Mar 13, 12:15 AM
Beer, washtubs, and the politics of travel to Africa
Jerri and I landed in Brooklyn Friday night and headed to the home of my sister Gretchen and her boyfriend Matt.
Saturday we hit the Brooklyn Brewery and and enjoyed some delicious water, barley malt, hops, and yeast, which the tour guide reminded us is the magic formula.
This is something like what it looked like as I raised a toast to life itself (and experimented with foreground imagery).
That night we heard some great music by a group called the Mad Jazz Hatters, an outfit featuring guitar, clarinet, fiddle, and—most exciting to me—washtub bass. As loyal readers know, Jerri and I played in a jug band in Chicago called the Hump Night Thumpers, and the washtub was one of the instruments I played.
The Hatters’ washtubber was really great. His instrument wasn’t actually built on a washtub, but rather there was resting on the floor a trapezoidal wooden box with a metal top. From that was stretched the single string to the top of the five-foot stick which he held in this left hand while plucking the string with his right.
He changed pitches by tightening or loosening the string, moving the stick back and forth; I play the tub by fretting the string at different points along the length of the stick. But this guy was a lot better than I or any other one-string bass player I’ve ever heard. He played a really complex bass line, and anyone with their eyes closed might have just thought he was playing an upright bass, albeit one with a unique, rich, bass thump sound.
Interestingly, the one-string bass—whether made with washtub, garbage can, tea chest (as John Lennon’s first band, the Quarry Men, used), or trapezoidal wooden box —is said to have originated from an African instrument called the earth bow. The Hatters occasionally referred to their bass instrument by that name, which reminded me of the connection.
After the show we hung out with some of Gretchen and Matt’s friends. It’s nice to get to know one’s sibling in a context more normal to their lives than the bi-annual family gathering, and partying with her buddies is almost like meeting your sister all over again.
A friend of Gretchen’s who was born in Zimbabwe was with us. When we first met, he asked Jerri what she did for work and she said that she had just quit her job and was travelling “to Africa.” Later, he said to Jerri that it was wrong to say it that way. You must list out the countries that you are visiting.
I didn’t hear the conversation, and Jerri said he wasn’t clear on this point, but the reason for never just saying you’re going “to Africa”, I assume, is that it can make it sound as though you’re unaware that there are, in fact, separate countries and cultures within that huge and varied continent.
It’s true that some Americans are that dumb. But the fact is that it’s logical to state the name of the continent you are visiting if you are going to several countries within that continent. People always say they’re going “to Europe.” So I don’t think it’s fair to assume ignorance when someone announces a trip “to Africa”—or “East Africa,” as we’ve more often been saying.
After telling Jerri to be more specific about where we’re travelling, the guy from Zimbabwe quizzed her on what she knew about Kenya. The questions felt a little pointed to Jerri, and though the conversation was carried out and ended in a collegial manner, the whole thing was a another reminder of something that we’ve been wrestling with ourselves: the politics of travel to Africa are complicated.
Why do you want to go? What will you be doing? Do you know there’s a drought in East Africa? Are you another wealthy white person zooming through to snap pictures of elephants? Or are you another do-gooder with the latest version of the groundnuts scheme?
The continent (and each of its countries) has been troubled for so long, its citizens mistreated by slavers, colonialists, self-righteous missionaries and NGOs, misguided foreign aid, and corrupt or tyrannical self-government, that I can’t blame a young African living in America for having a bit of a chip on his shoulder about the prospect of naive white Americans travelling through his home continent. Isn’t it wrong to come roaring in on a big jet and treat the whole thing like a trip to Disney World—or a chance to play savior for a day?
Yes, that would be wrong. And I confess that Jerri and I feel some anxiety that somehow we’re not doing this correctly. Should we just be volunteering the entire time? Should we be touring America, raising awareness of the genocide in Darfur? (I’m not entirely sure that that last wouldn’t be a “better” thing to do, and it troubles me to think about it.)
We have almost nothing to offer Africa. The humble skills we’ll attempt to pass on in community workshops in Rwanda are laughably small when measured against the trouble faced by a country that has recently been so devastated. My goal in life is to contribute something, however small, to international human rights, and I hope that this trip will provide me with knowledge and wisdom that will aid me in making such a contribution. But in my moments of self doubt, I wonder if I’m just tilting at windmills; I doubt that I have anything to offer.
Still, I just can’t be satisfied remaining a naive American. I have to try to learn, to make real connections with real humans, to turn the sensationalized news reports (or complete lack of news coverage) into some real first hand knowledge. I have to try.
Having made a trip to Africa,,er..Nigeria,Kenya and Tanzania, I too felt the questions about the validity of making usch a trip. Was it the best use of money? I decided that what I could learn would make the cost worthwhile. Then, upon my return, I could settle down and let my stewardship of precious resources reflect those learnings.
— Dad Mar 15, 09:58 PM #