The wind blew off Lake Tanganyika causing the coconut palms to whisper in the gentle breeze. I was sitting on a hard wooden chair in the courtyard of an elderly man named Musa. As the sun slowly set over the lake in a fantasy of red, I watched Musa’s family as they went about their preparations for the evening. The teenage daughters returned from the nearby river with clay pots of water balanced on their heads. One of Musa’s wives caught a red hen and handed it over to my traveling companion Hilali who carefully faced Mecca and then slit its throat in the proscribed Muslim way. Small fires were started with a hot ember and water was heated for our baths. This water was then taken into a small grass shelter and I stood on granite stones and poured the hot water over my head with a large cup – feeling clean and refreshed from the long day of travel.

We sat around a table in the courtyard and sipped hot tea as we watched the moon begin to rise. The little boys herded up the Muscovy ducks and guided them into their reed pen. The pigeons flew into their mud built dovecot, and after much cooing and jostling they settled down for the night. The chickens put themselves to bed in their hen house built on ground level. One little chick was afraid to enter the dark doorway until she was the only chicken remaining outside. Finally the mother hen in a pique of anger came running out of the chicken house and grabbed the chick by the neck and threw it into the hen house. After much squawking, quiet settled over the compound.

The women and children huddled around the cooking fires, cleaning rice and cutting up the chicken. Soon we smelled the delicious smells of African and Arab spices as the meal began to cook. The men relaxed and talked for the next several hours. The conversation was held in the Kiswahili language. The discussion was stimulating. People talked about the work of the day, the growth of the corn in the fields, the ripeness of the palm nuts, sale prices of palm oil, the fishing conditions, the price of gas for the boats, how the kids were doing in school, and where to find a job for the latest graduate.

Late in the evening the meal was served. A mountain of fluffy Tanzanian rice was piled on a large tray. Hilali carefully poured the chicken broth over the rice and then placed the pieces of spicy chicken on top. We then all ate together using our right hands. Occasionally Musa would push an especially tasty morsel of chicken across to me. Near the end of the meal he handed me the gizzard – a special token being given to the honored guest.

This was life at its best in a rural Tanzanian village. It is a life we hear almost nothing about in the world media. A person listening to the news or reading articles and books on Africa hears nothing but negative analysis. Africa is presented as the basket case of the world. It is starving and cannot feed itself. It is involved in endless civil wars. Disease is spreading and the threat of AIDS is making serious inroads on the population. People are moving to the cities in large numbers where they work for low wages and live in horrible slums. Corruption in high places restricts positive growth. Western nations have responded to this scenario by investing millions of dollars in financial aid. Western consultants of all ilks have come to Africa to offer their advice and expertise – and yet it seems like Africa just keeps getting worse.

Yet is this an accurate picture of Africa? It is true that these problems exist. It is true that up to 30% (figures vary) of African people are becoming urbanized. But who is presenting this image of Africa? Over the past decades there have been a number of books, which have represented the negative side of Africa. I refer to books such as The Africans by David Lamb, Africa: Dispatches from a Fragile Continent by Blane Harden, Native Stranger by Eddy Harris, and North of South by Shiva Naipaul. The first two of these books are by American reporters who were based in Nairobi and flew around Africa from story to story. These stories focused on civil wars, starvation, diseases and corruption. Although the material in these books is largely accurate, they show the worst of Africa – and do not necessarily represent the whole continent. The last two books are travel books. In these the authors traveled around Africa in search of adventure, to seek their roots, and to find material for their books. These authors traveled on the main roads using local transport, drinking in local bars and living in cheap hotels. In the process they mingled with the African people along these well-traveled routes and often saw the worst side of Africa. They usually spoke with people who were unsuccessfully trying to reap the benefits of westernization and complaining about the difficulties of life in Africa. In none of these books did the authors actually go into a rural village and live for an extended time with the people in their historical African settings. In these travel books the authors got fed up with Africa and its troubles. They ended their trips early and were relieved to escape Africa and its failures. They give the impression to the readers that all of Africa is poor, inefficient, hurting, and falling apart.

These authors accurately report what they saw. But this is not the whole story.

They were writing about a narrow slice of African life. The reporters were writing about the hellholes of Africa. The travelers were interacting with the flotsam of lost souls who live along the arteries of this vast continent. But what about the other 70% of African people – the people who still live in rural communities? What about the people who are not mentioned in these books? Do these people fit the image we westerners have of Africa? What is life like for the people who still live on the land and gain their primary sustenance from traditional subsistence practices?

