Woman in Europe

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The Chinese waitress is being protected by her colleagues - here will always be an European man mistaken her kindness for love.

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Bazungus in Kampala

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For a decade or so I have been coming and going to Kampala - a truly African City as close to the heart of Africa as you will ever get. That was probably what also the British were thinking when they build the railroad from the coast of Mombasa all the way to the border of Congo. During my time in Kampala (a place that I can sincerely say that I love) I have thought about being a white man among black men and women. Although I never seem to come up with good conclusions or answers, then it has given me ever lasting joy. I have always tried to be one of the crowd. Maybe not the most obvious ambition. My gratitude for the way I have been treated has always been tremendous. I have very rarely, if ever, been in a place, where people around me treated me with so much kindness, hospitality and respect as in Kampala. This is one of the many reasons why I call Uganda my African home. Recently I have come across Nada Andersen via Facebook. She is worried about the relationship between Ug
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Africa does not exist

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Jeg er blevet mere og mere træt af betegnelsen Afrika. Ikke alene er det en stærkt generaliserende betegnelse for et stort geografisk område, men anvendelsen af Afrika virker også stigmatiserende. Måske burde vi derfor tænke os mere om, når vi bruger ordet. The notion of Africa is getting more and more on my nerves. There is something problemtic about how we in the western world perceive places on the African continent and the people who live there. I have just finished reading the novel "Il faut beaucoup aimer les hommes" (One must care much for men) written by Marie Darrieussecq. The male character Kouhouesso, a man from Congo, says "Africa does not exist". It is his response to his French lover Solange, when she declares that she wants to go to Africa. She insists and "he laughed his perculiar and sharp laughter, which sounded like he had borrowed it from another body". Thereafter he continues: "Africa is a fiction created by anthropoligists. T
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26/3 07 The Library (cont)

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To my newer readers I shall provide a short summary. I have not yet approached you with this story. To my older readers I apologise for this repetion. Although even in a short compressed version there might be additional knowledge due to the power of words. What we usually call the cracks of language. The summary will squeeze hidden experience by sucking these small and thiny pockets. In Tanzania I met a man working for the Danish Foreign Ministry. At the time I was wondering why these state advisors seem so much more reasonable and sincere than all the NGO people who are supposed to be critical and progressive but are not. I began to queston the intention of my NGO employer. I never knew his name and we did not meet again. We only shared dinner one evening. He spoke to me and I to him. When he learnt that I was going to Kampala he felt the urge to tell about a book telling the colonial history of East Africa. He could not remember the exact title or even the name of the author. He sup
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Tanzania I - Swahili man

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I have been in Tanzania for the Busara Festival in Zanzibar. Therefor I am telling you what I see, but I will show no pictures, because they would not make you see what I see, not that I see something extraordinary, but I see what I see and you have your own eyes. The festival is over and have taken to boat til Pemba Island. A place I have wanted to go for more than 10 years. Jeg er nået til Chake Chake på Pemba Island. Byen er øens hovedstad, selvom det ikke lige er det indtryk man får. Jeg indlogerer mig lidt nord for byen på Hamisa Village Hotel. Det er under konstruktion, og det har det været i 4 år, så hvis du kommer dertil i løbet af den næste 5-10 år er de måske færdige. Det består af en samling af små huse med to værelser i hver med egen indgang. Den ene af de aftener, hvor jeg er der, er der også ankommet en velpolstret mand i sin Landrover. Han står lænet op ad sin bil i bar overkrop mens han ivrigt taler i telefon. Da kan synes tralvt optaget af sin samtale hilser jeg
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Performance of poetry and narrative with reflexions about meeting the ‘other’; what does not make immedeate make any sense, and how it crushed my previous world view and riped every imagination of belonging into pieces. Jeg forstår ikke de signaler      som bæres på snefnug      der daler fra himlen      eller haglslags rids      i huden Langt bedre forstår jeg      troperegnens korporlige      sjaskvåde kys på kroppen      og solens ubarmhjertige      angreb ved Ækvator Geografisk placering      tjener ikke som forklaring Mine gerninger      har deres eget liv      hinsides godt og ondt (Vinterdrømme, 2014) For 15 år siden rejste jeg til et sted, jeg ikke tidligere havde ønsket at tage til, nogensinde drømt om at skulle besøge og heller ikke vidste særlig meget om. Med frygt for at komme til at lyde som en klon af Tørk Haxthausen, indrømmer jeg, at det har taget mig lang tid at blive i stand til at tale om det jeg mødte.   Tørk Haxthaus
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