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.

India for Beginners

I am mindful of the fact that this collective account is about my travels through Africa. This project, however, has grown tentacles as these initiatives often do. Hence I found myself in India for a week: attendance at the Asian Planning Schools Association conference in Ahmedabad and a visit to the Indian Institute for Human Settlements in Delhi. A week is hardly enough to inform a balanced view - a year would probably just be enough!

India is unlike any place I had been to. It is completely overwhelming: the colour, the crowds and the constant traffic noise. Hooting has replaced traffic signals and conventions as a means of communication. I tried to deconstruct the code. A short friendly little playful honk: 'be careful I am about to change two lanes at once and you are in the way'; a longer insistent but not terribly agressive hoot: 'don't veer into my lane because the vehicle on your other side is about to do so by changes two lanes...'; a loud and aggressive hoot is reserved for slow drivers, non-motorised transport users and those paying attention to traffic signals....

I was able to make this (probably flawed) analysis from the back of a three-wheeler, ubiquitous little vehicles that dodge traffic with enormous skill, are cheap and appear to be available anywhere at any time. Apparently these little gems of mobility run on two-stroke engines and provided a much needed source of employment with Ahmedabad's textile industry restructured in the 1990s. Travelling in them is an adventure as they dodge buses and cross 3-lane traffic circles with ease. I could touch some of the vehicles we overtook and intercepted!

Besides its textiles, the city of Ahmedabad is famous for its 400-year heritage and intends to have its walled area declared a World Heritage site. Quite what that means for the city and its inhabitants remains unclear to me. The symbols of its Jain, Hindu and Islamic heritage are stunning. Colourful and intricately carved temple exteriors provides community focal points for the various pols (enclosed neighbourhoods) and elegant chabutras (bird feeders) emphasise small public squares where narrow lanes converge. Juxtaposed with these elements of ancient urban design are buildings designed by Le Corbusier, Doshi, Louis Khan and Charles Correa. Paradoxically, the former plunges one into the chaos of the city whilst these latter monuments to the machine age and the proud era of post-colonial India provide solace from the din of street traffic. Khan's Institute of Management is impressive in an intimadating and inaccessible way. Correa's work I love. I spent a whole afternoon inGhandi's ashram as a testiment to the great man but also to revel in the beautifully articulated spaces that so effortlessly interface with the lush natural surroundings.

In an article entitled 'How to be a Cultural Superpower' the Times of India outlines 3 easy steps: export Indian items such as yoga, cinema and ayurveda; open Indian cultural centres in major capitals and offer subsidised courses teaching appreciation of Indian culture. It strikes me that all this is unnecessary. India does not need to try so hard.