I am an American who was taken to Tanganyika by my parents in 1946. I grew up in a rural village near Lake Victoria. My first language was Kisukuma and I spent my early childhood herding goats and shooting birds with Wasukuma boys. I stayed in East Africa until I was 18 and observed first hand the African people as they broke away from the yoke of European colonialism and started the heady days of freedom. After college in the United States I returned to East Africa where I have spent the past 32 years working as a teacher, linguist and anthropologist in Sudan, Kenya and Tanzania – eventually earning a doctorate in Social Anthropology from Oxford University. During most of these years I have lived in rural areas, made friends with local people, spoken their languages, and written articles and books about African societies. The side of Africa I have seen and experienced is radically different from that reported in the western media and books.

A few months ago I decided to take four weeks and explore a part of Tanzania which few westerners visit. I planned to drive into the southwest of the country and proceed to the southern shores of Lake Tanganyika. I was curious about the people, terrain and wildlife of the region. My ultimate destination was the Mahale Game Park, which is a beautiful mountain range jutting out into the lake. This is one of only two places in Tanzania where one can observe chimpanzees in their natural habitat. Many American friends offered to travel with me – but I refused. I wanted to blend into Tanzanian culture without having to translate the experience to a westerner. I took only Bindali, a Tanzanian friend who had grown up in the area.

Driving the rutted dirt roads into this area was a long slow trip. We stopped in almost every village and Bindali would go off to greet relatives and friends he had not seen in many years. Initially I was not impressed with this area of high plateaus and treeless windswept plains. Having just come back to Africa from New York I was struck by the poverty. People lived in small villages. Houses were built of mud bricks with grass roofs. Around the villages were small fields of corn, wheat and millet. People only grew enough to eat. Most of the land was not farmed and I saw tremendous potential for commercial agriculture. Bindali pointed out that few people grew surplus since the sale value of the crops was so low it was not worth the extra work. But each family was able to grow enough to meet their basic needs. As we continued to travel into villages I stopped seeing the “poverty”. Instead I started seeing the people and started responding to their kindness and hospitality.

We left the high plateau and eventually reached Katavi, which is a remote Game Park seldom visited by tourists. There we drove along vast swamps watching herds of Cape buffalo, elephants, hippos, and antelope. I met a professional tour guide and asked about the road to Mahale. He said he knew the area well since he flew tourists there to see the chimpanzees. However, he informed me that I could not get there by vehicle since there was no road. He suggested I drive 60 miles to Karema on the shore of Lake Tanganyika and there try to hire a canoe.

The 60 miles down to Karema took us 6 hours. The road was full of boulders and sharp rocks, the climate was hot and the bush was teeming with tsetse flies. There were no villages in this inhospitable territory. There were also no other cars using the road, but we encountered many young men pushing bicycles up the steep hill. Each bicycle had a large wicker basket tied on the back. My curiosity got the best of me and I stopped and asked the young men what they were carrying. They explained that they had gone to the lake to buy dried fish and were now carrying these fish 60 miles to the inland town of Mpanda where they could be sold. I was astounded at the hard work demanded to sell dried fish.

Upon arrival in the rural fishing village of Karema, Bindali and I walked down to the sandy beach. The fishing boats had just arrived from the night’s fishing and the local villagers had come down to purchase the fish. We were warmly welcomed and I bought a large Nile perch for our supper. An Arab man joined us on the beach and introduced himself as Hilali. He lived in Karema and welcomed us to his home. Arabs have lived in this region for well over 200 years where many of them have intermarried with the local Bantu people. We asked about the possibility of renting a motorboat to Mahale and he offered his services as captain. However, we discovered that Mahale was a 10-hour ride one way and gas for a boat motor was unavailable in the area. I was about to give up on seeing the chimpanzees when Hilali offered to show us an old road into the Mahale area.

That evening we ate a delicious meal of perch and chapati (fried cakes) cooked by Hilali’s wife while his children played around us. The next day we started our trip to Mahale. We were an interesting threesome sitting together in the front of the vehicle – an Arab, an African, and an American. We spoke to each other in our commonly shared language – Kiswahili. In a very real way we embodied the diversity of Africa. Our conversations over the next days touched on many subjects, from religion to marriage to politics to economics. We shared our food, water, money, tent and friends. Hilali and Bindali became my teachers and I began to see things from their perspectives.

