Finding the Balance

Every evening at around 6:45pm at least five thousand bats come out to feast above Ocean Road. Their rhythmic aerial dance coincides with the time when the people that live in number 17 and the surrounding buildings are gathering and preparing food. It is a wonderful sight to see. By day, while the colony rests in the treetops and the people retreat indoors, the crows hold court under the blistering sun. Much like the ravens that soar above treeplanters in Canada’s clear cuts, the crows here sometimes spread their wings and fly directly over those that dare to venture out into the heat. On several occasions they have used this technique to alert me to their presence. This perpetual dance I’ve been witnessing – crows by day, bats by night – exudes balance. I’ve heard some people argue that similar instances of symmetry are hard to find in the day-to-day life of Dar es Salaam. I’m not convinced that they are entirely correct. In the midst of the lopsided realities of a city where grinding poverty exists alongside of great wealth, it seems to me that ever so slightly, balance is intruding at the margins. It’s not the norm, but its embryonic existence gives me hope.

Take Zungwe for example. He’s one of the gang of taxi drivers I’ve hassled consistently over the past month when I have opted for transportation that is slightly less than eco-friendly. Along with Pazi, Kanuti and Idi, Zungwe has listened to me complain at great length about the ‘outrageous’ four thousand shilling cab fare from the taxi stand to the offices of the Economic and Social Research Foundation (ESRF). He and I got off to an exceptionally bad start. Through no fault of his own, the first time I hired him, Zungwe failed to show up on time at the ESRF to take me to an interview. I had instructed him to arrive at 2pm. He rolled into the ESRF about six hours later. Stupidly, I had forgotten that Dar isn’t simply in a different time zone than Toronto: people here also have their own unique way of telling the time! On the Swahili coast, 7am is known as ‘saa moja’ or the first hour. When I told Zungwe to pick me up at 2pm, and made the mistake of referring to it as ‘saa mbili’ (the second hour), he assumed that I wanted to be collected from the office at 8pm, the second hour of the evening. Not realizing my error, I summarily dumped Zungwe as a driver and opted to hire Idi the next day. Zungwe wasn’t much in my thoughts until several weeks later in the small hours of the night before my flight to Kigali. It was proving hard to find a driver to the airport so as a last resort I asked Baraka to talk to the ‘unreliable’ taxi guy whose number was stored in my phone. He actually showed up. On the way to Nyerere airport as we listened to Tanzanian covers of Congolese music I noted the collection of Bob Marley stickers that adorned his car. We were once again on good terms.

Last week Zungwe’s ride – Dar’s best homage to Mr. Marley – went into the shop. After it was assessed, Zungwe was told that his car would be out of commission for at least twenty-five business days. When Idi explained the situation to me the first thought that popped into my head was about something I’ve heard the locals refer to as ‘African Time’. I wondered what twenty-five official working days would mean if this nebulous and pervasive force were to come into play. If the repairs stretched much longer than a month, a la African Time, would Zungwe’s business survive? What about his family and their needs? Would his landlord understand?

As I headed over to the taxi stand to catch a ride to the peninsula and a Mardi Gras party last Friday night I bumped into Zungwe. Instead of his typical jeans and baseball cap he was dressed in the traditional Islamic style and wearing a kofia. He hopped into Idi’s cab with me. I asked him about the crisis and he told me that he was spending his days at the Mosque. He explained that he used to listen to prayers on his car radio in isolation, and that he was finding joy in being part of his community once again despite the circumstances. I quietly passed five thousand shillings to him. It was another moment straight out of the film version of the ‘Constant Gardener’. There I was in a sea of poverty confronted with one person that I could help. I didn’t think twice about my decision. Subsequently I learned that I’m not the only one that has assisted Zungwe during his time of need. It seems that an informal support network has sprung up. Sakari Saaritsa, a new friend of mine, is pursuing PhD studies on similar networks that existed in Finland before the rise of the welfare state. I look forward to reading his work on the topic in light of Zungwe’s precarious situation.

In writing about this truly positive response to an unfortunate turn of events in no way am I trying to obscure the factors that impoverish Tanzania’s urban poor. The point is that some in the community, notwithstanding multiple government and market failures, are working individually and collectively on their own time to prevent hardship. This is an inspirational story. If powerful people in this city take the need to achieve balanced and fair outcomes into their hearts as they go about their work – if they learn from the bats and the crows and the networks – things might change. As it stands, the economically rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer and balance seems to be a peripheral political issue. I think I’ll start a bat-watching club.

Employment Generation or Exploitation?

