CAN YOU CREDIT IT ?

In support of Jubilee 2000, the best-selling magazine Marie Claire, has dedicated its November issue to the 'Drop the Debt Campaign.' The magazine is led by an in-depth feature exploring how the debt crisis is affecting Tanzania, which is featured below. Gavin Rossdale, lead singer of the rock band, Bush, travelled to East Africa to discover why Tanzania needs more debt cancellation so urgently. Visits to schools and hospitals uncovered how vastly under-resourced public services are in countries that are forced to prioritise debt repayments over healthcare and education.

Together with the fashion house Armani, Marie Claire also unveiled an exclusive 'Drop the Debt' T-shirt in its November issue to raise funds for Jubilee 2000. The shirt is modelled in the pages of the magazine by celebrities including Muhammad Ali, Star Wars actor Ewan McGregor, rapper Puff Daddy and U2's Bono.

CAN YOU CREDIT IT?

Joanne Hawkins reports. Photographs by Peter Dench.

You wouldn't think they'd have much in common. He, the 32-year-old English rock star, more commonly used to staying in five-star hotels, flying first class and generally having all his whims catered for by his ever-attendant entourage. She, the 65-year-old sole survivor of a family wiped out by AIDS. She speaks no English, he no Swahili. But as they sit together on a plastic bench in a shabby AIDS centre in Tanzania's capital, Dar Es Salaam, the pair seem to take comfort from each other. He listens patiently as she tells him, via an interpreter, how her husband, son and daughter-in-law died of AIDS. She escaped the virus, but was penniless, and didn't receive any help from the state. For ten minutes he listens, nodding and gently encouraging her to go on.He senses that he is helping her. That telling a stranger is somehow cathartic for her. He too finds her story strangely comforting, a brief respite from a situation that is threatening to overwhelm him. Afterwards, he sits quietly, lost in his own thoughts. 'What chance did she have?' he asks. Later, he presses a few Tanzanian shillings into her hand. 'She wasn't asking for any money but I had to give her something,' he whispers.

When Marie Claire first discussed whom to send to Tanzania to see the effects of Third World debt, we didn't take long to settle on Gavin Rossdale, lead singer of Bush. We wanted someone who would ask the right questions and be passionate about getting something done. What we didn't want was a publicity-seeking celebrity out on a freebie jaunt. You know the type of thing, a few posed pictures with some orphans before a quick getaway on a first-class jet, back to their champagne lifestyle.

Gavin has variously been described as intelligent, thoughtful and deep. Instead of songs about boy-meets-girl, girl-meets-boy, etc, he writes about how HIV has affected a close friend, the devastation that follows a broken relationship, loneliness and death. He says he only draws on things that have changed him, things that are close to his heart. With album sales of 15 million and countless websites devoted to him, Gavin is a bona fide rock star. Even his much loved dog, Winston, is insured for a reputed $5 million. He lives in a beautiful Georgian house in London's Primrose Hill and counts Sadie Frost among his best friends. And if you haven't heard too much about him, well, that's because Bush are a British band who are massive in America, but are building up their fan base in Britain (and have had two hit singles in the UK, as Gavin points out).

In theory, Gavin shouldn't have been interested in spending four days travelling round Tanzania in a minibus with a Marie Claire journalist, a photographer and representative from the drop the debt charity, Jubilee 2000. He shouldn't have wanted to visit decrepit schools, with too few books and even fewer teachers, hospitals so dank and soul-destroying they make you want to cry, AIDS clinics and centres for homeless, orphaned children. After a year on the road, he should have wanted to go on holiday, like the other three members of his band. Or fly over to the States to see his girlfriend, Gwen Stefani, lead singer of No Doubt.

But after meeting Gavin at Dar Es Salaam's tiny airport, where he has flown after a couple of gigs in South Africa, I'm struck by how self-effacing and eager he is about the whole project. On the way into town, he fires questions at Jubilee 2000's Tim Hall, who has lived in the country and knows the problems first hand, and leans out the window, fascinated by his first glimpse of Tanzania. 'I thought it was the most amazing opportunity to come here. I never thought I'd come to a place like this or be involved in something so... altruistic,' he says, struggling to find the right word. 'I've always thought that if there was a way I could sort out a few difficult lives, then that would be a good way of somehow paying back what I've been blessed with.' Tanzania is in a mess. But the country's problems go largely unreported because, unlike its African neighbours, it hasn't had a civil war, famine or floods. Just crippling poverty, and although people are dying unnecessarily, it's not newsworthy, so the country rarely hits the headlines.

