Archive for the ‘East Africa’ Category

from Radio Canada site

Robertson Davies

“My lifelong involvement with Mrs. Dempster began at 5:58 o’clock p.m. on the 27th of December, 1908, at which time I was ten year and seven months old.
I am able to date the occasion with complete certainty because that afternoon I had been sledding with my lifelong friend and enemy Percy Boyd Staunton, and we had quarrelled, because his fine new Christmas sled would not go as fast as my old one. Snow was never heavy in our part of the world, but this Christmas it had been plentiful enough almost to cover the tallest spears of dried grass in the fields; in such snow his sled with its tall runners and foolish steering apparatus was clumsy and apt to stick, whereas my low-slung affair would almost have slid on grass without snow.”
This is the opening of Fifth Business by Robertson Davies. In it he introduces the main characters, the conflict, and the time and place. The narrator and Percy are tobogganing in the village of Deptford, a village, the narrator explains ten pages later, on the river Thames in Western Ontario. He goes on for some pages about this imaginary village – its geography, religions, professionals and its families — but for me the essence of it lies in that snow on the spears of dried grass in the fields. I have lived next to similar fields, I have seen that snow, I have tobaggoned. Because of my experience, I inhale this passage as I would inhale the air of home.  book cover Fifth Business
However, as my professor of theatre, Anne Saddlemyer, said to me reproachfully when I was an undergrad, not all knowledge is empirical. I once tried to explain snow to a man in a country of England’s former empire. How do you get across to a reader a place that is unknown to them? Certainly the pages of exposition on Deptford will give the reader an idea of the place.
Let me take it from another angle. I read the novels of Joseph Roth before I ever went to Vienna. I remember struggling with his descriptions, sighing and saying I don’t like reading description. Because it was difficult for me to see the cobblestoned streets, the blocks of buildings hunched around the ring, the uniformed men. Can you imagine the particular shade of yellow paint of which he writes unless you’ve actually seen it? More importantly, does it matter? Or is the frisson of recognition (once yellow has been seen and read about) simply a bonus to the foreign reader? Which makes me wonder how you read the above passage if you’ve never seen snow.
Implicit in many of last year’s posts was the idea that it is important to know where a writer has lived in order to better understand the work. I did not really discuss this topic worthy of debate. Harry Mount, writing for The Daily Telegraph (7 Jan. 2013), thinks it is important. Writing about English Heritage’s blue plaques on residences occupied by famous people, he says, “But they are also more than just a collection of facts and dates, crucial as those things are. The knowledge of where someone once lived – particularly if it is at odds with their later fame and fortune – gives a peculiarly moving insight into their story.” He talks about the plaques in his neighbourhood, in Camden Town, north London, where the rich and famous now live, but which used to be “quintessential bedsitter-land,” and where George Orwell and Dylan Thomas once lived. Mount writes, “I’m a long-time fan of both writers. But I’d have known little of the enthrallingly dreary, everyday detail of their lives – or the bleak, mid-20th-century gloom of my corner of the world – but for those two little blue discs.”
Mount was one of many journalists writing about the blue plaques last week because English Heritage announced that due to funding cuts, it could no longer afford to put them up and is letting go its advisory panel. I love these blue ceramic plaques that punctuate buildings all over my neighbourhood, pausing me in my errands to contemplate a poet, an artist, a musician. There have been rumours of others wanting to take on the plaques, including the National Trust, but I have found no official confirmation. Why does this matter to Canadian Writers Abroad? Because Sara Jeannette Duncan has not yet got her blue plaque on the house in Paultons Square. All is not lost. English Heritage’s website assures us they are not cancelling or abandoning the scheme, they are just not taking new applications in order to catch up on their backlog while looking for a less expensive scheme for it to continue in future. Just as well, because Robertson Davies lived in England too.

Duncan's neighbour

Plaque at Paultons House, Paultons Square, Chelsea,
© English Heritage

For the past two Monday evenings I have fallen asleep in front of the BBC program “Empire.” During “Making Ourselves at Home,” on March 5, host Jeremy Paxman went to various countries of the empire, including Canada. I perked up for that, to see what the British would have to say about Canada. And how I laughed to see the BBC camera follow the narrator walking through snow, circling a clump of pines (I swear he crossed his own tracks) to show us – yes! – a log cabin in the snow.

Fergus in winter

The colony of Canada, BBC clip

I didn’t really hear much of what Paxman was saying because I was laughing at the predictability of the image, at the pleasure of seeing us through someone else’s eyes. Even if the eyes were then narrowed at us critically, for our treatment of the occupants of this sparsely populated land. When I had dried my eyes of the laughter tears, I asked, Are the other countries laughing too? A small question that put the episode in a new light.

In November 1892, the Popular Science Monthly published an essay by Sara Jeannette Duncan called “Eurasia.” As I started reading this internet find, I made the uncomfortable discovery that for her “Eurasia” was not a place but a people. “Eurasia has no boundaries. It lies, a varying social fact, all over India, thick in the great cities, thickest in Calcutta…. Wherever Europeans have come and gone, these people have sprung up in weedy testimony of them – these people who do not go….” Duncan numbers the offspring of Europeans and Asians (of India) in the tens of thousands and proceeds to write of the “Eurasian problem” and of the people negatively: morally, they “inherit defects more conspicuously than virtues from both the races from which they spring”; “their indolence and unthrift are proverbial”; and “the truth is not in them.” She generalizes shockingly.

