Traveling Through East Africa…by Ayana Haaruun

In Kenya and Tanzania—home to Mount Kilimanjaro, Indian Ocean beaches, the Serengetti, and traces of some of the oldest human settlements—I witnessed the true beauty and diversity of Africa and its cultures. A popular destination for safaris and wildlife observation, East Africa’s nature has been widely documented in Western media.  My travels confirmed and negated many of the preconceived ideas I’d received from National Geographic and coffee table photography books.

After a series of long bus rides north from South Africa, I was happy to arrive in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.  Hosted by a Tanzanian friend from Howard University, Dar es Salaam was not as picturesque as I expected. Although it’s a large, bustling city, it didn’t seem to have a strong infrastructure. There were signs of new development and many tall brick buildings however, I didn’t see any concrete sidewalks, the roads were poor, and there was no evidence of a waste removal system. Nevertheless, at the “family compound” where I stayed, exotic flowers, banana trees, and a tall surrounded the large area, brick wall.  I was happy to stay in the guest home and have my laundry washed by male domestic workers.

Soon, I noticed the differences between East Africa and southern Africa.  Throughout Tanzania, the culture met more of my “authentically” African expectations, but also seemed more conservative.  Most women were dressed in traditional clothing—long printed dresses or skirts with matching head coverings.  And, although men wore Western clothing, many were dressed in Islamic robes.

In East Africa, the Middle Eastern influence in quite pronounced.  Geographically close to Middle Eastern nations, a long history of trade has occurred across the Indian Ocean.  Correspondingly, many Tanzanians and Kenyans are Muslims. With significant populations of Indians and Arabs, many people had redder skin tones and Semitic features. In addition, Swahili, the language spoken across Central and East Africa, is a mixture of Bantu languages and Arabic.

By afternoon, my Tanzanian friends took me to a pizza restaurant for dinner.  Because my friends had lived in the U.S., I was able to relax my British English pronunciation, and speak in ebonics, which no one else seemed to understand. Later the same evening, we visited a beach side restaurant.  Entering the outdoor area at night, I smelled the water, and ran to the beach.  Palm trees, white sand, and warm water is what I’d been longing for since I arrived in Africa.

We ended the evening watching a Tupac performance on a projected screen, and sharing in a heartfelt discussion about how inspirational Tupac’s music was to our generation.  “‘Pac inspired us to be “self-made millionaires,” my Tanzanian friends proclaimed.

Whether listening to Kanye West in rural South Africa; seeing 50 Cent’s face on T-shirts in Mozambique; hearing Usher on a cell phone ring tone in a Kenyan village with no running water; or watching Creflo Dollar on television in a Malawi hotel—it’s been comforting to know that no matter where I’ve gone in Africa, I can find African American culture.   

Up the coast of the Indian Ocean, I also visited Mombassa, Kenya.  In both Tanzania and Kenya I saw people from the famed Maasai tribe. Dressed in traditional Maasai clothing—layers of colorful fabric wrapped across their bodies, Maasai men carried traditional weapons strapped to their sides. On the street in Mombassa, I met a group of Maasai men.  In awe that I was hanging out with real Maasai people—whom I’d only seen in National Geographic, I listened intently to their stories about stringent initiation and cattle dowries. While one young man explained how he’d killed a lion using traditional weapons as a teenager, I watched his friend remove his cell phone from the “Bermuda” shorts he wore under his traditional wrap.  While holding a cell phone up to his stretched earlobe, he gave me his email address and phone number.

Across the road, I met a group of Kenyan rastafarians.  Through my journey, I’ve seen dreadlocked rastafarians in every African country I’ve visited. Speaking a poor Jamaican accent, one Kenyan Rastafarian asked that I mail him a copy of “The Autobiography of Malcolm X”.  I happily agreed.

What I didn’t see in National Geographic, was the significant number of white people living in East Africa.  At a chic beach side restaurant with sexy lighting, and white fabric draped across small sofas, I felt like I was in Cancun, Mexico.  The restaurant was filled with English speaking white people, typing on their laptop computers.  Later on at an upscale hotel bar, I saw more white men, many of who were accompanied by multiple young, African ladies, who seemed to be trading “favors” for money.

I learned that most of the white people I saw were Europeans, Canadians, and Americans who work for mining corporations that extract Tanzania’s gold, diamonds or petroleum. Across Africa, its been quite saddening to see that Europeans and North Americans, continue to control and build wealth from the vast resources of poor African nations.    

From Malawi to Tanzania….by Ayana Haaruun

On the bus ride from Malawi to Tanzania, I met the kindest Africans yet, saw the most beautiful landscapes imaginable, and survived a bus ride from hell.

Malawi, a small Southern African country, truly lives up to its slogan “the warm heart of Africa.”  I spent a night in Blantyre, a beautiful, clean city nestled between tropical trees and rolling green hills.

Malawians seemed more conservative than South Africans.  With a high population of both Muslims and Christians, alcohol was forbidden on the hotel premises.  In the city, well-mannered, conservatively dressed men and women gave a respectable and distinguished air.  And, the Malawian men seemed kinder, and “less forward” than the South African men. 

The next morning, I took a clean, comfortable, air-conditioned coach bus to Lilongwe, Malawi’s capital city.  Riding down the highway, the city landscape quickly became a rural, agricultural environment. Just outside the city, small one-room brick homes stood on the sides of mountains.  There were miles and miles of green fields, and an occasional single, green mountain peak. 

