February 21, 2000
Me and More from Africa
It's been almost three weeks since my last Budget File. It is becoming increasingly difficult to get these out in a timely manner. This also goes out to my friends out there who haven't heard from me personally for awhile. I have two jobs now, and I'm going through some major life stuff as well, which seems to be occupying a lot of my energy and soul right now. I feel like I'm going through quite a cathartic moment in my life, that I'm learning more about myself, what I am capable of doing, what changes I need to go through, and what is truly important in my life. There is a lot of emotional and psychic uncertainty on the road ahead, and there may just be a big crash coming, but I have to move forward and fight, I must evolve. And I must, as always, take the path less traveled. I'm sure that will make all the difference.
* * *
Y'know, I don't use this forum to recommend books, movies, or records that I like, but I'm going to this time. Now, I have heard more people actually say they couldn't stand this movie than say they love it, but I truly loved Magnolia. Sure, it's long, but damn what a beautiful work of art. And I can say the same about the soundtrack album by Aimee Mann. Just excellent work. You couldn't have the movie without the music, which is used in the movie in such way which has never been done before. Both the movie and the soundtrack form a whole. Anyway, I'm not a film critic, and I won't get into depth about what the movie is about or whatever, just to say that at this point in my life it really hit the right note. It showed me that one can still hope, no matter how desperate things may seem. The world is a totally fucked up place, and the vast majority of people are completely miserable, but love and hope still exist. The movie, and it's soundtrack, I feel, reinforces the old adage, in the heart of every cynic there is an optimist.
* * *
Now, let's rejoin Brenda as she continues her travels through Africa. Last we heard from her, she was in Ethiopa.
* * *
Well folks, today we're talking politics. The chronology of my trip is long since lost. Things became a bit of a blur since Christmas night in Nairobi at the Florida 2000 club, replete with the standard prostitutes that people all clubs in Africa I have thus far visited. I don't have a whole lot to say about Kenya, Tanzania or Malawi at this point. It's Zimbabwe now and this place is about to blow. They have a fuel shortage that started with diesel just before Christmas and has now escalated to encompass petrol as well (can you tell I've been stuck with English people? That's gas for all you Americans). People wait in lines at the station for days and get into fist flights once the fuel truck arrives.
They started petrol rationing the other day, finally. Apparently, the country owes some South African company $9 million for fuel. They have been subsidizing the cost of fuel for quite some time and are now deeply in debt; the South African suppliers have had enough and have cut them off. I never really contemplated the far-reaching implications of fuel before. The buses all run on diesel, for example, and when they can't get fuel, people can't get to work. Farmers can't get their crops to market and people, namely tourists, can't get around and are leaving the country in droves. Compounding this situation is the fact that Zimbabwe is aiding the Democratic Republic of the Congo's (DRC) government in its war to remain in power. All military vehicles run on diesel so much of the fuel is directed there, as the Congo is under sanctions worldwide. The leader of Zimbabwe, Robert Mugabe, is from a family of Shona chiefs stretching back into the 19th century. He was a political leader in the struggle for black equality in the 70's here, a military guy who took up arms against the white Rhodesians. Once independence was granted from white rule in 1980, the people elected him as Prime Minister. The Shona are the majority tribe here, their traditional rivals being the Needle (SP?) and the nascent tribal bickering has now entered the political arena. Mugabe is now one of the 10 richest men in the world and he has entirely ruined the economy here on his way up the money tree. After independence in 1980, the Zimbabwe dollar was on par with the US dollar. Now you get 38 Zimbabwe dollars for one US dollar and I have been told that that rate is artificial. It is being held until after the tobacco harvest (Zimbabwe's major cash crop) in April, at which point it will plummet, making the exchange rate more like 66 Zim for each US dollar. There is the added problem of no fuel and if the farmers can't get their tobacco to the auction floor in Harare, there will be riots and whatnot, one can be sure. I wish I could stick around!
