A moment

By now the readers of this blog know that I am an impenitent urbanist. I have a friend who has known me since I was 17 (alas a loooong time ago) who refuses to believe that my African escapades provide me with joyous adventure instead of filling me with utter terror. This is the majority middle class South African view I am afraid; what is north of the Limpopo is best to be avoided unless it involves a khaki clad guide and/or a houseboat filled with Zambezi (the beer, not the shark.... on the river, not in it). Depending on what time of the day it is, how tired and I am and the quality of the hotel coffee (and content of the wine list), I am bound to find messiness interesting, chaos innovative and grubbiness....well actually no...grubby stays grubby....at a push maybe grungy if I am listening to Pearl Jam on my iPod.

At a recent workshop on case research one of my AAPS colleagues reflected on a teaching initiative with students where they were tasked with interviewing informal waste collectors. Students were interviewed on DVD reflecting on their initial prejudice and representing their insights into the conditions that cause some to collect, sorts and sell waste. Many waste collectors sleep on the streets. The research was done in Johannesburg. When probed on how exactly this prepares students for finding practical solutions my gut response was duh! My more eloquent friend drew attention to the fact that solutions are best informed by an engagement with the invisible, the marginal... Yes. I think however, that something else happened as part of this exercise; there was a sensibility shift for some of these students. This is not just something that will influence future dealings with the informal sector; it informs a worldview that permeates how we look at the world and how we choose to experience it. Funny how it escapes 20+ years of friendship.

Ritual

After 5 weeks on the road, visiting 8 planning schools in 6 countries (I would rather not calculate my carbon footprint....) I found myself in Addis Ababa in Ethiopia. My travel companions are mainly inanimate but nevertheless provide me with the comforts that reassure and reconnect. In addition to the yoga DVDs on my laptop, the small speakers that drown out disruptive hotel noises, the iPod that makes waiting in airports bearable and the odd cigarette (only when I am on the road!), I carry a small coffee filter. The morning routine of yoga followed by a cup of strong African coffee not only gives me that much-needed caffienne boost but also provides a consistency to what can often turn out to be a non-stop day; it somehow defines that moment when I connect...and collect.

In Ethiopia, 80% of the coffee produced is consumed locally. The consumption of this wonderful beverage punctuated my exchanges with my colleagues, where several times throughout my short visit, coffee was brewed on a small stove, surrounded by greenery and flowers upon which rested fruit, honeyed seeds and sweet popcorn while the aroma of coffee mingled with the smell of burning insense. This is a ceremony, not a quick trip to Starbucks. Participants sit in a collective, reflect on the day, speeches are made when the occasion calls whilst small cups are circulated. Apparently this ritual is considered a barometer of household relations in the home; a rushed process signifies all is not well; badly brewed coffee served to a visitor is a social disaster.

I am not a fan of dogma (and saw much evidence of it on my travels) but I respect these structured moments when people take time out from sitting in somnolent traffic, battling disabling bureacracies, making a living with limited resources and finding a way in the day-to-day clustered exchanges of the metropolis, and just stop... This pause is a necessary sensory respite; the aromas, the sounds of gentle conversation, the taste of Arabica coffee, the tactile exchanges collectively contribute to what is integral to African urbanity: small spaces of order and routine in a seemingly chaotic environment.

Gacaca

The Kigali Genocide Memorial Centre is located on a hill, and feels remote, aloof almost. The unassuming but elegant building is fronted by grassy terraces that cascade down towards a wetland. Beyond this open space the bustle of Kigali continues unhindered. The unassuming exterior is deceptive.

Careful and intelligent design takes one on an emotional journey that ranges from absolute outrage to deep and profound sadness. Exhibit one contains a generous treatment of colonialism; the beginnings of the exploitation of clan difference in the service of Empire. I use the word 'generous' since throughout the Centre, the material is displayed with wisdom and compassion. After this introduction one is drawn into a depiction of evil and terror. Video footage bears testimony to survivor experiences, newspaper clippings portray the mad propaganda that incited mass murder of Tutsis and moderate Hutus and many photographs. Exhibits include the remains of victims, clothing and the elementary but highly effective weapons used in this 3-month mass slaughter.

The building allows for moments of composure; after each exhibit one is given the opportunity to exit the room to a secluded space outside. Floor one concludes with current measures intended to serve justice. This includes the Gacaca village justice system where communities are given opportunity to try perpetrators. There has been a lot of criticism leveled at this system, not least the subsequent victimization of witnesses. The humanity displayed in enabling such closure I considered laudable as I viewed the second floor exhibition. The display on genocides elsewhere - Namibia, Nazi Germany, Cambodia, Bosnia - is rendered remote by time and geography. One is brought back to the present with a sharp blow: a memorial to children containing photographs posted by family members, personalized with detail on their favorite foods, ambitions, activities and aspirations. Tearful and upset, I rushed outside to find solace in the gardens outside, facing the grassy terraces outside punctuated by concrete slabs, nondescript rectangular blocks that contain mass graves, crypts containing the remains of friends, wives, husbands, lovers, children... a dignified burial for the many lost.

