Flights, Writing, and the Chinese Question in Africa

When I started writing this post, I intended to talk about how bad I felt about having missed the Zimbabwe International Book Fair, but as the piece developed, it morphed into other areas: it got stuck, like I was, in Nairobi, revealed some Kenya Airways passengers' discussion of the Chinese presence in Africa, and it  touched on what I imagined would be the nature of my arrival in Harare, and how long I would stay there before proceeding to Zvishavane. I had also thought I would find time to travel to other places: Chimanimani, for the Arts festival; Chiredzi, to visit a family friend;  Chivi, to visit the place they say I was born; Bulawayo, to see Sizinda, a place in Tshabalala, which is the setting of one of my stories; and  Mozambique, for reasons I am not yet qualified to write about on this blog. But when I arrived, I would discover that I didn't have that much time to be dreaming about visiting these places, and that I should have known this, that when you get to a place, you might want to stay put for a few days, so the experience soaks in, before you proceed to the next destination. Thus, I was only able to be centered in two places, Harare and Zvishavane, each receiving one week and some days, each exhausting me to the point of wishing I had stayed longer.

That's what I thought I would cover in the article, but I ended up writing the following:

My stay in Zimbabwe was very brief, and I didn't get to participate in many events in the writing community, as had been  my dream. Can you imagine, dreaming that one day I would be active again in the Zimbabwean literary community, on the ground, right there with others. I wasn't happy that I missed the book fair, and I grumbled about it whenever I got a chance, whether I was in Harare, in Gweru, or in Mototi.

I had hoped (and intended) to appear at the Indaba, but had somehow misculculated my US commitments, so instead of arriving in Harare by the time of the Book Fair launch, I found out I would only arrive on the last day of the whole thing. Okay, fine. I could make it to the Writer's Workshop at the National Arts Gallery, on August 4th, a Saturday. I had checked with Memory Chirere and figured that perhaps I would arrive just after lunch, with one or  two hours to go before the end of the workshop. That was good enough, I would sneak in there, take a few photos, sit down in a corner somewhere, studying faces, recognizing some of them, ignoring others; then the workshop would end and I would start meeting writers, collecting contact details, getting whisked away to a cafe somewhere, or to something like the UZ Senior Common Room to relax with others, sipping....coca-cola or fanta; I was planning on sobriety during my Zimbabwe stay, which almost happened, until the Black Label and Lion found me in Mototi, Gudo and Takavarasha. It was just amazing that you could find cold drinks in the rural areas, and be able to watch Nigerian movies on TV in the bottle stores. But before all this would happen, I wanted to have reconnected with the writers' community at the Writers' Workshop, even for two hours, if my flight would arrive as scheduled. But it would not.

 The Kenya Air-thing (the Pride of Africa) had delayed us in Nairobi,  its staff arguing with three Chinese men whose luggage was too big for carry-on. Voices were raised, and we thought fists may start flying;  and then it seemed seats had been mixed up too, and the people around me, some Zambians, Zimbabweans, and one English-speaking European woman, were complaining about why the plane was so full of Chinese people. Up to this point I hadn't even noticed this detail, and I doubt that I would have, had it not naturally come up around me. Because the Africans were talking...

"That's new Africa for you," said a big Zimbabwean man. Perhaps he was my size because I am officially big, considering that later in Mototi I would turn out to be a giant among my people, who are mostly thin. Nearly everyone I would meet in Mototi was thin and somehow I was trying to tell them to stay thin, not to not eat, just to stay...okay...slim, because this giant state they were talking about, this having a belly, wasn't a sign of everything desirable, that back where I had been (some thought Britain, others didn't care where exactly), I spent a lot of money every year on a gym membership I didn't really use, so if at all possible, I was here...in Mototi...to lose some weight, walking, running, climbing hills. The walking would happen, to Takavarasha, to Gudo, to Vhazhure, to Runde, but I would end up not getting a chance to climb my hills, to jog along my dirt roads.... nor would there be an opportunity to do any hard work. People in Mototi even ate large portions of sadza, finished it all, and for a moment I would wonder how they stayed thin, and remembered that because they worked so hard in the fields, they burned a lot carbs. Then there were cases of those who were said to be thin because of the disease, HIV-AIDS. But all this I would find out a week after arriving in Zimbabwe, after staying in suburbian Harare, after missing the Book fair completely, and after I travelled to the rural areas. But before all that, there had been Kenya Airways of staff arguing with Chinese people while the Africans around me complained.

"All these Chinese in here, where are they going?" said another Zimbabwean-sounding man.

"Lusaka," said the Zambian sitting next to me, a graduate student returning from Amsterdam.  He started shaking his bald head, making it obvious to the Chinese he did not quite approve of ...something, perhaps their delaying us, or their going to Lusaka. By this point I was listening intently, but unsure what my reaction to this was, or whether I was supposed to formulate some intellectual or even emotional response; I probably didn't care, but it was interesting either way.

And the alleged Chinese didn't seem to be looking at anyone specific as they located their seats, a process which seemed to go on forever because some couldn't find places to fit their hand luggage.  For some reason, a bus full of them had just suddenly arrived, running late (it was the kind of plane you get into by climbing those classic stairs, and was a distance away fom the terminal we all had been sitting, most of us bored and uncomfortable on the unadjustable chairs, where I had tried to use my blackberry but of course there is not Econet in Kenya (or is there?), and my laptop sniffed but could not find a whiff of wi-fi).

" They are going to Lusaka? Good," said another Zimbabwean, a short, stout man headed for Harare.

