Out of Africa

My African sojourn has now drawn to a close. To attempt to summarize it here would be foolhardy.

What I can say is that over the past six months I have felt feelings I didn't know I had, seen things I never thought possible, and compiled enough zany stories to last a lifetime and beyond.

I won't go through the stories. But I will share one of them, simply because it seems to befit the current state of my mentality better than all the rest.

Flash back to Lake Malawi. I was marooned on an island with a few friends and we desperately wanted to return to the mainland to catch the rugby world cup final. The ferry wasn't due for a few days, so we chartered a boat run by a local guy to do the voyage. It was the most un-seaworthy (seaworthless?) craft I'd ever set my eyes on: rotting, leaky, and no place to sit. The leaks were the real issue; from the minute we set off, the hull began to fill with water. But of course, this is Africa, and the local boys had a solution. Using a length of rubber tubing, two rusty iron cylinders, some metal housing, a pair of brass bars, some scrap rubber and two 2x4"s, they managed to fashion a water pump. It was modeled after a stairmaster, so that as the operator pushed down on the 2x4"s in turn, bilge fluid from the hull would be safely sent over the side. The whole contraption maybe cost 10 dollars for materials, nothing more. From an engineer's perspective, I found this to be fabulous. I tried to envision what the situation would be like back home in Canada. In place of a ramshackle pump made from old bits and bobs, someone would have installed a gas-driven sump pump, worth several thousand dollars, in order to keep the water out. Or, they would have had to fix the whole hull. Actually, forget it, the boat probably just would have been scrapped in the first place. Either way, you can be damn sure that no self-respecting Canadian would have climbed in for a ride.

The moral of this tale is that Africa, and its people, do things their own way. And try as we might, Westerners will probably never understand it.

So what truly annoys me here is the omnipresence of what Theroux calls "soldiers of virtue": Westerners who set foot on the continent with the sole intention of 'saving it'. Time and time again, I've had to endure discussions about orphanages being built, English skills being passed on and third world debt being relieved, then forced to answer questions about why I'm not here for the same purpose. But the reality is that very few of these foreign angels believe that progress could involve any of the Africans themselves, and that it's only the West who can deliver the black people from their plight.

Well I disagree. I don't believe that the combined effort of a billion benevolent muzungus could right the African ship. In order for Africans to accept change, they first have to want it, and if they ever do decide that their home country should be the next Sweden or Canada, then they must make the changes themselves: of their own design, and to their own beat.

So does this mean that I'm a heartless bastard? Am I declaring that no one should volunteer their time in projects aimed at improving the lives of the locals? No. By all means, do come and lend a helping hand. But don't go thinking that the work you do will be expediting Africa into the 21st century. That attitude is both self-righteous and arrogant.

Me? Well, I came to Africa to do precisely what I accomplished in the end: to travel 15,000km, by road, using local transportation. Managed to survive it, too (bonus!). That being said, I'd like to give a word of thanks to all the anonymous Africans who helped me out on the way.

And while I'm doling out the gratitude, there are many people at home and abroad who also deserve to be commended for their aid in keeping my boat afloat during this past calendar year. So more thanks go out...

...to my grandmothers, who both must wonder at times if they will outlive me as a result of my actions.

...to my sister, who grabbed the helm of my personal life when I was unable to control it from abroad.

...to all those who have read my written words and put forth their comments in return. My budding romance with the English language has been the vehicle driving this blog, but the measured support of my faithful readers has been the fuel to keep it in motion.

...para voce.

And finally, to my parents, who are not to be held accountable for the recessive genes that cause me to commit acts of stupidity. Despite my occasional disappearing acts, my capricious love affairs and my quixotic adventures into dangerous places, you've always been in my corner, and for that you deserve the biggest thanks of all. Oh, and for the record, I WAS touched when you reported me missing to the Canadian High Commission in Mozambique, even though my first reaction suggested otherwise.

2007 is over.

At the risk of making a horrible pun, I'll venture to say that this year has been a trip. To think that I've the means to feed my insatiable wanderlust for many months to come makes me extremely content, though at this point I can't say when I'll call it quits. No going home yet though. New places continue to beckon.

And so, this blog will continue into 2008. I cordially invite you all to come along for the ride. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that new experiences are easy to come by. The difficult part is condensing them into words so that others can enjoy them with you.

"I've hated the words, and I have loved them. But I hope I've made them right." -From The Book Thief by Markus Zusak