Chapter 1 of Learning How to Hitch Hike

I boarded the ferry to the island on a hot afternoon, the day of which I can’t remember. I had just barely recovered from an almighty stomach bug and I was hot and a little irritated. I walked down to the ferry port with the Irish couple whom I had met in Malawi. She commented on how big and bulky my backpack was and somehow I felt like I had failed at being a true back packer by obviously packing too much stuff. The ferry ticket cost me $25. I can’t remember how much that was in Tanzanian Shillings and I became more irritated that I was forced to pay in dollars just because I was a foreigner. In fact this ticket controversy almost made me choose not to go to Zanzibar as I though it would just be one mass of tourist paraphernalia. At the last minute, and I think purely from a sense of academic loyalty as I had studied Stone Town in my second year of Anthropology at Rhodes University, I chose to go.

            My $25 dollar ticket entitled me to first class passage and my irritation at the ticket price quickly dissipated as I lay luxuriously in a comfy chair in an air-conditioned cabin that broke the humidity of the day. I remember getting seasick and wondering how quickly we would arrive. The blaring Arabic prayer TV program made sleeping difficult so I spent time breathing deeply to avoid vomiting for some period of the trip.

            And then there was a whisper, a shiver of movement through the passengers on the boat and many started moving outside. I caught whispers about the island appearing soon and so I joined the crowed at the railings on deck.

            The island grew slowly out of the grey and choppy sea.  I will try to explain it without sounding cliqued and soppy. It was as if the whole island was emitting a golden shine. Whether from sunlight or some other ephemeral magical light that the island emitted itself I can’t say. The front of the island appeared box-like, the straight up walls of the crumbling buildings growing right out of the water edge, with dhows and biggest boats clicking together in the wake of the ferry. Murmured gasps ran through the passengers on the deck. There was a smell – salty rotten water smells mixed with something… something not quite there, but which I am sure was the sweat and spice of the people living on the island. There were few people visible on the beach as work had not yet ended for many. And yet there was still a sense of movement and aliveness that I sensed as we neared the harbour and docked.

            Funnelling out of the ferry onto the heaving harbour deck I had to jump from the ferry to the deck as the waves lifted and dropped each. A small feat with my supposedly over packed backpack! Immediately immigrations officers stopped us to check our passports. My heart stopped. I had stamped and sorted my visa when I crossed into Tanzania from Malawi and I thought that Zanzibar was part of Tanzania. I would learn the quirky history and subsequent running of the island of Zanzibar and so the passport check was one of these strange quirks. The official welcomed me into Stone Town with another passport stamp and the Irish couple and I walked out the harbour.

            Well that was what we wanted to do but the wall of people with their fingers curled through the fence shouting taxi – Hotel - Where are you going – momentarily pushed us back and my ears became blocked. Thankfully Dulla of the backpackers with whom I had prearranged accommodation silently beckoned us through the crowd and across the road. The din, already muffled, died away as we crossed the square with the big tree covering it in shade. We turned left at an undefined place in the square, passed a crumbling wall, a small corner shop and stopped in front of a flat-faced house. Dulla unlocked the gate and we began climbing up the steepest flight of stairs ever. On the first floor Dulla showed us our rooms. Mine had thick mattress on the floor with a roof fan whoosh whooshing rhythmically. Two windows with window seats opened onto the alleyway outside. The noise of the outside life rose slowly into my room.

            That night we ate at the waterfront food market Forodhani and slept soon after. The town however stayed up much later than I did and I woke occasionally to loud sounds and shouts. The town had not been asleep for long when loud hooting and running feet woke me early. Then the call to prayer echoed over the town and soon thereafter the scooters and the running feet died down again. I sat on the window seat and watched the town continue to wake up and start the day, the men and boys soon finishing in the mosque and adding to the foot traffic along the alleyway. I remember thinking that this is one fantastic place into which I had stumbled.

The first Afrikan Hip Hop Caravan cruises through Jozi

I never thought, one day, that I would call myself a scholar, let alone a Hip Hop scholar and Hip Hop activist as well.