I wanted to say, "Why is that necessarily good?" But I was trying not to participate in this dialogue, thinking of political correctness (in the American sense), thinking of California diversity (where it's really not much of an issue that a place or plane is full of Chinese people). But I was concerned that whatever was causing the delay here would impact my ability to attend the last two hours of the book fair. I was uneasy, stretching my neck, checking that every passenger was at least inside the plane, and then a bus another bus arrived, another surge of passangers, and the men around me moaned. Up the steps were some more Chinese  (to me simply Asian-looking) people headed for Lusaka. There were more sighs and moans and audible shouts of the words "Chinese, we are in deep trouble, they are here to stay, Africa, cry Africa". And the young European (I could have easily thought she was British, because of the accent, but again the Dutch who had switched to English when speaking to me in Amsterdam had sounded British--somewhat--; I figured I couldn't just think she was this or that without any proof, just as I was quietly refusing to register that the people getting on the plane were simply Chinese instead of, say, Taiwanese, Vietnamese, et cetra.) said, "It's unfair and rude for them to carry such big bags", or something to that effect, and her Zimbabwean friend said, "My point exactly."

I just sat back and tried to forget about arriving on time, forget about the bookfair, but then I started really thinking about it, about the writer's workshop, about the writers-- Mungoshi, Chirere, Gappah, Tapureta, and the greetings, shouts of "Iwe!", chants of "Munyori!", "Mwana wamai!", as I imagined Aaron Chiundura Moyo's greeting would be.

I wouldn't meet A.C. Moyo until August 21, my last day in Zimbabwe. It was a great coincedence in Glen View.

"You returning from Amsterdam too?" the Zambian graduate student's voice cut into my reverie like a knife.

" No, San Francisco," I said, shaking the sleep away and looking around to see if everyone was settled.

"Wow," said the student.

On this trip I wasn't going to let people make me feel I was important for returning from the United States, and I wasn't going to pretend that there was some glory in the mere fact of having travelled from there.

"Wow what?" I said.

" Long trip," he said. "You must be tired."

"Exhausted," I said. I waited for him to say more, but he settled in his seat and fumbled with the headphones. "So why so many Chinese people on this plane?" I asked, to keep the dialogue, to find out details about Africa.

"Opportunities in Lusaka, in Harare, in Luanda, everywhere in Africa, man," he said. "But these are going to Lusaka."

"African is in trouble then," I said. The Zimbabwean men in front us turned their heads and nodded.

"You have no idea, " said the student. "Very soon they will be bearing children."

"Really?"  I said, unclear what I meant, so  I didn't expect him to answer. I looked out the window, but turned when he resumed speaking in an accent that wasn't as bad.

He told me he had been in this European city on a summer exchange program. He had been there for three months;  in fact, half the plane were students like him returning. Some were Zimbabwean, others Zambian, and other countries, Malawi, Tanzania, and so on.

"Half the plane?" I asked, looking around. 

He looked around too, shook his head and said, "No, not  half the plane, but quite a few of us are, ten or so."

And yes, I could hear the Zimbabweans. Three loud women speaking in an annoying accent, even when they broke into Shona. The men in the seats in front of us spoke in Shona, but broke into English when they turned to speak with me or the Zambian . I remained quiet most of the time, avoiding fully joining the "Chinese Question in Africa." I sat there thinking, " The sad part is I might be failing to connect with this issue on African soil, on an African plane", but I knew about the presence of the Chinese in Zimbabwe, about the friendship of China with Zimbabwe and so on, the teaching of Cantonese and Mandarin in different some institutions in Zimbabwe; Chinese mining of gold, diamonds, platinum. So it made sense to be expected to connect with the issue. But it seems I was failing to connect with the attitude or reaction of the people around me  towards the question. Attacking the question by showing a dislike of individuals getting on a plane, if ones who were delaying us.

 But I certainly also didn't want to not fit in the idea of being back in Africa...the dreaded syndrome of coming back home and acting like a foreigner. I listened intently, kept a smile, (or what felt like a smile) on my face.

 "And how long have you been there, the States?" the Zambian asked.

"Over sixteen years," I said.

He opened his mouth and covered it with his hand. I let him soak in his surprise. Then I said, "But it feels like I never left Africa."

"On that you are right," he said. "You still kinda sound Zimbabwean; your English hasn't changed that much."

I could have told him he was wrong, but I left him to believe what he wanted to believe. Of course, my English had changed. (But again, I don't always react well to the charge that I have an accent..., which I have...It's all complicated and complex). So, yes, I let him hear what he thought he was hearing. But before I spoke next,  I cleared my throat and spoke louder, retrieving the rhoticity of American English. "A very long time, huh?"

He nodded, and said, "And what do you do there?" 

"I teach college English," I said. "All kinds of English."

And he looked at me once, twice, then started laughing. "How ironic that you who is from Africa, you get to go there and teach--." He was interrupted by the intercom. We were finally going to take off. We were now putting away our electronic devices, et cetra. I took out my camera to be able to capture some amazing images of Kilimanjaro and all the Mombasas of this world.

But I never really got to use the camera, now deeply engaged in dialogue about the Chinese question in Africa with the Zambian man, who honestly was lamenting that more than half the plane would proceed to Lusaka. I told him the Chinese question was an important question everywhere in the world, and particularly in the USA; what wasn't the question, however, was of specific, particular individuals seeking opportunity. Questions were associated with political systems, with governments, and individuals, the ordinary rest of us, who did what we had to do to send our children to school, et cetra.

Then we suddenly dropped this conversation as we wondered what mountain peaks were visible through the clouds below us. It wasn't just one, but several peaks....then we forgot about them too as an attendant brought a cart and asked if I wanted chicken or lamb and I said lamb. The Zambian said chicken. I had tea instead of coffee; the Zambian had coffee instead of tea; and later I had a coke instead of a beer, and I didn't pay attention to what the the Zambian requested next.