My final stop in Côté d'Ivoire, after the beautiful beaches near the Western city of San Pedro, was Man, once a tourist Mecca in Northern Côté d'Ivoire, now completely vacant except for the occasional adventurer like me. Man is the launching point for the fascinating villages in Yacouba (Dan) territory, an area known for it's masks, child juggling, and stilt dancing as well as beautiful mountain scenery and a climate quite a bit cooler than the rest of the country. However, during the crisis, Northern Côté d'Ivoire, especially around Man, suffered like nowhere else in the country. The guide books describe Man as one of the most beautiful inland Ivorian towns, and it would be if one were to look at it only in geographic terms. The city is known as The City of the Eighteen Mountains, and I'm sure that one hundred years ago, when Man was little more than a village surrounded by impressive forest-covered hills, it was one of the most beautiful places in this part of the world. However, illegal logging has devastated the surrounding hills, and the crisis has done much worse to the city of Man.
Man is, quite frankly, one of the dirtiest, most filthy, unattractive cities I've seen in West Africa. And that's saying a lot. I've traveled through cities in Niger, Burkina Faso, and Mali, Sahelian countries all with less money and resources for community clean-up and beautification than Man. At one point, tourist money poured in to this area. Now only ruins remain of the many banks, hotels, and restaurants that made Man a target for wealthy Europeans. The main market burned down before the crisis and wasn't ever rebuilt because of the fighting. Fabulous hotels like La Cascade are now dirty shells with a haunted feel, like a broken boom town remembering it's former inhabitants. The largest building in town, a former bank, has been stripped down to the foundations. The streets that are paved are cracked and broken. Those that aren't cover everything in town with a fine, red dust whenever a car passes. Unlike the rest of Côté d'Ivoire, including the northern, rebel-held city of Bouaké, Man has no one to clean the streets or muck out the sewer drains. Trash is everywhere, the sewage just sits in open-air troughs. The UN presence, visible everywhere in Côté d'Ivoire, is especially felt in the roaming Land Cruisers that seem to outnumber taxis.
But perhaps the worst hit are Man's residents. They seem in stasis. By now, I've become used to tourists cities like Djenné and Timbuktu, where children cry for pens and any guy on the street is a potential guide. These problems exist in Man as well, but they're further exasperated by the fact that you're the only target in town. I saw no other travelers in my three days there. The tour guides and hotels are desperate for any kind of business. It's definitely a buyer's market for the intrepid types who make it up that far. My guide, who wanted to take me to many places I couldn't afford told me that before the crisis, he used to be able to combine poor travelers like me with wealthier groups for trips to outlying villages to see mask ceremonies, ritual dances, and natural wonders like Mt. Tonkoui, the country's second highest mountain. With me, we walked out the five kilometers to the cascades, flowing lively with an out-of-season rain the night before and stopped on the way back by the sacred forest, where monkeys very accustomed to Europeans seem to melt out of the forest looking for food from excited tourists.
At the end of the short tour, we sat in the shade and he gave me the long and the short of Man's troubles. At the cascades, he'd pointed out the ruined buvette, looted during the war. The gazebos and picnic areas, popular with locals for a weekend getaway are rotting away after almost five years of neglect. The tourists haven't come back. The local people haven't had a reason to reinvest in their natural wonders. La Dent de Man, the sacred mountain, which was once a popular day hike is now so overgrown that the trail has closed in on itself. Nearby Danané's vine bridge is no longer there. I was one of only a handful of tourists he'd worked with in the past year. I decided to hike La Dent de Man the next day with some local kids. It was supposed to be a four-hour hike. It turned in to six hours of the hardest hiking I think I've ever done. The trail is now nothing more than a hunting path, and not even a very clear one at that. Two kids went with me because they needed one another to find the path. Along the way, I quizzed them about the amount of business they'd had recently. It used to be there'd be dozens and dozens of hikers in the high season because of it's close proximity to town. There were fifteen total this month (I didn't ask if that included me), which would have been a slow afternoon during this time of year before the fighting broke out.
Perhaps most interesting, and horrifying, for me were the stories of local people. Man experienced three major attacks during the crisis. The rebels attacked first. The local people, unsupportive of both government and rebels, fought back somewhat, but really stood little chance. When the government counterattacked a few months later, they took all the men who understood Mandé to a field for questioning. The Mandinka were supposed to be the leaders of the rebellion. This was told to me by my tour guide, Touré, who is a Dan but knows some Mandé. He came back. Others didn't. By the time the rebels attacked the city again, all utilities had been cut. I heard from more than one person how they hid under the beds at night and tried to fall asleep to the sounds of gunfire, mortars, and rocket attack.
My time in Man was spent with a Volunteer named Martin working with the UN mission for the upcoming elections, if they ever indeed come. He and his girlfriend Sarah gave me a lot of insight into the violence and its causes. It's the same as many other conflicts in Africa: populist leaders stirring up inter-ethnic disputes both among native Ivorians but especially focused on immigrants from neighboring Burkina Faso, Mali, and Guinea. Ancient land disputes never resolved. Neighboring political issues spilling over the border. Rebel militias never demobilized. Colonial ambitions that remain in place fifty years after independence. Unscrupulous Western gun-merchants quick to cash in on conflict. The list could go on and on.
