| In Search of the Lost Rhythm |
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One of the few things one learns while hanging around expatriates’ houses in Douala, Cameroon, is that it’s never a good sign to see a dog’s teeth. Especially when it’s a German Shepherd. And now in Maputo Mozambique I sense dejavu. The heat, the camaroes - after which my country of origin was named - and now this dog. The canine staring at Papaito, my Mozambican guide, and myself from behind the gate of its master’s white house (call it Casa Blanca) looks like the well-trained breed, the same kind that made my childhood turbulent in Douala. The street kids who have now surrounded us also seem to be aware of it. Deep pity is written allover their faces. It’s not everyday that two black men ring the bell at a white man’s house on Avenida Eduardo Mondlane in Maputo. Like most African cities, the Mozambican capital is divided in two worlds. The native’s world, baixa (downtown), where Papaito lives, where I would probably live if I were Mozambican, where I lived in Douala. Then there’s the other side, usually located on the beachfront or on the hills, where the former colonisers and those who stepped into their shoes would stay. And as in many urban centres around the continent, the inhabitants of Maputo’s surbubio bear some outstanding similarities. They are mostly of European descent or part of the government-sponsored middle class or simply aspire to be one of the two. Whatever the case, darkies (mulatos not included) aren’t more visible in those areas than in our very own Constantia in Cape Town. A little odd, in a country where they make up for nearly ninety percent of the population, a country reputed to be the most racially integrated in the southern African region. "It’s because we brancos (whites) like to hang together," explains a local filmmaker of Portuguese origin. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? In neo-colonialist societies, "hanging together" is often synonymous with hanging to the wealth. In this, Mozambicans learned well from their southern neighbours. For every turn Samora Machel makes in his grave, the wheels of capitalism spin faster. In Maputo today, the almighty Dollar is king. Cambio, cambio and more cambio. Foreign exchange is the road to salvation. They don’t even charge a commission anymore. Just bring it in. Kwame Nkrumah, Sekou Toure, Patrice Lumumba and all the other African revolutionaries after whom the city’s streets are named have been saved from a death of shame by their murderers. Now they just look on, powerless, and continuously stamped on by the latest Nike shoes, the wheels of the new Toyota and our spit from McDonald burgers. In Maputo, aluta is over. The only visible relics of the country’s past socialist consciousness are found in art circles. Socialism considers the human being the most precious of all possessions. Through its application, investment is made in human expression. Very few African cities boast more cultural centres and associations than Maputo, mostly dating from the Machel regime. Here, the arts are lived; they are part of the daily existence. From the Malangatana wannabes on Avenida Julius Nyerere, the city’s street sweepers who play the tembila (Mozambican marimbas) after sunset, to the writers discussing their work in front a bottle of 2M (local beer) at the Writers’ Centre on 24 De Julio, life in Maputo is like a permanent festival. "Arts Alive," some will say. Hence our standing in front of the house of Roland Hohberg, a producer and owner of Mozambique Recordings, the country’s own "world music" label. Like his Shepherd, Hohberg is German, "East German," he emphasises, but he doesn’t seem too keen to show his teeth. That is until I explain (via Papaito) that I’m doing a piece on contemporary urban Mozambican music and would like to hear Mabulu, the hip-hop/marrabenta band rehearsing in his backyard. Like a magician, he then pulls out a bio out of his bag of tricks, and leads me to Lisboa Matavel, the 62-year-old singer credited for the popularity of marrabenta in the 60s. Back then, Matavel didn’t need no young rapper to make his voice heard. Like rumba, makossa and bikutsi around the Equator, chimurenga and mbaquanga in the south, and other sounds influenced by the introduction of the electric guitar, Che Guevarra guerrilla war tactics and wireless technology in sub-Saharan Africa, marrabenta was the hill in the old Lourenco Marques (Maputo), and Matavel was its (disputed) king. Today, a Ry Cooder-style intervention is required by an "East" German capitalist to bring him back to the forefront. "Times have truly changed," whispers the old man. The bitterness perceptible in Matavel’s voice, again, reminds me of the resistance to "new" power structures among the elderly in black Africa. Almost a lounging for times when we all knew our place, identity and sounds. Times when