A Genoan revolution

The revolutionary instinct still sounds strong in Garibaldi’s city. At least that what hordes of posters advertising the latest post-punk antifascist concert make us believe. Underground and hidden from sight the standard-bearers are still alive and kicking however. Enter the Association Count Basie, an underground vault near the Station Principe. Its guarded against outsiders by an opaque reputation and a publicity strategy that, at best, lacks the full-frontal assault strategy of aforementioned poster. As a final instance of defence, the club is only open to members of Arci, which is, from what I can gather thanks to Google Translate, a cultural club with socialist leanings. While the former defences ensure a simple defence against invasion by tourists such as ourselves, the latter’s exclusivity is just one side of the story. Most importantly it allows the home of jazz standards to maintain a veil of revolutionary authenticity that I suppose must be a pre-requisite to acceptance amongst the city’s cultured elite. The membership card, once obtained, reminds the holder of their revolutionary obligations including liberty, equality and participation. That being said, revolutionary hallmarks seem to have evolved somewhat since Garibaldi’s days with the casual insertion of non-violence. 

Once inside, the old times come alive in quite a different way. Its blues open-mic night and BB King is played, so is Etta James, solos abound, guitar riffs pounce and every now and again there’s a wail from the corner of overenthusiastic spectators – oh, yea. This is the refuge of the self-proclaimed underdog in the city of the unsettled. There’s not a mezzo carafe in sight; we drink beer – not wine. Every worn-through woolly sweater and corduroy trousers, every unpolished trumpet and un-tuned guitar channels the memory of fellow outcasts that made the music great in its heyday. The music doesn’t quite live up to this vision but it doesn’t matter – the objective is achieved: Jazz in its standard setting.

 

That the recreation of heyday jazz bears its own revolutionary connotations despite the standard setting and music is clear to both the regulars and to us, the unwanted casual outsider. I suppose that’s partly why this particular vision is chosen. So it’s a relief when the godfather, a balding 40 year old who seems to run the show, gives in to his revolutionary upbringing and calls a 12 year old on stage (see slightly blurred photo below). The kid pulls off a solo like he’s Jimmy Hendrix and passes over to a slightly older student who maintains that BB King has lost his ‘Trail’, not his ‘Thrill’. The incorrectness is reassuring; all is not quite right despite the standard setting. Genoa will go on revolutionizing in its own little way.

Trips from Lagos

In the process of trying to persuade my family to come out here later this year, I was writing an email about where they should go when I figured I could do this in Google Maps. I'd seen it done but never been geeky enough myself. Well now I have: Quite easy really!

Below is the map, with highlighted descriptions of Lagos, Osogbo, Kano and Katsina Durbars, Calabar Area, Benin (country), and Ghana.

Given the limited guidebooks for the area (to my knowledge there's only one of any use), this might be quite an interesting project to continue. If you want to help de-personalize, detail and increase the list of places to go, let me know and I'll invite you.


View Trips from Lagos in a larger map

Men who stare at (fighting) goats

Well, Ram's actually. The annual National Ram Fighting competition, organized by the Ram Lover's Association of Nigeria, is currently in progress near the national stadium in Lagos. Very excited to have been a part of the Semi Finals, which saw the likes of AK47 take on Sledgehammer. Obama, the winner of the last two years, was not around any more. I've been told by the Grandfather of Ram Fighting that he has since been retired.

Ram fighting, when you see it, seems perfectly natural. There are no red colours or jeers to get the beasts excited. They see each other and want to run at each other; simple. The winner is the one who intimidates his opponent most - who then runs away. If he has not been able to do so for 40 headbangs, the match is a draw.

The finals are to be held on April 11th. The day will also see other traditional African sports. In discussion with the Grandfather it turns out that none of those sports, which include local varieties of wrestling and one-legged running, are conducted during the African Games, which see only Olympic disciplines. Seems to me that despite all the quirkiness of this particular events this kind of activity carries more significance if viewed in the general context of a threatened African culture.

 Ram's locking heads

Sledgehammer on the way to the court

Stewards of the Ram Lover's Association

UPDATE: Will published this piece in the Wall Street Journal.