But despite all the problems, it does appear that there's hope for Man. The UN has moved out of the local hotels and there are no longer blue helmets on the ground. While I was there, I noticed a new hotel going up, and one lone bank has a small office and ATM in town. The post office has been rebuilt, and with any luck, the villagers will start to rehabilitate their "traditional" villages. Man is showing signs of life, but, as with everywhere else in Côté d'Ivoire, it's waiting tentatively for new elections to bring a stable peace to the country. Much like other popular tourists destinations, Agadez in Niger or Timbuktu in Mali, the rebellion hasn't been good for the city. But, with any luck, peace will come soon and restore hope to Man.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Parisian Life in Abidjan
Near arrests aside, Côté d'Ivoire has been a pretty crazy experience after traveling through the Sahel region for six weeks. Even more so than Benin, Togo, and Ghana, which if you've been following this blog for a while (and if you have, barka!), Côté d'Ivoire seems to be the promised land. Any kind of fruit you want, you can find it here, being sold on the street by crinkly old Ivorian ladies. The streets are paved and generally goat-free. And then there's Abidjan. If I thought Yamoussoukro was a beacon of development, I can only say that Abidjan put it to shame.
I originally had very little desire to visit Côté d'Ivoire. The country went through a political crisis only a few years ago and seems on the verge of another if elections don't work out. The northern half of the country was reportedly off-limits and, like Niger, the north is where all the cool stuff seemed to be. But I was drawn to the country by Ms. Emilie Ross, the Volunteer who opened Tanka Lokoto, my village in Niger. I'd heard so much about her from my villagers that I felt I knew before I even met her. She's working in Abidjan for the moment, so it seemed pretty convenient to rendre a visit to see her and trade stories.
I wasn't ready for Abidjan. I can just say that outright. As I pulled into the Adjamé district, I thought it looked like every other capital city I'd been to in West Africa. That's because in Adjamé you can feel the crush of every other part of West Africa surging around you. It's where most of the immigrants live. People packed shoulder to shoulder, pressing through thronging masses swirling through the streets among animals, street vendors, and motos. The guy that picked me up, Charles, said that there were no Ivorians living in Adjamé. I don't know about that, but Adjamé is kind of unique in Abidjan, a little piece of Niamey, Bamako, or Ouagadougou thrown into the middle of a developed, cosmopolitan city.
After traveling throughout the Sahel, you can't help but be wowed by Abidjan. Coming across the lagoon, you get a look at Plateau, the business district, and you'd be forgiven if you thought you'd jumped through time and space to arrive in Miami in the late 70s. It seems seconds away from taking off and becoming a major player in the region. But then you realize that it already is a major player and has been for decades. Abidjan's high rises are unlike anything I've seen in the rest of Africa. The amount of money here from the port, the cocoa, the palm oil, lumber, rubber, etc probably surpasses all of Niger's GDP. This is definitely a city that, if I had the money, I could spend some time in. So many restaurants, hotels, clubs, shops. It's been called the Paris of West Africa, and I think this is appropriate. There's little African about large sections of the city. I felt my traveling wear and tear seeing men in tailored suits and women in nice Western-style outfits, hair in weaves or under stylish wigs, and "designer" handbags (most in West Africa are fake, but I'm sure there are plenty here that are real). Class is defined by whether you wear pagne fabric in the African style or if you ape Western culture and dress. I will be the first to admit that I looked lower class, but how else could I look after six weeks on the road?
But I didn't come to Abidjan to feel bad about my rugged, weathered exterior. I came to trade Tanka stories and that's what I did. Besides, my budget didn't work for a city like Abidjan. The cheapest, seediest hotels were outside my price range, and luckily I had a place to stay. Emilie was very open and friendly, but what struck me most about our time together was how unique our experiences were. Despite living in the same village for two years, we had different friends, different work, different lives. We served only a year apart from one another, but in that year, kids grew older, families moved in or out, children were born, older people died. My favorite kid in village, my little attakurmizo, was born while she served. His older brother Zedu was his carbon copy for her service. Children that she saw all the time weren't around much because they are now in school. And, of course, the biggest difference in predominately-Muslim Niger is our gender. Emilie spent most of her time with the women. I spent hardly any time with the women as it's just not done, and whereas a Western woman can break into men's circles, it's very very difficult for a man to do the same with women. If for no other reason than because they are always working. But despite our different experiences, we did have a mini-reunion with a villager who now lives in Côté d'Ivoire, bringing the experience full circle and reminding both of us of how great an impact Peace Corps has had on our lives.
I originally had very little desire to visit Côté d'Ivoire. The country went through a political crisis only a few years ago and seems on the verge of another if elections don't work out. The northern half of the country was reportedly off-limits and, like Niger, the north is where all the cool stuff seemed to be. But I was drawn to the country by Ms. Emilie Ross, the Volunteer who opened Tanka Lokoto, my village in Niger. I'd heard so much about her from my villagers that I felt I knew before I even met her. She's working in Abidjan for the moment, so it seemed pretty convenient to rendre a visit to see her and trade stories.