When we passed the young men pushing their bicycles with dried fish I commented on the hardship and how unfair it was that these young men had to work so hard. Hilali laughed at me. He said these young men were ambitious and were making good money. At the lake they could buy a fish for 30 Tanzanian shillings. They would purchase up to 400 fish to carry on their bicycles – for a total expenditure of 12,000 shillings (12 dollars). They could sell these same fish in Mpanda for 200 shillings a fish – a markup of about 500% – for a total of 60,000 shillings (60 dollars). Hilali pointed out that if they worked hard they could make the round trip in two days. A person could make 48,000 shillings profit in 2 days! In contrast the average monthly wage in Tanzania is less than 20,000 per month. These men had discovered a way to make a lot of money in a hurry. They were real entrepreneurs who had found an economic niche.

We left the road and proceeded on a track into the mountains. The track was surprisingly good. We followed the tops of ridges with spectacular views of miombo woodland in every direction – large trees that had never been cut. At times we drove down long tunnels of bamboo hanging over the road. In the river bottoms we found small villages made up of Bende people. They had built gardens in the rich valley soil, which they irrigated with ditches to produce abundant crops of bananas and beans.

After 65 miles we came out on a magnificent plateau planted with pine and eucalyptus trees. Well-constructed houses were surrounded by flourishing banana plantations, and in the pastures herd boys were watching large red cattle with long horns. I was initially confused, because I had not expected such prosperity in this remote area. Hilali pointed out that these were Tutsi villages. These people had fled Rwanda in the 1960s and had made their home in this remote corner of Tanzania. They had abundant crops, schools, and even a dispensary with basic medicines.

The track now started to head down toward Lake Tanganyika. Soon we were driving through heavy rain forest and crossing beautiful clear streams. At first the road was fairly passable. Hilali told me that it had been originally built by Russian prospectors looking for gold. Near the bottom the track became deeply eroded with cliffs on one side. It had not been driven on for years and our vehicle had to push through the tall elephant grass. There once again we encountered young men pushing bicycles up the hill. But the loads were different. Each bicycle had several four-gallon containers filled with red palm oil strapped to the back. Again Hilali explained how the business worked. Farmers at the lake grew oil bearing palm trees. These were harvested by the men and then the women and children would boil the palm nuts following a complex and laborious process, which resulted in the pure red cooking oil. This was sold in the villages for 4,000 shillings per container (4 dollars). The young men would buy 3 of these containers of oil (12 dollars) and then push them up to Mpanda where they could be sold for 16,000 each for a total of 48,000 shillings – a profit of 400%. These hard working entrepreneurs had found another economic niche.

I realized I was looking at a prime example of Africa’s informal economic sector. In parts of the world where governmental and economic systems have broken down, private individuals step into the gap and find informal ways to make a living and meet their financial needs. These are usually beneath the control or perusal of the government. They are also not considered when efforts are made to measure the GNP of a country. In some countries almost 50% of business takes place in the informal sector and it is neither monitored nor taxed. Yet in these countries this informal sector is the dynamic economic engine that keeps people alive.

Eventually we reached the alluvial plains near Lake Tanganyika. This area was covered with cultivated gardens interspersed with stands of bananas and oil palms. We bounced across the gardens until we arrived at the lakeshore and entered the village of Lukosa. All the kids in the area ran out to meet us and escorted us into the large village. We were shown to the compound of Musa – the half brother of Hilali. The people tore down a wall of the compound so I could park my vehicle inside. We were served tea and hundreds of people came by to greet us, shake our hands, and welcome us to their village. Some kids were sent off to call Musa from where he was working in his garden. He showed up just at sunset and greeted us profusely – welcoming us to his home. His wives were already cooking the evening meal and as it got dark the great welcoming committee gradually retreated to their homes. Musa introduced us to his 3 wives and some of his 28 children. After a supper of fish and ugali (thick porridge) we spent the evening talking about his life. Although an older man, he still spends every day in his fields cultivating with a hand hoe – growing enough food to feed his family. He owns his own house and compound and has no debts. His children go to the local school, but he did have concerns about some of his older sons finding paying jobs outside the village. Musa has traveled widely within East Africa, but is now content to finish his days in his home village of Lukosa. By Tanzanian standards he sees himself as successful man.

