Following up on my post about home-movie footage of Kenneth Kuanda (and others), if you’re really interested, I have now uploaded the clips to YouTube (who knew?!) – links added to the original post, and available here:
The death of the former Zambian President Kenneth Kuanda, one of the last of the generation of leaders of African independence movements, reminded me that I’m actually in possession of some real-live archive footage of Kuanda from the very high point of postcolonial promise. Almost a decade ago now, I spent a summer going through the strange remains that one’s parents leave behind when they pass away. I wrote about aspects of this then, reflecting on how I learnt things about the time they spent in Cyprus, Rhodesia and Zambia in the late 1950s and early 1960s, before I was born, when my father was in the RAF, the Royal Rhodesian Air Force, and the Zambian Air Force. All this material was a kind of archive of their relationship, of my pre-history, and the imbrication of both with late settler colonialism.
This material included a set of old home movies, cine film reels, that I had converted to DVD at the time. It was weird and wonderful and a little sad watching them back in 2012, seeing one’s parents as you’d never experienced them – grainy pictures of days out, of ‘overseas’ places, of newly born sisters (baby versions of older sisters). Clips of trains, and of planes, of course.
And, in amongst these scenes of ordinariness, are two or three scenes of colonial and postcolonial geopolitics. Scenes captured by my father from the sidelines.
There’s footage of a scene in which a dignitary is arriving, getting off a plane, a woman it turns out, who inspects a line of RAF men, and then drives off in a limousine, before flying away again. There’s a Royal Standard in the shot, a half of the flag is white – oh look, it’s the Queen Mother! She liked Rhodesia, in the good old days. This footage in particular, because of the quality of the film, the hand held shots, and the sunshine, has a weird resonance with the Zapruder film – it just doesn’t have that particular denouement.
The real joy of first watching these films though came from two other clips, which I remember watching in amazement when I first saw them. There is about 3 minutes or so of a meeting, with lots of drumming, traditional dress, men in military uniform – no idea where this is (‘in the bush’ I guess my father would have said), but you had to fly there, which is why my father is there (every so often, as he pans the camera, he catches the plane or another Air Force officer in the shot). And yes, it turns out, the guest of honour at this event whatever it was, is Kuanda – the footage is a bit underexposed in parts, but it’s definitely him (the white handkerchief is the give away). This must be from 1964, or 1965, maybe early 1966 perhaps. As with all of this footage, the familial bits as well, it leaves me with so many questions, but no way of finding out the answers.
The other bit of footage is even better – shorter, less than half a minute, preceded by scenes of soldiers parading at an airport, then, abruptly, two African men walk across the screen side by side, up to a podium. It’s Kuanda, and a slightly shorter man, in a green Mao-suit, with a receding hairline – that’s Julius Nyerere! The footage then cuts to a shot of a BOAC VC10 approaching to land and then… it cuts to another scene of domesticity and play.
Who are those two about to greet? Not the Queen Mum, not by then. Who knows. I don’t. My father never actually mentioned that he spent a couple of years flying Kenneth Kuanda around a newly independent Zambia, taking part as a close observer in these rituals of postcolonial nation-building, as a precondition of returning to the UK in 1966.
It’s not exactly good news to find out that you have been successful for a funding bid to do research on Covid-19 – it generates a rather ambivalent response, the usual sense of self-satisfaction that such news generates tempered, to say the least, by the situation that is its very condition of possibility. Anyway, I’m already over thinking things – Nick Clarke and I have been awarded funding under the British Academy’s Special Research Grants: Covid-19 scheme, for a project entitled Learning to Live with Risk and Responsibility: Understanding Popular Responses to COVID-19. Nick is the PI on the project, which builds on his previous work using materials from Mass Observation to examine popular understandings of politics in the UK, and which arose out of conversations between us sparked by a blogpost I wrote just at the start of lockdown, which in turn was riffing off a set of conceptual themes from a research project from what nows seems like previous life that we worked on together, which investigated what we called ‘grammars of responsibility‘ in everyday life. At Exeter, the project is part of a wider set of humanities and social science projects on Covid-19 related topics, curated by the Wellcome Centre for Environments and Cultures of Health and The Exeter Centre for the Study of the Life Sciences (Egenis).
