Youssou N'dour and Angelique Kidjo

Dar es Salaam is becoming a bit of a venue for international artists- the past five or so years has seen the likes of Jay-Z, Sean Paul, Akon, Brick 'n Lace, and other pop tarts- I mean stars- come through. More interestingly, Bongo has also been able to attract heavyweight live musicians from the continent like Oliver Mtukudzi, The Soweto String Quartet and McCoy Mrubata- all of whom I have been delighted to watch from just a couple of meters away. There is nothing quite like standing within yelling distance of these stars and being able to request favorites! Last night, that involved singing Malaika along with Angelique Kidjo and 7 Seconds with Youssou N'Dour:

Which reminds me: Sauti Za Busara 2010 is around the corner.

How you vote is how you eat.

I already wrote about one aspect of the intersection between class and food- arguing of course in favor of the elitist view that quality matters. But food security is undeniably a tricky thing. I remember reading a fairly recent article where a government employee made a statement along the lines of "Cassava should be the staple food of Tanzania." Excuse the lack of attribution- but clearly this is a wishful statement rather than an actual government policy. However, it does point out to the problems of treating food in a utilitarian manner. Common sense suggests, for example, that for our modern mass society to really prosper we should all be mostly vegetarian with a lot less animal protein in our diets. But this is not culturally feasible at all for many of us, your truly included. Since I tilt to the left, the best I can do is compromise the way that any good liberal will by trying to 'eat smart'- whatever that might mean. And according to this interesting experiment in social surveys, there is a relationship between a person's food and their politics.

Skeletons in Cyberspace

It is summer, and therefore there must be intermittent power cuts carefully timed to hit during the hottest part of the day. Like today. While waiting for the power to come back I read through the remains of a blog that looked mighty interesting in its time. Kifimbocheza left an elegant, intriguing and somewhat poignant last post to serve as a marker for his blog’s grave.

I was reading him because he turned up as I searched for blogs to put under the (new!) Tanzania blogger links section which I will populate over time. His post brought up something interesting that we rarely talk about directly in Tanzania: racial politics. Whooo-eee are they complicated! In our cyberspace, no issue is thornier than the concept of authenticity- who is Tanzanian and how representative they are and what this allows them to say about the country with any authority.

Well, identity is complex. The criteria for selection for Tanzanian blogs is pretty simple here: blogs whose content is mostly about Tanzania. The nationality of the blogger is secondary since it that is generally an accident of birth and immigration laws. Blogging intelligently and deeply about a place that is well-known and beloved by the blogger should be open to anyone across boundaries of residence permits and melanin levels, even language barriers.

Another point of interest in the identity debate is the use of anonymity. Kifimbocheza would not reveal his on his blog, and a number of Tanzanian bloggers- yours truly included- use this to free them from censorship from various sources (themselves, the state, society). Although I understand the need for this, it has left the Tanzanian blogging scene a bit denuded of flesh and blood characters with whom to engage. It is something that I grapple with every time I write a post here, under my name, worrying about its reception and consequences. Blogging is fun, but blogging while ‘out’ can be daunting.

A slight lapse in sincerity

In a fit of pre-election inspiration, the government decided to brand this fiscal year with a catchy-yet-considerate theme: Kilimo Kwanza. Agriculture First is an excellent program to promote considering the statistics that are often bandied about- 42 million Tanzanians and 80% of those living in the rural areas with most of them farming for subsistence. By caring about agriculture, the government is purporting to care about the poor majority. However, those numbers also hint at the fundamental problem that arises from the Kilimo Kwanza program, that of a lack of commitment on the part of the government to make deep and lasting changes in the lives of the majority of Tanzanians.

Just a couple of years ago, the education sector was unfortunate enough to become the subject of a massive government initiative. Eschewing true investment in improving the quality of education, the establishment went for the easy kill- increasing access to education by throwing money at things that can be seen and counted. So innumerable primary school buildings have been built, and every ward was very strongly encouraged to build a secondary school so that every single student who successfully completed their primary education would be guaranteed a place. Where were the teachers going to come from, the teaching aids, et cetera? These were mere details that were not allowed to interfere with the government's top-down approach.

Fast forward to today, when the government has moved on from Education to its new mistress Agriculture. Ward Secondary schools are not doing very well. The students have realized that they are being shafted with crappy new recruit teachers who don't know the language of instruction let alone the subjects in any depth. Take a moment to imagine thousands of young Tanzanians simmering with the realization that their government has shafted them, and that they are not going to get the education they thought they would...and let that thought marinate for a couple of years. I hope Kikwete's successor has a plan for the youth vote because s/he's going to need it.

That education sector story is just a recent example of the many well-intentioned but hopelessly hollow initiatives out there. So I was a little skeptical about the Kilimo Kwanza gig when it appeared- there was that excess of official exuberance that is the hallmark of a dubious proposition. I have been lying in wait for months for the cracks to show. Patience does get rewarded in some small measure, as this story shows. It could be argued that in a developing country like this one, there are innumerable demands on public officials-how, oh how do they pick which sitting allowance to receive each day? But perhaps this is reason enough for the government to stop promising sweeping changes the likes of which it cannot effect. And perhaps this will be one more piece of evidence in the case for a strong, expert and indigenous civil society to bridge the development gap that the government cannot.

Exactly the same, except not.