In Lilongwe, my problems began, when a taxi driver took me to an area he called “hell’s row.” “This is a where bad people are,” he mumbled, while driving up a narrow, unpaved road.  Standing in the middle of a filthy, crowded area filled with run-down shops–was the “seedy” bus station office.  Reluctant to leave the taxi, I nervously looked around me. I knew that traveling with a large suitcase and a white woman put me in more  danger of being robbed. To make matters worse, the bus company operator said the bus we’d planned for was fully booked, and that we’d have to wait 2 days for another bus.

After 2 hours of standing in “hell’s row” pleading for a safe transport, the bus operator offered 2 seats on the bus. As I boarded the old, sub-standard coach bus, I watched the sunset.  In the distance, I listened to the evening Muslim call to prayer floating from a beautiful mosque down the road.

Soon after departing however, the bus broke down.  We sat idly alongside a dark road for more than 3 hours.  When the bus finally became functional, the unpaved 2-lane highway was so bumpy, I became nauseous.  There was no toilet on the bus, nor was there a restroom anywhere we stopped.  To relieve ourselves, women passengers had to “squat” together behind bushes or in the open fields.

The next morning near the Malawi/Tanzania border, the landscape was absolutely breath-taking.  I was hypnotized by the lush green cliffs and valleys, beautiful rivers, tropical plants, and clear skies.  Along the road were rectangular one-room brick homes with grass or aluminum roofing built on red dirt.  There were banana and mango trees everywhere. 

In villages, I saw mostly women working in green fields or fetching water from wells and rivers. I saw men sitting in the shade, tending to cows or sheep, or working in small shops.  Children sold fruit picked from local trees. 

After about 20 hours on the bus, which continued to break down periodically, I was happy to arrive at the Tanzanian border.  The customs office was modern and organized—a sign of Tanzania’s stable economy and valued tourism industry. 

At the border, the bus filled with even more passengers.  By night, people were literally laying in the aisles.  Moving through the bus became a real test of agility and coordination. In the dark, I strategically squirmed down the aisle, tip-toeing around bodies and luggage.

At one point, I heard a strange sound, and looked around the bus. As I expected, on the floor, lay a live chicken.  Now I really felt like a fellow villager.

The second day of the bus trip became unbearable. Many passengers began smelling badly, and I was hungry and thirsty. To send a hint, I stared down the stinky guy sitting across from me, while applying excessive amounts of deodorant to my underarms. And, because there was no place to stop for a “real meal” I had eaten only cookies and bananas, carefully rationed between me and my colleague.

After about 30 hours, we finally stopped at a rural Tanzanian hotel with a restaurant, where I demolished a tasty plate of fish, rice, and greens. 

The next bus breakdown, I stepped outside the bus to be greeted by sparking stars.  There were no other lights.  Standing alone on the side of a dusty road in east Africa, I thought about all the inconvenience poverty brings.

On the contrary, I realized my colleague and I were alone in our constant complaining.  While my colleague deliriously mumbled about her swollen ankles and “shooting herself in the head”, people without even seats sat quietly.  Lying on the floor being walked on, sitting on suitcases or milk crates with babies strapped to their bodies, they were patient and without complaint.

Sure, my 40 hour bus journey from Malawi to Tanzania was a challenging feat that I’m happy to have survived. It’s just miniscule in comparison to what many African people endure everyday. 

Into the “Heart” of Africa….

Amidst a cacophony of yelling in different languages; moving luggage; people pushing one another; an on-board invasion of street vendors; and the smell of hot, black people—I began my journey by bus north from South Africa to Kenya.

            My loosely planned, “overland” travel began with a bus ride from Johannesburg, South Africa to Blantyre, Malawi.  On the coach bus, every seat was filled. There was so much excessive baggage; a luggage trailer was hitched to the bus.  Street vendors ambushed the crowded bus sitting idle in the station.  Selling everything from sunglasses to fake gold chains, the vendors made it almost impossible for passengers to settle in their worn, uncomfortable seats. 

For almost an hour, I listened to people arguing at the top of their lungs about luggage fees and tickets.  The police even came aboard to forcibly remove a male passenger. With so much chaos, the bus ended up departing 3 hours after the scheduled time. 

To make matters worse, at the first stop, more passengers were added to the already full bus.  Turning around and looking down the center aisle, I saw a row of black faces squatting in a single file line.  The new passengers and their luggage now filled the narrow center aisle.  The bus attendant had to climb over passengers and walk atop the seats to move through the bus. I knew that I’d be stepping into a different Africa, with less infrastructure and first world comforts than South Africa.  However, I didn’t expect to travel “refugee” style. 

The faster the overcrowded bus and trailer moved through the wet, narrow, winding mountain roads, the more nervous I became.  Afraid that I’d end up a casualty in Zimbabwe, I decided to release my fear and preoccupation with safety belts, overcrowding, transportation safety, and accept what my colleague calls T.I.A., “This is Africa, so get over it.”  

            Seated next to my white American colleague, the only white person on the bus, and a nice, Malawian brother with hazel-colored eyes, I noticed the other passengers looked different from black South Africans.  Almost everyone was the same shade of dark brown, very similar to my own skin color.  The faces of the passengers looked more oblong, without the pronounced cheekbones characteristic of black South Africans.  In fact, on the bus, I saw at least 5 people who looked like African Americans I know.