I wasn't ready for Abidjan. I can just say that outright. As I pulled into the Adjamé district, I thought it looked like every other capital city I'd been to in West Africa. That's because in Adjamé you can feel the crush of every other part of West Africa surging around you. It's where most of the immigrants live. People packed shoulder to shoulder, pressing through thronging masses swirling through the streets among animals, street vendors, and motos. The guy that picked me up, Charles, said that there were no Ivorians living in Adjamé. I don't know about that, but Adjamé is kind of unique in Abidjan, a little piece of Niamey, Bamako, or Ouagadougou thrown into the middle of a developed, cosmopolitan city.
After traveling throughout the Sahel, you can't help but be wowed by Abidjan. Coming across the lagoon, you get a look at Plateau, the business district, and you'd be forgiven if you thought you'd jumped through time and space to arrive in Miami in the late 70s. It seems seconds away from taking off and becoming a major player in the region. But then you realize that it already is a major player and has been for decades. Abidjan's high rises are unlike anything I've seen in the rest of Africa. The amount of money here from the port, the cocoa, the palm oil, lumber, rubber, etc probably surpasses all of Niger's GDP. This is definitely a city that, if I had the money, I could spend some time in. So many restaurants, hotels, clubs, shops. It's been called the Paris of West Africa, and I think this is appropriate. There's little African about large sections of the city. I felt my traveling wear and tear seeing men in tailored suits and women in nice Western-style outfits, hair in weaves or under stylish wigs, and "designer" handbags (most in West Africa are fake, but I'm sure there are plenty here that are real). Class is defined by whether you wear pagne fabric in the African style or if you ape Western culture and dress. I will be the first to admit that I looked lower class, but how else could I look after six weeks on the road?
But I didn't come to Abidjan to feel bad about my rugged, weathered exterior. I came to trade Tanka stories and that's what I did. Besides, my budget didn't work for a city like Abidjan. The cheapest, seediest hotels were outside my price range, and luckily I had a place to stay. Emilie was very open and friendly, but what struck me most about our time together was how unique our experiences were. Despite living in the same village for two years, we had different friends, different work, different lives. We served only a year apart from one another, but in that year, kids grew older, families moved in or out, children were born, older people died. My favorite kid in village, my little attakurmizo, was born while she served. His older brother Zedu was his carbon copy for her service. Children that she saw all the time weren't around much because they are now in school. And, of course, the biggest difference in predominately-Muslim Niger is our gender. Emilie spent most of her time with the women. I spent hardly any time with the women as it's just not done, and whereas a Western woman can break into men's circles, it's very very difficult for a man to do the same with women. If for no other reason than because they are always working. But despite our different experiences, we did have a mini-reunion with a villager who now lives in Côté d'Ivoire, bringing the experience full circle and reminding both of us of how great an impact Peace Corps has had on our lives.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
In to Rebel Territory in Côté d'Ivoire
This is taken directly from my journal, written 17 January 2010 at 6:40 pm. I'm going to rate this one PG-13 for most readers and for those of you in my immediate family...maybe it's just better not to read this one. You'll sleep better at night.
I've been in Côté d'Ivoire less than twelve hours, and I've already been threatened with jail time. Scariest fucking experience of the trip so far, although I was surprisingly calm throughout the whole thing. Nervous for sure, but not outright afraid that I would wind up in the military barracks being questioned in a language I don't have enough faculty in to make my case against espionage. Honestly, I was more worried about losing my camera for the rest of this trip.
So what did I do? I admit I stupidly took a picture of something I shouldn't have. It's too stupid to even mention what the object in question was. However, I'll put it out there anyway for entertainment's sake. As I was walking back from town (this is Bouaké, Côté d'Ivoire), the setting sun formed a perfect red orb just hanging low in the sky. A perfect picture for my first night in Côté d'Ivoire...a tranquil end to a tranquil day, this setting sun...right over the headquarters of the New Forces, the rebel army that controls all of Northern Côté d'Ivoire. Their capital is Bouaké. Fucking idiot. (The completely oblivious as to the GIANT F***ING SIGN type of idiot.) As I walked away, a civilian on a bike rode up and said, "The soldiers want to talk to you." I turned to see a heavily armed and armored man running toward me, and he was soon joined by two more, all equally pissed off. I, of course, immediately erased the pictures, but it didn't help my case that my dumb ass French kept telling these armed men, "I tried, I tried (essayer)," instead of "I erased, I erased (effacer)." Again...fucking idiot. We walked for about a block, them all the while yelling at me. We would stop, a civilian was trying to help my case by explaining that I had, indeed, erased the pictures. Walk another block...more yelling. It's not a film camera, it's digital. Walk another block...more yelling, it seems that it's really only one guy who's still pissed off. One seems on my side now, and the third's just indifferent. "If you want, I'll try the whole thing!" (Again, despite the fact that the civilian keeps saying effacer, I keep using essayer. At one point, I'm pretty sure the soldier who was on my side said that this proves I was just a dumbass.)
