and music with our feet in a 3-tiered waterfall pool. Amazing. Also painted our faces and danced the night away, with infrequent intermissions for mango-eating. Will post pictures soon.
-Hatha yoga courses began last week: finally learned how to do a head-stand. The studio is only a 25-min bike ride away from Summerstrand.
-Have seen some incredible live jazz performances and poetry readings in local clubs. Every Wednesday night is now officially Jazz Night! South Africa's jazz tradition is rich, Abdullah Ibrahim created a Cape sound that rivals even the best of American small-combo sounds.
-Spent last Saturday night in the townships passing out fliers with friends for a "Jazzalicious" festival. Townships at night are something else altogether; a few white South Africans who found out on Monday were myphed at my willingness to go there. Running from shebeen to shebeen, and occasionally a small jazz joint tucked away on a sidestreet, it was probably one of the more crazy experiences I've had in South Africa. Being the only white person amongst hundreds of locals drew uncomfortable amounts of attention, both positive and negative. Not sure how to feel about being an American celebrity, but unfortunately its true. Parties in the streets and on-top of cars. Police beatings behind vans. Shaking hands and constantly explaining myself. The festival was for Human Rights Day (today!) and one particularly drunk man assertively told me that human rights were for black people, that a white lady cannot fathom rights. Very interesting, teary-eyed conversation. My friends promptly stepped in. The thing is, I can't completely disagree with him. Afterall, I've never had my rights abused. When will we move from declaring individual rights universally to actually developing mechanisms that step in to protect them? One step at a time, I suppose.
-Am obtaining a free surfboard from a new friend I met on campus last week. What does that mean?: 3-day weekend of surfing in Jeffrey's Bay! Hello, now-inexpensive recreation. Cheers to Josh Wood.
-Went to a festival called "Transfest" at Wacky Woods, which is nestled in the most beautiful African countryside on the way to East London. Imagine rolling green hills cut with enormous valleys and misty peaks in the distance. Gorges greet us around every corner, boasting rivers. At the festival, fire lanterns drifted through the sky and we watched the spectacle of lights and music with our feet in a 3-tiered waterfall pool. Amazing. Also painted our faces and danced the night away, with infrequent intermissions for mango-eating. Will post pictures soon.
-Hatha yoga courses began last week: finally learned how to do a head-stand. The studio is only a 25-min bike ride away from Summerstrand.
-Have seen some incredible live jazz performances and poetry readings in local clubs. Every Wednesday night is now officially Jazz Night! South Africa's jazz tradition is rich, Abdullah Ibrahim created a Cape sound that rivals even the best of American small-combo sounds.
"Color-blind": why ignoring race doesn't break it.
How can I maximize the value of disconnectivity?
How does South African society change its internalized interracial discomforts?
But first, allow me to rant.
After fidgeting unsuccessfully with a candy machine which has stolen my remaining 5 Rand, it was only appropriate to stare sadly one last time at the Cadbury Milk Chocolate bar, caged behind glass, and leave for the computer lab. (And yes, chocolate sometimes takes its critical place as a staple in my erratic diet). Unfortunately, no internet on campus. Knuckles whiten. A sigh creeps into my boiling stomach, as if trying to cool hot, angry soup. Involuntarily, I begin to make a list of the various objects or technologies that, here in South Africa, share a common tendency to break. Sometimes (oddly enough) I embrace the transitory nature of the now-not-so-reliable "things". It infuses appreciation into the impatient soul. Not today. I was excited to hammer out more details of a father-daughter trip across the White Coast this July and connect to the storm that is a faltering Libyan revolution against Gaddafi. See:
http://english.aljazeera.net/indepth/opinion/2011/03/201132093458329910.html
Oil or democracy, America? Tough choice. But ah, Yemen is now our next feature revolution. Will Saleh meet up with Ben Ali and Mubarak in exile? Read:
http://english.aljazeera.net/news/middleeast/2011/03/2011321104457102860.html.
(Sorry, links don't work) Interestingly enough, last March at an Arab League Conference in Libya, Ben Ali proclaimed 2010-2011 as "Year of the Youth". When I read this the other day, I both laughed and cried. Little did he know..