            By dusk, the bus sped through the rain and South Africa’s lush green mountains.  Heading to the Zimbabwe border, I watched grey clouds part as the sun set.  Although the temperature on the bus cooled, the infrequent stops and missing on-board bathroom was infuriating.  After riding for five hours without stopping, the passengers began to complain of thirst, hunger and ailments.  And, when the rest stop finally came, everyone rushed off of bus, running to the toilet or the shop to stock up on food and beverages. 

            We arrived at the Zimbabwe border at night, and walked through the rain across the border to the Zimbabwe customs office.  Pictures of President Colonel Mugabe filled the border patrol area.  I’d heard horrible things about Mugabe’s dictatorship, and the jailing and torture of American journalists, so as an American, I expected the worst.  Fortunately, the only negative thing that I saw in Zimbabwe was a poor elderly woman, who snuck on the bus to beg for change.

            The next morning we passed through Harare, Zimbabwe’s modern capital city.  Outside the city, the landscape flattened and seemed drier.  Shorter, black mountains stood in the distance.  Huge boulders that seemed from another age piled up in the middle of empty grasslands.  Groups of round, brick, “huts”, with grass-roofs, emerged.  Passing through small villages, lines of one-story brick shops with painted signs stood alongside the road.  These commercial areas reminded me of towns portrayed in scenes from old Western movies.

            It was amazing to see so much open, undisturbed land. In rural Zimbabwe, villages were far apart; and surrounded by ample, farmland.  During morning, I saw men, women, and children tilling the field with hand-held tools.  I also watched men plowing fields with oxen.  On the side of the road, women balanced large-pans of water, and other objects on their head, while uniformed, barefoot school children headed down the road.

            By afternoon, we reached the stunning Zimbabwe/Mozambique border.  As soon as the rain stopped, the sun shined bright and the clear blue skies returned.  In northern Mozambique, I saw clusters of huts made of wood sticks with grass roofs built on red-orange colored soil.  The landscape became more lush and green, and the temperature increased. Exotic trees with pink flowers emerged, occassionally interrupting the green landscape. Villagers watched the passing bus from under massive trees that seemed thousands of years old.

Crossing the wide Zambezi River by bridge, I watched children play in the water, and women wash clothing in the river.  Stopping at a busy village, boys were allowed to come onto the bus to sell “cool drinks” to the passengers.  They rode with us for miles, waiting to collect the soda glass bottles.

            After 34 hours, the bus arrived in Blantyre, Malawi.  We were greeted by scavengers waiting to swarm the bus for spoils left behind by passengers. I was happy that me and my luggage were in tact after the long bus ride.  Relieved, I looked up at the dark blue and grey sky.  As I watched noisy bats fly across the sky before landing in the many trees that surround Blantyre, I thought to myself, “Welcome to the

South Africa’s Emerging Middle Class by Ayana Haaruun

 

Back in Johannesburg, I spent the weekend amongst South Africa’s black professionals—a world different from the dusty roads, uniformed laborers and domestic workers that fill my rural area.  As a result of South Africa’s favorable political and economic climate, it’s also a hub for Africans from many nations who emigrate in search of increased opportunity.                                                                                      

            I began the weekend at my Nigerian friend’s home in Sandton, a hip and affluent suburb outside Johannesburg. Since I don’t have a television, I was eager to catch up on world affairs watching his plasma screen while tasting South Africa wine from his wine cellar.

By evening, we visited Nelson Mandela Square, a popular, “Jo’burg” hangout. Starved for American media, I saw a Tyler Perry film at a nearby movie theatre, before having dinner at a crowded, outdoor restaurant.  Feeling as if I was back to “civilization” from “the bush”, I relished in the city lights and familiar urban energy. 

At the restaurant, I watched well-dressed, multi-racial diners enjoy cocktails, cuisine and conversation.  Surrounding by blacks dressed in Western business attire and designer clothing, the new “buppies” (black up-and-coming professionals) were evidence of South Africa’s emerging black middle-class. 

            The next morning, I was pleased to see a capable orthodontist who fixed my very neglected braces. With dental woes behind me, I spent the afternoon alone perusing the shopping mall and public library. While having lunch outdoors at a swanky Sushi restaurant, I watched attractive, stylish black women scurrying to and from the shopping mall. At the restaurant, I thought to myself, “this is the life.” First World comforts, African people, and warm weather make Johannesburg an attractive city.           

            Later the same evening, I met up with a young, black South African woman introduced to me by a close American friend.  A television and film producer, she took me to the television production office where she works.  Located in an area considered a small “Hollywood”, Johannesburg is also home to a thriving entertainment industry. 

            At her cozy home on the edge of the city, I met her partner, a super-cool black South African woman. I was surprised to learn in South Africa, marriage is broadly defined.  The first African country to legalize same-sex marriage, the rights of gays and lesbians are protected under South Africa’s new constitution.  In addition, it’s legal for men married under tribal law to take more than one wife, if the first wife agrees.

            The next day, we filled the “cooler box” with drinks and food and headed to a braii (barbeque).  Hosted by an interracial couple, I sat outside their two-story home, mingling with film and television professionals. As more multi-racial couples arrived, I watched children of all shades play in an inflated castle in the backyard.  It was astonishing to consider that until apartheid’s end in 1994, people were arrested for interracial dating.  Marrying a person of another race was illegal, “whites only” signs filled public places, and blacks weren’t allowed to live outside designated “homelands”, let alone the neighborhood where I was enjoying a carefree afternoon.