No, not my Duncan! Although I’d enjoyed reading her shocking generalizations about the British in Cousin Cinderella and An American Girl in London, I was not enjoying this little taste of racism. My first reaction was rejection. I returned her travel book, A Social Departure, to the library, unread. I didn’t want to have to pick through the book for evidence to weigh up against her. I can’t remember, when I read about the English in India in A Pool in the Desert fifteen years ago, if I’d shrugged and thought, Oh everyone was racist back then and she was fairly enlightened for her time. I do remember that I wanted to read it as a book of its time rather than in the context of studies on post‑colonialism.

Ah, but there is nothing like humour to put things in perspective. On March 6, 2012, M.G. Vassanji talked about his travels in Tanzania and of reading the explorers of East Africa — Burton, Speke and Livingston. He explained that he wanted to view their work from the other side, from the viewpoint not of their English readers but of the very people he was writing about. He asked, “Where do I see myself” in their stories? He mentioned Burton in particular, admiring how Burton sought to know the languages and cultures of those he met while unfortunately retaining his sense of superiority. He also talked about the local men who helped the explorers as the more interesting story, for without the suppliers and organizers their expeditions would have failed.

showing spear scar

Sir Richard Francis Burton

Vassanji then read aloud – was it from Livingston? – some racist descriptions of the Indians settled in Tanzania, the Cutchi Bhatia, and of the Africans the explorers encountered in Tanzania and Zanzibar. He read the passages aloud with relish. The audience in the Khalili Lecture Theatre, of the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) at the University of London, laughed. Vassanji and his audience laughed at the words of the great explorers (except for me and a couple of other mzungus). Hold on, I thought, I recognize that laugh. See paragraph one above.

M.G. Vassanji is a Canadian writer who was born in Nairobi, Kenya, and who grew up in the Asian community of Dar es Salaam in Tanzania. See his biography here. His first novel, The Gunny Sack, was published in 1989. His fourth book, The Book of Secrets, won the Scotiabank Giller Prize in 1993. Ten years later he won the prize a second time for The In-Between World of Vikram Lall.

During the SOAS talk, Vassanji referred to his travels in Africa and India as going home. For this reason I foolishly did not ask him if I could interview him for Canadian Writers Abroad, for if he was going home then he was hardly going abroad. As soon as I left, on the tube going to my new home in London, I realized my mistake. This is exactly what would make him an interesting subject.

Perhaps in this multicultural era home can be in more than one country? Perhaps the word “abroad” is a tad old‑fashioned, laden with its own colonial history? Mark Twain’s Innocents Abroad of 1869, the musical “At Home Abroad” of 1935, and the grand tour of the rich that became the gap year abroad of the middle class. The Canadian Oxford Dictionary defines “abroad” simply as “in or to a foreign country or countries.” Its older meaning is more “at large” or out and about. A quick online check shows the word still very much in use – teach English abroad, missing persons abroad, the TV show “Idiots Abroad.”

At the beginning of The Gunny Sack, the narrator speaks from “this small overseas community” in Canada. Later, he talks of the situation of the Asians in Tanzania compared to the persecution of the Asians in Uganda. It is a passage that highlights the complexity of identity, nationality and home: “In Dar, at Amina’s house, we said Tanzania is different, its Asians more truly African. Indians have been on the coast for centuries, and they speak English – Amina attested, having come from abroad – quite differently from Indian Indians. There is a distinct Swahili-ness to their English.” (p. 245).

At the end of her essay, Sara Jeannette Duncan identifies prejudice as unreasonable and concludes her essay with a wish that this corner of the empire will contribute to English literature: “In the heart of Eurasia – a heart which has yet to be bared to us by the scalpel of modern fiction — surely may be found much that is worth adding to the grand total that makes humanity interesting.” I wonder why Jeremy Paxman chose to look at commerce and sport in his series “Empire,” when really he should be looking at literature, the most splendid survivor of empire.

Vassanji receives GG

Vassanji receives Governor General's Literary Award for his memoir in 2009, CBC

I chose this gritty template for Canadian Writers Abroad because during ten years of living outside of Canada I found that I took pictures of walls as much as scenery. I mean not only the walls that sheltered me but also the walls whose doors I sought. The long walls of the narrow streets of Lamu, behind which life went on in interior courtyards. The mud walls of homes in Kakamega. The whitewashed walls in residential neighbourhoods of New Delhi. The art-deco walls of Viennese apartment buildings. The walls that prevented me from seeing where I was going and along which I still get lost.

Flakturm, Arenberg ParkThe photo to the left was the view from my apartment in Vienna. It shows less than half of the Flakturm that sheltered the playground in Arenberg Park. Every day for four years I would look out the living room window at the ten stories of thick concrete walls, which emanated a dank odour. A multi-purpose building, it served primarily as an anti-aircraft tower or flak tower, with military beds, a hospital, a bomb shelter and in the basement, a munitions store. Built by the Nazis to last 500 years, it cannot be destroyed. Every day several times a day, this wall forced me to remember the Second World War.

You have already guessed that this talk of walls is, well, a wall that I am throwing up around my real point. People can erect invisible walls around themselves, and groups of people erect hidden walls against foreigners. Customs, language, rules, history. Difference fascinates us, but it can also keep us out. The trick is to find the way in.

-Debra Martens

Falkenstein ruin in Austria

Eyes on the world - these holes are in a wall of the Falkenstein ruin in Austria.