back in britain (II)

‘Ooo’s that? Who? Who? Sue? Sue? Fuckin’ slag. Cunt. Fucking cunt. Slept with seedboy you did. What? What? You there? Who’s there? Who’s that? What? Wha’? Wha’?’

‘Givvit ‘ere, cunt. Look ‘ere. Look here. I said look here. Don’t cunting ring this fucking phone if you don’t say anything. Sue. Fucking slept with seedboy.’

‘Gave me clamidia. The cunt gave me clamidia. I’d ‘ad checks just three weeks. Three weeks. Seed’s clean. My seed’s clean. Oy! Said my seed’s clean. Cunt’s got clamidia. Fucked seedboy. Passed it on to tonnes, she has. Got a test I said, three weeks. I’m all straight. I ain’t got clamidia. Wouldn’t fucking fuck that cunt.’

I’m on a train. Reading to Bodmin, arriving at 9.32pm. It’s Saturday night. The train is packed. Packed with old couples, and groups of lads and groups of girls going out on the town. And us. I’ve been on British soil four and a half hours, and these lads get on and sit in front of me on the train. They’re there for a good hour talking to each other and to various people who call them on their mobile phones. Behind me sit an old couple, nibbling on sandwiches. Behind them, a Scouse and three girls. Behind them, more travellers but I forget the details.

‘Don’t fuckin do it, you cunt. Fucking cunt.’

‘Oi! Have some respect. Respect. Put a sock in that language. There are old people on this train.’

‘Fuckin’ cunt. What the fuck does the cunt know about language!’

‘I said put a sock in it. Respect, right.’

‘Shut the fuck up cunt. Stop fuckin’ shouting your cunting mouth off.’

‘Sorry. Wha’? Wha’? Wha’ I done? Fuck off. I didn’t fuckin’ say nuffing cunt.’

‘If you lads don’t keep your fucking mouths shut and stop this language I’ll tell you right now you’ll be in trouble. I’ve done things you wouldn’t imagine. So fucking shut up. I don’t want no more from you lot.’

‘Sorry. It was me. Weren’t him. Me. It was me. I did it. It was me.’

‘I said shut it. Shut it.’

‘Do what the man says. Fucking shut ya cunt.’

‘Sorry. Sorry. I’m just sayin’ sorry. Don’t want anyone getting it cos of me. Sorry.’

‘Fucking sit down.’

‘D’you wanna a fucking Bull? Here, drink this.’

‘Wha’?’

‘Take it. Drink it ya cunt.’

‘OI! I told you boys to shut it. Don’t shut it I’ll beat the shit out of you.’

‘Shuttit seedy. Fucking do what the man says. We don’t want trouble. Fucking been out of that fucking place only for fucking days. Shuttit.’

‘Sorry. I said sorry. Sorry. It was me. I’m just fucking saying it was me. Fucking sorry.’

‘Like the fucking Bridgewater Boys he is. Bridgewater. Got no fucking respect.’

‘Fuck off. Ain’t no Bridgewater Boys on this fucking thing.’

‘What we doing? What we doing? Going round your sister’s?’

‘Got fucking kids. Can’t fucking go there. We’ll go round that cunt’s, Sue.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Fuck that cunt. Smash her fucking face in.’

‘Smash that fucking Scouse in. Fucking Scouse. What the fuck he knows? What the fuck he’s telling me what to fucking do, to fucking shut my fucking gob. Break his fucking nose. Smashing break up his fucking face.’

so much fantasy

I remember, perhaps six years ago, a growing awareness of the probability that people with whom I shared a clear political position might one day become, if not enemies, memories. I started to see that my very definite dislike of super-consumerism and super-materialism was, in fact, what they were seeking. Or if they weren’t seeking it, they had little choice but to accept it. So we are no longer common allies in a time of peace. The friendships start to strain. The commonality shows gaps. A friend wrote: And now that Angola is wealthy, you see an interesting strain of jingoism. It feels like a crisis. A crisis I shouldn’t claim to belong to. But I do, in a very personal way. This is a side of globalisation that I feel I carry with me, that hurts in my heart, that should not be written about publicly. It’s an ache. Understandings slipping away. Roars of partnership, of shared battles, echo so far away, I no longer remember how they felt. Someone said: This is democracy. But it feels like hell. I don’t want to go window shopping for different takes on the world, I want comrades and real fights. I don’t want to blush because I can’t afford to fly somewhere, or eat somewhere, or buy clothes somewhere. Strange clashes of class and consumerism distort somewhere over the Atlantic. The battle I thought I had joined, I was never more than an observer. A desiring observer. And the fighters I thought were my fellows, stride away into a world I don’t ever wish to be part of. There’s perhaps a handful of us left.