            After the barbeque, we headed to a “rocking” house party in Soweto, a black township outside Johannesburg. Outside the home, fashionable young men stood near luxury cars. After helping lug the “cooler box” into the ranch-style home, I noticed the guests inside were black, Indian and even white. I thought to myself, “Isn’t Soweto the ‘hood?” Apparently, in Soweto and other black townships, luxury cars and white people are no longer a rarity.  With rising real estate values, Soweto is becoming a hip, historic community and a popular choice for Johannesburg’s “buppies.”

            After sundown, Indian food was served, the DJ commenced, and more blacks arrived to the party. In the crowded side yard, I listened to house music for hours. One thing I’ve noticed—black South Africans party hard. I had so much fun and was so exhausted— I had to take a nap in the car.

            I’ve been lucky to witness black empowerment in post-apartheid South Africa first hand.  The ANC government’s efforts to “repay” the black majority through equal opportunity seem to be trickling down. Although wealth is still largely uneven, I see increasing examples of economic promise.  Even in my gated condo-complex in a rural white town—I now have a black neighbor.  As I write outside on my balcony, I’m watching my new neighbor and her black friends invade the swimming pool—a clear sign that a change has come.  

Learning the Most Important Lesson of My Life by Ayana Haaruun

Right before I came to South Africa, my brother paid me a visit. Sitting on a makeshift bed palette on the floor of my empty house, I looked up at him, standing with his arms folded across his denim work overalls.  Trying to understand his “weird” sister’s motivation for such a long and far-away journey, he asked in a concerned voice, “Are you going to Africa to find yourself?”

What I’ve “found” in the few months I’ve been in South Africa, is the greatest anger; the highs of unspeakable joy; and the most profound sense of collective love. In the midst of animals, exotic birds, and beautiful flowers, I’ve fallen in love with Africa. On every level emotional, intellectual and spiritual, I feel a connection that belies my understanding. 

In the beauty shop where I get my hair braided for less than $10; on walks where mountains and clear blue skies make me think of heaven; while sitting in crowded taxis jamming to music—I think how wonderful it is to be here.

With black South Africans I experience a genuine sense of humanity, family and community that I don’t in America.  People greet each other on the street.  If you need a ride someone will pick you up.  Extended family and neighbors collectively raise the community’s children. For so many reasons, Africa just makes sense to me.

My experience however is colored by the two realities I live in.  In my professional world where I live and work with white Americans, I struggle to temper the outrage and joy I experience in post-apartheid South Africa, while managing racial differences. My African world is full of natural beauty, black pride and the problems faced by post-colonial African nations. 

What’s become blatantly clear however is the notion that race outweighs nationality. Confronted continually with the complexity of African-American identity, I recognize that my American passport has little on my African nose, lips and hair.

In addition, I’m amazed at how easily I bond with people in country 8,000 miles away, and struggle to find connection with other Americans who grew up across town from me. Beyond the obvious fact that we look alike- with Africans, I share in a common struggle and understanding. It’s a bond that often manifests itself non-verbally; in nods, winks, and mannerisms that speak worlds of information.  Without rehearsal, we understand things like what not to say in front of white people, how to behave as a guest in someone’s home, and to treat elders with respect.

Whenever time allows, I  “steal away” with my African friends. We spend weekends listening to music, gossiping about black celebrities, and watching black movies. Last weekend, I need my hair braided, so I took a crowded mini-bus to the neighboring black town.  On the bus, two teenage boys sat in the back rapping a verse from a popular hip-hop song.  On beat, I responded completing the verse. Amazed that I knew the song, they smiled with wide grins. For the rest of the ride, we conversed about music and business while watching giraffes, zebras, and baboons alongside the road.

Later at a small beauty shop, I tried out a little pan-African trade.  I convinced the owner to trade black hair magazines and products from the U.S. for a reduced braiding fee.  The shop’s owner, a portly Xhosa woman, admired my “American” kind of business smarts. There, I was treated like a distant relative— a cousin that they’ve never met, but seen on television and in magazines.  It wasn’t until the salon goers asked my surname and tribe, a common practice amongst South Africans, that my peculiar identity as a “tribeless” African was considered.

By evening, my friend arranged for Mr. Anjos, a popular young entrepreneur and owner of a fried-chicken restaurant to fetch me from the salon. After recovering my lost cell phone, drove us to a gas station where he convinced his friends to drive us back to the neighboring town. I’m continually surprised by the willingness of African people to go out of their way to help others.

On the ride back to town, I thought about famous people who also journeying to the motherland— Malcolm X, Oprah Winfrey, Marcus Garvey, Bob Marley, Muhammad Ali, and Richard Pryor. I wondered if they too were inspired to strive for greatness.

Already Africa has changed my life.  It’s an overwhelming feeling to be amongst so many people that look like me, and have histories and traditions that date back thousands of years. I have a love for African people so strong it feels like it was injected in my DNA.   Moreover, this love affair is accompanied by a haunting sense of ancestry, and dutiful responsibility. I feel more determined to fight for liberation and use what I have for the benefit of African people. To understand where my people came from, how they live, and how we got into the situation were in, is the most important lesson of my life.

 

THE COLOUREDS: LIGHT SKINNED IN SOUTH AFRICA

           I met Hazel, a freckled woman with a cropped hairdo at a crowded outdoor bar.   Sitting amongst other members of the South African Air Force, I immediately noticed that she and her girlfriends looked different from the black South Africans I normally see. While heading to the table where she was sitting, my toffee-colored black African friend mumbled to me, “What are those guys doing sitting with those coloureds? Don’t talk to them.  We don’t like them because they think they’re better than us.” 

