Adam Hooper's Blog

Pictures of Summer 2010

Tue, 31 Aug 2010 06:31:15 +0000

I've uploaded pictures of my summer abroad.

Between my take-off from Montreal and my return four and a half months later, I took 4,675 pictures. Fear not, though: I've only published 50 in this album.

Freedom

Sun, 22 Aug 2010 16:17:31 +0000

Freedom, not democracy, is the basis of our society.

Stunt biker (London)

Hundreds of years ago, political figures commissioned art. Now, they tolerate it. Artists spray-painted London's South Bank when doing so was illegal, and amateur skateboarders kick-flipped in before their parents could buy elbowpads. All the politicians had to do, when asked, was set up lights and tell the cleaners not to bother scrubbing.

Even that concession is a fight, of course, and the powers that be sometimes talk of closing the 30-year-old park to make way for shops. Skaters and bikers, a tiny minority of South Bankers, have fought to keep the park alive.

It makes sense to trust in minorities: graffiti artists and skateboarders are experts on graffiti and skateboarding. Their elected representatives probably don't know how to stamp or ollie, so nobody expects them to propose a skate park, out of the blue, at the next city council meeting.

Skateboarder (Amsterdam)

But eventually they will. Leaders aren't there to lead their people: they're there to follow them.

Chess player (Amsterdam)

I'm going home

Tue, 17 Aug 2010 20:14:22 +0000

I'm going home.

Flying away makes me examine my experiences. I reflect and reflect until I worry the mirrors inside me will shatter from over-thought.

To the countless greens of Rwanda, the dusty infinities of Tanzania, the blissful bananas of Uganda, the recently-peaceful politics of Kenya, the picture-perfect beaches of Zanzibar and the friends and strangers who unify and diversify the land with all with your culture, beauty and warmth: kwa heri.

Old Taxi Park

Sat, 14 Aug 2010 13:27:00 +0000

Welcome to Old Taxi Park. It's the heart of Kampala.

The first thing to know about Old Taxi Park is that a measly 18mm camera lens can't fit it all in. If I point it to the left, I can capture hundreds more minibus taxis my first shot missed.

(Then there's the new addition across the street. And the taxis lining the roads surrounding Old Taxi Park. And New Taxi Park. And the inter-city buses. And the main market. All in a four-block radius. So ... lots of traffic.)

Today, let's zoom in.

Signposts and (more efficient) conductors point passengers to the appropriate 14-seat minibus taxis. Drivers thread their taxis through the chaos and into the rest of Kampala.

Vendors surround the park like a fence.

Then there are folks, like this self-labelled "street man", who hang around all day.

At night, the steps into the park are lined by light bulb vendors.

There are fewer taxis. While crowds wait for taxis, they buy snacks from candle-lit vendors who install themselves where taxis sit during the day.

It's almost an extension of the crowded market outside: hundreds of vendors serve thousands of customers.

It's lit by the moon, candles, taxi headlights and light-bulb shops, and it's enlivened by horns, megaphones, enthusiastic vendors and random shouts. To the beats of the nearest radio it pulses and shifts, absorbing empty taxis and pumping out full ones.

It's the heart of Kampala.

Goat Technology

Fri, 13 Aug 2010 21:39:57 +0000

Every once in a while in East Africa, you stumble across a seemingly-absurd sign. They're usually in cities, but I saw one in a village this week.

In a village near Mbarara (Uganda), there is something called "goat technology".

It's brilliant: villagers transform this...

... into this:

At night, goats are herded up some steps to this shoulder-level platform. In the morning, the technological wonder's owner (left) flicks a broom underneath and collects fresh fertilizer.

Blurred Memories

Tue, 10 Aug 2010 17:22:39 +0000

Warning: this entry is graphic, but it's not illustrated and it's not happy. I suggest you skip it if you don't like morocity. Morose-ness. Whatever.

I've promised myself I'd keep pristine memories many times: my first kiss, my first visit to a refugee camp, my first near-death experience, and just last week, my closest view of a death.

But even this latest one is blurring already, just like all my other memories.