But, here I am now, none the worse for wear and a healthy lesson behind me for the rest of my time here. So much for Peace Corps no longer helping me out though. I'm convinced my crappy French and my Peace Corps-issued passport saved my ass. It's what convinced them that I was just a stupid tourist (which I am) instead of some savvy French intelligence worker. The entire day, I'd been thinking how lucky I was not to have had any major problems on the road. I only paid 600 cfa in "tolls" at the border and at the checkpoints near Bouaké. There was an attempted 1000 cfa charge at the border, but, in the end, it was actually kind of sad. The rebel troops, most didn't have boots or guns. Their camoflage looked like it had been bought in the local market. The kid, and I say kid because he was probably younger than me, originally told me to pay 2000 cfa (around $5). I told him I wouldn't pay it. His next offer was 1000 cfa. I again said I wouldn't pay it. My papers were in order, and there was no reason for me to pay any more than I'd already paid to get in to a country no one wants to go to. The passports were within reach of the window, and the kid didn't seem very sure of himself in the extortion department, so when he turned away, I just grabbed my passport and walked back to the bus. No problems. Maybe that was stupid, but it worked, and it got me away without having to participate in any kind of corruption.
I'm in Yamoussoukro now, and looking back, I can only think of Bouaké as a time bomb. If elections don't go through freely and fairly in the next couple months (they've already been pushed back twice), there's going to be all sorts of hell break loose. In Bouaké, it seemed as if there were soldiers everywhere. A lot of people near the New Forces barracks seemed on edge. It's easy to see why with so many guns all over the place. I met an Ivorian woman on the bus named Natalie. She is from Bouaké but studies in Ouagadougou. She said she loved to dance and go to the clubs (which always surprises me after two years in conservative Niger), and when I asked her about the clubs in Bouaké, she said she never goes. Not anymore. Not since the crisis; there are too many soldiers. And that's how they refer to the fighting that occurred a few years ago: as "the crisis."
Yamoussoukro feels as if it's a world away. Whereas Bouaké was marked by tension, I feel as if this city, the nation's political capital, is marked by absurdity. The streets are all about six lanes wide, with plenty of orange light bathing the pavement at night. This is one of the first African cities in which I've felt truly safe walking alone after dark. That's because it's actually a bit brighter than it is in the day. You can see down the street to the horizon in any direction. We may take street lighting for granted in America, but it's definitely not the same in Africa. This is one of the few cities I've been in with street lighting of any kind, and it's everywhere! But the funniest thing is, despite their absurd dimensions and development, no one's walking or driving these streets! It's as if you put Atlanta's interstate system smack dab in the middle of Flora, IN. (And if you're reading this and don't know where that is...that's kind of the point.)
That's the most obvious characteristic of this city actually: a complete disregard for sensible civic planning. The city's four major monuments: the Basilique de Notre Dame de la Paix, the Hotel President, the Maison de President, and the Fondation Houphouët-Boigny are, like the streets, absurdly immense with little to no human activity warranting their proportion. All four tower over the city. In fact, I've been using them as landmarks in my jaunts around town as they're so absurdly prominent on the skyline. The Basilica is a leviathan. It's the first thing you see upon entering the city from the North. I walked there (as I walk everywhere, in this case a big mistake as the buildings' immensity makes them look deceptively closer than they are) and chose the wrong gate. Instead of letting me cross the basilica grounds, I had to leave and walk around. A walk which took me 15 minutes!
The basilica is basically a carbon copy of St. Peter's in Rome, but built slightly lower at the Pope's request. However, the massive golden cross which tops the basilica, if added to the height, makes it the tallest church in Christendom. It seats 7000 people inside, with standing room for 11,000 and a courtyard that can hold 300,000. All in a country with a little over a million Catholics. But perhaps the most ridiculous aspect of the entire thing is that there is absolutely nothing African about it. It looks like something ripped from an Italian holy city and deposited in the middle of an Ivorian bog. Gorgeous marble though, and the most beautiful stained glass I've ever seen, which is saying something considering I've been through almost every Notre Dame in France. The guidebook says there are over 7400 square meters of stained glass in 5000 different shades of color. I don't even know how that is possible, but at sunset, with the colors spilling across the sanctuary floor like melted candy, I'd believe it.
I could go on with descriptions of the Presidential Hotel and the Fondation, but I think you get my point. In the end, Yamoussoukro's streets and monolithic buildings seem to stand for what a leader can do with nearly unlimited power and resources. Before 1950, Yamoussoukro was just a village, and in the course of his presidency, Felix Houphouët-Boigny built it into a marvel of Africa to glorify himself and his ancestors. It is, I assume, a source of great national pride, but I found myself asking, "How many Ivorians have actually seen the capital's splendor?" But I feel as if I can't be critical, because after two years in Africa (celebrated that anniversary just last week), I also have to ask, "Would the money have actually been better spent if it hadn't gone to buid this city that is basically a monument to one man?" At least Côté d'Ivoire has Yamoussoukro as a source of national pride. I doubt the same could be said for many other countries whose national wealth went right into their big bosses' bank accounts.