            Curious about the group often overlooked in conversations about South African politics and history, I sat down next to Hazel and her friends. The first thing I noticed was they spoke Afrikaans, the language of South Africa’s Dutch descendants. Three of the four women had a tan skin tone; one woman had hazel-colored eyes, and another had hair that looked straighter than mine.  Through my eyes however, they looked like many African Americans I know.

From Hazel and her friends, I learned that coloured does not mean bi-racial in American terms. Neither Hazel nor her friends have any immediate white relatives. Their history began in the nineteenth century where “coloureds” emerged as a result of early interactions between white settlers, African slaves from Southern Africa, and African and Asian slaves brought to South Africa from elsewhere.

In most European colonies, and places where Africans were enslaved, skin color was an important tool used in maintaining white supremacy and racial divisions.  In South Africa, the term “coloured” was created under apartheid to define the population that were neither white nor members of African tribes, and to create a racially hierarchal society. During apartheid, coloureds and cape coloureds—a mix of coloured and Indian, Malaysian, or other South Asian groups—were forced to move into segregated coloured communities on the western coast of South Africa.

            Accustomed to the one-drop rule—one drop of black blood means you’re black—

I had a difficult time acknowledging any racial differences between coloureds and myself. “How do you know someone is coloured,” I asked Hazel and her friends. Apparently, “coloured” is loosely defined by family lineage, skin color, and sometimes hair texture. In addition, each of them acknowledged their white ancestors.  Hazel told me her great grandfather came from England and married a black Portuguese woman.  Her friend Ally said she met her white great grandmother at a family reunion. 

            Aside from race, language is an important defining characteristic of cultural identity in South Africa. There are eleven official languages and most South Africans speak English as well as a “mother tongue.” The first language of white Afrikaners is Afrikaans, while black Africans are conversational in at least a handful of local tribal languages. Coloureds first language is Afrikaans. Most do not speak indigenous African languages, nor do they acknowledge African tribal affiliations. And perhaps because many black Africans refuse to speak Afrikaans, the language most associated with apartheid and white dominance, communication between black Africans and coloureds is often strained.

            In addition, the relationship between coloureds and black Africans is still undermined by white supremacy.  Although all non-whites suffered discrimination under apartheid, the coloureds enjoyed a slighter higher status than black Africans. I asked Hazel and Ally if they felt whites treated them better. “Yes”, they responded. “It’s because we speak the same language as them, not because we’re mixed.”

   Hazel told me as a coloured she feels left out of the new post-apartheid South Africa, where black Africans now govern the country. “All everyone talks about is blacks and whites, they never mention coloureds and Asians.” Ally described the alienation she feels: “While working at a bank, the electricity went out—I had to choose between sitting amongst blacks and whites.  Because I speak Afrikaans, I sat with the whites.  A black woman said to me, ‘you must not sit with the blacks or the whites—sit in the middle because you don’t fit in anywhere.”

             In the midst of a peculiar societal position, Hazel informed me “dating a coloured is still considered a ‘step up’ for blacks,” in the same way that African Americans privilege lighter skin and straighter hair. Hazel elaborated, “In my mother’s family, white was very important, blacks were inferior.  When I had a black boyfriend my mother got upset. I don’t think she would have had the same response with a white man. She only saw blacks as farm workers, mine workers, stealers, and thieves.”

            Most noteworthy for me were Hazel, Ally, and Granwill, Hazel’s fourteen year-old son’s ideas about African Americans. “Most black American singers and actors we see on television are coloured.  You can tell that they’re mixed, even though you guys just call them black.” After Granwill bombarded me with questions about young American celebrities, I asked the group which celebrities they’d identify as “coloured.” They proceeded with a long list that included:  Halle Berry, Beyoncé, Mariah Carey (they gave her a “maybe”), Ciara, Christina Millian, Whitney Houston, Chris Brown, Raven, Tyra Banks (they weren’t sure because her mother “looked black” on television), Bow Wow, Ludacris, Usher, Mario, TI, Michelle Williams, and Will Smith (whom they described as the only coloured man married to a coloured woman.)

 

Mozambique, Mozambique

While many Americans gobbled their turkey dinners, I headed to Mozambique, a neighboring country to South Africa.  Before traveling, I knew that Mozambique played an important role in supporting the anti-apartheid struggle and South Africa’s ANC political party.  I also knew that Bob Marley wrote named a song after the country.  I traveled however, seeking relief from the hot southern African summer at Mozambique’s beaches along the Indian Ocean. 

After a long ride through South Africa’s green, mountainous countryside, I arrived at the Mozambican border. Although the landscape didn’t seem much different, the closer I came to Mozambique, the hotter and more humid it became.

A former Portuguese colony, Mozambique is a Portuguese speaking, socialist country.  While conversing with an Angolan man on the bus, who also spoke Portuguese as a native language, I remembered how expansive the Portuguese colonial empire was, and the active role it played in the transatlantic slave trade.

Across the border in rural Mozambique, I passed by many makeshift tin homes with grass roofs built alongside the road. As we drove into Maputo, Mozambique’s capital city, it seemed much poorer than South African cities I’ve visited. The streets were less clean, and many of the brick buildings had chipping paint. Above the tree-lined streets named after socialist revolutionaries, clothing hung from the windows of pastel-colored apartment buildings. Surrounded by signs written in Portuguese, tall palm trees, and what looked like Spanish colonial architecture, I thought of Brazil.

