Music Crossroads – Youth Empowerment Program
August 17, 2008
Music Crossroads International (MCI) is a unique youth music empowerment through music program initiated in 1995 by Jeunesses Musicale International (JMI) and presently encompassing five Southern African countries: Malawi, Mozambique, Tanzania, Zambia and Zimbabwe.
Since the program began 12 years ago as Music Crossroads Southern Africa, MCI has reached almost 30.000 musicians and 600.000 audiences. MCI is comprised of workshops, festivals and competitions to promote the African traditional and contemporary urban music of young African musicians. The project aims at creating sustainable musical structures in the target countries, improving self-awareness and social inclusion of young African individuals. MCI promotes the participation of young women in the program and addresses HIV/AIDS prevention through the Relationship workshops.
Thanks to the generous support from SIDA (Sweden), the Norwegian Ministry of Foreign affairs and UNESCO, MCI has developed into the largest cultural program in Sub-Saharan Africa and the most important youth empowerment program on the African continent.
The Music Crossroads program is divided into 3 fundamental areas:
Musical:
An integral part of the MCI program is the “musical mining”, where national and InterRegional juries identify the stars of tomorrow. As MCI is sifting the best young talents of the five Southern African target countries, we can also assist selected artists and bands to build sustainable musical careers, at home and abroad, by offering musical and performance training, songwriting and arrangement, providing band management and music rights. The MCI Centers also provides rehearsal space, equipment, training and support for local member musicians.
African borders are often difficult to cross due to visa and other regulations. It is also difficult to find opportunities for artists and bands to perform in neighboring countries. Therefore, we are increasingly developing the cross-border exchange of promising MCI acts between the target countries.
Social:
Since 2000, MCI has developed its own dedicated HIV/AIDS prevention program, the “Relationship Workshops” – today mandatory in all festivals, a discussion forum on relations, sex and gender issues, challenging attitudes and offering useful information on how to protect oneself against HIV/AIDS.
But MCI has taken it a step further: as the young MCI musicians are role models for many, the “Songs for Life” program transform since 2004 the learning from the Relationship Workshops into lyrics and music through dedicated songwriter’s workshops, where the best songs are selected and recorded in studio by respective band and then compiled on CD’s and distributed to radio and TV and disseminated to Millions of young people, to ponder the content of these songs with a message.
MCI offers opportunities and hope to young people who otherwise would have little of both. Through numerous workshops, the program gives the individual participants insights, self-awareness and -respect, music, business and social skills, leading to social inclusion and a path to a professional future.
Structural:
MCI recognizes that talent alone is not enough to enable youth to build careers in music – local infrastructure, facilities and human resources must exist to support and nurture growth.
The Music Crossroads International program has over the past 10 years identified and established contacts with key individuals and organizations in the five target countries. As part of the Strategy Program 2006-10, MCI aims at establishing professional, sustainable national structures that should be apt to take on the national management and funding of the MCI program and related activities as from 2011.
The MCI Program promotes organizational setups – staffing, offices and training centers – as well as regional coordination and training of staff and volunteers on relevant issues such as fund-raising, lobbying, PR/Promotion and communication.
The national Music Crossroads entities will engage and train young music organizers and act as an infrastructural resource to develop the national music industries.
Tanzania
Tanzania has 37 million people, in which there are very few Institutions dedicated to the arts. Music Crossroads Tanzania (MCTZ) aims to provide quality training and performances whilst strengthen existing local networks by working with partner organizations in the fields of Music Training, Music Management, HIV /AIDS and Self empowerment.
Music Crossroads was introduced into Tanzania in 1999. Since then it has grown from having four local festivals to nine festivals across the entire country with the goal of establishing two more festivals by end of 2008. Music Crossroads Tanzania is now a recognized non-profit organization, is one of the founding partners of the Youth Leadership Network and stands out as the only countrywide program that offers free music education, training and promotion to the youths of Tanzania.
ARTISTS
An integral part of the MCI Program is the “musical mining”, where National and InterRegional juries identify the stars of tomorrow.
As MCI is sifting the best young talents of the five Southern African target countries, we can also assist selected artists and bands to build sustainable musical careers, at home and abroad, by offering musical and performance training, songwriting and arrangement, providing band management and music rights.
The MCI Centers also provide rehearsal space and equipment for young aspiring artists. Promotion, studio recordings and concert engagements of contracted MCI-winners are pursued on local and national levels, while the InterRegional MCI winners are offered professional training and CD-productions followed by international concert performances and tours on major stages in Europe, North America and Asia. African borders are often difficult to cross due to visa and other regulations.