Art update

The gut has a lot to do with why I'm in Africa. Firstly, the music is guttoral; it speaks to the heart. At the same time I have had this brooding gut feeling that Africa is the place for me for a decade or longer. A strong affinity with everything African is the result - its people, its ways and its art.

The first couple of weeks here rejuvinated this feeling. I managed to squeeze in a visit to the infamous (new) Shrine to see Femi Kuti. It was just an open rehersal, but even so - jumpin'! Also headed to the Jazzhole, a jazz and funk record shop. Just like London, but compare that to Hyderabad! In between the gym, work, french class routine (boosted by dinner parties and sailing) I picked up info on plays & open gigs, found an amazing coffee table book on Lagos (published by local Glendora), went to a few dinner parties and am off to an art auction tomorrow. The world has finally woken up to the excitement that the cultural scene has to offer, it seems. 

Needless to say that all this exciting stuff means I have yet to find a place to live or a car. But what a start to Lagos!

First impressions

Finally! I’m here! Most of you won’t know what its for, but I’ll come to that later.

Should have organised more from home really, like a place to stay on the first night. I did, after all, land past nightfall. With a lost luggage (note to self: never again pack guidebook in checked in luggage) disaster, I didn’t leave the airport till about 2 and was at the mercy of touts, as I had also failed to give Advait my flight details. Ended up in a non-AC’d dorm with a bunch of Indians. Great way to start.

Enough of the nitty gritty, and to the impressions. First is that everything, and I MEAN E V E R Y T H I N G is laid out for numbers. Masses of people. Everywhere. It struck me on the first day after my unfortunate arrival when I thought I’d experiment with the Mumbai train system. Quite aside from the fact that I had to use considerable force against the reluctance of existing passengers to accept me by the side, it’s the design of the haphazard system to deal with the vast human traffic that got me. To cope with it, they don’t only need one bridge in one spot, but, in the case of Goregaon Station, at least 5.

So I have accepted my fate. Here at least I am not an individual, but miniscule fraction of the bigger picture which now adorns my wall. Thus I am happy to live in a residential settlement I would have considered hell in Europe, namely the New Mhady Colony, surrounded by apartment blocks that all look the same. Since we are here about an hour from the centre on the southern tip of peninsular that is now Mumbai (before, apparently, it was several islands), it should not have been this way. But because of the sheer numbers, it is inevitable. By way of consoling my self I climb onto the roof of our bungalow (what a luxury) from where I can see vast areas of shrinking open green. There are ten of us here, and although I am certain that none of us will be here to witness it, I have been assured that in a while none of what is in our site will remain this way.

A quick word on my colocataire’s maybe, before I fall into a light half sleep, the only kind the heat, humidity, and the lack of an A/C permits. They are of the new Indian variety, all my age (+/- 2 years), engineers, driving the 24 hour Western IT economy, and happy to do so. Things are changing though, and Alok, my dinner partner tonight, is working for a French company investing in India. Most are happy to be here and are certain that, after a stint with their companies abroad, they would return home. This is where the music’s playing. They are also living as cheaply as possible (3 to a room, all apart from me – spoilt git!), so that they can send money home – tradition in a modern world.

All said I’m now exceedingly happy. Living with great people, in a great house, with a great, interesting job, in a new country. Let the games begin!

photos

Bought myself a camera before leaving. Nothing snazzy. Digital and unbreakable. First such experiment since my parents & chalet Caroline folk scared me off the box by building a proverbial wall between situation and them. Just picture six adults with camera's in front of their faces while the "subjects" look for Easter eggs in the snow. But seeing as there must be such a thing as "responsible" cameramanship, I decided to go for it again.

Sadly it was stolen after a couple of weeks here (much like the mobile). Don't blame anybody but myself to be honest. But thought I'd give you some of the ones so far, having just noticed a terrible neglect of the same.