Tanzania is the third poorest country in the world, with more than 70 per cent of the 32 million population surviving on less than $1 (66p) a day. Life expectancy is 48 years and falling. More than 40 per cent of under-fives are malnourished and half the population has no access to clean water. One in twelve children never reaches the age of one.

After independence from Britain in 1961, Tanzania, like many developing countries, needed money to improve its infrastructure. It was offered loans by the West at extremely low interest rates and with no other way of getting the money it needed, it took them. But in the 1970s, a hike in interest rates, and a slump in prices for their exports, meant the debts increased. In order to survive, Tanzania was forced to borrow more to pay off its existing loans, starting the spiral of unpayable debt.The country now owes $6.4 billion in foreign debt (of which $188 million is owed to the UK) with no prospect of ever being able to pay it back. Last year, Tanzania paid $162 million to service this debt (paying back a mixture of interest and capital), compared to $154 million spent on education and just $87 million on health. Because of this crippling burden, Tanzania has qualified for the international Heavily Indebted Poor Countries initiative (HIPC) for debt relief. But to qualify for this scheme, countries have to fulfil strict conditions designed to restructure the economy, many of which have a negative impact on the poorest people. Tanzania has been obliged to remove food subsidies, so prices have gone up, and VAT has been added to goods and services. Public spending has been drastically reduced, and fees introduced for health and education.

After implementing these harsh reforms, Tanzania will receive only a seven per cent cut on future debt repayments – it will still have to pay back $150 million a year. Eventually, one third of the debt will be cancelled thanks to HIPC, which will leave at least $4 billion to be repaid – something Tanzania simply cannot afford. As Bush's songwriter, Gavin must be a multi-millionaire. How can he possibly relate to the poverty he witnesses throughout the trip? He bristles slightly at the question. 'I spent many poverty-stricken years myself, albeit on a British scale. I know what it's like to be in a hopeless situation, yet be so full of hope. Anyway, even though I'm doing pretty well compared to a lot of people, I haven't got enough to wipe out the debt. Only Bill Gates could afford to do that.'

Gavin is also at pains to point out what a normal bloke he is, mentioning on more than one occasion how he likes nothing better than a game of football with his mates. His regular bloke act does slip once or twice, though: on checking into the hotel, he's rather amused to see that Marie Claire has booked him a room in his own name rather than a pseudonym – the first time it's happened in six years. And when he starts talking about a great new invention in America – cashback – it's clear he hasn't lugged his shopping bags back from Sainsbury's for a few years.

Day one sees us at the Dogodogo Centre, in Dar Es Salaam, which looks after 120 homeless boys. The number of children living rough in the capital has risen dramatically in the past few years (in 1991, there were an estimated 250; now there are 3,500). As parents find themselves increasingly poverty-stricken, they can't afford to pay for their children's basic needs and some are left to fend for themselves. Some have been orphaned by the AIDS crisis. Boys fare worse than girls. As the centre's co-ordinator, Karume Ndobho, puts it, 'Girls are more useful around the home, whereas boys are often surplus to requirements. If the economic situation continues, the number of street children will carry on increasing.' Many are forced to resort to crime to survive.

The boys at Dogodogo are the lucky ones. At least they get food, education, medical assistance and a bed, albeit a thin mattress on a concrete floor. Gavin comments that the area where 50 boys sleep is smaller than his front room.

As we arrive, the air is thick with the shrieking and shouting you only get when a group of boys aged seven to seventeen get together. But what's surprising is the laughter – they seem in high spirits. When Gavin walks in, they fall silent, unsure of what to make of him. Today, Gavin has swapped his usual rock-star uniform – black sleeveless T-shirt, green combat trousers, black beany hat, battered Puma trainers – for what he jokingly calls his 'charity wear' (black short-sleeve shirt, green combat trousers, posher trainers). The boys are wearing a collection of T-shirts bought from the nearby second-hand clothes market at Manzese, many of which originated from Britain. One of the youngest is wearing a T-shirt with 2nd Ely Scouts (St. Mary's) proudly printed on the front, seemingly oblivious to the Cambridgeshire town or the scout movement.