He looked up from his plate of spring rolls and told me to think like the Keynesian welfare state. It probably wasn’t the first time that Daniel Drache, the Canadian political economist, had given this little piece of advice to a student, or in my case, a former student. But the timing of his challenge to me could not have been better. Seated across the table on a bewilderingly hot January afternoon, I was set to fly out for Tanzania in a couple of days. After finishing another delicious mouthful of green curry I asked for some clarification. Drache explained that it was possible for me to make choices about my consumption habits in Dar es Salaam that would generate local employment. In effect, he urged me to embrace the market. Instead of washing and ironing my own clothes or preparing my own meals, he encouraged me to engage people to do these things. Ideally, in his view, by expanding the range of services that I purchased on a daily basis I would induce a supply response that would create jobs. I savoured the Thai food and his wisdom – both were free for me – and imagined what life was like for people that stood to benefit from the application of Drache’s lesson. The prospect of becoming a micro-level personification of post-war economic policymaking was enticing.

While I entertained do-gooder thoughts that afternoon, one of the houseboys at 17 Ocean Road was in bed recuperating. Days before, disaster had struck while he was walking home alone after ringing in 2007 with some friends. Two men rushed up to him – one brandishing a knife – and proceeded to beat him to the ground. More men joined the assault and in a few seconds the knife had done its work. Blood flowed from a deep gash above the houseboy’s right temple. Upon seeing the mess one of the attackers reached down and grabbed the victim’s cell phone and wallet. The gang subsequently melted into the night and the young wounded man raced back to number 17. When he reached the gate one of the guards took note and bolted up the stairs to inform Ronald Shelukindo that John, his full time helper, was in need of professional medical attention.

Big Ron’s response to the crisis demonstrated why he is known around Dar as ‘Baraka’ or blessing. After piling John into his Mercedes Baraka sped to the Aga Khan hospital just up the road. Upon arrival John’s head was promptly sewn up and a course of medication prescribed. The total cost of the visit came to 100 000 TZS, well beyond John’s means. This husband and father of two from Arusha did not expect his boss to pay the bill. He considered hospital care to be a personal expense. When they arrived at the cashier’s window, however, Baraka opened his wallet and paid the full amount. He then turned to John and explained that John’s wages were only one element of their employment agreement. In Baraka’s mind, if anything happened to John or to his family it was incumbent upon him, as a responsible employer, to make things right. For nearly thirty years Baraka had lived on or near Ocean Road and not once had he seen or heard of a similar incident. He didn’t think twice about choosing to come to the financial aid of his employee at a random moment of need.

In mid-January I moved my things into Ron’s spare bedroom. He introduced me to John, the man that would now be doing nearly all of the grocery shopping, meal preparation, house cleaning, laundry and insect termination for one worldly Tanzanian and his new hungry and dirty Canadian housemate. Over the following weeks I came to rely more and more on John’s work. Every single day he made me a great breakfast and demonstrated an amazing amount of stamina and skill by cleaning all of my dirty laundry by hand. I contributed little to his efforts. I simply picked up certain essentials from the shops up the road, including phone cards and the occasional beer or three, and helped Ron to pay for some of the food, electricity and Internet costs. Once or twice per week, when I remembered, I would buy John a 500ml bottle of Castle, the famous South African beer. The guy made my life so much easier and he did it with a smile on his face. I thought that spending about $1.50 Canadian once in awhile was the least I could do. For some reason I couldn’t quite put my finger on, I neglected to tell Baraka about my little habit.

Then one morning I woke from a fairly restless and sweaty sleep with my head full of thoughts about the day’s agenda. I made my ritual dash to the fridge to retrieve a water jug and fill my glass. To my surprise and disdain the water was ‘finished’, as they say around here. I was pretty pissed off. Then I discovered that there were also no eggs. I caught myself throwing some shillings at John and telling him to remember to remind us when things ran out. Before thinking about what I was doing, I sent him out the door and to the shops down the street, towards the place where he was attacked. Apparently I’d made the transition from covert do-gooder to asshole in about a week.

Nothing can excuse my behaviour that morning. As I have thought more about my actions it has become apparent to me that there is a very fine line between employment generation and exploitation. It is now my view that those with the means to employ domestic help in this country should do so. But they should also provide working conditions that are fair and decent. Baraka meets this standard. He is a fantastic boss. John is happy to be supporting his family with earnings from all of his work. Without Big Ron or someone else as giving, the chances are slim that he would even have a paying job. If, however, employers behave like I did that morning, or in other more sinister and unforgivable ways, this type of employment generation might be a dead end. As it stands, at 17 Ocean Road there is hope for John. He’s learning English. The phrasebook is open on the kitchen counter and Baraka is doing his bit to get John to converse in my language more often. It feels good to be reciprocating in a small way all of the value that John adds to our lives. I hope that he succeeds.