I spent Thanksgiving in Maputo having pizza at an inexpensive, outdoor restaurant. I noticed that Mozambique is quite racially diverse and its’ residents seemed more easy-going than South Africans.  On the streets, I watched descendants of Africa, Europe, India, Pakistan, and mulattos of African and Portuguese or African and Indian heritage—many who looked like mestizo people in South America.

The next day, I headed to a museum that housed distinctive gun sculptures made from remnants of Mozambique’s civil war, which lasted from 1986 to 1995. Outside the gallery, I conversed with a group of local artists in a mixture of English and poorly spoken Spanish.  As I listened to stories about their travel to the U.S., a large object fell from the tree above me, almost hitting me in the head.  Stunned, I looked up and laughed, as I realized its was literally “raining mangoes.” 

Simione, one of the Mozambicans artists, joined my colleague and I on a tour of the city.  In a beautiful botanical garden, we ate lunch at a restaurant that specialized in tasty local seafood.  Over lunch, Simione told me about life growing up in war-torn Mozambique.  To avoid being drafted by the army, at 14 year old, he fled the country, and spent four years as a refugee in South Africa.  In Johannesburg, he lived on the streets for months, washing cars, repairing shoes and doing other odd jobs, to survive.  When the civil war was over, Simione returned to Mozambique and began his career as a sculptor.  His work is now internationally regarded.

            After lunch, we visited a number of galleries, and craft shops.  Maputo is truly home to the best African arts and crafts I’ve ever seen. At a woodcarving cooperative, I watched nearly a dozen men carve intricate wood and ivory sculptures.  At the Modern Art Museum, I enjoyed jaw-dropping paintings by contemporary Mozambican artists.  And, at the opening of a new art gallery, I met some of Maputo’s talented artists, and interested international art collectors. 

Later on, I went to the Franco-Mozambican Cultural Center, where I saw Mingas, one of Mozambique’s most popular singers perform.  Inside the hot, crowded theatre, I sat elbow-to-elbow on a bench with fans of all colors and nationalities, while listening to Mingas’ melodic Afro-pop.  Almost everyone around me danced and sang along in Shangaan, a language spoken in both Mozambique and South Africa.  Although I didn’t understand the lyrics, I enjoyed her spirited performance, awesome band, and fantastic dancers. 

            After the concert, we headed to a crowded jazz nightclub down the road. Home to a rich music culture, the jazz band played “straight” jazz to a crowd of young, attentive listeners.  Surprisingly, much of the music I heard in Maputo sounded like Afro-Latin music and the dance I saw resembled many Latin American dances.

Leaving Mozambique I wondered why it seemed so much different from South Africa. However, as soon as I stopped a bus station across the border, I heard a sly, racist comment and immediately felt conscious that I was traveling with a white person.  In Mozambique, I wasn’t conscious of race nor did I experience any racial discrimination.

Perhaps because Mozambique forcibly gained its independence from Portugal many years ago, race relations did not seem as rigidly hierarchal. 

Although it rained most of the weekend in Maputo, and I wasn’t able to visit Mozambique’s illustrious beaches, having a break from South Africa’s tense racial climate was a vacation in itself. 

 

African American Expatriate Couple

 

In a gated community in northern Johannesburg, I met an African-American expatriate couple, Clara Priester, the mother of my close friend, and her husband R. Courtney Priester.  Anxious to meet the Priesters, I was curious how and why African-Americans from Chicago’s Southside end up living in South Africa. 

            Early Sunday morning, I arrived at the couple’s home. Missing “my religion”, I was happy Mrs. Priester had invited me to church. I admired their beautiful home’s decor— zebra-skinned rugs, a plethora of African art and books, roomy architecture, and an adjoining pool.  A down-to-earth woman, Mrs. Priester asked my friend and I to fold church bulletins, while she finished getting dressed for church.

            I hadn’t met any other African Americans since I arrived in South Africa, so I was ecstatic to hear the Priesters’ familiar accents and to speak in my relaxed “twang.” I noticed that Mr. Priester possessed the same “cool” and relaxed demeanor mastered by many of Chicago’s African American males.  His dress and smooth conversation tone immediately reminded me of my “too cool” father, while Mrs. Priester’s mannerisms and devotion to the church reminded me of my mother.

            At church, I was stunned at how eerily familiar the service was. I learned that the minister was African American, as well as many of the congregation members.  During the service, I sang along to American gospel songs, and watched traditional South African dance mixed with a break dance routine. Some of the African Americans in attendance were travelers, but many were full-fledged expatriates who’d “fell in love” with South Africa. Finding a close-knit African American community in South Africa, reminded me of the power of the African American church and its’ function as a unifying cultural institution.

            Back at the Priester home, I spoke with the couple about their life as expatriates. Clara Priester came to South Africa in 1998, after becoming South Africa’s first marketing and communications director for the McDonald’s corporation. Not sure about the position, she said “I didn’t know anything about South Africa other than apartheid. But when I came over for my look-and-see, I said, ‘I can do this.’  So I went back, packed up my stuff, sold my house in Chicago, and moved here.” 

