Christmas tree

In most of East Africa, December marks the beginning of summer. By mid-December, the short rains are over, the humidity falls and the mercury rises. For anyone who's grown up above the tropic of Cancer, it feels distinctly un-Christmassy, though the occasional appearance of a sweaty-looking Santa Claus and some half-hearted piped Christmas carols in Nakumatt, Shoprite and Game serve as an unwelcome reminder of the commercial excess in most of Europe and North America.

Excess aside, however, Christmas, along with the long evenings of the Wimbledon fortnight in late June and early July, is the time of year when I feel most nostalgic for home. Prototypical bright frosty mornings, Christmas lights strung along the high street and, best of all, the annual task of decorating and admiring the Christmas tree.

The bizarre tradition of chopping down a conifer, bringing inside the house and decorating it hasn't really taken root in most African countries, though a few Harare vendors did a roaring trade in thinnings from the pine plantations in Zimbabwe's eastern highlands. Before that, when I was based in Tanzania's southern highlands, I was lucky enough to live and work on a large wattle and pine plantation, where one of the unwritten benefits of employment was the December visit to the forest to fell a Patula Pine (pictured) and bear it home in triumph.

In Kampala, however, apart from the hideous plastic efforts available in Game, there don't seem to be any Christmas trees on sale. Surely there must be a good business proposition here. Buy up a few acres of mountainside land in Eastern Uganda otherwise unsuitable for farming. Plant the land on a 2-3 year rotation with Patula Pine (or another vaguely Christmassy conifer suitable for the Ugandan environment). Chop them down when they are 2-3 years old and bring them to Kampala for sale at Garden City, Lugogo, Kabalagala and other expatriate hang-outs. Or, better still, make home deliveries on special order. Sell them at $50 each to homesick expatriates and pocket a healthy seasonal profit.......

Come to think of it, the Christmas tree is just the tip of an iceberg. A good quality turkey is very hard to find.

Conservation agriculture

In his French A-Z, included in the fascinating non-fiction miscellany that makes up Bamboo, William Boyd writes about Xavier Rolland, his neighbour in SW France. Rolland has a small farm, which he works himself and, according to Boyd is "possibly the hardest working person I have ever encountered". For those of us who occasionally witness the daily grind of rural life, this comes as little surprise.

Boyd is usually very incisive and accurate in his observations, but in the following passage about Xavier Rolland, he falls prey to a very common misconception about farmers: namely that they enjoy a loving relationship with mother nature. "He ploughs his fields to the very edge of roads. He obliterates hedgerows..... and cuts down trees..... to gain a few extra square metres..... He is close to the land, but his relationship with nature seems more like that of a tenant with a rapacious and demanding landlord. There seems no love of the countryside..." No indeed: in many ways, conventional agriculture is little more than a ceaseless battle against the forces of nature.

Last Sunday evening, I travelled to Northern Tanzania and stayed the night in a small hotel in the town of Boma N'gombe, close to Kilimanjaro. The following morning, I flew about 100km to the south in a tiny single-engine Cessna. It was a bright clear morning. For once, Kilimanjaro was fully visible, resplendent in the sunshine, with a fresh coating of snow and frost. We flew over the semi-arid scrub that makes up such a large proportion of Tanzanian and Kenyan Maasailand. There was little or no sign of agriculture, at least on any scale: indeed, the only signs of human activity were red-clad Maasai herdsmen, their flocks and their manyattas, overnight homesteads for family and flock alike. From the air, the landscape is dotted with trees, except for a few large expanses of grassland. It is a fragile environment: the sandy red soil is prone to rapid erosion, especially if the trees are cleared for cultivation. Rainfall is low and unpredictable. The large expanses of grassland are usually evidence of areas of black cotton soil, where the heavy clay content of the soil prevents drainage, making the land prone to waterlogging and, in turn, unsuitable for most trees.

African farmers have traditionally avoided farming black cotton soil. It is heavy and hard to work using hand tools. But, in comparison to the red soils which are preferred, it is nutrient-rich. In some parts of the world (Queensland and Southern Brazil, for example), commercial farmers using conservation agriculture techniques have managed to unlock the potential of these soils to great effect.