There are too many people?

Here in Rwanda roughly 900 people inhabit each square kilometre of arable land. The population is also expanding rapidly. According to several government estimates, if growth trends continue, the current number of Rwandans – 8.6 million – will double by the year 2020. Alarmingly, Rwanda’s population is growing at a much faster rate than the anemic rate at which it is expanding food production for the domestic market. As food imports continue to rise to meet mounting demand, the outlook for Rwanda’s impoverished rural majority is bleak. Heightened import dependence could mean greater risks for those that are not engaged in subsistence agriculture, such as non-diversified cash crop farmers and agricultural labourers. For example, rural people that depend increasingly upon imports might not have the means necessary to purchase their own basic food needs if the value of the Rwandan franc were to tank. Similarly, if climate events like the devastating 2006 East African drought occur more frequently, greater reliance on imports from that region could be associated with decreased food security.

Alternatively, a future free from import dependence could be equally grim for the poor. Two standard policy options for pre-empting imports and expanding domestic food production also have the potential to impoverish people: a vast scaling-up of the amount of land under cultivation, and diversification away from export-oriented agriculture. Regarding the former, the ad hoc growth in Rwanda’s arable land to date has denuded its spectacularly rolling landscape. Farmers that cultivate the famous hillsides where forests once stood tall are now often faced with the reality that their soil is eroding and easily exhausted. Consequently, boosting the output of food through extensive growth does not seem sustainable. The alternative to expanding production extensively – the increased use of inputs such as pesticides – would not actually reduce import reliance. It would simply switch imports of food for imports of costly inputs that, in the case of some pesticides, have the potential to undermine the long-term health of direct producers. Diversifying away from Rwanda’s greatest sources of foreign exchange earnings – its tea and coffee exports – also appears to be an unpalatable policy option. While both of these products are nonessential and subject to wild price swings on world markets, it would be extremely difficult for the government to find substitute sources of hard currency inflows. The proposition that Rwanda’s tea and coffee farmers would be better off growing food for domestic consumers is also highly questionable. Absent government coordination and the creation of effective safety nets, adjustment costs could easily throw many of these rural dwellers into the ranks of the extreme poor.

Over two centuries ago Thomas Malthus, the classical political economist, hypothesized that population growth had a tendency to outpace increases in the food supply. While countless reports issued by the Food and Agriculture Organization over the past decades have discredited his theory and drawn attention to problems associated with the global distribution of food, some might still be tempted to view Rwanda’s crisis through a Malthusian lens. Those so influenced could foreseeably make the perverse argument that there are actually too many people in Rwanda. Only 13 short years ago, according to credible and critical accounts, the ‘international community’ was complicit in the deaths of nearly one million Rwandans. Can anyone from this ‘community’ honestly tell Rwanda’s poorest – over 60 per cent of the population – that there are simply too many of them?

As I traveled west from Kigali to Kibuye on the shores of Lake Kivu last Saturday, I started to think that Rwanda’s population ‘problem’ was not just about the inability of its people or government to reduce fertility. It seemed to me that other factors were at play as well, principal among them, the colonial demarcation of Africa that took place in 1885 at the Berlin Conference. Witnessing thousands of people making the hike along crowded roads towards bustling markets I thought for a moment that rural Rwandans could really benefit from an effort to redraw the old territorial lines. I remembered that Rwanda’s giant neighbour, the Democratic Republic of Congo, enjoys a much lower population density. I briefly found myself believing that some sort of resettlement scheme would be an ideal (if somewhat unworkable) ‘solution’ to Rwanda’s looming land crisis. Then I came back to earth. Literally. I imagined the fit that Gordon King, my radical ecologist grandfather, would pull if I told him that the optimal ‘solution’ was to resettle Rwandans in one of the most biologically diverse and fragile ecosystems on the planet. The importance of reconciling pro-poor outcomes with the maintenance of the biosphere came into sharp focus in my mind, but my thinking on the topic remained wooly. I found myself recalling a little piece of advice Neil Gislason gave me before my travels: “use condoms." Neil's counsel, while dissonant with my own thinking that day, seemed a relevant and realistic prescription for Rwanda.

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So, what was I doing in Rwanda? I went to Rwanda to see as much of the country as I could on an extended long weekend. I saw the haunting memorial sites at Kibuye, Nyamata and Ntarama. I had a great tour guide in Mireille Saurette, and enjoyed the company of great hosts at the ‘Never Again International’ country office. Was my trip worth the carbon emissions? Let me know.