MCI acts as a bridge between the five African nations and through cross-boarder musical collaborations and exchanges we bring cultures together to celebrate their richness and diversity.
“Climbing Kilimanjaro, Kmart Style” by Doug Lansky
March 30, 2008
At this very moment, I am lying on my back with my legs propped up in the air, allowing the pus to drain from seven infected blisters on my feet. Along with a receipt for $585, these festering vesicles are the only physical evidence of my trek up Mount Kilimanjaro, tallest peak on the African continent.
Doug suits up
to climb Kilimanjaro
The major difference between me and the thousands of other tourists who attempt to climb this 19,340-foot mountain each year (aside from knowing how to spell the word”vesicle”), is that I was foolish enough to attempt it in rented hiking boots.
Most people pay between $450 and $1,000 to climb Kilimanjaro, the price depending on the route, number of days on the mountain, and comfort level of the trip. The cheapest and most popular choice is the five-day Coca-Cola Route, thus named because the beverage can be purchased at conveniently placed rest-huts throughout the ascent. But trips lasting seven days and costing $1,500 are not unheard of. These involve something like eight porters per tourist, and include such luxuries as a separate dining tent, reclining chairs, and a portable western toilet.
I opted for the Machame, or “scenic route,” the second most popular ascent. This expedition takes six days, approaches the summit from the west, and follows the south face down.I made my arrangements through a tout named Swali, who works for the Arusha-based tour agency B.M. Travel. He promised to show up the day of departure with a complete line of climbing gear: North Face Gore-Tex jacket and sleeping bag, Patagonia fleece and hat, Lowe long underwear, and every other outdoor brand-name product Swali could think of. There would also be glacier sunglasses and four pairs of hiking boots to choose from.
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Swali had managed to put together the least mountain-worthy selection of clothing. |
What he actually arrived with (several hours late) was—to the untrained eye—about $10 worth of hand-me-downs from the Salvation Army. Swali had managed to put together the least mountain-worthy selection of clothing currently available in Tanzania: mostly cotton sweatshirts and T-shirts, plus a few ripped nylon pants and hats most winos would refuse on a freezing night. He brought only one pair of boots. And the sleeping bag, meant for summer use only, had no zipper.
Swali acknowledged the sleeping-bag zipper problem and located another insulation-free replacement, but the boots, he asserted, were fine. And they would have been . . . for someone with slightly smaller feet. The rest of the stuff I would have to live with if I wanted to start up the mountain that day. If I backed out, which was extremely tempting under the circumstances, the extra day required to make arrangements with another outfitter would mean I’d miss my flight. Jason, a 26-year-old Englishman who at least had his own boots, was in a similar position.
So, with more than our fair share of reservations, we set off to conquer Kilimanjaro with gear whose only purpose would be to provide hours of amusement for fellow climbers. The”glacier glasses” were made from the lightest shade of plastic currently in manufacture. My ensemble was augmented by a rust-orange snowmobile hat, pink reversible nylon jacket, and some first-generation aquamarine Lycra pants that could only have been purchased by a Frenchman; they clung tighter than most designer jeans and the fly was sharp enough to draw blood. We picked up John and Clair, a young English couple, en route. Apparently, they would be joining Jason and me on our “private tour.” At the drop-off point, our guide, Lucas, sent us all ahead with a porter named Tumaine (pronounced “Two-man”) while he sorted out the rest of the porters. He explained that we would require two porters each; one to carry our gear, the other to haul the tents and food. This seemed ostentatious, but after 30 minutes hauling my own gear and making little progress, I realized the futility of the decision and handed over my pack.
With our packs coming up behind us, along with lunch, we only had two canteens of water and a few chocolate bars among the four of us. We finished off the water, thinking Lucas and the porters would catch up, but they never did. Dehydrated, we pressed on, trying to reach the 10,000-foot camp before dark. No luck. After an hour of stumbling up the trail without flashlights, we reached Muchamie Camp. Six or seven other, better-organized tour groups had already set up their tents and had dinner hours before.After a quick meal, I climbed into my sleeping bag, which was perfect . . . for a seven-year-old. It came up to my stomach. And that’s only when it was half unzipped so I could squeeze my waist in. It never really got much higher than my knees because the porters—basically nice guys who clearly did not have the world’s most desirable jobs—set up our tent, a model that may have been cutting edge in the early 1960s, on a slope better suited for skateboarding. I slept in my hat, gloves, scarf, and jacket and still managed to freeze. Around 2 a.m., I cuddled up to Jason, praying he wouldn’t wake up and notice. The next morning began with our first view of the summit; it was stunning but farther away and steeper than I’d imagined. Lucas explained that the top usually clouds up during the day but clears by sunset. My eyes remained transfixed on the peak until it disappeared. We only had a few hours to walk to the next camp, Shira, at 11,500 feet, where we would stay for two nights to acclimatize; a fairly tame itinerary so far. The bigger problems (and bigger blisters), I had a feeling, were still ahead.