Anyway, in place of a fuller explanation of what we are meant to do on the project, which I guess we’ll get to writing about sometime between exam boards and online pivots to blended enhancement, here is the short summary of the project:
“During the COVID-19 pandemic, people living in the UK have been asked to act responsibly in novel ways because of the risks their behaviour poses to themselves and others, and their role in complex chains of causation. We aim to investigate how citizens have engaged with these demands, with the objective of contributing to conceptual and empirical understandings of popular responses to emergency situations including future pandemics. Specifically, making use of contemporaneous qualitative data available through the Mass Observation Project, we seek to develop a better understanding of how people interpreted sometimes conflicting demands to act responsibly in relation to COVID-19 and translated them into practices of everyday life.”
There are loads of ‘Things to read while in lockdown’ lists circulating right now, and even though it’s not a holiday, I am certainly finding myself spending more time at least thinking about what to read to pass the time. I am missing being able to browse in bookshops, even in the rather limited range available in downtown Exeter. I especially miss popping into a random charity shop in the dim expectation of finding something I didn’t think I wanted to read, buying it for £1, taking it home, and never reading it.
Being denied any access to these small pleasures reminds me of one of the abiding experiences of what it was like to have once lived in Swindon. For me, one important aspect of this experience was defined by the fact that Swindon is NOT a University town. I grew up in a place (East Grinstead) that was a lot more metropolitan than the small village which I might otherwise have grown up in (Fairford, from which one visited Swindon to do proper shopping and watch football), but which was still just a dull dormitory town (“sclerotically reactionary” is how Paul Theroux once described East Grinstead). Then I lived in various places (Cambridge and Bristol, Oxford and Reading, Salford and Columbus) which were all identifiably University towns, in their very different more-or-less provincial ways. I spent time in places like Atlanta and Durban, when both places still had bookshops. Living in Swindon was a strange return to a never-quite-experienced, what-might-have-been land that never-really-was.
All of which is just a prelude to an excuse for another list, this time a tribute to The Works, the cut-prize books/stationary-tat store that, alongside a perfectly decent Waterstones, served as my primary go-to book-haunt for eight years. If you are familiar with The Works, you will appreciate just what it means that this was the second best bookstore in town. The fact that it is located in Swindon’s best known attraction, the outlet retail centre, cherished by railway buffs and historical geography nerds from far and wide, is even better – it’s a pun: The Works, located on the site of the old GWR/BR railways works).
I’d like to say that I came across some hidden gems in The Works. But that’s not quite true. These are the top five books I picked up there which I would almost certainly never otherwise have read AND which I do not regret spending £2 to £4 on….
1). Michael Chabon’s Manhood for Amateurs, a lovely collection of essays, including a fantastic piece on why Lego minifigures represent a terrible constriction of the imagination, an argument I liked when I first read it and that has become more relevant to me now that, in lockdown, I find myself discovering the limits of my own design imagination while trying to make good use of a Lego Architecture Studio set.
2). Paul Morley’s book on Bowie, one of those books which one would have felt obliged to read at some point without really wanting to, so getting a remaindered copy felt right.
3). A bluffers’ guide to the Plantagenets, because I was trying to make sense of Richard II and thought it would be good, when reading Shakespeare, to know something about Kings and Queens, without needing to make this an academic project.
4). A collection of John Betjemann’s poems, which I bought for no other reason than the fact that it included a poem about the bells ringing at Christchurch in Swindon’s Old Town. No other reason.
5). Michael Bilton’s Wicked Beyond Belief, one of the huge range of true crime books you can always pick up at The Works, not a genre I am generally inclined towards. It’s a book about the culture of policing in the 1970s, deeply disturbing, I’m not quite sure why I bought it, other than always remembering the effect on me of reading Joan Smith’s account of the Yorkshire Ripper case in Misogynies way back in 1989.