Mugabe's good friends with the DRC is Kabila. They fought together against the whites way back when. So tons of Zimbabwe's resources are going into keeping that petty despot in power. Apparently, Mugabe owns a few diamond mines in the Congo as well so his motivation for going to war there is selfish and personal as well as political. I have been learning these things mostly from taxi drivers, and I asked one of them if he were to get political power what he would do. His answer? The same fucking thing! Get rich, get his friends and family in there as well. I couldn't believe it! It's a harsh life here in Africa and they are only concerned for the self. I have been told that if the wealth of all of the leaders of Africa were combined, it would pay the debt of the entire continent. The corruption is off the scale.
Seventeen hundred people die of AIDS WEEKLY in Harare alone. The public hospital is affectionately referred to as The Morgue. I've seen statistics like 20% of the workforce will be dead by 2005, 75% of African children have lost one or both parents to AIDS related deaths (these children now populate the streets of African capitals), and 80% of THE CONTINENT is HIV+. In Ethiopia there were black signs with white skull and crossbones on one side of the entrance to some of the towns. On the other side it said, in English, "Beware of AIDS". There are condoms everywhere but it is too late. This continent is where the true AIDS crisis lies. There is no treatment available either. In the countries where drugs are available, such as South Africa, no one can afford them and the insurance companies won't cover AIDS patients. It is a real tragedy that it is only the West that benefits from all the drug research. I have no idea what could be done. This is a frightening thing and I fear for these nations.
On that cheery note, I will not leave you. I have said so little about what we have been doing and the story gets more and more jumbled as the countries fly by. It is hard to stop and write the story when there is so much to do. Outdoor days and city nights, we have driven and walked through landscapes beyond imagination. The nights are what I shall try to relate today, as they are one of the most unexpected aspects of this journey. All of the bars and clubs of Africa are full of prostitutes. They are beautiful, gregarious and curious. It is with them that we are always talking and drinking. There was a night in Bahir Dar (Ethiopia) where they put makeup on me and plaited my hair. We traded jewelry and danced all night. There was a night in Addis Ababa at the Havana Club, the only salsa bar in all of Ethiopia and perhaps Africa, dancing with Cubans and drinking mescal. There are as many Ethiopian nights as there are cities, sitting in dives drinking vinegar drought or Tej honey wine conversing with the locals to the sounds of reggae (Ethiopia is the land of Jah Rastafari after all). A guy practically cried once because we would not let him pay for our drinks. He was a pharmacist, he said proudly, he made 1000 birr a month (divide by 8).
There was Christmas in Nairobi where a woman clad in 3 layers of fishnet deposited herself in Greg's lap and 3 young Ethiopian/Eretrian refugees tried to convince me to go home with their youngest brother. He was all of 16. There was a week full of nights on Zanzibar, one of them being New Years Eve at the beach which stretched on until sometime on January 2. In Dar-Es-Salaam (Tanzania), Mike, Nathan and I got carted around by a prostitute and her "brother" until well after sunrise. When we finally made it to the ferry to go home, some of the truck passengers were just arriving back from Zanzibar, catching us in the all night act.
There was an unbelievable night in Lilongwe (Malawi) where we set out from the camp hitchhiking only to be picked up by these 3 Portuguese guys blaring techno. They were on their way to the Portuguese Club and then out dancing. The Portuguese Club turned out to be someone's engagement party where we were plied with free food and drink after Greg fixed their stereo. I had been talking with a guy I thought we came with and he said it was time to go. We went outside and the car we had arrived in was long since gone. We found ourselves part of a three vehicle caravan headed by a dude they called the boss, replete with his own private DJ and shitloads of drugs (don't worry, mom:). They whisked us around to a variety of clubs where his DJ would take over and then out to the boss' "guesthouse" for our own private all night dance party. There we learned that the boss was called Ash, a Johannesburg underworld character, an entrepreneur, a club owner, the Malawian Minister of Finance, an aide worker, a million strange things - who knows how many of them are true. The sun rose, an army of servants arrived to clean up our mess and his chauffeur took us back to our truck where all the passengers were up looking for the keys to make breakfast.