I've been in Côté d'Ivoire less than twelve hours, and I've already been threatened with jail time. Scariest fucking experience of the trip so far, although I was surprisingly calm throughout the whole thing. Nervous for sure, but not outright afraid that I would wind up in the military barracks being questioned in a language I don't have enough faculty in to make my case against espionage. Honestly, I was more worried about losing my camera for the rest of this trip.
So what did I do? I admit I stupidly took a picture of something I shouldn't have. It's too stupid to even mention what the object in question was. However, I'll put it out there anyway for entertainment's sake. As I was walking back from town (this is Bouaké, Côté d'Ivoire), the setting sun formed a perfect red orb just hanging low in the sky. A perfect picture for my first night in Côté d'Ivoire...a tranquil end to a tranquil day, this setting sun...right over the headquarters of the New Forces, the rebel army that controls all of Northern Côté d'Ivoire. Their capital is Bouaké. Fucking idiot. (The completely oblivious as to the GIANT F***ING SIGN type of idiot.) As I walked away, a civilian on a bike rode up and said, "The soldiers want to talk to you." I turned to see a heavily armed and armored man running toward me, and he was soon joined by two more, all equally pissed off. I, of course, immediately erased the pictures, but it didn't help my case that my dumb ass French kept telling these armed men, "I tried, I tried (essayer)," instead of "I erased, I erased (effacer)." Again...fucking idiot. We walked for about a block, them all the while yelling at me. We would stop, a civilian was trying to help my case by explaining that I had, indeed, erased the pictures. Walk another block...more yelling. It's not a film camera, it's digital. Walk another block...more yelling, it seems that it's really only one guy who's still pissed off. One seems on my side now, and the third's just indifferent. "If you want, I'll try the whole thing!" (Again, despite the fact that the civilian keeps saying effacer, I keep using essayer. At one point, I'm pretty sure the soldier who was on my side said that this proves I was just a dumbass.)
But, here I am now, none the worse for wear and a healthy lesson behind me for the rest of my time here. So much for Peace Corps no longer helping me out though. I'm convinced my crappy French and my Peace Corps-issued passport saved my ass. It's what convinced them that I was just a stupid tourist (which I am) instead of some savvy French intelligence worker. The entire day, I'd been thinking how lucky I was not to have had any major problems on the road. I only paid 600 cfa in "tolls" at the border and at the checkpoints near Bouaké. There was an attempted 1000 cfa charge at the border, but, in the end, it was actually kind of sad. The rebel troops, most didn't have boots or guns. Their camoflage looked like it had been bought in the local market. The kid, and I say kid because he was probably younger than me, originally told me to pay 2000 cfa (around $5). I told him I wouldn't pay it. His next offer was 1000 cfa. I again said I wouldn't pay it. My papers were in order, and there was no reason for me to pay any more than I'd already paid to get in to a country no one wants to go to. The passports were within reach of the window, and the kid didn't seem very sure of himself in the extortion department, so when he turned away, I just grabbed my passport and walked back to the bus. No problems. Maybe that was stupid, but it worked, and it got me away without having to participate in any kind of corruption.
I'm in Yamoussoukro now, and looking back, I can only think of Bouaké as a time bomb. If elections don't go through freely and fairly in the next couple months (they've already been pushed back twice), there's going to be all sorts of hell break loose. In Bouaké, it seemed as if there were soldiers everywhere. A lot of people near the New Forces barracks seemed on edge. It's easy to see why with so many guns all over the place. I met an Ivorian woman on the bus named Natalie. She is from Bouaké but studies in Ouagadougou. She said she loved to dance and go to the clubs (which always surprises me after two years in conservative Niger), and when I asked her about the clubs in Bouaké, she said she never goes. Not anymore. Not since the crisis; there are too many soldiers. And that's how they refer to the fighting that occurred a few years ago: as "the crisis."
Yamoussoukro feels as if it's a world away. Whereas Bouaké was marked by tension, I feel as if this city, the nation's political capital, is marked by absurdity. The streets are all about six lanes wide, with plenty of orange light bathing the pavement at night. This is one of the first African cities in which I've felt truly safe walking alone after dark. That's because it's actually a bit brighter than it is in the day. You can see down the street to the horizon in any direction. We may take street lighting for granted in America, but it's definitely not the same in Africa. This is one of the few cities I've been in with street lighting of any kind, and it's everywhere! But the funniest thing is, despite their absurd dimensions and development, no one's walking or driving these streets! It's as if you put Atlanta's interstate system smack dab in the middle of Flora, IN. (And if you're reading this and don't know where that is...that's kind of the point.)
That's the most obvious characteristic of this city actually: a complete disregard for sensible civic planning. The city's four major monuments: the Basilique de Notre Dame de la Paix, the Hotel President, the Maison de President, and the Fondation Houphouët-Boigny are, like the streets, absurdly immense with little to no human activity warranting their proportion. All four tower over the city. In fact, I've been using them as landmarks in my jaunts around town as they're so absurdly prominent on the skyline. The Basilica is a leviathan. It's the first thing you see upon entering the city from the North. I walked there (as I walk everywhere, in this case a big mistake as the buildings' immensity makes them look deceptively closer than they are) and chose the wrong gate. Instead of letting me cross the basilica grounds, I had to leave and walk around. A walk which took me 15 minutes!