Now I live in a University town in Devon, half the size of Swindon. Better bookshops. I still check out The Works now and then. I look forward to being able to do so again one day soonish, and to finding something else to read that I probably shouldn’t admit to enjoying.
I found myself reading a couple of somewhat contrasting books about African cities this week, both bought last weekend in a secondhand bookshop in Topsham. One of them, John Western’s Outcast Cape Town, from 1981, is one of those books that I should probably have read before and should probably not admit publicly to not having done so (it’s been formally canonised as a ‘classic’, after all; but geographers, and urban theorists too, have funny ideas about ‘canons’, I often think – there has been a serious debate in Geography about whether one could define a canon of core texts for the discipline, a debate that seems to involve naming texts as canonical that are not actually required reading at all for active researchers, and that barely anyone actually reads apart from the people writing histories of geography who insist that surely everyone else should do.
The other book I have been reading is The Ruined Cities of Mashonaland, by Thomas Bent, originally published in 1892, a classic of its own genre too, and a book that could be described as an example of ‘inhuman geography’ in contrast to Western’s exemplary model of humanistic geography. I guess I would probably not have bought this book on any other weekend than this last one, as Zimbabwe waited for the end of Robert Mugabe’s rule. It’s an account of Bent’s expedition to investigate the site of Great Zimbabwe, the medieval city once reputed to have been the home of the Queen of Sheba and one of the most politicised archeological sites in the world. Bent’s book helped set the terms for debate about ‘the mystery’ of the origins of Zimbabwe, a discourse that extends through the colonial period, UDI, and post-independence Zimbabwe.
Bent’s expedition took place in 1891, an integral part of that moment in which the British South Africa Company, who facilitated the expedition, orchestrated the appropriation of ‘Rhodesia’ as a means of securing access to gold and other minerals meant to support the Cape-to-Cairo dream of Cecil Rhodes (the trip was, of course, also supported by the Royal Geographical Society). I read lots of mid-nineteenth-century colonial scientific-travel writing when I was a graduate student, writing a thesis about the rhetorical dispossession of African people in European discourses about Africa, and Bent’s book shares many of the same features as that earlier work, but by his time the dispossession and subordination involved not just rhetorical and the violence not just epistemological. The book is in three parts, and Part 1 and 3 are a narrative of his travels to the ruins through ‘savage Africa’ – of “how we got to them and how we got away”. This sort of descriptive genre is partly to do with establishing the fact of the intrepid white scientist actually having ‘been there’, a fact upon which the reported findings and theories presented in the middle section depend for their authority as ‘science’; it’s also to do, in this case, with an explicit surveying exercise to establish the best routes for railways and roads into the interior to open up exploitation of mineral wealth. The book’s narrative structure turns on the sleigh-of-hand whereby the presence of Africans is described in all sorts of ways – as translators, interpreters, hosts, labourers – but in such a way that they are rendered as having no significant attachment to the places they inhabit. And it also reiterates the recurring theme of Africanist discourse, in which a scholarly Orientalist appreciation of ‘Semite’ cultures of the Mediterranean or Middle East are used as reference points to theorise about the meanings of African landscapes in such a way that they are rendered as a ‘blank darkness‘, as Christopher Miller once put it.
