Wednesday, December 10, 2008

From My Basket on the Left...

Last week, I had the lucky chance to attend the 2008 Travellers’ Philanthropy Conference, thanks to a scholarship I received from USAID. It was an interesting 3 days and I was delighted to have the opportunity to meet with so many challenging and interesting people from all over the world, right here in Tanzania. Nobel Laureate Wangari Maathai of the Green Belt Movement in Kenya gave one of the keynote addresses, and I was surprised at how delicate and witty this warrior for the environment came across. She and the second speaker, fellow Kenyan David Western, made some important and controversial points about fair-trade tourism, the focus of governments on tourism revenue over community rights and conservation, the importance of protecting Africa’s environment, and the need for encouraging indigenous Africans to ‘own’ their natural resources and not perceive them simply as a foreign tourist attraction.

It was all exciting and inspiring, but as I looked around the main hall, I wondered where all the Tanzanians were? Representatives of Tanzania’s tour companies came largely from the 38% of foreign-owned businesses and, while some may argue that companies with a wider range of foreign clientele are more likely to adhere to world standards of fairly traded services (not just goods), I would argue that any philanthropy they engage in will be seriously limited by their cultural perceptions of development, and not directed by the needs of the local communities themselves.

The issue is certainly not money. One of the main sources of advertising in Tanzania, and one which a significant number of Tanzanian-owned safari companies use, is a magazine who will promote your company for a mere $800 an (2 inch) advert. The cost of the conference was $395. Neither is the issue time: whilst the high season is certainly beginning, it is not yet in the full throws of 12 hour days, 7 days a week. One employee can certainly be spared 3 days work.

My Tanzanian friend, employed by a local hotel, told me she had not heard of the conference in Tanzania, but from her sister who lives in the UK. Who then, did the conference organisers advertise to? Who was the conference aimed at and why? Was there some discrimination in the choosing of their audience and if so, who made the decisions?

I prefer to believe in the underdog; in the great, corporate superpower that excludes the local community. Politically, I put all my eggs in one basket, and that basket sits firmly on the left, away from the shadows of the fence and bold in its declaration of injustice. As much as travellers’ philanthropy may indeed be the new ecotourism, and as much as corporate social responsibility may be labelled the ‘new development’, I observe from my seat on the left that it remains the same participants as in the old development, that the old development marginalised the conribution of the poor in dialogue around their 'benefit' and aimed instead to eradicate poverty from a position of cultural ignorance and that, once again, along the way, someone forgot to invite the Tanzanians.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

A Story About Her Life

She grew up believing a story about her life, my best friend writes. Her words are beautiful and they hit a chord inside me that is scared; images of the story I believe dance across the eye of my mind and it is true: I still live hoping for the ideal. The click-quick solutions, cliche photos of someone elses life; companionship, contentment, and the satisfaction of living without regrets. It is The Ideal that we watch for entertainment, believe in our dreams, and measure our reality against.

A friend came for tea yesterday. She talked with a calm rationality of the total breakdown of happiness in her reality. The happy family togetherness was replaced by betrayal, suspicion, deceit and finally, tragedy. Heartbreaking as it is to hear her story, it is worse to know that it started off so close to The Ideal; that the road to grief began with beauty; that the ensuing sadness could never escape its predestined comparison with the paradise lost.

I fear the reality, not because of its raw quality or the unrefined mark it leaves on life’s memory, but because I have known The Ideal and, where I and others count me lucky, I know I have the best to measure against for the rest of my life
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