But not only. Others with whom I thought I shared nothing, have come out of the shadows and I can see them very clearly. I’m reluctant, this time, to allow optimism incase I discover again it was another misunderstanding. But patience is a hard thing to hold on to these days. Danke ouma. Time is running out. I wish I’d learned Afrikaans. That’s the one thing I regret about my 11 months in South Africa. I wish I’d learned Afrikaans.

inside the castle

Is he mad or blind?… In the realm of total acceptance there are no accidents. He once told a friend accidents do not exist in the world but only in our heads. There is no world without causation, and the idea of accident reflects the limits of human perception, our inability to know all connections and so pursue total causality.

Later, He went to an exhibition of Picasso paintings and expressed (to his friend) his opinion that this artist is guilty of wilful distortion. He said he did not think so: ‘He merely notes the abnormalities which have not yet penetrated our consciousness. Art is a mirror which “runs fast” like a clock – sometimes.’

This is from an introduction to Kafka’s The Castle. I’ve been thinking about it since my memory was jogged by Tim Etchells’ notebook from Prague (‘An Axe to Break the Frozen Sea, 8 August 2008), and I’ve been thinking about it even more since reading M John Harrison’s brilliant 1991 book review here. That review depresses me because the author was so clearly on fire when he wrote it, and it is so rare to have that rage and understanding and clarity. It’s a beautiful review. The writing is enough in itself to make me feel a fragility that is far too luxurious, far too much, for this world. But I’d like to live in it all the time.

Am I mad or blind, or do my eyes turn the images in front of me into something else without my knowing such that I see what isn’t there at all, but what my eyes see? This question is partly what stopped me from wanting to report news any more – partly what stopped me being able to report news any more. But I also believe that this is what totalitarian states do, which is why Kafka interests me so much, and why Angola (oh, Angola, forgive me) interests me so much. But these are obvious cases. Totalitarian states are effective because you believe you are mad, because your perceptions of what is really happening are tested and confused and thrown up. Someone is murdered by the State – and everyone says it was an accident of increasing violent crime. But you know, somehow, through perception, that he was murdered by the State. That is a too obvious, too straightforward example. The better examples are much harder to explain, the better examples are not obvious – they are very fuzzy, very subtle, very nuanced. You don’t know why you are scared but you are, or why you are confused but you are. And because you don’t know why you are scared and fear insanity. And slowly you become that.

Distinctions of fact and fiction are more frightening, maybe, in apparently non-totalitarian, apparently liberal, capitalist states. As ‘Julian’ comments on M John Harrison’s post (linked above), Deleuze has argued that we can view ‘theft as the original act of exchange, leading to the ‘coding’ of pleasure and desire that leads to tyranny and capitalism’. Shifting points of truth and the lie and the fact and the fiction. Talking of murder, remember Dr Kelly. And yet in places like Britain, such is the desire for fact and certainty, you can’t even consider that something which appears to be fantasy – Dr Kelly murdered by the State – to be fact. The limits of human perception are exaggerated and expanded out to trap the humans who live in the web (“Of course he wasn’t murdered, this isn’t Russia for God’s sake!”). We trap ourselves, our lives, in a divide between fact and fiction which never existed anyway.

Why is this so complex? So unbelievable. It seems so clear to me.

Am I mad or blind?

By the way, my mum and dad have been married for 47 years today.

heart of darkness

In between bouts of violent vomiting and, um, appalling diarrhoea, I finished reading Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness last night at three or four in the morning. Yes, I, too, read something into the illness, particularly that type of illness: expelling poisons and toxins from my squirming, wrenching stomach. Expelling the book, the words of Conrad, who, as Achebe wrote, was clearly “a bloody racist”, became a physical act that has stayed with me this morning. I feel wobbly, weak and anaemic. Achebe has said it all (see foot of blog immediately below for link to his essay, written in a year which has become so terribly loaded for me, 1977) before, and I don’t think there’s much that I can add. Other than being amazed that people I like and respect have defended Conrad on this particular piece of work. Why? Why feel the need to defend him? He’s dead, for starters. But would these same people defend someone who wrote a similar work today? Perhaps they would.

Not that I regret the book being written. I’m glad to have read it. Glad to have thrown into sharp relief the ways in which we Europeans slide into thinking and writing about places and people when we land on this continent of Africa. The usual self-doubt rumbled away as I turned the pages: do I also fit this mentality? Is this how I see, in my case, Angola? Am I unaware of my own deeply self-obsessed thought patterns? For that is also what struck me about the book: it is incredibly self-orientated, I mean, about the self. And I am (deeply) aware that in my own case, my relationship to Angola is, shamefully, about my Self. Not only. But partly. Inevitably.