The interesting, and infamous, part of Bent’s book is the middle section, in which he reports on his analysis of the buildings and artefacts at Zimbabwe. It’s an example of pure theory, but in the worst possible sense. Bent engages in an elaborate exercise in comparative reasoning to insist that all the evidence at the site confirms that whoever was responsible for building these now ruined settlements – which stood as undeniable evidence of a history of ‘civilisation’ here in ‘savage Africa’ – it couldn’t possibly have been the ancestors of the people actually living there now. Bent had a Theory. The ruins must have been built by an “ancient race” related to Arabs or Phoenicians (i.e. the origins of the site lay beyond black Africa). He proves this by finding analogies between the design of carved birds and gold ingots at Zimbabwe with those found somewhere els – in Egypt, for example (and including examples that he had examined down here in Devon). By this flimsy mode of inference, Bent establishes “a northern origin for the people” who built this whole extensive complex – “a race akin to the Phoenicians and the Egyptian”. All the evidence, he argued, confirms that “the builders were of a Semitic race and of Arabian origin, and quite excludes the possibility of any negroid race having had more to with their construction than as the saves of a race of higher cultivation; for it is a well-accepted fact that the negroid brain never could be capable of taking the initiative in work of such intricate nature”. Those words were written in 1894, in the Preface to the 3rd edition of what was quite a popular book – that is, slap bang between the initial incursion by ‘Pioneers’ in 1890 and the formal granting of rule over Rhodesia to Rhodes’s Company in 1899. As I said, this is politicised archaeology (and geography).
I should admit that for me the real attraction, if that’s the right way of putting it, of this book is the fact that the edition that I bought was a republication, from 1969, produced by the Books of Rhodesia company as part of the Rhodesiana Reprint Library series, started in 1968. I have an odd fascination with that moment of Rhodesian history, despite not knowing enough about it. This book, the one I bought, was produced as an instrument in the formation of a post-UDI nationalist historical narrative of white settler identity just as the second Chimurenga – or, for the implied reader of the book, ‘the Bush war’ – was making itself felt. The reprint of Bent’s book is dedicated “to honour the men and women who pioneered Rhodesia, and to promote a wider interest in the country’s history”. The single page para-text contextualising Bent’s original narrative – written, remember, in 1969 – admits that Bent’s hypothesis about the Phoenician origins of Zimbabwe had been rapidly discredited, “but this does not detract from the value of his observations which are still very useful”, it says. Without the analogies and unsupportable inferences, all that actually left in Bent’s text is what even for it’s time is some rather crude racism and an unapologetic justification of colonial appropriation, complete with complaints that an Englishman isn’t allowed to treat ‘natives’ (that’s not the N-word he actually uses) in quite the same slave-like manner as do the Portuguese. Needless to say, the Rhodesiana Reprint series didn’t ever publish the work of the archaeologists who challenged Bent’s theory and thereby established the grounds for subsequent ‘indigenist’ accounts of the origins of Great Zimbabwe.
My copy of The Lost Cities of Mashonaland is, then, a doubly-violent artefact: the text is a transparently wilful effort at contributing to the much more than figurative dispossession and subordination of African people; and the book was reproduced 70-odd years later as part of a project of racist nation-building around an identity that had little else to cling to than various militaristic associations.
By contrast, John Western’s book is marked by an evident “concern and compassion” for those who suffered from the injustices of apartheid – those are the words used in a short book notice by Cyprian Thorpe, a typed carbon copy of which was folded inside the copy which I bought the other day. Western’s book is an example of what was once called humanistic geography, a tradition that I must admit I had often found both a little too self-righteous in its claims to be in touch with the genuinely ‘human’ and also oddly universalising in it invocations of the passionate, embodied qualities of life. Western proposes that this approach “implies looking at the city through the texture of the lives of its inhabitants”, and in this case the value of this commitment is well borne out. My received understanding of Western’s book was as an exemplar of ethnographic research in a geographical register, but while it’s certainly rooted in his own immersive experience of Cape Town in the 1970s, it isn’t really written as an ethnography – it is a piece of conventional qualitative social science, combining descriptive mapping, quantitative data (but not statistical analysis) and reports from qualitative interviews; even for its time, it’s rather light on social theory, too, to be honest. Whereas David Smith, in his work on South Africa in the 1970s, made use of spatial analysis to work through the relevance of Rawlsian ideas of justice, Western maps the very tangible ‘geography of disadvantage’ as described by people forcibly relocated by the Group Areas Act, involving diminished access to health services, work, places of worship, friends and family, sport and the movies. In his account of the ‘subjective’ dimensions of the experience of Coloured residents moved from Mowbray to the Cape Flats, he also provides what now reads as a rather prescient account of the intangible harms of apartheid spatial practices as lying in a generalised sense of fear and insecurity. And while Outcast Cape Town is primarily a reconstruction of the effects of the Group Areas Act from the 1950s to the 1970s, it is also framed, published as it was at the start of the 1980s, by a profound sense of impending change – it resonates with the sense of waiting (Coetzee) or of living in the interregnum (Gordimer) which was a central feature of South African literary writing at that same time.