Anyways. As is now a tradition in the Wittmeyer siblinghood, laptops have broken while abroad. For Sean, this was in Barcelona. For me, this was at an internet café near the beach, as I hammered out the last of a 6-page essay due the following day. Another computer arrives soon, but let this absence explain my lack of consistent posts to the blogosphere. Biking to campus for internet as a temporary and physically enjoyable solution will not follow through today, as NMMU’s network has crashed. No other alternatives that don’t require borrowing or bartering come to mind. I feel like a newborn baby severed from the mother; replace the umbilical cord with an Ethernet cord and you get the picture.
However, there is value in forced isolation, in disconnectivity. Our generation is one increasingly characterized by being online, all of the time. Once upon a not-so-distant time, we replaced face-to-face conversations with phone calls. Then it was texting. Now it is facebook. Roommates will chat online together from separate rooms of the same apartment; grievances in relationships are expressed in passive status posts. Here in South Africa, the luxury of deep, confrontational conversation is endless. Without the use of intermediaries, people sit on the South Campus hill and dialogue – I’ve had hours-long conversations about Israel, formulas for social interaction, current issues surrounding racial justice, personal histories, which club boasts the best DJs…all on that grassy knoll. We hearken back to the rawness and immediacy of exchange. When I have dinner with a local, cell phones are always put politely out of sight. Friendships erupt in serendipity – being at the right place at the right time and spontaneously sharing hours.
So yes!, there is value in being driven off-line. Left in my own head (frightening), I can no longer sidestep metaphysical questions for previous, constant, 24-hour distractions. This has led to a dramatic increase in my writing, a revival in poetry, and tapping into the prevailing moment instead of an obscure future/past.
There you have it. One cannot learn about a culture without talking to its many, living components.
Speaking of which, among the most interesting and difficult realizations I’ve made here has been racial. I’ve had to toss out my American conceptions of race and the sensitivity I have at hearing blatantly racial statements. In the States, we’ve swept a lot of our guilty history under the rug, claiming to be “color-blind”, and taking great offense when outsiders point out the racially shaded streets of our poorer metropolitan areas. But we have made leaps and bounds culturally. South Africa is not entirely dissimilar, though Afrikaner magazines (and some white South Africans) will still vocalize their disgust with blacks. I encountered this in a store just last week. By and large, South Africa is a country striving to be color-blind while trying to construct a nation of peoples still culturally, geographically, and economically divided: still-teeming tensions between Xhosas and Zulus, blacks and whites, Coloureds, blacks, and whites – oh, and don’t forget the Indian population – are still widely in force. One friend of mine called “Moose” told me that though he’s effectively an Oreo (he’s had many English influences growing up), he’s had white friends admit to him that they were, indeed, racist. After yoga one evening, as I was preparing to ride my bike home along the ocean from Humewood to Summerstrand, some white men braaing next to the studio were anxious to talk about my conceptions of South Africa. They were pleased to hear that I was greatly enjoying the country and did not believe it to be as crime-ridden as the international media sometimes erroneously portrays it. One then asserted, “Yes, there is some crime. But who’s doing it? The blacks.”
I nodded curtly and left.
Please do note: as recently as 1992, the CDC funded a study that explored the link between violent crime and DNA. Though this effort was subsequently attacked and properly refuted, it is vexing that obvious confounding variables (poverty, unemployment) were overlooked. And by “impartial” scientists.
On the same token, I have to step out of my entrenched opinions. The ANC is not doing much in the way of changing the traces of these cultural attitudes, but rather enforces them. The Democratic Alliance is, de facto, not allowed to campaign in black “ANC-dominating” townships. The few blacks brave enough to vocalize their support of a different party (or criticism of the ANC) are often harassed by others. Intimidating ANC members fly Christianized slogans: “If you don’t vote for the ANC, you will go to hell.” Sometimes it seems that the ANC’s leadership thinks it can enjoy continued support (regardless of its often sloppy policies) simply because Mandela was its posterchild and also because it was the predominant party in the opposition movement that tore down Apartheid. After 17 years of rule come April, a party should have other victories to boast of…namely, reconstructing a segregated country.