There was Harare which is a blur of wacky nights turned days and on to night again, alternating between the campsite's poolside bar drinking with the staff and the one club in town that was ever open. Harare was where I met racism. We were not welcome in the black clubs and blacks were only present as staff in the white one. A barman there asked me, "I hear in America you cook your own food. Do you do your own laundry as well?"
Let me clarify that the "we" of this story is, for the most part, our drivers Nathan and Mike, and Greg and myself. Others join us on occasion but it is usually just us four, now three since Mike got pulled of the truck in Kande Beach (Malawi). It is sad that the others don't get out and see the real Africa. They isolate themselves and only interact with one another.
Perhaps next time I will return to the chronology of our journey. There are still the tribes of Ethiopia, the lakes of Kenya's rift valley, and the beaches and mountains of Malawi to describe. I hope this note finds you all well and happy. I'm back in civilization for now on so correspondence can be a bit more regular.
* * *
Until next time.
#41
March 25, 2000
Random Schiesse
Heya, how's it going? It's been a month since ya last heard from me, did'ya miss me? Yeah, been either too lazy or to busy, or so busy I need my lazy moments to watch bad TV.
But now here I am, ready to rock, so to speak. This issue of the Budget Files I consider a short compendium of what these Files are as a whole. Part one will deal with what's going on in my life right now, part two will compare an aspect of my life here to life in Russia, part three will announce the latest Budget Press publication, part four will be the latest installment of Brenda Semrow's trip through Africa, and part five will be, of course, letter land. Enjoy.
* * *
You know, a year ago now I was in a hospital in Moscow, recovering from a near death experience. Now here it is, a year later, and I just got accepted to grad school with a fellowship. School's free plus they're gonna pay me not to work. Yep, come September I'll be at UC Riverside, starting on the five (or so) year journey towards a PhD in Modern Russian History. Now, UCR ain't Stanford, but it's a step up from where I got my BA, and it's the home town, and after 1.5 - 2 years I'll be off to UCLA for my final degree. Can't wait to go back to school, it's by far what I do best. And what more can I ask for than to get paid for it!
Put in my two-month notice at my job on Monday. God it felt so good. My last day will be May 31. Hopefully, I'll get some money to take Russian language courses at Berkeley this summer, and I can get reacquainted with San Francisco, where I lived for seven years what seems like eons ago. I hear it's gotten hella expensive. All those dot-coms and shit. But if not, it's gonna be me and Greyhound for a few months. Either way, the summer is gonna be spent living out of my backpack, and what is better than that? After working two jobs and living with my mother it will certainly be liberating.
A year ago I had a girlfriend. Some of you even knew her as my wife, although that was a lie. In past files she was called the wife, or Carolyn. But I got dumped in December. A month ago I was still somewhat agog over it all, hence the "I'm going through changes" theme of the last file. But I'm starting to like the single life, dating a sundry of people, so to speak. I'm even enjoying getting turned down. But I'm batting about .600 I figure so far. Not bad.
Yes, my life is good right now. God, I feel so free!
* * *
So I don't have a car. I think I'm the only person in Southern California who doesn't have one. So I've been taking the bus here a lot in the past ten months. And in the last couple of weeks, I've noticed something.
Now, I've spent a great deal of my life without a car. Out of my thirty-three years of existence, I've probably had a car for six years. And I've always tried to be the first in line at the bus stop, the others be damned. I'm gonna get the best seat available no matter what happens. But lately I've realized that I've been letting everybody else get on the bus before me. Not just the little old ladies or the little young ladies, but the kids, the guys, everybody. I'll even step out of the way so others can get on ahead of me. I started thinking one day, on my hour and a half trek home from work, what the hell has come over me? When did I start being polite?