Well, this I have become, as I found myself as a presenter at the first Afrikan Hip Hop Caravan, rubbing shoulders with the likes of Zubz The Last Letta and Mic Crenshaw.

The caravan was conceived by a group of people in Cape Town and Khayalitsha, in the hope of engaging, in each city in which they stop, with like minded Hip Hop activists and so spread the notion of conscious Hip Hop throughout the African continent.

Hip Hop is an umbrella term, a movement, a cultural movement of like minded people, that consists of four elements:
- Rap/MCing
- Street dance: break dancing, pop 'n locking, electric jive etcetera
- DJing
- Graffiti

Hip Hop began as a means of social activism, even if the original cats were unaware of this. In the Bronx in the 1980s, young not white people were, by race and monetary backgrounds, unable to go to the upmarket clubs in New York. There were no provisions for clubs in the Bronx. And thus the social activism began.

Young people wanted to party. And so they developed the concept of a block party - some young people with boom boxes gathered in and around a block and partied together, claiming their rights to have a good time, even if a city block is not a "suitable" space. These young people also converted empty and/or abandoned parking lots and buildings into dance halls, often illegally attaching their power supply to a city connection, once again claiming their rights to party as young people. Young people brought their own music and started playing with scratching and mixing songs. The MC/rap element developed in response to the the need for a person to keep control of the crowd and the DJs. The DJs started experimenting with their songs, looping instrumental 'breaks' in songs to the hype of the dancers so started innovating interesting and never seen dance moves in response to the crazy sounds of the DJs.

Where people have nothing to gain or loose, this is where the heart of innovation lies. And thus Hop hop was born. Graffiti became a way to mark territories of party spaces, of gangs and a means to voice the socio-political ideas that passed around at these parties.

Now with record labels panting after rappers and hip hopers, clothing labels producing "hip hop" clothes and where money comes into play, singers these days have lost their hunger for innovation and instead stick with what makes and money - sick beats with little relevance to the message they are conveying.

And so the Hip Hop Caravan is an attempt to engage with Hip Hop activists on a conscious level to keep the flame of the movement alive; that is, providing a space for young people to engage with global issues without having to fear being "wrong".

Mic Crenshaw - USA

What I realised in this day long symposium of discussion, conscious rap and dance, is the vital roll this movement can play in development. In an Anthropology lecture I had attended the day before the symposium, we had broached the question: where can we talk about male and female interactions? Maybe it is in a rap cypher where men and women challenge each other in lyrics. Or possibly the dancing cyper, where men and women mock each other on a physical level, breaking down the barriers of treating women different to men, accepting each other as another dancer as opposed to a social construct of what a man or woman should be.

I sometimes wonder if us humans take ourselves far to seriously... Maybe we need to mock the other dancers "big dick" or lack thereof in the dance battle, and then afterwards, realise that it is all just in jest and that such things are not that important for the development of young people into whole people. Or mock a woman's breasts bouncing around in the dance battle and then acknowledge her when she beats you in the battle.

All this is obviously relying on the fact that the participants in these battles are conscious of the politics of "gender".

Great rhyme schemes (ie that are not lazy in their construction - for rappers are after all poets), great engagement with language and message and most importantly, great messages - this is what makes great rap.

Innovative dance and ways of engaging with the physical body as a 'text' to portray messages and challenge stereotypes - this is what makes great street dance.

Innovative engagement with music and beats, realising that this element holds the whole movement together - this is what makes for great music.

Education, understanding of all of the arguments and the plights facing young people, embracing freedom of artistic expression - this is what makes great graffiti.

As Zubz (pictured above) said, he likes a warm microphone, a mic that is used often, to engage with issues on a conscious level, to keep the warmth of Hip Hop alive in spaces in which it can make the most difference.

#42

Puma Social Club

Before I make any sort of review, take note: getting to this spot any time past 8pm means standing in line outside for up to two hours before being able to get into the club. Be forewarned.