The basilica is basically a carbon copy of St. Peter's in Rome, but built slightly lower at the Pope's request. However, the massive golden cross which tops the basilica, if added to the height, makes it the tallest church in Christendom. It seats 7000 people inside, with standing room for 11,000 and a courtyard that can hold 300,000. All in a country with a little over a million Catholics. But perhaps the most ridiculous aspect of the entire thing is that there is absolutely nothing African about it. It looks like something ripped from an Italian holy city and deposited in the middle of an Ivorian bog. Gorgeous marble though, and the most beautiful stained glass I've ever seen, which is saying something considering I've been through almost every Notre Dame in France. The guidebook says there are over 7400 square meters of stained glass in 5000 different shades of color. I don't even know how that is possible, but at sunset, with the colors spilling across the sanctuary floor like melted candy, I'd believe it.
I could go on with descriptions of the Presidential Hotel and the Fondation, but I think you get my point. In the end, Yamoussoukro's streets and monolithic buildings seem to stand for what a leader can do with nearly unlimited power and resources. Before 1950, Yamoussoukro was just a village, and in the course of his presidency, Felix Houphouët-Boigny built it into a marvel of Africa to glorify himself and his ancestors. It is, I assume, a source of great national pride, but I found myself asking, "How many Ivorians have actually seen the capital's splendor?" But I feel as if I can't be critical, because after two years in Africa (celebrated that anniversary just last week), I also have to ask, "Would the money have actually been better spent if it hadn't gone to buid this city that is basically a monument to one man?" At least Côté d'Ivoire has Yamoussoukro as a source of national pride. I doubt the same could be said for many other countries whose national wealth went right into their big bosses' bank accounts.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
An Updated Festival and on to Ivory Coast
I've had some time on my hands in Ouagadougou (Burkina Faso), and I've spent most of it sleeping. I probably should be updating, telling stories of adventure in the desert, etc. But honestly, I've had to spend the last few days recuperating from all my adventures, and it's only now that I've gotten up the energy to write anything at all. You may think a Festival in the Desert is all fun and games, but it's seriously tiring. The artists played every night until about 4 in the morning. It'd be a stamina contest even without the freezing desert nights and days which felt as if you'd taken up residence in a brick oven. Unless you had a hotel room somewhere in the city (which I didn't), it was pretty difficult to get more than two or three hours sleep a night.
I'll take this as a side note: Timbuktu proved to me that I'm still not ready to return to America until they've officially outlawed winter. I kept trying to see my breath, swearing up and down in the sleep-deprived 3am jam sessions that it had to be below freezing. It wasn't. At the worst of my cold-addled dementia, I called my dad and said, "It's SO cold here!" "...We're getting six to eight inches of snow tonight." "Fine, you win. I'm never coming home."
I've gotten only jealousy from fellow Volunteers after telling them I just came back from the Festival. As Peace Corps Volunteers, we're treated the same as embassy workers, which means if they State Department puts out an alert or a warning, as in the case of Timbuktu and specifically the Festival, we're not allowed to go. However, thanks to the terrorists (jerks) I ended my service early and didn't have any restrictions. Hell, I could've even driven a moto up there (we're not allowed on motos in Peace Corps). So...sometimes every bastard terrorist provides a silver lining, which he then promptly kidnaps and holds for ransom (jerk).
The questions I've been getting? "Was it expensive?" So expensive...but so worth it. No more expensive than a festival in the U.S. or Europe, but such a unique experience. "Who was your favorite?" That's an impossible question to answer, if in part just because there was no schedule for who was playing when, and it was kind of hard to know who was who unless you had a real background in West African music. Which I don't. In fact, I would have to admit that I could never work for Rolling Stone. I don't pretend to know a lot about music. I get most of my music through word of mouth and Internet radio stations, so I can't really speak to melodies, harmonies, movements, modes, etc. I didn't even know who Tinariwin was before I went to this concert (I do now, and they're awesome!). But that's why you go to something like this right? If I weren't already in West Africa at the right time and within spitting distance of the right place, I probably wouldn't have gone, but things just worked out right. And it's an experience, am I right? Very few other people in the world can say they've been to a desert music festival and seen some of the greatest musicians of one of the most vibrant music scenes in all of Africa all in one place.