And then, one night, after drinking a couple of bottles of Merlot with a friend of mine, it hit me. It's because of Moscow.
Every time you get on the bus or subway in Moscow it's a battle to the death. The second the chosen mode of transportation pulls up, there is a mad rush for the doors, with elbows a-flyin' and knees in your thigh and cussing in your ears. The worse were the babushkas, the old ladies, who would literally kick you or shove you out of their way. One would have to plant their feet with elbows out and join in the fight just to get on. If you hesitated or were the least bit polite you would be left standing on the outside as the train or bus pulled away. Ride or be ridden.
And getting on the selected transportation of choice didn't end the war. Then the jostling and pushing for a seat would begin. And if there wasn't a seat, you would be shoved ingloriously into some fat, smelly, greasy fuck to the point where you can feels his vodka cabbage soup breath on your neck. Personal space? Ha! You pampered westerner. There is no such thing! And then the bus/train would pull away with a jolt and every person on the train would be jerked aside, and the weight of a hundred people would fall on your left pinky toe. And you might yelp in pain, but nobody would even blink, let alone get off your foot. In fact, they'd probably push down harder on your flattened clump of flesh.
And then you'd come to a stop. And some sorry soul in the middle of the mass would try to inch their way to the door, thrusting all their weight to their goal, to get off this repulsive sardine can. And you'd get a grocery bag in your face, another elbow in your gut, another knee in the groin. And you might think that now, with people getting off, you'd have more breathing room. But for everyone getting off, of course, three would be getting on, and the sturm und drang of it all would continue.
And if, by some twist of fate, some act of god, you actually got a seat, within a second some babushka would get in your face. And a torrent of Russian vulgarities would issue forth, all pretty much meaning 'get the hell out of my seat!' And during the first month you'd get up, but after you have been initiated, you know how to refuse, how to feign ignorance. Because this is the same babushka who kicked you in the shin not ten minutes before, and damn if she's gonna get your seat. Survival of the fittest, you old bitch! So the second you get your seat, nestled rather cozily between whoever or whatever is smashed against your shoulders, you close your eyes and feign sleep. If you're sleeping, often times there's nothing they can do. Except wake your ass up, which they do on occasion. And if it comes to this, usually the old bat will have enlisted the support of the people nearby, and by sheer force of collective will you will begrudgingly rise, vowing to get even next time, to elbow the next old lady, to trample the next six-year old girl, to stare down the next teenage punk, and get the next seat available.
So maybe my new found mass transit politeness has something to do with trying to clean up my karma. To make up for my adventures in transport back in Russia. I don't know. But it sounds logical. And anyway, no matter how many people I let on before me now, I can usually get a seat.
* * *
Budget Press is proud to announce the latest chapbook off the Xerox machine. It's Street Gospel Mystical Intellectual Survival Codes from John Gallo of Rego Park, New York. Mr. Gallo has been published by numerous small presses throughout the English speaking world, and is the publisher of Black Spring Press.
His latest chapbook winds it way through the streets of New York City, past subway stations, porno theaters, and whores, lit by the Brooklyn moon. As he passes mimes, dogs digging through trash, and Jehovah's Witnesses, he ruminates on the irony that confusion illuminates, the introspection one can only achieve by killing bugs, all set to Charlie Parker and Lucky cigarettes. Reading this chap, I've been transported to a rainy New York night, smoking a cig in real time as the city passes by me in slow motion, everything translucent and unambiguous. Budget Press is proud to add Mr. Gallo's work to our catalogue, and encourage all of you to send in your two stamps to Budget Press 2764 Caminito Cedros, Del Mar, CA 92014 for your copy. You can check out the cover and a poem from the Budget Press website at http://www.angelfire.com/ca/bpress.
* * *
And now it's time to rejoin Brenda on her voyage through Africa.