Outcast Cape Town makes a simple and succinct case for the importance of thinking of space and social relations as mutually related – or, in Western’s terms, of the importance of ‘the dialectic of person and place’. My favourite bit, which I will re-use I hope, is the really neat formula he provides for thinking about the idea of “knowing one’s place”, in which Western distinguishes between a submissive sense of this phrase as being kept in a subordinate station, a sense of knowing one’s geographical situation, and a third, synthetic sense of knowing one’s place as “an appreciation of its possibilities, to know its potential creativity for social action”.
In my defence for not having read this book before now (but why am I being defensive – not having read this book has not really damaged my learning up to this point), I should say that Western’s book now makes a lot more sense to me than it would have done even a couple of year’s ago, because of the time I have now spent in Cape Town on three or four occasions. I have a better sense than I would have had before of the current geography of the city, and so Outcast Cape Town now reads to me like an archaeology of the legacy of apartheid urban development.
Western’s book is oriented by a moral imperative to demonstrate, empirically, the injustices of apartheid, and in this respect it stands apart from a tradition of more explicitly politicised and partisan urban analysis in and about South African cities that flourished in the 1980s. In a review of Outcast Cape Town from 1984, Alan Mabin pointed out that the book is more concerned with establishing the importance of ‘the sense of place’ rather than analysing the ‘political responses’ to apartheid emerging from those communities discussed in the book. Mabin ended his review wondering “whether ‘humanistic geography’ can contribute to the explanation of why things are as they are; and whether it can hope in any form to contribute to ending the ‘distress’, ‘disadvantage’ and ‘fear’ upon which Western touches — not to mention the poverty, racism and sexism which is the texture of life for so many in Cape Town — or anywhere else.” The skepticism behind that question expresses very clearly the imperatives that reconfigured South African urban studies in the 1980s, reflecting the concerns that provoked the development of a much more self-confidently theoretical approach to urban analysis, drawing on Marxist theories, theories of the state, social movement theories. On the other hand, Western’s book does stand in a tradition that continued through the 1980s and 1990s that focussed on ordinary experiences of life in South Africa which were both intensely political in their causes and consequences but felt in much more personal ways.
And this sense of disagreement provides the moral of my blog-story for the week. Bent’s grubby little book epitomizes a style of thought that supposes that ideas are somehow tied to their authentic origins, and so it closes down and restricts discussion and debate. Western’s book not only acknowledges the validity and value of the voices and experiences of a variety of African voices, but more than that, it stands as one reference point within a wider tradition of urban thought in which South African cities, in this case, have been and continue to be treated as scenes for debates and arguments not just about the applicability of concepts and theories and methods to this place but also about their more general relevance beyond that particular place. And that, perhaps – working through as a problem the relationship between application and generalisation – is as good an understanding of what a post/de-colonial urban studies would look like as I can think of.
After 8 years, the imminent departure from Swindon by the end of the summer now looms on the horizon. This blog has been very much shaped by the experience of living in this non-University town, while living in a very Respectable Street.