Conservation agriculture is yet to be widely adopted in Africa, perhaps because so little of the continent is commercially farmed. Often called zero-tillage farming, it has three fundamental principles: to minimise soil disturbance, thereby preventing erosion, water loss and the oxidisation of organic material; to increase organic matter in the soil, creating a living rather than an inert soil environment; and regular crop rotation, reducing the build-up of pests and pathogens in the soil.

Later that same day, I returned to Sanya Juu, a small town on the lower slopes of Kilimanjaro. We invested in the development of a Hass avocado plantation there about four years ago. The young trees are already laden with fruit (as shown in the picture above). The environment there is very different. Annual rainfall is higher. Soils are fertile and deep. The altitude is higher and the ambient temperature cooler. European farmers (like Xavier Rolland) feel at home in this more temperate environment, where conventional farming methods yield excellent results.

But across Tanzania, (and elsewhere in East Africa), these areas are already farmed very intensively. To unlock Tanzania's agricultural potential, farmers will need to venture further into lower altitudes and semi-arid conditions, and will need to adopt new farming methods suitable for different soil types, in the forefront of which is conservation agriculture.

Cordylobia anthropophaga

The description "Man-eater" is most often used of lions and tigers, but that's what the scientific name for this small and apparently inoffensive fly means. Anthropophagus, derived from the Greek words for eating human flesh. The culprit is not the adult fly, but its larva, which burrows into its host and feasts on its flesh before emerging from the skin to enter its pupa phase.

Variously called the Putsi fly, Tumbu fly, or Mango fly, cordylobia anthropophaga is a thoroughly nasty little creature, as attested by the rebarbative set of images that an internet search on "putsi fly" produces. And now, after almost 20 years of residency in sub-Saharan Africa, I can also personally attest to the discomfort caused by this mini-man-eater. Called Mango fly because of its affinity with mango trees, it lays its eggs on damp surfaces, including laundry hanging out to dry. A thorough ironing kills the eggs, but if, as I did, you impatiently grab an article of clothing from the washing line, you do so at your own peril. Never again!

Movember

What do you first notice in this famous photo-portrait of Salvador Dali? My sample of 10 was unanimous: "the moustache", they crowed. The chicken barely registered a mention.

Every now and again I am reminded of how disconnected I have become from the zeitgeist of my culture. Earlier this month, during a short visit to the Netherlands, I met a representative of one of our investors sporting an impressive moustache. I was surprised: since the days of the silver screen, of Clark Gable, Errol Flynn and the great Charlie Chaplin, the popularity of the moustache seems to have been on a fairly continuous decline, punctuated only by Tom Selleck's luxuriant growth in the TV series Magnum PI. But the decline has been arrested especially in the month of November, courtesy of the Movember movement.

Movember originated in the United States a few years ago as a means of raising money for and awareness of men's health issues, in particular for prostate cancer-related charitable causes. Movember is now spreading the globe: a reminder of how potent the internet is in disseminating information. Having only heard about myself earlier this month, I assumed that at least to date it had passed Africa by. But I was wrong. Almost immediately on my return to Kampala, I saw a Movember stand in the South African retailer Game store at the Lugogo shopping mall.

For me, the month of November will always be sombre. Dark, cold, the beginning of winter, without the bright lights of Christmas or the hope that the New Year brings. Also, I associate November with Remembrance Day. My mother was a poppy lady every November, collecting door-to-door on late autumn evenings for the military charity the British Legion, and, while my schoolboy head was instead full of plans and excitement for the fireworks and bonfires of Guy Fawkes night on 5th November, I would sometimes be persuaded to accompany her on her door-to-door beat through the quiet residential areas of northern Fleet. Both my parents were veterans of the second World War and my father's family connections with the military, through his decorated uncle (Tom Adlam, awarded the Victoria Cross in the first World War), were strong.

My father suffered from prostate cancer - fortunately the slow-burning variety. His PSA levels were checked regularly to ensure that the rate of increase in cancerous cells remained slow. He passed away almost six years ago from heart failure at the ripe old age of 86. I don't know what he would have made of Movember - he wasn't given to the support of causes - but he preserved his own moustache until his demise, and I think if nothing else he would have like to have seen even a temporary increase in facial hair. Hearing about Movember has also reminded me, as I approach my own 50th birthday next May, to regularly check my PSA levels for any evidence of this most stealthy of cancers.