* * *
Have I told you of the African men who walk along holding one another's hands? Or the boys who stand on corners with their arms around each other in a complex hierarchy of leaning? These displays of affection are only permissible between friends of the same sex here. You would never find lovers in any sort of public physical contact on this continent. While touching, I also find it confusing as it seems they would do over their own mothers if the situation called for it (refer back to words of the Zimbabwean taxi driver in the last installment).
Namibia is the most recent now and what a marvelous indescribable land - like Ethiopia the way the landscapes vary every 5 meters and like the desert you were sure existed somewhere but could only find in pictures. Massive orangey red and dun sand dunes stretching as far as the eye could ascertain and kilometers beyond - these were mostly flooded and only viewed from the plane but I'll get to that part. The chronology is lost way back but I'll start in Harare, Zimbabwe where I last saw Greg. After a long week of dancing and drinking there, our fearless leader, Nathan, recovered from his malaria and we pressed on to the Chimanimani Mountains where it began to rain, again. A few days hiking in that acid landscape under the ubiquitous rain cloud that prevented ascent all the way to the peak of Benga - the highest peak in Mozambique - in the company of silly English girls that went up with not food nor rain gear wore my truck nerve (just one left) thin again and I wondered why and how I got back on that thing. Greg was the smart one. He couldn't bring himself to get back on after those 9 blissful days in Harare. I had been waiting for the others to do a trek, to walk, to appreciate the amazing surroundings we had been immersed in but I am not sure why. I came down from that mountain glad that hardly anyone had cared to climb the others I have had the privilege of experiencing in relative peace.
After a nice night spent in a fancy hotel for everyone to recover from the 'trauma' of the rain, we went to the ruins of Great Zimbabwe ('Zimbabwe' means 'stone house' in case you missed that part of history) and its curved stone structures the European colonialists historically refused to admit carved of African hands and ingenuity, still in the torrential rain. The paths were little rivers and I spent the day barefoot, skipping through puddles and singing songs to myself trying to imagine the culture responsible for such impractical buildings unlike anything any African cared to dwell in up unto this day. Got a book that said it was the ancient Shona who built the thing (majority tribe and the archeologists most favored guess) but this became quite a debate once we got to Bulawayo and the strange family that ran the Africa Sun backpackers. Sebastian, my lovely safari guide, was certain that the Shona could have never built such a thing, certainly not in Metabele territory and I must say I am partial to his arguments as he proved to be an intelligent and competent guide through Matopos National Park. I learned a lot of things from this man about the bushmen (Khoi-San is the present politically accepted term), Cecil John Rhodes from the African's perspective, traditional religions, and the geography and life of the region (address inquiries to bsemrow@yahoo.com). Matopos was a giant kingdom of stacked stones in earthy red and other ochre tones. A wonder of the world that I wish I had better words to describe for you all. It was originally the land of the Khoi-San and there I first saw the delicate rock paintings of 25,000 years past. There are a few more nights out there in Bulawayo where I kept running into people who claimed to know me from Harare but...
It was on to Victoria Falls or Vegas-does-Great-Zim for 4 of the most hedonistic days of my long and hedonistic life. However, it was there in the National Park that I had the pleasure of riding a horse right up next to the impala, warthog, Kudu and mongooses (is that mongeese?) for a real safari experience that cannot be rivaled by that shit they push off as such riding in trucks without roofs. I suppose I should mention Victoria Falls, a reputed wonder of the world. It is true that it is so huge that you cannot see the whole thing from the ground but it's just a waterfall, you know? Zambia lies just across the river there (the Zambezi River) and it is there that we, the truckload, did the cruise of booze. Finally, each and every conservative English person got falling down, babbling, bruised and naked drunk (naked only because Nathan ripped off their fancy dresses). Once in 4 months is not so bad, I guess.