So who did I like? Who should you check out? Well the aforementioned Tinariwin was a treat. They're kind of the reason the whole festival actually exists. Their music was the voice of an entire people. Resistance music the likes of which the 60s couldn't have imagined. They were actually banned at one time by the Malian government, but their sound still traveled the country on bootleg cassettes. They played the first night of the concert, when it seemed like the entire city of Timbuktu had snuck in to the concert. That was the best part about that first night. The music, no matter how good it was, took a backseat to watching Tuareg and Songhaï, Fula and Bella rock out to an iconic national group. Vieux Farka Touré was particularly great in a tribute to his father, the late Ali Farka Touré, who died back in 2006. Amadou and Mariam, who began to hit it big on the hipster scene in America a few years ago, rocked out in the final jam session of the third night to wild applause. But perhaps my favorite, a Niger staple, was Mamar Kassey, a jazz/pop group whose music I'd always heard in Niger and never liked. It's because, like Tinariwin, all the cassettes I'd ever heard were on their fourth trip through the piracy chain and usually played full blast through crappy Chinese speakers that had survived God only knows what natural disaster to end up in the desert, filled with sand and shattered dreams (or something like that). I had to give props to Mamer Kassey, if for no other reason than because they're from Niger, but also because they rocked it out. It's hard to jam on a flute! It also helped a bit that they were the only band that played anything I'd ever heard before that night. Are you looking these people up? Seriously now, why are you even reading this if you aren't interested in seeing what I've seen? Go find some youtube videos! I'm not saying I'm fully converted to high-pitched, nasal singing, which is kind of standard in griot music, but I do have to say that the experience, like so much else in this world, is radically transformed by the performance, something unique in every time and place in which it takes place. It's the same difference between film and theatre, a vibrancy that is diminished when a living, breathing human being exudes a palpable presence from a few feet away. It's a feeling of being alive and totally within a moment, and technology has yet to take that desire for contact and immediacy away from us.
Well, to sum things up, I'm fully rested and recovered now, as I hope this post shows. It's a good thing too, since I'm on my way down to Côté d'Ivoire tonight to continue my journey across West Africa. I'll be in Bouaké, capital of the rebel New Forces, by tomorrow afternoon, and hopefully well on my way into the less civil war-prone south the day after. If you're reading this as I'm posting it, wish me luck, because I'm sure I'll need it, if nothing else than to deal with the graft. I've met a lot of people who are interested in this section of my trip: no Peace Corps to fall back on in a country not known for stability since a civil war a few years ago. I'll keep everyone posted and hope to have only good things to say in my next post.
I'll take this as a side note: Timbuktu proved to me that I'm still not ready to return to America until they've officially outlawed winter. I kept trying to see my breath, swearing up and down in the sleep-deprived 3am jam sessions that it had to be below freezing. It wasn't. At the worst of my cold-addled dementia, I called my dad and said, "It's SO cold here!" "...We're getting six to eight inches of snow tonight." "Fine, you win. I'm never coming home."
I've gotten only jealousy from fellow Volunteers after telling them I just came back from the Festival. As Peace Corps Volunteers, we're treated the same as embassy workers, which means if they State Department puts out an alert or a warning, as in the case of Timbuktu and specifically the Festival, we're not allowed to go. However, thanks to the terrorists (jerks) I ended my service early and didn't have any restrictions. Hell, I could've even driven a moto up there (we're not allowed on motos in Peace Corps). So...sometimes every bastard terrorist provides a silver lining, which he then promptly kidnaps and holds for ransom (jerk).
The questions I've been getting? "Was it expensive?" So expensive...but so worth it. No more expensive than a festival in the U.S. or Europe, but such a unique experience. "Who was your favorite?" That's an impossible question to answer, if in part just because there was no schedule for who was playing when, and it was kind of hard to know who was who unless you had a real background in West African music. Which I don't. In fact, I would have to admit that I could never work for Rolling Stone. I don't pretend to know a lot about music. I get most of my music through word of mouth and Internet radio stations, so I can't really speak to melodies, harmonies, movements, modes, etc. I didn't even know who Tinariwin was before I went to this concert (I do now, and they're awesome!). But that's why you go to something like this right? If I weren't already in West Africa at the right time and within spitting distance of the right place, I probably wouldn't have gone, but things just worked out right. And it's an experience, am I right? Very few other people in the world can say they've been to a desert music festival and seen some of the greatest musicians of one of the most vibrant music scenes in all of Africa all in one place.
So who did I like? Who should you check out? Well the aforementioned Tinariwin was a treat. They're kind of the reason the whole festival actually exists. Their music was the voice of an entire people. Resistance music the likes of which the 60s couldn't have imagined. They were actually banned at one time by the Malian government, but their sound still traveled the country on bootleg cassettes. They played the first night of the concert, when it seemed like the entire city of Timbuktu had snuck in to the concert. That was the best part about that first night. The music, no matter how good it was, took a backseat to watching Tuareg and Songhaï, Fula and Bella rock out to an iconic national group. Vieux Farka Touré was particularly great in a tribute to his father, the late Ali Farka Touré, who died back in 2006. Amadou and Mariam, who began to hit it big on the hipster scene in America a few years ago, rocked out in the final jam session of the third night to wild applause. But perhaps my favorite, a Niger staple, was Mamar Kassey, a jazz/pop group whose music I'd always heard in Niger and never liked. It's because, like Tinariwin, all the cassettes I'd ever heard were on their fourth trip through the piracy chain and usually played full blast through crappy Chinese speakers that had survived God only knows what natural disaster to end up in the desert, filled with sand and shattered dreams (or something like that). I had to give props to Mamer Kassey, if for no other reason than because they're from Niger, but also because they rocked it out. It's hard to jam on a flute! It also helped a bit that they were the only band that played anything I'd ever heard before that night. Are you looking these people up? Seriously now, why are you even reading this if you aren't interested in seeing what I've seen? Go find some youtube videos! I'm not saying I'm fully converted to high-pitched, nasal singing, which is kind of standard in griot music, but I do have to say that the experience, like so much else in this world, is radically transformed by the performance, something unique in every time and place in which it takes place. It's the same difference between film and theatre, a vibrancy that is diminished when a living, breathing human being exudes a palpable presence from a few feet away. It's a feeling of being alive and totally within a moment, and technology has yet to take that desire for contact and immediacy away from us.