Tinga Tinga

During a recent visit to Dar es Salaam, I stayed in a hotel in Msasani within easy range of the Tinga Tinga Co-operative's base close to the Morogoro shops. I took advantage of my proximity to pay a visit to the artists' studios, and happily browsed for about half an hour.

I love Tinga Tinga painting. I love its use of enamel paint, its bright colours and cartoon style. A vibrant riot of colour, celebrating the heat, humidity and exuberance of the tropical coast. Sadly, most of the art on offer was mediocre tourist fare: lurid depictions of the "big five" animals alongside the more traditional birds and marine life, but every now and again, one stumbles on something interesting, or beautiful, or, very occasionally, both.

Over the past twenty years, Tinga Tinga painting has evolved to include humorous, sometimes satirical, representations of daily life in Tanzania. Until recently, the painting pictured above adorned the wall of my office. I don't know how much artistic merit it has, but I think the joie de vivre of its cross section of the Muhimbili National Hospital in Dar es Salaam firmly places it in the "interesting" category.

The absence of perspective in most Tinga Tinga paintings gives the style a naive and childlike quality. As I looked through the artwork on display. I was reminded of the 1960s film "The Rebel", probably the English comedian Tony Hancock's most memorable film, which satirises art snobbery everywhere. Hancock plays a middle-aged middle-class Englishman who abandons his surburban life to become an artist in Paris. Initially, his flatmate's (beautiful) paintings are mistaken for his own, and he becomes the toast of Paris. As the story develops, Hancock's own paintings (immortally described as "infantile" by George Sanders' superbly urbane art critic) are revealed first to acclaim but then, quickly, to ridicule.

I wonder how the cognoscenti react to Tinga Tinga.

Life is sweet

"..solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short" was the great 17th century British philosopher Thomas Hobbes' bleak assessment of the human condition without political community.

Hobbes might have been a little more cheerful had the sweetness of sugar been widely available, but in his day, the European sweet tooth was only satisfied by honey and ripe fruits. Sugar was yet to make its appearance. The discovery of the New World changed all that. Suddenly, vast tracts of cultivable land became available to Europe. Once indigenous populations had been subjugated (or, more often than not, decimated by disease and genocide), the hideous triangular trade began. Cheap trinkets from Europe to Africa in exchange for boatloads of African slaves to the New World in exchange for cargos of sugar and tobacco back to Europe. Hobbes' words would also have made an accurate description of the life of slaves on sugar plantations in the Caribbean and elsewhere. One only has to read extracts from the loathsome Thomas Thistlewood's diary, quoted extensively in Adam Hochschild's book Bury The Chains, to appreciate the horrors of sugar plantation life in Jamaica and elsewhere.

The sugar industry in Kenya was my first significant exposure to agro-industry in Africa. I worked on a consulting assignment for Coopers & Lybrand in 1996, in partnership with Barclays Merchant Finance, to provide advisory services to the Kenyan Government on the privatisation of Chemelil Sugar. Like many of the sugar companies in Kenya, Chemelil was under-performing: cane costs to the factory were high, sugar yields were low, and the market suffered from periodic distortion due to low cost imports. I became very interested in the dynamics of the sugar industry - and, after reading the excellent book Seeds of Change" by Henry Hobhouse, in its history. Recently, Elizabeth Abbott published a well-written and more complete history of the sugar industry entitled Sugar: a Bitterweet History, which should be compulsory reading for sweet-eaters everywhere.

As the resident sugar industry expert in Coopers Kenya, I subsequently led a team on a management consulting assignment at the giant Sudanese sugar company, Kenana Sugar. Kenana dwarfs the Kenyan sugar companies. Carved out of the desert a little south of Kosti on the White Nile, its huge area, massive factory and large-scale irrigation facilities drawing water directly from the Nile (pictured above) is remarkable. With production figures exceeding 350,000 MT per year, it is one of the largest sugar businesses in the world, supplying most of Sudan's needs and exporting to the Middle East and Europe.