The boys gaze wide-eyed as Gavin explains, rather haltingly and softly (he's really quite shy), that he wants to hear about their experiences, so he can make others understand what is happening in Tanzania. He tells them how he wanted to be a footballer before he became a musician, and when he mentions that he has brought a football for them, the boys break out into a spontaneous round of applause, the ice broken. After that, there's no stopping them. When Gavin asks if they've got any questions, 40 pairs of hands shoot up in the air. 'Will Gavin learn Swahili?' 'Are there homeless boys in the UK?' 'Why did Gavin swap football for music?' 'Are there boys the same colour as them where Gavin comes from?'

When he asks them what they want to do when they're older, their answers are touchingly optimistic. Kurwa, twelve, wants to be President, so 'he can help people'. Another wants to be a teacher for much the same reason. A doctor. A boss. One simply wants to be American. A few want to be musicians, no doubt newly influenced by Gavin. Later, softly spoken Dixon, fifteen, says he doesn't know what would have happened if the centre hadn't taken him in. 'I probably would have been dead by now if I'd stayed at home,' he says, referring to his abusive stepmother. Afterwards, Gavin raves about the 'spirit' of the boys. 'They were so positive, so open, so pure,' he says, sounding ever so slightly rock-starry. 'They'd be justified in being bitter, aggressive children but they all want to help their country, which is pretty awe-inspiring, especially when you think about how pissy us Westerners are. They were so full of hope.'

Despite the hard living conditions and grim economic outlook, hope seems very much in abundance in the places we visit. At the Mwanamakuka Primary School in the coastal town of Bagamoyo, three hours north of Dar Es Salaam by minibus, teachers and pupils happily make the best of things, despite a shortage of teachers (the Government has frozen recruitment to cut spending) and equipment. During the rainy season, water pours through the ill-fitting tin roof. The sportsmaster coaches the football team with a ball made of elastic bands and newspaper. That was until Gavin turns up with a new leather football and initiates a kick-about on the bumpy scrap of earth that serves as the football pitch (but not before he'd nipped back to the hotel to put on his old trainers). Gavin and his manager, Giles, went shopping in South Africa for footballs, colouring books, reading books and women's toiletries (including Matey bubble bath) before arriving in Tanzania. Before every place we visit, Gavin and Giles solemnly discuss what would be an appropriate gift, yet Gavin clearly feels frustrated that they didn't bring enough. 'At the school, the teachers were applauding us because we had brought along a few exercise books and pens, but it is so insignificant compared to what they really need. I wish I could have brought more with me, but even that wouldn't have been enough.' Gavin later arranges for a box of footballs to be sent over from England.

All the kids seem eager to learn. Fourteen-year-old Fidia Nkuiera tells me that 'education is the key of life'. She is eager to go on to secondary school to finish her education, but statistics say she probably won't. Only a meagre six per cent of girls in Tanzania make it that far.

A few minutes across town, the seven women of the Upendo Dunda Women's Cashew Nut Project are waiting for Gavin in the ramshackle building that serves as their business premises. 'We are worried that it could collapse at any moment,' says the chairperson, Jane Gogi. The women have made an effort to make it look better, hanging locally made khanga cloths to try to cover the peeling paint and holes in the ceiling. Bowls of cashew nuts are laid out for their guests.Jane explains that before the project was set up in March 1999, all the women involved had tried to make money by doing what they could, maybe selling vegetables at the local market or charcoal that they had collected. But their husbands often spent the money on themselves. By coming together, the women joke that their men cannot touch their profits. Gavin comments that this is girl power Tanzanian-style.Not that there is much profit. The process is dirty and back-breaking, as the nuts are blasted in a furnace and then shelled by hand. Their sole customer is the Sheraton Hotel in Dar Es Salaam. In a good month, the women might make 12,000 Tanzanian shillings (about £10) each.

But Gavin has a surprise. Hearing of the women's plight, he has bought them a $400 (£260) machine to shell the nuts in a fraction of the time. In fact, so keen is Gavin to help these women that he sends our local guide, Hamisi Msumi, and the driver back down the half-built road to Dar Es Salaam to fetch it, so that he can present it to the women himself. He's like a child with a secret as he excitedly waits for the right moment to unveil his gift. Predictably, the women are overwhelmed. Some even start to cry. Jane tells Gavin that her husband will be happy because when she touches him, her hands will be soft. Gavin is exhilarated. 'I'm so glad I've helped with their, er, intimate moments,' he laughs.