I’m relieved I didn’t read this particular Conrad until now. I’m glad I’ve done my own travelling first, had my own rows with all and sundry about the way African contries are (re)presented in the international (and sadly, domestic) media, in novels, talk shows, and songs. I’m glad I’ve dragged my mind through years of doubting, reading, doubting and more reading, before encountering Heart of Darkness.

But I see no excuse for the respected scholars, writers, journalists et cetera, who defend the piece of work. I was disappointed in it, as a story, but more stunned by the extent of praise and worship it has received over many decades. How deeply disappointing.

september 5th

‘I am on the Left, that is why I will vote MPLA.’

‘But the MPLA is no longer Left. Is it.’

‘I know. I know. It is the most greedy of capitalisms we see here.’

‘So why not vote for a party that is on the Left?’

‘They are my family: I can’t vote for anyone else. And I don’t want to back a loser.’

hyper-tension

Remember this?

Well, things have progressed since last year. The building of the hotel of sixteen floors is now well underway. The neighbour will soon be another great tower in Luanda’s increasingly unbeautiful baixa. And while we wait for the tower to grow, we continue to suffer. The problem is the ‘prazo’: the deadline. It must be finished by the end of 2009 in time for the African Cup of Nations. I have been told, The rooms have already been rented out, every single one! It has to be finished, it has to be finished.

Which is why the work continues every day and every night, around the clock. No one stops working. The banging, the hammering, the pouring of cement, the hooting of the crane – that never stops, that never stops – and the shouting and relaying and communicating of the builders on site. Up a bit! No, down a bit! No, up a bit! But usually we do not understand, for they are speaking Mandarin. They work every day, all day and all night. It never stops. And we never sleep. The banging, the hammering, the shouting, the hooting of the crane. Even ear plugs fail to block the noise. The vibrations penetrate. The mosquito net shivers.

Where are the Angolans? They were too slow, said someone. In fact, he said, We are too slow, the Chinese are faster, so the bosses said Chinese must be brought in to ensure the work is finished to deadline. So the Angolans were dismissed, or sent to another project. The Chinese are faster, he said, because they don’t have families here, and so they don’t have funerals, or sick children, or wives, or aunties to look after. They just have to work. And they all live together – so they can come in and go out and come in and go out in one minivan. The Angolans live in homes, so they take taxis to their particular homes. This costs more, and they Angolans find it hard to find transport late at night. That costs more. So the Chinese are brought into work instead.

And I heard someone shout about South Africa, I heard someone say If you aren’t careful, Angola will go the same way as South Africa! But no one understood because the shouting was not in Mandarin. But the tension is there. The dislike. The confusion. Between the Angolans and the Chinese. Whilst the people at the top – the socios - set deadlines and rub their hands together. Who are they?

Someone said, The Portuguese! Someone else said, The Angolans! It is both, said another. It is Edifer and Gema… Some of them are bizneiros, said someone, Some of them were, but all of them are making more and more and more money. Which is why the noise never stops – even on International Labour Day and International Child Day and even International Hypertension Day.