The situation seemed a bit desperate in that country. One of the boys selling curios came up to me and grabbed my arm, frantically inquiring if I had a cigarette lighter. He really wanted one for his grandfather, he explained, and for my half-used bic, I received a head carved of ebony. We couldn't continue west into Namibia as the UNITA (United something for the liberation of Angola) forces are on the ground in the Caprivi Strip, planting land mines and shooting tourists. We detoured south into Botswana for a 3-day trip out on the Okavango Delta. This is a massive river system that never makes it to sea; it drains into the Kalahari desert, near a town called Moun (those two words rhyme). It was a lovely 3 days searching for animals in the rain. Botswana is the government the rest of Africa needs to stand up and notice: stable, equal, a true model of what a country can do after independence if not plagued by corruption and petty power seekers. Granted, Botswana has the added assistance of diamond mines filling its coffers, but it is the people politics that are impressive. They were so terrified of apartheid that they took great pains to ensure that all peoples (i.e.: tribes) of their region would be considered equal and all have a voice and that is the meaning of 'Botswana'; they are all citizens of the same nation.
Emerged from that swamp and drove off for Namibia [it's still raining if I haven't mentioned that in a while] whereupon the truck got 10 kilometers inside of the border and died forever. We are talking engine-seized- pistons-melted-to-sleeves dead, so we spent the night camped out on the side of the deserted Kalahari road, 9 of us sitting in the cab of the truck when the rain interrupted our singing and drinking party in the middle of the road. You would never imagine we were in the middle of a desert; with all the rain, the desert was quite alive with green bushes and spiny trees. Next day, we were eventually towed to a desert outpost called Gobabis (which just sounds way too mush like Addis - the site of our initial major breakdown) where I left the truck for dead.
Rumors of it were to return to haunt me twice but it still has not moved from that garage right up until this day as far as I know. Under the cover of rain, I took a minibus to Namibia's capital, Windhoek, with 16 of my least favorite people crammed inside, checked them into a backpackers and took myself to the nice quite hotel around the corner to avoid scandal and murder charges. But I was free now, they were gone forever. After a strange night meeting an English ex-pat who wanted to condense the coastal moisture of the Namibian coast to form a forest - his own version of Dune - and eating things like ostrich and Kudu (naturally flavored of the sage on which it dines!), me and the Irish couple (introducing Sean and Nick) from the truck along with the 2 unfortunate hitchhikers that got a ride on the day the truck died rented a Mazda 4X4. We drove through 4 days worth of the most amazing scenery on earth. Desert so flat and white, a virtually featureless plain populated only by mirages is part of what is known as the Skeleton Coast. There were the myriad mountains of Damaraland, all different, and the ground all along littered with mica and colored quartz, sparkling in the desert sun. Rock etchings of the modern day bushmen (well, 2000 years as opposed to 25000) and rock paintings, huge basalt organ pipes sharp as a razors edge, a mini Monument valley, a vast red and yellow plateau...
Think this mail is long enough? I do. If I keep going you won't read it all so I'll save the 2nd half of my story for later. Keep you at the edge of your screens.
Bye bye
Love,
Brenda
* * *
And now, off to letter land.
* * *
Johnnie
I've never written to you before but I've been receiving your dispatches for the better part of two years now. I enjoy them so please keep'm coming. I liked your take on "Magnolia" and agreed completely but found it interesting that I got something totally different from the film. After we saw the movie, my wife and I discussed it on the way home. We both thought it was about how difficult it is to forgive...your father, your friends, your self. And how our past actions will always catch up to us. Maybe that's the sign of what is truly "art"; when it creates a different impression on each person who sees it.
Whitney
Heya Whitney-
Yeah, I like what you're saying. I definitely see your point, and I agree. Forgiveness is a difficult thing, as was proven in the movie. Tom Cruise and his father, julliane Moore trying to forgive herself, the TV host asking for forgiveness from his wife and daughter, ands so on.
I just talked to my brother last night, a writer as well, and he said after he saw the movie he went home, curled up and cried, because he knew there was no way he could write something that good.
* * *
Until next time, whenever that might be.
Budget Files