There I was, dangling on the face of Mount Kilimanjaro. Well, not exactly dangling; more like sitting in a poorly assembled tent. Freezing to death. Well, maybe not to death, but it was pretty cold. There I was, sucking the moisture out of frozen rocks and twigs. Well, at least I thought about it.
After this exercise in luxury, the discarded water ran down the small hill and into our comfort-proof tents, which was generally how we woke up. In Kilimanjaro terms, we were roughing it. Daytime was generally cloudy, but the clear night sky afforded ample opportunity to stargaze. The view was magnificent, although I could never manage to see all those renowned constellations: bulls, crabs, hunters with designer belts, and so forth. I had enough trouble making out the pots, pans, and other kitchen appliances. We took a short”acclimatization walk” with our guide, Lucas, who had two rather unique qualities: He almost never answered the questions you asked him, which can get a bit frustrating when you need vital information, such as where the toilet is (his answer: “The sun will set in about two hours”); and he always carried a little transistor radio. Since Lucas was usually walking with us, we didn’t experience much of the park’s natural serenity. Instead, we were serenaded by everything from Ricky Martin to Bombay’s latest Hindi pop hits through a tin speaker. Of course, we hikers were not without our own quirks. We relentlessly badgered Lucas about the altitude. “How high are we now?” we’d ask every 10 minutes. Occasionally, Lucas would even answer us, sometimes with potentially correct information—meaning a figure that was higher than the one he’d given us 10 minutes before. The Most Poorly Equipped Team Ever
We scrambled up loose rock to a steep, 15-yard-wide ice patch. Without an ice ax or crampons, it was a sketchy traverse. One slip and you end up 75 yards down the mountain with your head wrapped around a rock. I took off my gloves and tried to dig my nails into the ice for added stability. There were a few close calls, but no one took the express ride down. After two more such crossings, we reached the bouldering portion of the climb. Shimmying up the rocks wouldn’t have been a problem a few thousand feet down the mountain, but at 18,000 feet our heads were spinning. I could hardly stand, and the wind picked up, freezing the sweat in our clothes.”Only two hours more to the summit,” Lucas declared as we reached the rim of the volcano after four hours of hiking. My heart sank. “I thought you said it was four hours to the top,” I mumbled, shivering and befuddled. Lucas had clearly doctored the figures to make this route more attractive, but the only realistic way down was to first press on to the top. A few hours overdue, the summit came into sight. “Look, it’s just up there. You made it. We’re the first ones,” Lucas declared. With that, he gave me a hearty slap on the back, knocking me a few yards back down the mountain. Miraculously, we reached the summit about 10 seconds before the sun’s first rays crept over the horizon. Exhausted, overwhelmed by the cold, rugged surroundings, and mesmerized by the fiery red ball rising before us, Claire began to cry. John, Jason, and I stood in silence, completely stunned, then grabbed our cameras and began snapping away. After five minutes of euphoria, my headache and dizziness abated. The effort was suddenly all worth it. None of the words I had read about reaching the top prepared me for the experience, and I’m certain neither my laptop nor camera can do it justice. Fifteen minutes later, the peak began crowding with hikers. It was time to head down. The lower we got, the more people we saw making early, altitude-sickness-related retreats. Seeing them turn back evoked an odd mixture of sympathy and affirmation of our accomplishment. The punishment for our success, I didn’t realize, was still ahead: a five-hour descent to our camp at 10,000 feet. This was, in some ways, more difficult than reaching the summit. As my feet and torso defrosted, my legs turned to rubber and my toes jammed into the front of my boots. By the time we reached camp, my blisters looked more like bullet wounds. After a muddy, three-hour limp to the bottom the following day, we were met by park rangers at the gate selling”Just Did It” T-shirts. It occurred to me that these were the first rangers I’d seen since I paid the $375 park entry fee six days before. Usage of the fees didn’t seem to extend more than five inches into the park. There has been zero upkeep on the trail, no shelters for the porters, and no rescue stations (although part of this money is meant for rescue operations). But the porters had the last laugh. When it came time to hand out tips, there were two porters on hand that I had never seen before. “We needed these men to run ahead and prepare the camp,” Lucas explained in dramatic fashion. This was a common ploy. Lucas and the others would later split the tips for our fictional porters—a whopping $10. |
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