            A former hospitality professional, in 2003, Courtney Priester joined his wife in South Africa.  He too, fell in love on his first trip. Both professed to have “adventurous spirits” and enjoy the idea of living in a country where the majority of the people are black.  Courtney elaborated,  “I have a militant love for my people.  America is a white country—it will always be that way.  I’d rather pick my struggle.” 

            Although the Priesters have much professional experience to offer, and faith in the newly democratic South Africa, their journey hasn’t been easy.  Because they aren’t “previously disadvantaged” by South Africa’s standards, it’s difficult to take advantage of the opportunities afforded under South Africa’s new Black Economic Empowerment initiative. “South Africa doesn’t necessarily wrap its arms around expatriates”, Courtney said.   But rather than becoming dismayed, the Priesters became entrepreneurs.

            “How does one make such a dramatic transition?” I asked Clara Priester. She explained, “I did fifty years on that side. I call this the South Africa chapter—that was the U.S. chapter.”  She continued, “It’s an individual thing.  Not everyone can do it. Packing up and going to another country by choice is another mindset.”

Now the Chair of Johannesburg’s Businesswoman’s Association, and a lecturer at a prominent business school, Clara Priester believes South Africa is fertile ground.  “I don’t know if I would have the same impact in the U.S.”, she said. In addition, Courtney Priester feels South Africa offers a means of self-renewal and a good quality of life. “The best things about living here are the weather and the open land.  You can drive for hours and be in totally different environments.  The food is of good quality—no preservatives.  It’s a much more natural environment,” he said.

            Most inspiring, was Clara Priester’s statement: “For young folks like yourself, if you have the chance, get out and experience different parts of the world.  This thing about globalization, the world is getting smaller.  Today, if one country sneezes another feels it.”

After speaking with the Priesters’ I thought about other African American expatriates like Langston Hughes, James Baldwin, Nina Simone, and Stokely Carmichael. I also thought about Pan-Africanist thinkers—W.E.B. Dubois, Marcus Garvey, Malcolm X, Haile Selassie, and Kwame Nkrumah. 

In South Africa, I’ve learned that Africa Americans have much to offer globally. The entrepreneurial mindset, education, and in-depth understanding of capitalism gained living in North America, could be incredibly useful in many African nations. Also, living abroad has allowed me to see American culture as an “outsider” and get over my “American arrogance.”  First hand, I’ve felt the fall of the American dollar, and have begun to realize that America may not offer the best quality of life.

Continually, I reflect on the words of my favorite writer and expatriate, James Baldwin. “Once you find yourself in another civilization,” he notes, “you’re forced to examine your own.” In a 1970 interview, Baldwin said he’d left America because it was killing him. 

Sitting on my deck enjoying a mountain view and the hot Africa sun, I smile.  Now I understand exactly what James Baldwin meant.

Gender Relations: Game’s the Same in the Motherland by Ayana Haaruun

Before I arrived in South Africa, I was very curious about the brothers. Considering the dearth of educated, single and desirable African-American males, I thought perhaps the “motherland” could offer a solution for many single African American women.

With an array of glowing brown skin-tones, well-defined facial bone structures, nice teeth, and lean physiques, many black South African men are quite appealing.  My observations of gender relations however, are almost as disappointing as my experience with racism.

In urban environments like Johannesburg courting behavior seems similar to black America. In popular nightclubs, women dress more provocatively, while men “post up” alongside the bar.  While listening to hip-hop and R&B, I noticed many young men exhibiting a familiar “indifference” toward meeting women and dating.  Like many African American males, urban South African men seemed more concerned with appearing “cool” than dancing or conversing with women.

In the rural area where I live, I spend much time swatting away springtime insects and rural South African men. Although being pursed by many interested suitors is flattering, most are too aggressive and persistent for my taste. Almost every guy I meet tells me he loves me immediately.  They also call me around the clock.  If I don’t accept their calls they come to my job or apartment. I’ve even worked out special rules with the apartment’s security to keep “my men” at bay.  On one occasion, a guy sent his sister to befriend me.  She tried to coerce me into dating her brother by braiding my hair and calling me “sister in law.” She even requested that I cook for their mother.

Paradoxically, though the black South African men I’ve met have no problems taking the lead in dating, most men don’t appear overly concerned with playing the role of “provider.” Almost all the black South African women I’ve know are unmarried mothers. And, many don’t receive any monetary support from the children’s fathers, who often relocate to large cities for work.  When I’ve asked young men how they felt about marriage, some said “it wasn’t necessary” or they would rather cohabitate.  Others complained about paying the dowry required by tribal tradition.

In lieu of the current HIV crisis, its obvious most black South African men “take up” with multiple women. Although it’s less popular to practice polygamy, its informal practice is almost socially acceptable. I’ve spoken to both men and women about the males incessant cheating, and most summed it up to “African tradition.”

Gender inequality also manifests itself in the disproportionate occurrence of domestic violence and “spousicide.” One foggy, frightening night in the neighboring black town, I was involved in such a disturbance. While riding in the backseat of a car with my South African co-worker and her male friends, the driver stopped briefly to find his way up a gravel road to my co-worker’s rural home.  Out of nowhere, a man attacked the car’s passenger with a large knife. As the driver attempted to clear the windshield, the attacker pried down the passenger side window, and attempted to stab the male passenger.  Incapable of understanding the language being spoken, I thought we were being carjacked. 

When the driver finally pulled off, the attacker continued hanging from the passenger side door.  Through the foggy windshield I watched the car approach a steep hill. At that moment I thought we’d die.  Fortunately, the driver successfully navigated the car and shook off the attacker.