Well, to sum things up, I'm fully rested and recovered now, as I hope this post shows. It's a good thing too, since I'm on my way down to Côté d'Ivoire tonight to continue my journey across West Africa. I'll be in Bouaké, capital of the rebel New Forces, by tomorrow afternoon, and hopefully well on my way into the less civil war-prone south the day after. If you're reading this as I'm posting it, wish me luck, because I'm sure I'll need it, if nothing else than to deal with the graft. I've met a lot of people who are interested in this section of my trip: no Peace Corps to fall back on in a country not known for stability since a civil war a few years ago. I'll keep everyone posted and hope to have only good things to say in my next post.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Bringing in the New Year at the Festival in the Desert
Totally exhausted, but, in this case, it's the best feeling in the world. I've averaged less than four hours of sleep for three days straight. I've suffered through freezing desert nights to see some of the best in West African music, and I loved every minute of it. Okay, that's an exaggeration, but it was an awesome, possibly once-in-a-lifetime experience. Everything just seemed to come together for an amazing start to the new year.
Well...let's back up a little bit. Actually, the new year didn't have such an auspicious start. I spent the first three days down with bacillary dysentary and felt like hell. Happy New Year. However, after two years in Niger, a little dysentary isn't the end of the world.
After I recovered, I took a trip up to Hombori, one of West Africa's premiere climbing destinations, and eventhough I don't climb, it did provide some great hiking opportunities. I didn't stay too long though as I didn't have a set ride up to Timbuktu, the Mysterious City, and the setting for the Festival in the Desert.
Hombori to Douentza. The dustiest bus ride I've ever taken, but within minutes of arriving in Douentza, I found a Land Cruiser filled with white people going up to the Festival. Four Australians, two Poles, a Dutch man, a British girl, two Malians, and me. None of us had reservations at any hotel or tickets, but things just worked out. The festival grounds were only a fifteen minute walk from our campement.
I wish I could describe this experience better. Let's put it this way: I was in Timbuktu, which I think we all feel must be the end of the earth after all the mythos of our childhood. I've got to say, as a tourist destination, Timbuktu seems to be relying on faded glory. It'd be a great archaeological site if people weren't still living there. Our campement was run by a Songhaï guy who was just freakin' stoked to learn that I spoke his language. Who ever said Peace Corps couldn't grease the wheels?
Like I said, the concert venue was a fifteen-minute hike from our campsite into the desert. I wish I could describe how amazing the whole experience was. One guy I talked to said it reminded him of an African Woodstock, which is pretty good considering the guy had actually attended the original. I wish I could say more about it at the moment, but I'm completely wrecked: exhaustion and three days of overstimulation. For right now, I'll just post the link. I'll try for something more later. Until then, enjoy this and look up some of the artists, though I'll tell you now, seeing them live was an unforgettable experience.
http://www.festival-au-desert.org/schedule-artistlist.html
Well...let's back up a little bit. Actually, the new year didn't have such an auspicious start. I spent the first three days down with bacillary dysentary and felt like hell. Happy New Year. However, after two years in Niger, a little dysentary isn't the end of the world.
After I recovered, I took a trip up to Hombori, one of West Africa's premiere climbing destinations, and eventhough I don't climb, it did provide some great hiking opportunities. I didn't stay too long though as I didn't have a set ride up to Timbuktu, the Mysterious City, and the setting for the Festival in the Desert.
Hombori to Douentza. The dustiest bus ride I've ever taken, but within minutes of arriving in Douentza, I found a Land Cruiser filled with white people going up to the Festival. Four Australians, two Poles, a Dutch man, a British girl, two Malians, and me. None of us had reservations at any hotel or tickets, but things just worked out. The festival grounds were only a fifteen minute walk from our campement.
I wish I could describe this experience better. Let's put it this way: I was in Timbuktu, which I think we all feel must be the end of the earth after all the mythos of our childhood. I've got to say, as a tourist destination, Timbuktu seems to be relying on faded glory. It'd be a great archaeological site if people weren't still living there. Our campement was run by a Songhaï guy who was just freakin' stoked to learn that I spoke his language. Who ever said Peace Corps couldn't grease the wheels?
Like I said, the concert venue was a fifteen-minute hike from our campsite into the desert. I wish I could describe how amazing the whole experience was. One guy I talked to said it reminded him of an African Woodstock, which is pretty good considering the guy had actually attended the original. I wish I could say more about it at the moment, but I'm completely wrecked: exhaustion and three days of overstimulation. For right now, I'll just post the link. I'll try for something more later. Until then, enjoy this and look up some of the artists, though I'll tell you now, seeing them live was an unforgettable experience.
http://www.festival-au-desert.org/schedule-artistlist.html
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