You and me

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I am not you
You are not me

We are us


in the fragility of life.

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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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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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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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