Filming in Africa: Tired But Committed

“You either win or you lose; it’s two way traffic,” says Wi, our friend and designated pikki-pikki driver, as he, Dave and I rattle through the bumpy dust roads of Rusinga one evening his motorbike’s light breaking the cooling night. He’s philosophising about gambling, but he could just as well be talking about filming a short documentary, which is what we’ve been doing for the past week. Our story is set in the fishing communities around Lake Victoria. 

For any filmmakers winnings and losses come in different guises. Not getting the sound kit to work on the first day of filming is probably a bit like having a terrible hand on your first round of the night. But on the other hand, having excellent local fixers is like having a good streak throughout the game. That of course is more than luck though; by the time I arrived last week Dave - never one to do things by halves - had already put together a shooting schedule and hired two local fixers to introduce us to potential characters and to translate. “Isn’t he cool,” I say to Dave referring to one of them, called John. “I think in a past life he used to be a cat,” replies Dave and that pretty much sums John up. A former fisherman he knows and is loved by everyone. Our other fixer is called Salmon, a beautifully articulate and polite man who slightly ironically is afraid of being on the lake.

And what about making a film with your boyfriend who’s on his first shoot? Well, we’ve both blown a fuse once or twice, because filming is always stressful, and with no commissioners, bosses or budget you can only rely on your own judgement. But for the most the two of us have formed an efficient good cop bad cop team: “I like being a producer, it allows me to be bossy and organised,” says Dave. Guess who’s the bad cop.

The real jackpot though for anyone trying to shoot stuff is finding good characters, people like Asha and Ezekiel. A gambling fisherman who lives with no care of tomorrow, behind Ezekiel’s ragged clothes and blood-shot eyes is a bright mind being slowly destroyed by the illicit brew he downs like water. “It’s to stay warm,” he explains swallowing a glassful just before setting on the waters. The fishermen here work from sunset to sunrise using kerosene lanterns to attract small fish called omena. Most of these men come from landlocked villages and so they never learnt to swim. “Parasites” says Asha, a 28-year-old mother when asked to describe some of the men. It’s a strong word but as a boat manager she’s regularly forced to sleep with fishermen to keep them working on her boat.   

In a different world these honest, flawed and brave people could be our friends. It’s easy to see Ezekiel’s brightness, jokey and articulate in English despite not having used the language for twenty years. There is a wisdom in Aisha that makes me feel she could be twice my age, not three years my younger. Maybe it’s a waste of energy to imagine a world where poverty doesn’t drive people into desperation but it’s a way of finding common ground. You win or you lose but crucially it’s two way traffic. Poverty simply isn’t a winning hand so there’s no nicety to end on but understanding the life choices that people make because of it and knowing the potential that lies behind it, well, maybe that’s one tiny step closer to something better.  

The Beginning

When people talk about Africa they make it sound like the scary Gruffalo from children’s stories. “are you ready for Africa?” friends at home asked me last week with wonder in their voices. “ah yes, that’s just Africa” travellers here quip exchanging experienced nods as they share their stories about delays, break-downs and quick fixes that seem to Western minds either ingenious or insane.

I’m in Kenya in a place called Rusinga Island. Confusingly it’s not an island, but it is on the shores of Lake Victoria and it consists of several small, rural fishing villages that are scattered a few miles between each other, connected by bumpy dirt roads filled with motorbike taxies - or ‘pikki-pikkis’ as they’re called - donkeys and carts, children in school uniforms and people carrying heavy containers on their heads. “This might not look like the road but it is” says Dave, gently pointing out that I’m walking in the middle of it and risk being run over. It’s him who’s brought me here: for the past two years, that I’ve been with Dave, his close ties to a local primary school called Alekii have become well known to all his family and friends. This time Dave has been here for two months already and we have one more to spend here together. 

As for me this is my first time in Africa and if I’m honest I’m glad to have some previous travel experience to my name. Not because there’s anything scary about it but it is just so damn different. We spend a day in Nairobi and on first impressions the city feels loud and impatient, with large, ugly birds hovering above it like fatalistic kites in contrasting silence to the busy streets below. The lack of materialistic stuff is more obvious than anywhere I’ve been. On arrival to Rusinga each pikki-pikki has to pay a small bribe to the police, just to get there. When we arrive, the power has been off for days not just from Rusinga but the whole county, and on my first visit to the outhouse a bat flies out of the toilet hole, upset by me peeing on it, hitting me in its panicked exit, making me scream and swear.

But my greatest surprise isn’t Africa, it’s my boyfriend. In two months of distance relationship, while I’ve taken upon myself to enjoy the great British summer for the two of us, my London-loving other half has transformed into a respected and much-loved village brother complete with banter in the local Luo language and a tribal nickname; he’s called Silual which means Brown. Although I have been aware of the affection the people here have for Dave and vice versa, it’s truly touching to see it for myself. Next week I’m looking forward to meeting the toddler David Jackson, who was named after Dave when he first came here two years ago.

Our two different summers meet in the middle in the banda-hut that is our home for the next two weeks; we are staying in a charming eco lodge that has a bed and running water. While Dave welcomes these creature comforts with excitement and happy smiles I find it hard to sleep amidst the cicadas’ night concert; the bed feels hard and on the first night the hot water isn’t actually working. I know I’m being treated like a princess and try to smile at my spoilt thoughts rather than be cross with myself for not adapting straight away. And soon my worries disappear, leaving me feeling happy and calm, like I’ve always been here and the distance between me and Dave was just a snap of fingers. If I encounter another bat I’ll still scream but maybe now after the first shock I’ll shrug my shoulders and nod knowingly: “Ah, that’s Africa.”