It was on an express bus from Kenya to Uganda, and I can't remember which country we were in. I was in the front row. The bus slowed as we approached a village, and we saw crowds up ahead. I remember colours: women wearing colourful vitenge and buildings wearing colourful cell-phone advertisements. I can't remember which colours or which cell-phone companies.

A small crowd was looking at a red motorcycle lying on the ground. (I think it was red.) Then, one bus-length later, the main crowd formed a silent and stationary half-circle around a body sprawled on the road, fresh blood around its head.

I winced involuntarily. The body was a full bus-length away from its vehicle, and its arms weren't at the angles they should have been.

And here's the part I want to remember: the two passengers across the aisle laughing at my reaction.

But I won't remember it properly. I never do.

This summer I visited Rwanda's genocide memorial again. I discovered I'd forgotten something I'd sworn not to.

The memorial is a hall of videos, pictures, and texts. Its layout and style are similar to Shakespeare's Globe in London, except for the bits in the core of the circular floor plan: skulls, bones, and t-shirts.

The t-shirts stand out: they're empty. At some point in the past each t-shirt represented a person; now, each t-shirt is a hole in the fabric of reality where that person ought to be.

Three years ago, one t-shirt burned a permanent place in my memory. It's centred in the display as you enter the room: a big, white t-shirt with a picture of Parliament and, in bold red, "Ottawa". What was that second-hand t-shirt's life like? When did it leave Canada? Why was it forced to experience such trauma? What did it see? In some sense it's easier for me to relate to a Canadian t-shirt than to a Rwandan genocide victim.

This summer I returned to the memorial. I watched the videos and read the narratives more critically than last time (because of my three years of reading about the topic), but I was terrified that the Ottawa t-shirt would get past my cynicism. A Canadian companion ahead of me entered the room of t-shirts; she backtracked and told me in a subdued voice: "come see this."

I knew it was the white t-shirt. I braced myself; and when I saw it, the shock wasn't what I expected.

The t-shirt wasn't white.

It didn't even have a picture of parliament on it.

Sure, it said "Ottawa". But my memory, which was so vivid, was wrong.

There are moments in life that, once experienced, I want to preserve intact. Some inspire smiles and laughs out of nowhere; others, pangs of regret; and some, like the Ottawa t-shirt ... well, I'm not quite sure. That's why I never wanted to forget.

But I did.

(As for my first kiss: I don't remember what colour the couch was.)

Mombasa in smells

Fri, 06 Aug 2010 21:12:04 +0000

Stand in the middle of one downtown Mombasa street and look north at the rickshaw distributing black fumes. Close your left eye, and your right will treat you to neat piles of sharp-red tomatoes on the sidewalk, hawked by friendly vendors.

But the smell of fresh vegetables won't make it to your nose. Open your left eye to see why: mounds of garbage 800,000 people high leak dark juices that seep down the street, fly through the air and buffet into both nostrils.

Cross the petrol-scented bridge from the city core to Kenya's mainland, head east past the mosaic of market scents and walk along the golf-course road, lined with grassicured lawns. Stop and lift your nose: even this far, a ten-minute walk from the beach, you'll smell the salt and breeze of the Indian ocean.

I didn't expect that smell. In Dar es Salaam, ocean breeze mutates to stagnant smog before even hitting land. But here in Mombasa, it's as though the wind has been showering since it left India and it'll be damned if it's going to let a few hundred metres' worth of kite surfers and holiday resorts mess up its hair.

The freshnest doesn't penetrate far inland, of course. Piles of melted plastic bags and black ashes send veins of burnt-plastic scent into the air which are, along with car fumes, pumped through the heart of the city. And though these tourist resort streets have few passersby, the odd cigarette plays its polluting part—there aren't many cigarettes, but there are more here than in Dar es Salaam.

My favourite scent came in my first matatu (Kenyan minibus) ride. I rode to the downtown market and spotted a vendor who may have been responsible. I don't know how many times I've wished for this godsend, but I had always assumed there's no nostril god to pray to with this particular issue, however unbelievable one's need may be in the heat of a sweaty, traffic-prolonged crisis.

Clearly a nostril god exists: the conductor was wearing cologne.

Kahama in Pictures

Wed, 28 Jul 2010 19:50:58 +0000

Kahama, in Western Tanzania, has about 100,000 residents and enough dust to cover the entire country.

