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.

the eye of the beholder

Having been to London a number of times, I am always surpised by the inverse relationship between my initial anticipation and excitement and the aftermath of such a journey. I hardly ever return from London with photographs; this trip: not once did I open my camera bag. It is not that I think it an ugly city. To me the beauty of it is in its unfolding local scale where high streets provide the arteries between neighbourhoods that seem to provide endless textures and shades of brown and green. Somehow I cannot capture its energy through a lens.

I came to London to engage in a workshop on training urban practitioners; it was held at the DPU (UCL). My involvement is due to synergies with the Association of African Planning Schools (AAPS) project but there is a larger mutual agenda. Both initiatives seek to inform contextually rich understandings that contribute to Southern perspectives on cities and notions of the urban. Inclusivity is a quality attributed to London by an English colleague. As I negotiated the London Underground, observing the clothing textures and colours, the head dresses, the scarves, the business suits all amassed into a tide of dense human activity, I recall another friend saying: "the average Londoner has a level of familiarity and comfort with seeing people from many different cultural forms of dress and skin shades". I cannot help but wonder if the infrastructure, the enforced public interaction enabled through good public transport and celebration of open spaces through maintenance and upkeep is perhaps to some extent responsible for this.

In an excellent piece in the Guardian Simon Jenkins reflects on his relationship with London thus: "A true city is a mirror, in which the blemishes are our own." I would expand by saying that a true city confronts us with the difference that is within all of us. How comfortable we are with those internal contradictions best defines how inclusive we find a city to be. As planners and urban practitioners the task then is to create the physical opportunities for such interaction.

Appearances

'Your look is your personality; allow us to serve you' encouraged the hand-painted sign advertising dry-cleaning services in Dar es Salaam. I suspected my one and only suit would be in good hands here but ditched this garment when I arrived in Dar. It is hot, humid and reminds me of February in Durban; my next visit to Dar will be in February...

I wondered how this strapline could apply to a urban management/town planning department of a city. How exactly do the appearances of cities match their personalities and how can we best serve them? Do cities have personalities?

Dar's turquoise ocean and palm trees convey a laid-back atmosphere; a city at ease with itself. Neglected colonial buildings are juxtaposed by clusters of construction that defy the current global economic crisis. These contrasts are discernable in the two informal settlements I visited. Manzese and Hana Nassif are small compared to Kibera in Nairobi. These are neighbourhoods where quirky (often unfinished) permanent structures interrupt rows of shacks; collector roads are flanked with economic enterprises that range from home-based sewing services to panel beaters and furniture vendors...and of course bars. The diversity of economic activity amazed me. Here people are serving themselves, despite the neglected infrastructure.

Global Barrio

As the plane circled Maputo, the Catedral da Nossa Senhora da Conceição (RC Cathedral of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception) stark white exterior visible from the sky, I contained my annoyance with the 1 hour delay. The delay was due to the arrival of the President Armando Emílio Guebuza in Beira. (I noticed his plane was bigger than ours.) A couple of days later whilst making my way from Maputo to Dar es Salaam, I encountered him again in Pemba, our second stop on this 'matatu' of air travel experiences. Red Frelimo flags invigorated what appeared to be rather small but enthusiastic shows of support at these two locations. Apparently the true challenge for Frelimo in this week's election is not winning (not an issue since the opposition is split) but public confidence reflected in voter turnout.

Populist figures and images are ubiquitous reminders of the country's turbulent past. Modernist and sometimes brutalist buildings with Soviet-era lettering and imagery are located on roads with names that includes every revolutionary active in the 20thC: Lenin, Machel, Nyerere, Mao... Early colonial buildings fade into the background with the exception of the Cathedral and Eiffel's iron building and station. In front of the station I bumped into an old friend from Namibia - our serendipitous encounter is a welcome reminder of the resilience of joint interests and passions (architecture, cities, art) . Among the T-shirts sporting images of Bob Marley and Che Guevara, I engaged in conversation with a eloquent woman selling stylish handbags (of course I bought one!); she tells me of her journey to Mozambique from her native Uganda, through Zimbabwe... It is clear to me that these were not journeys of choice. Movement across borders are not necessarily the result of shared interests but the divisive forces of war and discord. Yet it speaks of a innate ability to adapt and be mobile which I find strangely intriguing.

Floating

“Maputo is ‘n stad; Beira is ‘n gat” (Maputo is a city, Beira is a hole), said the khaki clad tour operator. I was on the airport bus, and had just assured my mother (in Afrikaans) that her youngest would travel safely. Language changes sensibilities; it can be barrier or bridge. This person whom I know not from Adam thought it appropriate to share such a biased opinion with me, a total stranger. I immediately felt the need to defend Beira, even though I had never been there and count Maputo as one of my favourite places. Having grown up in Durban, I have always been vaguely defensive about those ‘second’ or ‘third’ cities, the ones that do are not always in the limelight, do not have the glamour or are just not the size that justifies to be noticed. Perhaps it is just language.