Boda Boda

The drive from Kampala to Entebbe airport can take 2 hours, despite a distance of about 40 km's. I have found that time spent in traffic is best invested in taking photographs of the textured human activity along these busy corridors and chatting to taxi drivers. After the mandatory exchanges on the FIFA World Cup and our President's colorful personal life (a source of amusement and not insubstantial derision from most people that I have encountered on my travels), I am almost always presented with colorful tales and opinions that give some wonderful insights into local life. One such story is the origin of the name 'boda boda' assigned to motorcycle taxis (and the excellent bar I went to the previous night....). Apparently these vehicles provide transport to passengers and goods between the Kenyan and Ugandan borders. These mobilities also accommodate smuggling apparently; cheaper Kenyan sugar being the most popular product that finds its way boda to boda.

The notion of borders in the African context is infused with history and battles. The Great Lakes region is particularly prone to conflicts arising from colonial legacies infused with tribal resentments and old battles. A different kind of battle is discernible in the media; that of the sexes. In the run-up to Valentines Day, a radio phone-in program revealed an interesting dilemma; a listener was earnestly seeking advice on which of her four boyfriends she should go out with on this auspicious day. Apparently this is not an unique problem. My Ugandan friends tell me that the increase in the HIV infection rate recently is due to these peculiar sexual networks that proliferate. Intimacies transgress boundaries of marital status and commitment on both sides of the gender divide. Billboards graphically depict the extent of these networks and their implications. There is tacit public agreement and I would venture to say, acceptance of this sexual behavior. I harbor no moral judgement in this respect (in fact I am amazed that people have time for such complications in their lives!), what I do find contentious however, is that such openness co-exists with the homophobia that has been institutionalized in Uganda, effectively criminalizing homosexual relationships. Clearly some borders are more porous than others.

The element of surprise

The flight from Nairobi to Kisumu is short; the entire 35 minutes could be spent with one's nose pressed against the aircraft window like an enchanted child coveting an expensive toy. Kenya is incredibly beautiful, I thought when my reverie was interrupted by the sudden ascent of the plane as we were about to land. An abrupt change in wind direction necessitated this anxiety inducing change of plan; the butterflies in my stomach were pacified by the view of Lake Victoria as we circled and prepared for a second attempt at landing. I was relieved to find myself on terra firma outside the tiny airport building boasting ‘Kisumu International Airport’ with the glossy rendition of future extensions featuring in the background. Kisumu is a pretty town, art deco architecture frames a thriving commercial centre. Driving through it I was charmed by its laid back energy, a feature, it seems, of African cities located close to large expanses of water.

Many languid cyclists contribute to this laid-back atmosphere. They transport large rolled up sisal mats, plants and grasses, large quantities of goods and of course passengers. Apparently Kisumu is the regional pioneer of the bicycle taxi (although I sense my Malawian colleagues would disagree), but much like other innovations that run contrary to regulation, they are viewed with suspicion and irritation by local urban managers. Owners are required to register their bicycles but little has been done to accommodate or facilitate their movement. They are parked on street corners, fixed and serviced in small shady spots in between parking areas and buildings. Like a sudden take-off upon landing, a glitch in a flight path, I think city managers tend to treat such innovations as unanticipated deviations to be controlled in order to avert any unanticipated phenomena. By doing so they deprive themselves of an extraordinary view, I think.

Kumasi Kente

Upon the conclusion of meetings with colleagues at Kwame Nkrumah University in Kumasi, I was asked what I may need in addition to the many notes, recordings, business cards and photos taken during my two-day visit. Kente, I replied, without hesitation, I want some Kente. The regular patterns that criss-cross in small autonomous blocks, the amalgamation of colours and textures that somehow unify into a visual feast represent a tourist export that one cannot leave Ghana without. It manages to retain its allure despite such overexposure. In many ways I think Kente is symbolic of planners’ perfect cities: small controlled, regular entities; visually beautiful with diverse components contriving to create a harmonious visual impact. The product celebrates and protects. Kente is a ceremonial product of the Ashanti. Kumasi is the current Ashanti capital and contains many reminders of this once powerful kingdom.