It's the last town of note on the road west to Rwanda and the second-last on the way to Burundi. A new gold rush has attracted more businessmen (and businesswomen, and women of a certain business) than usual. Kahama has scores of guest houses, though it still awaits a tarmac road. This being election season, the government has started paving the highway; but while contractors did dump a kilometre's worth of gravel here three weeks ago, work seems to have stalled faster than an overstuffed dala-dala with a student driver.

School attendance is dismal, though the students I've seen are enthusiastic. This class, across from my guest house, is learning English outdoors.

Like all of Tanzania, Kahama is missing garbage collection. In the meantime, residents let garbage accumulate in public spaces like this one, the site of an abandoned construction project.

This attracts scavengers, before a fire is set to burn away the remains.

There is beauty beside the trash, though, as proud residents will tell you.

The richest people in town are the truckers and miners. The rest make their livings using motorcycles, bicycles, carts and feet.

Most men are thrilled to have their pictures taken, but most women flee the camera. This seamstress wouldn't show off her shy laugh, even after consenting to have her picture taken.

After a few more minutes of explaining what I was doing, her friends were slightly more willing.

Almost all men, such as this peanut vendor, were thrilled to be captured on camera. This man even offered me 200 shillings ($0.14 USD) for the honour.

Retraction: "I Hate Men"

Tue, 27 Jul 2010 15:52:32 +0000

Two years ago on this blog, I made a victim out of a friend.

Quoting myself:

One week later, the employers hired a replacement. They would never see their old house girl again.

...

She is beyond rescue. No well-meaning person can do anything about her situation. In the darkest parts of our hearts, for all our pride of our notions of feminism and gender equality and statistics, we know this. And in the darkest part of your heart, you already know all the stories and statistics and words I can muster.

Pendo, this is your eulogy: more respect than most women ever receive in Africa.

Actually, they saw her just last week. And so did I. A few weeks after I wrote my story about her being "abducted" by family, Pendo returned to Dar es Salaam and started sewing dresses for a living. Currently she's unemployed and job-hunting, but her smile is wider than ever.

How did I write a story so far from the truth? I've since learned enough about journalism to explain.

First, I didn't use any primary sources. I didn't talk with either Pendo or her brother: I just used hearsay and prejudice.

Second, I tried to predict the future. I'm no expert at divination, women's issues or even Tanzania: my predictions are worthless.

Third, I used derogatory terms. I wrote words like "beyond rescue" and "eulogy" and I injected venom in "Africa".

I wrote as if Pendo would never read my website. I behaved like a superior, somebody wiser than she about her own life story. In taking away Pendo's individuality, I was grossly unfair.

I apologize to those who read my "I Hate Men" story and felt they learned something from it.

But I didn't have enough time or Swahili skills to tell Pendo about the original story or this correction, either. So Pendo, I apologize ... twice.

Miss Higher Learning

Sun, 25 Jul 2010 17:26:05 +0000

Thursday night, twelve university students competed to become Tanzania's Miss Higher Learning.

Number 12 was absent: I suspect she lost her nerve. This was an important event, after all: these competitors, averaging 21 years of age, already placed in their respective universities' beauty pageants. The three winners of the Miss Higher Learning contest would move on to compete with winners from other pageants for the title of Miss Tanzania.

There were plenty of cameras.

There was a lot of smiling.

Each student wanted to best fulfil the judges' expectations.

The audience had expectations, too.

I admit, I didn't attend as a journalist. I was here in support of Rahma.

Rahma is 21 years old. She's studying business and when she finishes school she hopes to join the fashion industry.

Halfway through the pageant, six contestants were eliminated. The judges chose Rahma as one of the top five to move on and participate in the quiz and dance. These top five all received prizes, though only the top three would compete for Miss Tanzania. Rahma looked gorgeous in her dresses and bikini, her smile was spot-on, and she answered her surprise question about Tanzania's anti-malaria campaign confidently and completely.

Her competitors performed very well, and the most vocal audience members were cheering for Contestant Number Six.

In the end, Rahma placed fifth.

I was humbled by all the contestants' bravery. Not many people have the courage to be quantized, and these young women faced stresses most of us never will. I congratulate them wholeheartedly.