By the last day, the mood has changed. Everyone is subdued on the way to Bagamoyo's District Hospital. Maybe it's because we know there won't be quite so many smiling faces to greet us. Gavin's worried about what he's going to see. In fact, when he announced he was going to Tanzania, some of his friends were concerned about how the self-confessed 'sensitive' frontman would cope. 'People in unfortunate situations make me emotional,' he'd mused, a few days earlier. 'I can see someone on a train and they can have this aura, like something has beaten them up that day, and my heart goes out to them. But I knew my feelings and reactions to the place, however important to me, would be secondary to the issues we've come to find out about.' At the hospital, it's the same old story. People struggling to make the best of limited resources as the place collapses around them. But it's in this hospital, more than anywhere else we've visited, that we realise how badly Third World debt is affecting Tanzania. Dr Hamisi Nanjenu, the district medical officer, and one of only two doctors looking after 230,000 people in the local health region, says simply, 'Every year it gets worse. I need drugs, nurses and equipment.' He says that some patients die before they even get an appointment to see a doctor. Mrs Rehema Geni, the hospital's only qualified midwife, says, 'The ward is dirty because we don't even have a bucket to clean it with. I have to look after three wards, everybody wants me and I feel the situation is beyond my control. It frustrates me, because I don't think I'm performing my job properly.'

In Tanzania, a lot of diseases that are treatable in the West are killers. A piece of paper, roughly stuck on the wall of the women's ward, lists the top five diseases there as malaria, hypertension, incomplete abortions, anaemia and HIV. The AIDS crisis, which is ravaging sub-Saharan Africa (24 million people are HIV positive, 70 per cent of the world's total), is putting an additional burden on the system. In Tanzania, it's estimated that one in four adults between the ages of sixteen and 35 is HIV positive.

The United Nations estimates that 19,000 children die each day as a result of Third World debt. Two-year-old Mariam Ramadhani certainly wasn't aware of this statistic. But she did more to affect Gavin than anyone else he'd seen during his visit. As Gavin visited the hospital's children's ward, Mariam died. Just as we walk in, and are taking in the damp walls, the peeling paint and the rusty beds, a scramble in one corner alerts us to the fact that something is very wrong. The staff dash towards Mariam, as her family helplessly look on. A screen is pulled around her bed. Then we are swiftly ushered out, as a nurse solemnly shakes her head. Mariam was suffering from malaria and anaemia and died, owing the West £199, each Tanzanian's share of the debt.

Afterwards, everyone is silent, too stunned to talk about what we've just witnessed. Gavin mutters that we 'chose the worst moment imaginable to walk in'. But then we visit the hospital's maternity ward, and he's slightly comforted by a nine-hour-old baby. 'It was like the continuation of the cycle,' he says.

That evening, Gavin is in a reflective mood. He sits thoughtfully on his own, clearly struggling to make sense of his visit to Tanzania. He admits that Mariam's death has disturbed him greatly – 'The feelings have got stronger as we've gone through the day. I'm finding it quite upsetting to talk about it at the moment' – and says that witnessing her death was the most 'poignant moment imaginable'. 'I can't believe someone died in my presence. It's something that will stay with me forever. You can't witness a child dying and not be destroyed. I feel I just want to crawl into a hole for a while and reflect.

'I thought this trip would be a great leveller, but you can't really imagine the reality of it, the sheer blow of seeing what we've seen. I couldn't feel more fortunate right now to be nearly sitting on a plane heading out of here. Cowardly but true. The problems here are... bewildering,' he says. The events of the past few days have made him determined that Tanzania's debt should be wiped out. 'The problem is that it's not my debt. If it was up to me, I wouldn't ask for the money back,' says Gavin. 'But people should know how much help is needed here.

'The campaign led by Jubilee 2000 is unique because it isn't about giving money, it's about people getting up and persuading governments that these debts are killing people.'

This article first appeared in the November 2000 issue of Marie Claire

Copyright Marie Claire.

Recommend this page to a friend.