Markets... everybody knows I love markets. This one's clean. But there's dozens of them in Dakar. Fish, spices, tourist stuff, Chinese imports... you name it. My personal favorite is the fabric market (marche HLM), with at least 300 tailors in it. The astonishing thing is the tendency to cluster. According to Porter its a sign of a healthy economy. But here it makes no sense. For instance I am just having a travelling case made covered in old tin cans. The stuff is original, and great. But if you want it, you have to go to one specific part of town to look for it. Makes no sense if you ask me. Why don't they spread out?


Ever wondered why some African fabrics shine. Well, this labour is why. Pence per meter. Crazy! Somewhere near the HLM market mentioned above.


Fishing in Africa


Dead fish


Lunch


Lots of dead fish. This stuff is killed, smoked and sent to landlocked places like Mali. Reminds me of spending a few hours on the back of a pick-up truck laden with the stuff in the north of Mozambique. Never smelt like that before...


Me with catch. I don't think I'll ever do it again though. They didn't kill the thing. Just let it choke and suffer. Horrible!


Baas with penis extension. He's the flatmate out here. From Luxembourg. Engineer.


Rhino, White Rhino. We did the token safari in the tiniest little park outside Dakar on the way to Sine. It was a sad sight. None of the animals were from here, and to "entertain" they raced the hyena's with the 4x4. Not cool!


Chilling in the middle of nowhere. This cleared piece of land will soon be a Formula 3000 racetrack. I mean HDI of 155 or so and having an international RACETRACK? Whats going on. But I guess they should build on competitive advantage that the Paris/Plymouth/Lisbon/Amsterdam/Barcelona-Dakar rally has brought.

Pirogue (traditional, colourful wooden boat they have all over the place) by Senegalese sun set. That's supposed to be a pun. There's no sunset here. Nearly always hidden behind a thick veil of water vapour rising from the ground. The depth of colour here is slightly disappointing. Looking forward to India in that respect.


Me fooling around on front of said pirogue.


Pretty flower


Eleni & Baas at breakfast. Don't they look happy?


One of the colourful car rapide's that I still consider the most effective means of public transport anywhere. Its free market working beautifully. They are trying to get the things off the road. Will be sad to see them go.


Me in said machine.


Later that day, standing on the street not really knowing what to do, we saw a huge crowd trying to get into the university campus. Followed, obviously, but weren't let in. After a climb through the gate we encountered this. A gig of a famous Wolof band (don't ask me WHAT they were called) with people hanging from every possible spot. Managed to push our way into the back of the crowd (god, I'm happy I am tall) and took in the whole thing. My first real insight into Senegalese style partying (I'm pulled into the expat crowd most of the time). Small groups of dancers breaking away everywhere. Lots of man-on-man t-shirt pulling stuff going on. But not in the homosexual kind of way!
(NB: I have come to think that we Europeans need some reeducation to get the pervasive homophobia out of us. At first even I was shocked by how long men hold hands at a greeting here. They are not scared of touching. Bit like women in the West. Now I do it all the time. Same with dancers. At first I thought 1-on-1 man-on-man was a sign of Muslim society not leaving enough women for everybody or something like that (I know its ridiculous). Now I know its just another way for men to relate from what I used to. - If you think that is sexual you should see what they do to the women. Its like a dry-hump greeting.)



Lutte (Wrestling) teams preparing for a hot fight. Shame I caught so little of it on camera.

dancing way of life

I've referred to this before. But since dance is everywhere, I can't help but do it again. Though Eleni's special insight is a mine for understanding and depth, you can see it on every street corner, on the beaches, in the classroom. It seems like Senegalese bodies are bursting with unrestrainable dance. Not only that... They are GOOD at it, and I mean really good. Its a feeling and ear for rhythm that lets them penetrate the polyrhythmic music like a knife warm butter; straight to the bottom of things. No movement seems out of place, calculated, or unnatural to the naked eye. Attempts to explain abound, and border on racist at times. The one I like the best however is that they grow up with it. Because music is everywhere. Was just reading the bio of the Baobab Orchestra, which said something about the first president Leopold Sedar Senghor, poet and cultural connoisseur, under who's reign art flourished (god I know little about the history of the country I'm in). Is it him or how far does this rhythmic upbringing go back?