At the height of its powers the Ashanti Kingdom spanned across much of Central Ghana, Togo and Cote d'Ivoire. Architectural remains can be seen in close proximity to the Ashanti Palace in central Kumasi. The kingdom essentially comprised an amalgamation of city states representing a powerful collective of urban traders. The popular tendency is to think of cities as Northern constructs; ancient cities of Greece and Italy provide us with clues to Western civilisation whilst the industrialisation of London and others confirmed Modern epoch. Odd then that we tend to overlook urban African histories, with Africans being particularly guilty of this. Policy makers tend to view urbanisation on this continent as an aberration, a deviation. When looking at Kejetia Market in Kisumu, the largest in West Africa, I can see how overwhelming African cities could be. The size, the bustle, the densities represent a messy urbanity. Entering it you fear being swept along in a tide of human activity, perhaps mistakenly finding yourself on a bus to Tamale or a train to Accra amongst chickens, goats and cheap Chinese imports. Yet, these spaces contain threads of gold similar to that found in good Kente cloth. Ordinary people trading, buying, negotiating and transporting goods may not shine as bright as the gold in the Ashanti throne; this propensity to trade is as traditional and legendary as its ceremonial cloth.

Public Affairs

The taxi driver was surprised when I suggested he drop me in Osu so that I could walk the remaining 3 kilometres to the Accra city centre. It was hot and his fee had effectively been reduced by 30%. Walking down Cantonments Road, continuing to Independence Square should be one of those wonderful processes of anticipation as one gets closer to the visual celebration of Africa’s first independent state. Instead of keeping my eye on the unfolding of this spectacle however, my eyes were on the sidewalk. Dodging potholes, scrambling over piles of bricks and competing with oncoming traffic and traders on narrow strips, I felt my rights as a pedestrian severely infringed upon.

When I was able to raise my eyes from this continuous obstacle course, I was distracted by the ubiquitous mobile phone advertisements; MTN, Zain and Vodafone dominate. The cacophony of colours and typefaces is discernable on small hotel walls, shops fronts (sides, backs and tops sometimes), bus terminals and benches. And of course the billboards; Vodafone flashes its glamour while Zain’s colour palette is a strange but attractive blend of mint green and light magenta. MTN is most poignant in its portrayal of children physically illustrating how wide, fast and well connected its network is. Mobile telephony has enabled the leapfrogging that makes landline telephony seem almost quant. It connects friends and family, enables social and economic networks and is a constant reminder of the importance of communication. I find it ironic however, that whilst we are constantly reminded in the public realm that connection is only a phone call away, moving 500m by foot is beset with difficulties.

My experience of Accra city centre is that its users walk, trade and network on the streets. Air-conditioned offices and underground parking may provide a middle-class reprieve from the outside bustle but I would argue that the majority of Accra folk (as in other African cities) find their way around the city centre on foot. We celebrate connection and transcendence of space yet the normal and most celebrated way of movement is constrained by a lack of very simple infrastructure. Perhaps the yellow MTN sponsored bus shelter provides us with a clue here. Why not assign a levy on mobile phone company advertisements and use this funding to upgrade the physical environment? Somehow I think it is not the mobile phone companies that would object. The problem is public.

Hot Air

While I was standing in the queue waiting to check in for my Enugu-Lagos flight, I was informed of a delay of 2 hours by a suave 6.2 foot gentleman and his bemused American companion. The lightness of the moment was interrupted by a fracas at the Air Arik counter. Deep voices resonated across the small departures hall. When the reasonable request was made that we be checked in, in order to escape the debilitating heat, the refusal was countered with a shouting match that ranged from accusations (‘you treat us like animals’), incredulity (‘who is the man, what is his position? what is his authority?!’) and threats (‘my fare pays your job; you can lose your job’). We were checked in but when I commended my compatriots on their intervention, my tall neighbour informed me that the check-in clerk was on his way anyway. The scene was unnecessary.

Enugu is an attractive city; hilly and green currently undergoing mass road infrastructure upgrades. The layout is conventional with many squares punctuating its gridiron monotony with large heroic figures celebrating independence and less reassuringly…military rule. The military is very present in Enugu; their base is one of the first things you see on the way from the airport. They are present at the entrance to the University, the airport and at strategic points around the city. Their guns and uniforms echo the unease one feels when observing the statues of steel featuring guns, knives and soldiers. My Igbo colleagues shudder at the associations; the dread experienced under military rule was not that long ago.

In the shadow of showy public sculptural displays, the real Enugu reveals itself. I am told the East is known for its traders and this is evident. Streets are lined with small business at a relentless density, some with shop fronts not more that two meters wide. Computer dealers, business centres, artists, artisans play their wares and trade with a busy intensity that defies the hot sun. Tailors and dressmakers are in abundance. Their products are modelled on the street where brightly clad ladies delicately balancing baskets on their heads pass men wearing intricately lace detailed West African suits. I was presented with a beautiful suit tailored in a day, immaculately made, a gift that bears testimony to an inherent creativity, craftsmanship and propensity for hard work. This is what builds the city, this quiet tenacity and focus. No need to shout.