Hi folks! I am happy to announce the launch of The Mikocheni Report. Just Another Day in Paradise, the original blog, was laid to rest quietly and with no ceremony earlier this morning. It was fun while it lasted, but a long period of silence coupled with an accumulation of intentions to improve the blog seemed to demand a radical change. So I did for the blog what any good friend would do for someone who needs a feel-good pick-me-up would do: I took it to the spa. It went in as Just Another Day in Paradise and emerged as...well, The Mikocheni Report.

There is still some work to be done, but in the meantime I hope you enjoy the new and improved version as much as I have enjoyed putting it together. The content remains more or less the same because politics, urban life and food are subjects that just keep giving. Let the good times roll.

Not quite dead yet...

Like King'ung'e Ng'ombale-Mwiru, this blog is not dead yet contrary to appearances. A lot of subterranean meditation has been happening (ahem) and the blog should be enjoying a revamping in the very, very, very near future! Said revamping will (hopefully) involve the upgrading of the style, streamlining of content, and inclusion of more visual stimulus. The upgrade will still be subject to Paradisan laws of internet connectivity- immutable laws- but even given these constraints there is bound to be improvement. In the meantime, please accept this short place-holder whose intention it is to say: hello.

Have a refreshing weekend.

Death of a Despot: Adieu Monsieur Bongo

So, Monsieur le President Omar Bongo du Gabon had the good grace to retire from life this week. Officially he died a day or two ago but a good webtrawl suggests otherwise. With every death in the old guard of African leaders, another piece of the golden independence era in African modern history gets lost. Despot or Political Saint, every one of them mattered in the way they shaped the political culture of their country...

...but what I really want to talk about is the loss of said golden independence era. Actually, the loss of style and consequence. When I was a kid, I spent a few years living across the river from Kinshasa. In Brazzaville, Francophilia was a way of life but there was also a very vibrant Afrocentric culture of style and opulence being driven by the courts of the local despots. Mobutu Sese Seko, Dennis Sassou Nguesso, Omar Bongo etc...these were men whose wives wore the very best Parisian shoes with the very best Kitenge couture, whose musical tastes made the careers of the greats like Franco and Madilu, whose personal foibles gave rise to very interesting fashions in some cases (leopard print accessories, anyone?). In a nutshell: awesome political culture/fashion history stuff.

Evidently that brief period of francophonie has had an interesting influence on my politics. Still, out of the manure of corruption, brutality and state failure grew these roses of modern African culture in music and fashion. The old guard didn't just pay lip service to Afrocentrism- they lived it. Back here in Paradise, we've had a slightly different trajectory which has delivered us now to a place where our Dear Leaders dress like bankers or bums depending on the crowd they are addressing.

If there is a hell, no doubt Mr. Bongo will have joined his dear wife and other cronies there. And Madilu and Franco, reunited at last, will serenade him down the red carpet.

No Documented Life Without Bribery?

Of course, it would be a close encounter of the state kind that would jolt me out of my recent blogging apathy. It is budget season, and time for my yearly appointment with the Tanzania Revenue Authority. Any seasoned Paradisan can read the signs of the oncoming tax season: an alarming increase in traffic policemen on the streets conducting spontaneous checks. What's the national budget got to do with traffic cops you ask?

Well. Our government is intensely lazy, uncreative and inefficient. It is also self-aware. Knowing that it cannot bother to raise internal revenue through the use of sophisticated, calibrated, far-reaching and sensible taxation schemes it settles for squeezing the bulk of it out of its captive taxable populations. This means amongst other things crazy high VAT, crazy heavy income tax for those of us in the formal sector, really crazy customs duties, and my favorite: insanely high fuel levies and road licence fees.

Canny Paradisans have been playing the Road Licence Renewal Game of Chance since the government decided that it was going to squeeze the stuffing out of motorists. It is played thus: beginning in June the Paradisan car owner must start to try and decipher which way the road licence fee wind will blow. Every year, the government either reduces or raises it, depending on its general mood, its need for easy cash, and its class politics. Last year the hike was huge, so everyone who had paid their licence Before Budget got to save money. But because we are all waiting to pay our licences sometime Before or After Budget, there is a window of time during which many of us are driving around with lapsed licenses...

...which in turn generates a feeding frenzy in the police force. Plain clothes and traffic cops alike spend pre-budget June catching all of us speculative fools who have let our insurance and road licences expire. They then fine the crap out of us and/or solicit bribes, exploiting yet another state-designed opportunity for corruption to flourish. To celebrate my first year as an independent car-owner, this year I decided to battle the red tape and get my faithful chariot registered in my name AND pay the road licence (mostly) voluntarily*.

I used every trick in the book: delegating to someone who is capable of dealing with government functionaries (not a skill to be sniffed at), semi-honest disclosure of my financial status (this is the TRA after all), and facilitation fees (also known as bakshish, bribery, petty corruption, etc). With the result that that I got a Taxpayer Identification Number and road licence within 24 hours. Hey, ya!

I should not be happy. Embracing the cynicism that is required to live effectively and efficiently in Paradise requires letting go of the idea that I can live 'clean' as a responsible citizen. But those are sweet and naive notions of civic life that have little place here. A government office is the one place where a Paradisan can go to be made to understand the basics of life: you don't matter, only your money and connections do. So, I admit, on any occasion when I manage to wrestle something from the sweaty grip of the state (a passport, a licence), it gives me a primal thrill, facilitation or no facilitation. Handbasket to hell? Why, yes, thank you.

* Okay. The truth is that I fear cops more than any other people in this land and will go to extraordinary lentghs not to give them cause to stop/arrest/incarcerate/bully/humiliate/abuse/perpetrate violence upon me.