close to the bottom

We agree to arrange a meeting. One evening this week, I say, adding, Perhaps. Yes, he says, One evening this week. Tomorrow, he adds, forcefully. And tomorrow comes, but he does not. He comes the following day, at dusk, and I offer Coke but he asks for beer. I provide the money, saying, Don’t make it too strong, please. And when he returns he has bought the strongest beer they sell. Several bottles. And our conversation begins. This is a man who belongs to the firm. He is part of them, very much. In fact, he is a leading member. He is, in fact, a leader. A recruiter. He talks about his fellow members as ‘one of my xxxx’ and ‘one of my best xxxxx’. And he smiles. Leans forward. And stares, with occasional blinks, over the upper rim of his spectacles. His speech is slow and considered. He licks his lips regularly between words. Halts mid-sentence. Stops. Breaths. Thinks. Returns to the start of the sentence and says something completely different. He says he wants to change groups. Switch sides. From This firm, to That one. The one he wants to join is smaller. Not as rich. Not as organised. But it has other advantages, he says. It has justice and principle on its side. He says he is switching to make more in order to live a little better. He says they pay better. We both know that’s not true, but neither of us say so. Instead, we talk about the improved conditions and salary, as if it were fact, and after an hour of more talking I start to believe what I have said, and become confused. We continue talking. We talk about the problems of switching just before the grand meeting is due to take place, when the citizens will decide which firm they want to take control of the company. He is sure that the new firm – the smaller, less rich firm, the one he says has the greater weight of principles although he also knows that is not true, and knows that I also know that it is not ture – will soon be chosen by the members to lead the company into the new era. This is not true. But because we are both nodding and saying it could be true, he is saying that it would be better if he began working for a different firm. For that new firm. Except that he does not know the names of the firm’s director, nor it’s deputy, or deputy vice. He asks me if I know those names so that he can be assisted in the switch. I say I do not. And I can’t remember now if I do or if I do not. I tell him I think he is brave. He asks me why. I tell him he knows why I am saying that. And I smile. Beneath his top, his outer clothing, a soft material made from natural fibres, I notice a small rectangular shape. Like a box, perhaps a box of cigarettes, but slimmer and slightly longer. Not as thin as an iPod though. It sits on his stomach. I think of pace-makers and boxes of blood. And tape recorders. I wonder what the rectangular shape is doing. It appears to be attached to a piece of string. After several bottles of strong beer, he leaves to relieve himself. When he returns the box on the string is no longer behind the natural fibre material. It is now lying, openly, on his stomach, lying on top of the top. It has become smaller. It is now a small card inside a plastic sleeve. It is much slimmer than an iPod now, and half the size of a cigarette box. I chuckle at myself for letting myself imagine silly things. He asks me if I won’t stay longer. He wants to show me special things. He estimates my age. He says I am much younger in his opinion than I really am. He really is much younger than I am. He is not saying what he really thinks. He says he cannot see white hair. He says he cannot see lines around the eyes. He says he wants to fight. He says he believes in the truth. He says he wants to make a contribution towards the improvement of the company. He says the only way this can be done is by joining the other firm. He says he knows that I can advise him well to help him take the right decision. I say I know that I cannot. I say I am surprised. He asks me why. I say I am surprised that someone working for This firm would want to work for That firm. He starts to speak slowly and carefully to try to explain his motives. His motives are not the same now as when we began to talk. His motives are to do with justice now. Not to do with money. Before his motive was money. His motive was having enough money for his family. Now it is justice. Justice and wealth, I say, are not good partners. He says he knows that. Of course, he says. And then he asks me what I mean. I tell him that there are good people in the firm who are very rich. I tell him that wealth can also mean you are a good person. I tell him many other things that I do not really believe. But we both nod in agreement. He says that he thinks it is good to be poor. He says that poverty is good for the soul. We both nod in agreement. Like puppies in the back window of a car that hold a box of white tissues in their backs. Our heads roll up and down. We nod in agreement. Soon I nod in sleep. I nod. And nod. And I encourage him to go home to sleep too. We agree to meet the following day. We agree, at the very least, to talk by the telephone. The next day comes. I do not call him. He does not call me. But I meet a man with sweat running from his brow who offers me advice to help me surive a long time. He wipes his brow with a wet blue handkerchief and shakes my hand. He tells me who I have had dinner with. He tells me who I have met with. He tells me, Politics is not good.

far away

I wonder where I am. A rare moment and I found myself looking through the blogs in the right hand column here. I looked at Tim Etchells’ notebook and then I looked at infinite thought. So much input out there. Before I came away, I was dependent like an addict on some of these blogs. They kept me alive, I felt, in a kind of way. Or they helped to provide an input I needed. And I think I still need. Reading infinite thought today, I realised that something had been missing in my head. I have been so far from all the thinking that goes on out there. So much thinking. Too much thinking, maybe, that I had forgotten how to think and how to let myself respond to what is there all around. Much more doing here. Much more watching. Much more listening. Less thinking. We live in very different worlds (I think). Globalisation, yes. But the worlds are very different. And from here, the world in which I normally live seems so incredibly far away, and in some ways, so very self-obsessed.

Someone told me today, in trying to help me understand what he believes is the difference between the European and the African, ‘The African is an idealist, the European is a materialist.’ A simplification too far, no doubt, for some, but with some raw truth in it nonetheless.

I met a lady the other day who asked me about my children. When I admitted to having none, at the age of forty, she simply said one word. Egoista! Just like that. Selfish woman! It´s hard to argue with that judgement, even though her snap judgement was a bit too quick for my liking. It seems to cut to the core of different ways of being.

In truth, I’ve been thinking much more about mermaids than children. I’m more interested in mermaids, and luckily there are many people here who like talking about mermaids, and who have seen mermaids, and whose grandparents have seen mermaids. There are less mermaids now, I’m told, because people have taken to having sex on the beaches. The mermaids don’t like that. Mermaids. Mermaids. Many mermaids. And mermaids also do not like women. And they are usually white. Might I be mistaken for a mermaid?

Thinking about cranes. Thinking about cranes and religion, spurred on by infinite thought. And how to say what I mean without saying anything at all. That is an art which has been perfected in some places, but certainly not in the place where I come from. It is an art I have failed to understand, or to learn, and one which I am always witnessing. It is an art. A real art. A real skill. Which takes years of practice.

Goodbye.

beautiful ondjiva

wade in the water

this is how my journey has begun