Fragments

In the 48 hours spent hosted by my gracious colleagues from University of Lagos, I saw men carrying sewing machines on their heads, others patiently pushing large metal trolleys containing water containers, with vendors selling fuel in an oil rich country at double the commercial rate while vehicles patiently line up at service stations in this twisted irony of global economics. Highways are mobile shopping malls, vendors criss-cross the somnolent traffic with agile elegance, balancing newspapers/ airtime vouchers/plastic placemats/sewing kits etc while negotiating terms of trade.

Whilst crossing a number of bridges between the mainland and the islands that form the Southern part of this city. I snapped billboards celebrating the pending FIFA World Cup only to find upon my return, debilitating poverty displayed in makeshift stilt structures on the Lagoon in between floating logs in administered rows. Slums contrast with affluent gated estates, access to which is curtailed by potholes and traffic. Negotiating 10 kms in Lagos can take you two hours despite the Bus Rapid Transit (BRT) system that criss-crosses this megolopolis. Additional public transport is provided by motorised rickshaws, motorbikes and motor vehicles of varying sizes and functions. I am not unfamiliar with urban poverty, nor with the phenomenon of the mega-city, but Lagos is something else entirely.

As planners we are trained to think holistically. What distinguishes us is the ability to see the bigger picture, makes sense of the synergies that allow a city to function effectively. A modestly arrogant expectation is the anticipation of a total understanding of the city: what makes it tick, what are the forces that lead to ongoing change, the spatial configurations and logic, the underlying energies? Lagos defies all of that. It denies one the satisfaction of prediction and overall urban insight. It allows only fragments. This extends to living in the city I believe. It is quite possible to live in Lagos with the detachment that separates one from public life in the city. A driver takes you to work while you negotiate business deals on your mobile phone. Your office is cooled and powered by a generator to avoid the constant power cuts (Nigeria produces one eight of the electricity South Africa produces....for a population of 150 million, almost four times the size of South Africa's population) which also powers the laptop, digitally connected by a 3G modem. You return to your home behind the high walls that shields you from the chaotic surroundings. The 8 pm flight takes you to London/Johannesburg/Accra/Frankfurt/New York.... your check-in procedure smoothed by the self-employed tout that accelerates your boarding and customs clearance for as little as US $10.

My own experience is not dissimilar as my astronomical hotel bill and reduced stash of US dollars attest. As an urbanist, I find this strangely tragic however. Did I miss out on the Lagos experience, or do these fragments merely comprise a different kind of urban condition, distinctive and pervasive?

Faith

Traffic engineers will tell you that the Lagos to Ibadan Express Way is not particularly fast. An urban planner will inform you that it is not just a road. This 130km long corridor is host to a large conglomoration of charismatic churches concentrated at the two nodes; evangelical bookends intended to keep the populace within the bounds of their prescriptive codes. Names range from the prozaic to the ridiculous on signboards, walls, buses and the back of motor vehicles. With characteristics agnostic bemusement I made a note of the more colourful names and their associations with the city:

Moving from Ibadan, 'Access to Christ' will no doubt provide you with the 'Salt of Life' that enables you to enter the 'Church of Christ' (...along the way you may be required to pass through 'Breakthrough House') to meet 'Christ the Good Shepherd'. The 'Power of the Old' provides you with the 'Unlimited Harvest' which you celebrate at the 'Triumph Church Mission' where, upon entering the outer reaches of Lagos, you exclaim: 'Hurray! God is Here' in time to join the flock at the 'Redeemers' University'.

Nigerians apparently constitute a very religious nation; extremes discernable in the fundmentalist tendencies of the North and fervour identifiable in the flamboyant dimensions of many of its Christian places of worship. Why such devout tendencies I wonder? Living in Ibadan or Lagos cannot be easy, especially if you are poor. Service provision has simply not come close to matching urbanisation rates and living conditions are marginal for many, a situation perpetuated by the partitioned economy. My middle class background and training in the social sciences inclines me towards the 'opium of the masses' argument. No doubt the Church provides a expedient distraction from the failures of the State and the unequivocal plunder of the country's rich resources. (While oil fields proliferate, traders sell this locally scarce commodity at a %150 mark-up on sidewalk to match demand.)

On the other hand, my Nigerian friends tell me, it provides an institutional base for the intricate networks that include business contacts and training, marital counselling amongst many other social and economic functions. The Church contributes to a sense of belonging and membership is intricate to the management of perceptions. Should you not belong to a church, I am told, you are viewed with suspicion and tainted with that familiar stereotypical brush: criminal activity. In the absence of an effective state, where business deals are negotiated in US dollars or Euros and city hotels charge exorbitant rates even by Manhattan standards, the Church deals in that elusive resource: hope. As I reflect on the other stereotypical qualities discernable on the streets of Lagos and Ibadan - tenacity, creativity and invention - I cannot help but conclude that this may be the most valuable currency of all.