Africans, less esteemed than ever, seemed to me the most lied-to people on earth manipulated by their governments, burned by foreign experts, befooled by charities, and cheated at every turn. Exasperated white farmers said, "It all went tits-up!" Africa is materially more decrepit than it was when I first knew it hungrier, poorer, less educated, more pessimistic, more corrupt, and you cant tell the politicians from the witch doctors. No massacres or earthquakes, but terrific heat and the roads were terrible, the trains were derelict, forget the telephones. I was mistaken in so much delayed, shot at, howled at, and robbed. To skip ahead, I am writing this a year later, just back from Africa, having taken my long safari and been reminded that all travel is a lesson in self-preservation. There I had lived and worked, happily, almost forty years ago, in the heart of the greenest continent. Feeling that the place was so large it contained many untold tales and some hope and comedy and sweetness, too feeling that there was more to Africa than misery and terror I aimed to reinsert myself in the bundu, as we used to call the bush, and to wander the antique hinterland. It made me want to go there, though not for the horror, the hot spots, the massacre-and-earthquake stories you read in the newspaper I wanted the pleasure of being in Africa again. 21 Faith, Hope, and Charity on the Limpopo LineĪll news out of Africa is bad.
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