So, let's start with some facts. Sugar is produced from sugar cane (in tropical and sub-tropical climates) and from sugar beet in colder climates. Sugar cane, like the banana, was first domesticated as a crop in New Guinea about 2,500 years ago. Sugar cane is one of the most efficient converters of solar energy into biomass (and potential chemical energy). It is perennial - though after several ratoons it begins to lose its vigour and needs replanting. Almost all countries around the world produce sugar. As far as I can see, only Norway and some of the other smaller European states have zero production. Indeed, many countries have autarkic policies for national sugar industries (for example China and India) and of total global production estimated at 150 million MT, only about 20-25% is traded internationally. This means that the price of sugar on the global market can fluctuate dramatically if the supply side is affected by factors leading to significant under- or over-production by large exporters like Brazil or Australia.

Or, indeed, Mauritius, which is where I have the pleasure of being at the moment. Coming to this lovely island in the midst of the Indian Ocean is one of the privileges of my job. Alas, there is little if any time to sample the delights of the beach, but just to be beside the waterfront in Port Louis is compensation enough. While Mauritius has developed world-class tourism and offshore financial services industries, the cultivation of sugar cane and the processing and production of sugar was until recently the bedrock of the island's economy - and remains a very important contributor. As such, Mauritius has invested heavily in supporting the industry through world-class research and development of improved cane varieties, to ensure that it can produce high-quality sugar at a competitive cost of production.

The manufacturing process of sugar from cane is simple. Freshly cut sugar cane is crushed, the juice extracted and the fibre broken up. The fibre (called bagasse in the industry) is used as biofuel to power the mills. In Mauritius - and increasingly elsewhere - surplus power from bagasse is sold to local electricity distributors. After impurities are removed from the juice, the pure juice is reduced by evaporation until the liquid is sufficiently concentrated to allow sucrose crystallisation. The viscous black liquid that remains - molasses - is used for bioethanol production and for animal feeds. In effect, nothing goes to waste.

Until 2006, Mauritius benefited from very favourable tariffs that allowed it, under the Lome Convention, to export the majority of its sugar production to the European Union at preferential prices. Despite the removal of these tariffs, the Mauritian industry has remained profitable, due to industry rationalisation and value addition.

Yet, just as in the Caribbean, the Mauritian sugar industry was also founded on slavery and indentured labour. It seems extraordinary that such an inessential, indeed damaging, commodity should have caused so much human suffering and death. Sugar has no nutritional value. It contributes to tooth decay, diabetes and obesity. But by some biological quirk, some evil trick of mother nature, it delights human tastebuds to the extent that we cannot live without it.
Perhaps it's just that sugar helps us believe that life is sweet, and not, as Thomas Hobbes asserts "nasty, brutish, and short".

Footing beside the Nieuwe Meer

I've recently returned from a short business visit to Holland. I arrived before dawn after a cramped, uncomfortable and sleepless overnight flight from Entebbe (via Nairobi), but was fortunate enough to be able to get an early check in to my hotel. After the obligatory shower following a long journey, I decided against sleep in favour of taking a walk and getting some fresh autumnal air into my lungs.

Is there anything more therapeutic than "footing", to give walking its Kampala slang name? I don't know if it's a function of simply breathing outdoor air, or the joy of being closer to nature, or, as Ian McEwan describes it in his aptly-named novel, Amsterdam, the "gentle release of endorphins" brought on by vigorous footing, or indeed a function of all three. Whatever it is, for me it is one of the most primal and precious of pleasures. Even in the flat lands - the nether lands - of the landscape around Schipol airport.

I footed along the quiet banks of the Nieuwe Meer for a good hour or so in watery sunlight, revelling in late autumn colour and the birdlife of my childhood. I counted a remarkable 21 different bird species, including chaffinches, jackdaws, magpies, coots, mallard ducks, pied wagtails, and a few winter visitors like greylag geese. Best of all was the sight of a pair of whooping swans in flight, presumably on their journey from the breeding grounds of the far north of Europe to their winter home further south.

One of the bizarre aspects of footing in richer countries is how few fellow-walkers one meets. In my 90 minutes along the Nieuwe Meer, I only encountered about ten other walkers, four of whom were with their dogs. The absence of pedestrians was even more pronounced during my recent visit to Canada, where - astonishingly - on the 20 minute mid-morning walk from the hotel to visit my sons, through a fairly densely-packed residential area of Burlington, Ontario, I did not see a single fellow-pedestrian. In most of Africa, of course, pedestrians abound and I have become so accustomed to crowded pavements that the emptiness of rich and densely-populated countries always comes as a surprise.