Democracy depends on a population of voting adults making calculated, informed decisions when circling names on a ballot that is necessarily multi-party. It seems that the ANC doesn’t want that. Employing tactics liken to the National Party’s during Apartheid, the ANC has effectively relied upon racial divisions so that a new, competitive, multiracial party doesn’t crop up and win significant seats in the Cabinet. Voting is rather like taking a census; 80% are black and expected to vote for the ANC – which they usually do. Whites (9%) typically vote for the Democratic Alliance. This is good for the ANC, bad for truly nonracial elections and political engagement.
Some of the ANC’s newest policies under Zuma tout affirmative action programs for hiring only blacks instead of creating new jobs or installing initiatives to move blacks from the townships to the economic centers. Certainly affirmative action is necessary for a country where your race most likely determines your economic standing, but these policies must also avoid hurting minorities. Black-only employment quotas have created frustration among the other groups; I’ve heard complaints from students who can’t find jobs based on their race and whose families want to leave the country. Nelson Mandela did not want to create a black-only South Africa; he wanted a multi-racial country to emerge out of its first brutally colonial and later idiosyncratically racist past. But how do you that? And how do you resolve the racial norms and stereotypes still riddling the national culture?
How does South African society change its internalized interracial discomforts?
But first, allow me to rant.
After fidgeting unsuccessfully with a candy machine which has stolen my remaining 5 Rand, it was only appropriate to stare sadly one last time at the Cadbury Milk Chocolate bar, caged behind glass, and leave for the computer lab. (And yes, chocolate sometimes takes its critical place as a staple in my erratic diet). Unfortunately, no internet on campus. Knuckles whiten. A sigh creeps into my boiling stomach, as if trying to cool hot, angry soup. Involuntarily, I begin to make a list of the various objects or technologies that, here in South Africa, share a common tendency to break. Sometimes (oddly enough) I embrace the transitory nature of the now-not-so-reliable "things". It infuses appreciation into the impatient soul. Not today. I was excited to hammer out more details of a father-daughter trip across the White Coast this July and connect to the storm that is a faltering Libyan revolution against Gaddafi. See:
http://english.aljazeera.net/indepth/opinion/2011/03/201132093458329910.html
Oil or democracy, America? Tough choice. But ah, Yemen is now our next feature revolution. Will Saleh meet up with Ben Ali and Mubarak in exile? Read:
http://english.aljazeera.net/news/middleeast/2011/03/2011321104457102860.html.
(Sorry, links don't work) Interestingly enough, last March at an Arab League Conference in Libya, Ben Ali proclaimed 2010-2011 as "Year of the Youth". When I read this the other day, I both laughed and cried. Little did he know..
Anyways. As is now a tradition in the Wittmeyer siblinghood, laptops have broken while abroad. For Sean, this was in Barcelona. For me, this was at an internet café near the beach, as I hammered out the last of a 6-page essay due the following day. Another computer arrives soon, but let this absence explain my lack of consistent posts to the blogosphere. Biking to campus for internet as a temporary and physically enjoyable solution will not follow through today, as NMMU’s network has crashed. No other alternatives that don’t require borrowing or bartering come to mind. I feel like a newborn baby severed from the mother; replace the umbilical cord with an Ethernet cord and you get the picture.
However, there is value in forced isolation, in disconnectivity. Our generation is one increasingly characterized by being online, all of the time. Once upon a not-so-distant time, we replaced face-to-face conversations with phone calls. Then it was texting. Now it is facebook. Roommates will chat online together from separate rooms of the same apartment; grievances in relationships are expressed in passive status posts. Here in South Africa, the luxury of deep, confrontational conversation is endless. Without the use of intermediaries, people sit on the South Campus hill and dialogue – I’ve had hours-long conversations about Israel, formulas for social interaction, current issues surrounding racial justice, personal histories, which club boasts the best DJs…all on that grassy knoll. We hearken back to the rawness and immediacy of exchange. When I have dinner with a local, cell phones are always put politely out of sight. Friendships erupt in serendipity – being at the right place at the right time and spontaneously sharing hours.