Puma Social Club - epitome of sports, fashion and arts entertainment. Entered into from an obscure door in a wall along De Korte Street (a door that blends into the plaster around it) it is found only by the queue that extends around the block and the two bulky bouncers guarding the door.

And the luminous purple lights glowing above.

Each Friday night you will walk into a different crime scene - House Head, Ghetto Gangsters, Hip Hoppers, Alternative Hipsters, RnB Soulsters and such. Live music, table tennis, photo booth.

Tip: arrive at 6, party til morning

A gas up in Sasol: qualitative research in a team

For the first time this week I was part of a team of qualitative researchers.

Okay, let me explain the difference between qualitative and quantitative research.

Quantitative research is surveys, statistics, census and other such research that promotes over-arching solutions to problems, sometimes a "one shoe fits all" approach.

Qualitative research is also often referred to as participant observation. Qualitative researchers spend a long time in their field, getting to know the people whom they are working with. Such research may use surveys or statistics as a spring board to delve deeply into issues.

I am trained in qualitative research and I do feel this type of research yields better results inasmuch as we are able to understand issues from the various perspectives of people affected, as opposed to presuming that one solution will fit all people.

However, that said, both types have their place in improving the social structure of the world and I am very excited to be working with the Centre for Social Entrepreneurship and Social Enterprise, giving me the opportunity to learn more about quantitative work.

Our first project that we were rather quickly thrown into was, and still is, a project with Sasol. Sasol has employed the centre to conduct a rather rushed mixed methods assessment of various Small and Medium Sized Enterprises (SME) in the Sasolburg and Secunda area. Their rationale is that they wish to uncover SME's that may be unnoticed but that are florishing and supporting the economy of these town.

So as a team of twelve researchers we set out on our first leg of the project - semi-structured interviews.

An initial scout had found the various entrepreneurs and asked them to meet us at designated meeting halls. We spent up to two hours per person, learning about the various businesses.

Because we had such a short time to spend with each person, developing rapport with our informants quickly was vital to the success of the day. I had two interviews in Sasolburg and two interviews in Secunda. I was lucky with three out of my four interviews, in that developing such rapport came easily.

The most difficult part of qualitative research in balancing the power between researcher and informant. In many societies age deems a person to be higher up the hierarchy scale than say a 25 year old with little life experience. I have been brought up to believe that respect demands respect, however, I am also aware that some people who are older than me will expect a certain amount of due respect shown towards them. As such, time must be spent inquiring about their day and the health of their family.

My first informant was an elderly women, a teacher, in Early Childhood Development and when she saw my interest in her organisation, she opened up and gave me wonderful stories. The theorist Gertz might have called this 'thick description' - lots and lots of information, including my observations using my senses, of temperature, sounds, body language and movements etcetera.

My second informant was an elderly man, and similarly, he enjoyed being given the space, and my nodding silences, to tell me about the evolution of his business.

My third informant was a young woman, close to my age, and with such ease, without having to even think about it, we began chatting, slipped easily into the meat of the interview and only half way through did I mentally step back and realise that I did not have to make a concerted effort to get to know my informant.

My fourth informant was the most difficult to crack. We also had a bit of a language barrier. Even though I had checked with her to make sure she was comfortable with English and she had said yes, "but I am not professional", I could sense that she was sometimes not able to fully express her answers. Thus, near the end we became a bit bored with each others company. There was little conversation outside of the semi-structured interview questions, and I could tell she was, throughout the whole interview, a little shy and a little bored.

In my last large research project (my 2010 thesis) I was lucky that I did not have to sit down to such semi-formal discussions with my informants. The type of people they were (break dancers) and the type of situation in which we found ourselves (language of the body,  the same place over an eight month period), meant that I was able to conduct such questions in a very informal and relaxed situation. The Sasol project brought to glaring reality the constant negotiation of power and the give and take of personal information that qualitative researchers face in their work.

One last tip - when using such semi-structured interviewing techniques, remember to keep an element of conversation in the session; show that as much as you are asking them to give to you, you are willing to return the favour and let little snippets of yourself join in their stories to you. Conversation relaxes a person; quick fire questioning does not.