Swindon, of course, has a certain sort of reputation as ‘a dump’, which is not quite fair, and even if it is, given the representative significance of Swindon in the history of British society, it’s no more of a dump than the rest of the country. Aroundaboutz, of course, in the surrounding countryside populated by plenty of Generals and Majors, there are all sorts of attractions, if you like White Horses and stones circles and if you can survive on a Farmboy’s Wages. And it’s not too far away from the Towers of London, if you fancy a day trip. But that’s still underselling Swindon itself, which has quite a few treasures all of its own. It’s a good place to visit if you like railway museums, odd art deco treasures, or want to trace the origins of the NHS. In the time I have lived here, one can trace the diminution of the public realm under the pressure of austerity, felt in the absence of Sure Start centres, libraries, bus services, and nurseries that were the elements of our daily life when I first moved here. But actually, a life here isn’t just the privatised experience of a New Town Animal in a Furnished Cage. There are things worth getting out and about for. You could even spend half a day on a self-made Diana Dors walking tour, culminating perhaps at Swindon’s very own answer to the Statue of Liberty.
So should you ever find yourself stuck here and in need of entertainment, or indeed if you find yourself Making Plans to pass close by, here is my personal guide to the best 10 things that public life in Swindon offers to you:
2). Town Gardens. A place for kids to play, the site of the best annual(ish) South Asian festival I’ve ever been to, and a place where sometimes, if you look carefully, you can catch a glimpse of the Mayor of Simpleton wandering around.
3). No public sphere is possible, as old uncle Habermas reminds us, without a thriving commercial life to sustain it. The Swindon Designer Outlet shopping centre might not sound much, but even if you don’t like shopping, go there – it’s in the remaining part of the Great Western railways works, so it’s like walking through a portal into the historical geography of the town.
4). And, still with Habermas, you need coffee shops too – visit Baila, a little slice of cosmopolitanism in Old Town. At nighttime, it might well be true that Life Begins at the Hop, but it should end here, in a Crowded Room full of discerning gin drinkers. By day, it’s a haven for home-workers happy to listen to acid jazz and not-so-obvious Motown.
5). Los Gatos, or just ‘the Spanish’, a small slice of authentic British ex-pat Tapas in Wiltshire, this was the ONLY nice place when I moved here, but now it is like a trusted old friend you know will always be there when other things disappoint. Great coffee.
6). The Arts Centre. Swindon has a proper, big theatre, The Wyvern, which is also worth a visit (especially for Jon Richardson’s ‘returning home’ gigs), but the Arts Centre is another little hidden gem, a place to see Am-Dram performances of The Crucible or watch Mark Thomas or see foreign films or listen to Thea Gilmore.
7). Swindon is a very sporty town, with a disappointing football team embedded in the community in all sorts of commendable ways, Speedway, and best of all, Ice Hockey. Go Wildcats! It’s just like Canada.
8). There are various things to do at Coate Water park, but the best one is to take a ride on the miniature railway – because it’s Swindon, so you have to find a way of riding on a steam train.
9). The Old Town Railway Path. Yes, yes, I know, it turns out that almost everything on the list is related to railways, but if you need a walk, this is great – this is another bit of historical geography, a disused railway cutting that overlooks the ‘The Front Garden’ between Swindon and the M4, now the site of a major new housing development, and gives you a view in the distance of the Science Museum‘s large-object store at Wroughton, and if you like Rock, you can even see some exposed Upper Jurassic geological formations (apparently). Certainly a place to get your Senses Working Overtime.
I picked up this great story about a Princeton professor, Johannes Haushofer from Facebook (thanks Sue), who has posted his CV of Failures. It’s an idea prompted by Melanie Stefan. I have to admit that I have been thinking along these lines recently, not because I’m overcome by a great sense of failure, or an urge to ‘fail better’ even, but just because I have got to that stage of life where it occurs to me that the things I work on, research, and publish about don’t quite ‘scan’ directly from a linear set of projects funded, grants awarded, previous books written,. They only really make sense in relation also to the shadow world of failed bids, rejected papers, cancelled courses. I’ve reflected on this sort of thing before, provoked by Ivan Vladislavic’s lovely idea of a loss library. As for a CV of my own failures, well, that would be too long.