So yes!, there is value in being driven off-line. Left in my own head (frightening), I can no longer sidestep metaphysical questions for previous, constant, 24-hour distractions. This has led to a dramatic increase in my writing, a revival in poetry, and tapping into the prevailing moment instead of an obscure future/past.
There you have it. One cannot learn about a culture without talking to its many, living components.
Speaking of which, among the most interesting and difficult realizations I’ve made here has been racial. I’ve had to toss out my American conceptions of race and the sensitivity I have at hearing blatantly racial statements. In the States, we’ve swept a lot of our guilty history under the rug, claiming to be “color-blind”, and taking great offense when outsiders point out the racially shaded streets of our poorer metropolitan areas. But we have made leaps and bounds culturally. South Africa is not entirely dissimilar, though Afrikaner magazines (and some white South Africans) will still vocalize their disgust with blacks. I encountered this in a store just last week. By and large, South Africa is a country striving to be color-blind while trying to construct a nation of peoples still culturally, geographically, and economically divided: still-teeming tensions between Xhosas and Zulus, blacks and whites, Coloureds, blacks, and whites – oh, and don’t forget the Indian population – are still widely in force. One friend of mine called “Moose” told me that though he’s effectively an Oreo (he’s had many English influences growing up), he’s had white friends admit to him that they were, indeed, racist. After yoga one evening, as I was preparing to ride my bike home along the ocean from Humewood to Summerstrand, some white men braaing next to the studio were anxious to talk about my conceptions of South Africa. They were pleased to hear that I was greatly enjoying the country and did not believe it to be as crime-ridden as the international media sometimes erroneously portrays it. One then asserted, “Yes, there is some crime. But who’s doing it? The blacks.”
I nodded curtly and left.
Please do note: as recently as 1992, the CDC funded a study that explored the link between violent crime and DNA. Though this effort was subsequently attacked and properly refuted, it is vexing that obvious confounding variables (poverty, unemployment) were overlooked. And by “impartial” scientists.
On the same token, I have to step out of my entrenched opinions. The ANC is not doing much in the way of changing the traces of these cultural attitudes, but rather enforces them. The Democratic Alliance is, de facto, not allowed to campaign in black “ANC-dominating” townships. The few blacks brave enough to vocalize their support of a different party (or criticism of the ANC) are often harassed by others. Intimidating ANC members fly Christianized slogans: “If you don’t vote for the ANC, you will go to hell.” Sometimes it seems that the ANC’s leadership thinks it can enjoy continued support (regardless of its often sloppy policies) simply because Mandela was its posterchild and also because it was the predominant party in the opposition movement that tore down Apartheid. After 17 years of rule come April, a party should have other victories to boast of…namely, reconstructing a segregated country.
Democracy depends on a population of voting adults making calculated, informed decisions when circling names on a ballot that is necessarily multi-party. It seems that the ANC doesn’t want that. Employing tactics liken to the National Party’s during Apartheid, the ANC has effectively relied upon racial divisions so that a new, competitive, multiracial party doesn’t crop up and win significant seats in the Cabinet. Voting is rather like taking a census; 80% are black and expected to vote for the ANC – which they usually do. Whites (9%) typically vote for the Democratic Alliance. This is good for the ANC, bad for truly nonracial elections and political engagement.
Some of the ANC’s newest policies under Zuma tout affirmative action programs for hiring only blacks instead of creating new jobs or installing initiatives to move blacks from the townships to the economic centers. Certainly affirmative action is necessary for a country where your race most likely determines your economic standing, but these policies must also avoid hurting minorities. Black-only employment quotas have created frustration among the other groups; I’ve heard complaints from students who can’t find jobs based on their race and whose families want to leave the country. Nelson Mandela did not want to create a black-only South Africa; he wanted a multi-racial country to emerge out of its first brutally colonial and later idiosyncratically racist past. But how do you that? And how do you resolve the racial norms and stereotypes still riddling the national culture?
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