The next day Bindali, Hilali and I hailed a small dhow that was sailing down the coastline. This took us to the village of Mgambo where we disembarked. The jungle grapevine must have been working because several of Hilali’s extended family met us at the boat in Mgambo and took us to their brick home located on the village square under the mango trees. The oldest Arab man in the community greeted us and ran off to procure strong Arab coffee, which was served to us in small cups. We were then served fresh fruit and later lolled on a carpet under a pomegranate tree where we drank spicy tea. By now I had lost all pretense of schedule and haste. I was operating under the African time system where people come before schedules. I did not know if we would ever get to Mahale to see the chimpanzees – and I really did not care. I was just enjoying the company of these hospitable people. In the early afternoon one of Hilali’s nephews showed up with a canoe and we traveled south to the entrance of the Mahale Game Park.

The scenery from the canoe was spectacular. The high mountains covered with rain forest dropped down to the white beaches. We landed the canoe and moved into some small houses provided for guests. I immediately walked up into the hills with a scout to try and locate the chimpanzees. After two hours of walking we found two mother chimpanzees with their babies riding on their backs. They were not afraid of us, having been studied by Japanese scientists for a number of years. I followed them and they led us to a larger troop high in the trees. Bindali, Hilali and I all went back to the same location the next day and spent several hours watching the chimpanzees with binoculars. Eventually they came down to the ground and I was able to get a few good photographs.

On our return walk I visited a luxury tourist camp built on a private cove facing the lake. The camp workers were making preparations for the next group of tourists who were coming in by plane to see the chimpanzees. The camp was beautifully constructed with a full dining room and a well-trained staff to meet every need. As I was leaving Mahale in our canoe, we passed the tourists coming in on their nice boat. I waved at them and was initially a bit envious as I thought of the luxurious camp they would be living in for the next few days. But that night as I sat in Musa’s compound, laughing and telling stories in Kiswahili, and eating rice and chicken with my fingers, I realized I was not jealous in the least. I was experiencing the best part of Africa – its people. People who were not grumbling and complaining. People who were not looking for outside answers. People who worked hard. People who were successfully meeting their own cultural goals.

Does Africa have needs? Of course it does. I am not naive enough to think that rural life is ideal. In many ways it is a hard life. I am not suggesting we revert to Rousseau’s concept of the “noble savage.” All societies fall short of reaching their ideals. Does Africa need help from the developed nations? I think it does. But this help must be given very carefully. It should not be given in such a way that it merely promotes western materialistic values – at the expense of destroying African values and ways of life that have endured successfully for centuries. Donor countries can start by helping people already working in the informal economic sector. They should first learn lessons from the people that have already found some solutions. Donors must be wary of promoting large highly structured economic solutions – which ultimately may push the people in the informal sector out of work.

As a westerner, my immediate response in seeing the young men pushing their heavy laden bicycles up the steep hills was to try to find an easier way to get these products to market. If only a donor country would build an all weather road through the region, then trucks could easily drive to these remote villages. The farmers and fishermen could be paid higher prices for their products. The people in the villages would then have more money to spend. The same trucks could bring in outside goods, which the villagers could buy. Everyone would benefit. But would they? I quickly realized it is not that simple. Who would really benefit? Probably a wealthy businessman with a fleet of trucks would soon have a monopoly on transportation. He would try and keep purchase prices in the villages as low as possible to maximize his profits. At the same time all of the young men pushing bicycles would be out of work. A few people would get richer while the majority would actually end up being poorer. These poor would see the new western goods available, but not have the money to purchase them – causing envy and frustration. It started me on a line of radical thinking. Perhaps the lack of roads and donor involvement in the region was actually good for the local economy. It spread the local wealth on a more equitable basis and the traditional culture was intact and in harmony.

As we packed up to leave Lukosa an old man asked me for a ride. I explained that I had only one empty seat and he could have it. As we loaded the car I noticed he had given his seat to a lovely young woman. She said that she was going to her home in the mountains. After several hours of bouncing up the rutted track she leaned forward and asked me to stop. As she got out of the car I heard the soft sound of a baby. She smiled and opened her blanket and showed me a little girl- only three weeks old. She was beautiful. The young women explained that the previous month she had walked down to Lukosa to have her baby. Now she was home. I looked around at the mountains and deep forest and saw no village. I asked, “Where is your house?” She indicated a small footpath leading back into the forest. In soft Kiswahili she thanked me for the ride. Then she tied her baby on her back, put her load on her head, and walked into the forest – going back to her husband and her home. She and her husband were successfully making a living in this remote corner of Africa – without any help from outside donors. I admired her. She is the future of Africa.