Beira is situated below sea level, a city surrounded by water; swamps inland, the ocean and rivers to the east, south and north. One of our themes for the AAPS project, Climate Change and Cities has special significance here, my colleagues at Catholic University of Mozambique agreed. It would be easy to dismiss the city in a derisive comparison to other east coast centres; it is small, it lacks a core, road maintenance is lacking, waste management is limited and it appears to pay little attention to its beautiful coastline. However, in between the glossy advertisements for mobile phones (Vodacom is heading north…) and littered squares are little linear gems: tree-lined roads with faded Art Deco buildings paying allegiance to its past. A moment of colonial guilt passes as I enjoy the elegant facades and mourn the neglect and lack of maintenance of many of these structures. I then smiled when I realised I was in Eduardo Mondlane Avenue…a reminder of where I was.

How does one reconcile the architectural splendours of a colonial past with more urgent current imperatives? I pondered this as I swam laps in the 50m Municipal pool, yet another relic from the city’s past. Pausing to breathe every three strokes I noticed a number of young children warming up for their swimming lesson by jogging around the pool. My turns at the pool edge were punctuated by delightful giggles and the occasional ‘ola!’ (I was the only swimmer in the pool). Perhaps my colonial angst was unfounded; beauty in spaces and architecture is universal, much like the water that surrounds Beira and connected me experientially to those energetic little swimmers.

Commitment Issues

Standing in the line waiting to board the Johannesburg-Ndola flight on SA Airlink I closed my eyes listening to the accents around me and figured I could be boarding a Quantas flight given the predominance of Australian slang. Subtle eavesdropping reveals that many of these antipodeans are on their way to the DRC, site of many international mining interests; others were on their way to Kitwe, the erstwhile core of the Zambian Copper belt and home to the Copper Belt University’s School of the Built Environment and the Department of Urban and Regional Planning, my hosts.

Kitwe is a city of about 0.5 million people. It is attractive with many flamboyant trees and a lush landscape. In the distance one sees the mine shafts, the ‘hard hats’ that gain access to the depths below. This is the view from afar. My guest house is located in a comfortable suburb with the Bar playing host to a range of Nationalities: English, Australian, Chinese and South African. My fake wedding ring gives me some protection from continuous harassment since a single woman visiting on business is clearly a very foreign feature. The copper price has been steadily increasing so business is improving in this part of the world but I cannot help but wonder: where’s the money? It is certainly not present in the city infrastructure. Closer inspection reveals streets in dire need of repair and a city in much demand for a waste management strategy. A tour of informal settlements on the outskirts reveals minimal servicing and neglect. A curious feature is the predominance of home-based spaza shops, constructed as little kiosks embedded in fencing or as extensions of people’s homes; ‘welcome shoppers’ boasts one.

Kiosks range from hair dressing services, complete with painted signage, the ubiquitous phone shops offering ‘top-up’ and spaza shops selling basic groceries with some selling fresh produce. The market down the road is one of the biggest I have seen (I have yet to travel to West Africa…) with hardware, clothing and other goods and services arranged in self-appointed districts. I am told by my Zambian colleague that the site is to be redeveloped into a shopping centre, seen by the local authority as a healthy dose of foreign investment. I would hate to calculate the many livelihoods that would be affected by this intervention. It strikes me that the promise of FDI in this instance, and perhaps in many other examples in this mining region, is not dissimilar to my fake wedding ring: an outwards sign of commitment, but inherently false and intentionally deceptive.

Interesting tides

There is much to enjoy in Mombassa: the coast is beautiful, the food is excellent and the architecture is fascinating (especially if you fancy ornate, wooden balconies…who doesn’t?!). It is a 24-hour city: small cafes are open day and night (but closed for prayer of course) selling chapattis and Kenyan pizza (a square and compact omelette sandwich with mince) and balmy nights invite whole families outside as they sit in colourful robes discussing the matters of the day watching children play in the narrow streets. The old town of Mombassa is charming but in need of intervention. The few buildings that have official heritage status are well preserved but there are not many of them. The lack of services is discernable and I was pleased that I did not walk through some of the narrow alleys on my own. It is a dense urban environment, sometimes claustrophobic, knowing that one can escape to the seafront on the edges of the island is somehow reassuring.

If you catch the tide at the right time you can swim in the beautiful warm ocean.

While sitting next to the old harbour drinking flagrant black coffee infused with ginger and cardamom, my local friend (and self-appointed tour guide extraordinaire) informed me that this was a ritual to many: sitting on the sea front, staring at the ocean, talking about politics and chewing mari, a local plant, also known as Kenyan Lettuce, that ‘helps you see things clearly’. His description of this experience sounded vaguely hallucinogenic, my suspicions were confirmed by the look of serenity and peaceful oblivion on the lined face of the elderly gentleman sitting behind me. He was chewing with dignity, my friend said, sitting upright, shoes off, impeccable white muslim dress, perfectly perched; unlike the others around us, he continued, chewing open-mouthed, spitting in an undignified way and clearly too young to handle the stuff. I was too distracted by the activity in the water to pay much attention: crossing the bay to the South were two swimmers doing a beautiful butterfly stroke across the bay. I was impressed with the deft confidence with which one crossed back, jumped out of the water and bounded up the steps behind us. Another daily ritual for some, I am told, and one only for men. Being a swimmer myself I found this aspect of the custom strangely ancient and annoying; what the ocean is off limits to women?!

Perhaps the tide has to change in more ways than one for some.