When we arrived to safety I learned that the attacker was my co-worker’s ex-boyfriend and the father of her 8 year-old daughter.  He apparently was upset because she hadn’t answered his calls that day. Although this kind of scenario happens everywhere, the way domestic violence is handled differs significantly from the U.S.  Because South African women have little faith in the justice system properly addressing sex crimes and domestic violence, many don’t report the incidents.

In addition, South Africa has one of the highest rates of rape in the world, with most rapes being carried out by relatives.  When I asked the women students at my school about rape they looked at me like I was crazy.  One woman laughed and said nonchalantly, “Who hasn’t been raped?” In a restaurant bathroom a young woman told me of an attempted rape. While fetching wood in the bush a man tried to rape her at knifepoint. She said she lay down pretending to submit, and then pulled his penis so hard he died.  She was not remorseful.

It seems that in South Africa, gender equality has taken a back seat to other social concerns. As an African American woman, it is disheartening to the face the fact most nations in “the motherland” have historically lessened the status of women. It is unfortunate that cultural practices such as multiple sex partners, rape, and the subjugation of women contribute to the spread of HIV, an epidemic that now threatens the existence of many African nations.

Niggas in Africa By Ayana Haaruun

I was thrilled to visit Soweto- the infamous black township located outside Johannesburg, South Africa. With a population of almost 900,000, Soweto came to the world’s attention in 1976, after mass protest erupted in response to the apartheid government’s educational policies. The Soweto Riots brought international attention to apartheid and resulted in economic sanctions from abroad.

With so many black faces, and pastel-colored, ranch-style brick homes, Soweto looked a lot like Compton, California. I joined thousands of people who attended the Soweto Festival, a well-organized, annual outdoor event. I knew that Soweto was a hub for African popular culture, and hip-hop, so I made sure my braids were tight, and my sneakers were clean.

At the Soweto Festival, I visited vendors, watched musical performances, grooved to South African house music, and eyed the impressive creations of South African fashion designers. It was refreshing to see young men dressed “cool” in clothing that actually fit.  Despite the heat, the stylish young women didn’t seem to be overly concerned with showcasing their figures either.  And South Africa is the home of the Hottentots—with the original “badunkadunks.”

Traveling abroad continues to offer me a fresh perspective on African-American culture and its’ global impact.  In France, when people learned that I was American, they’d shout random names like “Malcolm X,” “Muhammad Ali,” and “Michael Jackson.” There I learned how the African American struggle had inspired oppressed people around the world, and felt proud to be identified with liberation and a distinctive “cool.”

Ten years later, in South Africa, when I tell African people that I’m from the U.S. they call me a nigger. The first time it happened, I was talking to a group of teenage boys in a rural town.  As soon as I said I was from America, they repeatedly shouted “Neega”, “Neega”, “Neega.” Astonished, I explained to them that “nigger” was a bad word and the derogatory equivalent of “kaffir.”  Looking puzzled, they told me they always hear the n-word from their favorite rappers, Tupac, JaRule, 50 Cent, and Jay-Z. 

The other day I had a conversation about dating with Amukelani, a young black South African woman. In her Shangaan accent she said, “I ain’t no gold digger but I don’t want no broke “neega.” White South African comedians are even using the n-word. It’s ironic that African-Americans survived the transatlantic slave trade—one of the biggest atrocities in human history—but can’t seem to stop using the slave masters insults to refer to one another. And, with the help of hip-hop, now we’ve got the whole word calling us niggers.

I remember being proud that I belonged to a people who, despite circumstance, influenced the world.  Now, I’m embarrassed by the irresponsible way in which my generation has managed that global influence.  Don’t get me wrong—I love hip-hop music.  It’s the form of cultural expression that I most closely identify with.  When I feel homesick, I listen to Common or Lupe Fiasco, and imagine being back on Chicago’s Southside.  

The problem comes, when I try to share my music, with people outside my culture.  Even with a well-rounded music collection— I cringe at the repetitive n-word, b-word, and references to drugs, crime, and explicit sex. I listen to most hip-hop in my headphones because I’m too embarrassed to play it in front of my white American colleagues or South African youth. 

In a fragile society struggling to educate itself, build black wealth and recover from apartheid, pulling up next to a young African man, blasting Notorious B.I.G.’s “Ten Crack Commandments” from his car stereo, made me very uncomfortable. Whether in South Africa or America —we can all do without a hundred different colloquialisms for selling drugs, black-on-black violence, and taking advantage of black women.

It’s equally shameful, to explain to South African women why African American men are “so mean” and refer to women as “bitches” all the time. In contrast, as a standard, when South African men greet me, they say “Min ghani sis” or “Hello sister.” Men introduce their close friends as “my brother”— black South Africans don’t call one another “kaffirs.”

In Africa, the damaging effects of slavery on African Americans becomes more obvious. I was speechless when a white South African man said to me, “The difference between ‘you guys’ and the Africans is they know exactly who they are.” I continue to learn the meaning of this painful statement.

Sure, I can take pride in talking with African youth about the greatest MC’s of all time, the best hair relaxers, and the freshest urban clothing. When the conversation’s over however, they return to speaking Zulu, Shangaan, Xhosa or another African language. We lost our African connection: our languages, history, and traditions.  Yet, one of the greatest things we have is our story. Unfortunately, we’re not doing a good job of telling that.