the white man was the obvious enemy. "Who are we today?" he seems to ask. For many Mozambicans, the change started with the War. First for independence, then the cold one, with its brutal materialisation on local soil, and more recently against poverty and natural calamities. The never-ending War. These various hurdles have led to Mozambicans being isolated from themselves, Maputo becoming an island of relative peace and hope. This is visible in the quasi-incestuous relationship the capital’s art milieu has with itself. Until recently, the entire Mozambican music scene could be summed up in two groups: Maputo’s marrabenta’s bands, such as the famous Orchestra Marrabenta Star, and the more rooted and internationally-reputed bands from the inland like Ghowarne and Eyuphuro. The tree and its roots, separated only by the trenches. But for a new generation of Mozambican artists, the reconnection has started. Although the guitar licks of marrabenta have now been replaced in the mainstream by the electronic sweetness of pasada (zouk-influenced music comparable to Boyz 2 Men and Celine Dion’s sounds in former Portuguese colonies), young artists such as the Maputo-based Kapa Dech and the drummer Celso Paco, have managed to repackage the country’s traditional sounds into a product consumable by a mass market. Paco, arguably one of the continent’s most talented and innovative musicians, leads the new thinking. "Until someone programs our sounds into the computer, we’re gonna have to play them ourselves," he says. Unlike his Cape Town-based brothers, the drummers Tony and Frank, he resisted the obvious move to South Africa. He’s paying a heavy price for his persistence. The night we met, Paco featured in visiting American Chris Bery’s band at Tinga, a sheeben located in the city’s outskirts. Later that evening, he performed with his own band, featuring horn man Ze Maria, at Cine Africa downtown Maputo (after a trip to the sixth floor of his apartment building to fetch his other drum kit), before another gig with the Americano at the Arte Bar. "That’s what you have to do to survive in Maputo as a musician," he explained, before rushing home for his morning drumming class. The following week, he will be touring the US with a southern Africa all-star band featuring Abdullah Ibrahim, Hugh Masekela and Zim Ngqawana, "making some real cash to keep my music school going," he said. In South Africa, Paco’s arduous evening would have been lived by a DJ. In many parts of South Africa, the only instrument being practiced today is the turntable. Following the Western example, the South African music industry has limited itself to a recording industry where music is only performed to promote an artist and her recordings. Paradoxically, at a time when the level of creativity among South African musicians is at his lowest in decades, as the same artists pick up worthless SAMA awards year in and year out, the revival in Mozambican music started from here. "Many of the artists who emigrated to South Africa in the past are now starting to come back and sharing their knowledge and experience with younger ones," says Chico Antonio, one of the many graduates of Orchestra Marranbeta Star and a music teacher at Associacao Cultural De La Casa Velha, one of Maputo’s oldest cultural centres. "There is a new sense of pride among our young musicians when they look at the achievements of some of their compatriots abroad. This is something my generation didn’t have," he says. Although to many aspiring Mozambican musicians, a drive through the Ressano Garcia border post into a xenophobia-infected South Africa often means access to better infrastructures, it also leads to compromises they are not prepared to deal with. Those who came before 1994 had to hide their soul, grow dreads and pass for neo-hippies in order to be accommodated by the whites-controlled local recording industry, "because that’s what Africans are supposed to look like," and since then, they have also had to hide their passport, mother tongue and immunisation marks. Life in the underground, just as during the revolucao." Look at this beautiful place, these beautiful people," says Rufus, the lead singer of Kapa Dech, "I’m Mozambican and proud of it. There is no way I’m going to pretend to be anything else simply because I need to work in South Africa." After several attempts with South African record labels, Rufus’ band finally got a deal with the Paris-based label Lusafrica and flew to the French capital to record their critically acclaimed Katchume. Would he rather work there? "Well, nobody there (in Paris) tried to kill us because we looked different or came from another country. Besides, they took interest in our music before our South Africans neighbours," he says. "So we are trying to go back there for our next album," he adds. African Renaissance, indeed. |
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