Anyway, obviously loving the insights Eleni has in store for me. Exceptional experience with the dance she is studying with. A highly pregnant women who lives in a compound of about 18, all of whom do nothing and sometimes dance (More on that later). It's more like a hang-out den, punctuated by wild flying of arms and some high-pitched, loud laughs at the inability of the toubab to learn the steps. Those are themselves a copy from the music video's, which makes me wonder how connected they really are to traditional dance. But since Eleni keeps on talking about sexual dances & the man/women divide (basically women dance in private, men think they are showing off - and sometimes i tend to agree with them) and seeing the similarity between them and circumcision dances we saw in Sine Saloum (photo to follow), I don't really doubt it. Again its a question of untrained eye witnessing something incredible and new. Check out the video to convince yourself (eleni on the right):



Obviously became the centre of attention as unmarried toubab. Shame really. Everybody! wants out of the country, whatever way they can. (More on that later too)

What's up?

Not much, to put it bluntly. I said when coming here that it was for jobs and to examine BOP reality. Well, I noticed pretty soon that the former was a no go (even though I put extra effort in after noticing how high the quality of life is here). The main blame is with my need to remain in control (ie. I still feel unable to give my CV to somebody and “hope for the best”). Anyway, being in Intellecap’s second round and having a shot at the BOP impact assessment probably lets me off the hook on that one.

What do I mean when I speak of BOP (Base of the “economic” Pyramid – pc!!!) reality? Well. Its life really. Finding out who’s providing what for the poor… and what they demand. Old examples (BOP 1.0) include shampoo in single use sachets or the small Wrigley’s packet (see pic). Despite language barrier, I am trying to see what’s out there in the 2.0 world. Mobile Banking would certainly be one of them. But this seems a little unattainable for the BOP community non? I did here that there were some pilot projects out there? Can anybody help?

Best part of the 2.0 world is the “deep listening” requirement. I’m taking that seriously. Hanging out with as many locals as will hang out with me (although the rich world of Dakar and the middle class neighbourhood here somewhat inhibit me on the poor front). That means in short many evenings spent on the local basketball court (… these guys are good). Also the French course at university is doing its part of putting me in touch with locals. Although they are mostly from other West African countries and have come here to study language with an eye to university admission later.

Lately shopping has become a big feature, as well as a colonial style search for root causes. Im sure there’ll be more on that later.

getting scared

I am seeing dangers around more African corners these days. I don't know why. Cant say I'm getting old despite my gray hair. Maybe its the company. Or maybe its just some rational thoughts finally finding their way to my brain. Truth be told, after seeing this in front of the university its not surprising that I feel a little wobbly on the back of Baas' scooter.

Have the same, hypochondriac reaction every time I've got diarrhea. "Malaria" is always the first thought. Must say that I really did think I had it after a trip to Hell the other day. Hell looks like this:
Sunny Sunday. Slight Hangover. Went to the beach to hang out and kitesurf but were let down by the wind. A tip from a "friend" led us to another place (Hann) with wind but also with the most disgusting, smelly collection of dead Algae I have ever seen. There were kids playing football, but I wonder who had broken their nose as the stench unbearable. The water was black with waste, oil in touch. Vultures were picking out dead fish from the "sea" at will. In all my time I've never seen anything like it. Never even got to take a pic, I was so distraught. And that's the spot of the Dakar Sailing club???!
Sick for the rest of the day with the smell stuck in my nose. Squirted fluid essence up it, but to no avail. Still in shock...

the beauty of symmetry

The tribal urgings, the polyrhytmic drums, the traffic, screams and life... and then this? Not exactly what I had been expecting, but beautiful to see.

In truth the story takes a sad ending. Firstly, if you think about it, there's probably a thousand more efficient ways of getting stuff on a roof of a building than using 10 men to ship it up. Also, once the Tubab (Woolof for white man) came along, everybody stopped, shouted for money, and then took a while to get back into the work again.
Nevertheless, it shows energy, coordination, stamina and proves that Africans can very well work together...