I've been out of touch for a couple weeks now, traveling around Plateau State and conducting interviews with key stakeholders throughout seven of the seventeen local governments. One of the most enlightening aspects of the interviews came with this question: Who is most responsible for promoting peace in your local government?
In many of the local governments deemed "high conflict," the respondents had an immediate answer: Religious leaders, they'd say, followed closely by traditional leaders. Government sources tended to cite political efforts. One man confidently asserted that women were the most responsible for promoting peace. These answers, in and of themselves, gave us an idea of who was working in troubled communities and which groups needed support. Those with actual projects instead of platitudes are the mostly likely to be targeted.
However, arguably more interesting were the answers from communities that have known little to no conflict. When asked who was working the most toward peace, nearly every respondent had to pause to think. When pressed with suggested peace actors from other communities, respondents said that they couldn't measurably say who was working the most toward peace because nearly everyone was involved. Political leaders brought together religious and traditional leaders as well as women, youth, civil societies and NGOs. Each group has its own constituencies, and by bringing them together to work toward peace, these low-conflict LGAs were reaching every member of their community.
This seems like a straight-forward answer, but it inevitably is not. Every single Local Government Council praised the efforts of their chairmen calling together all actors for meetings and discussions. But there were subtle differences between those who have successfully resisted violence and those where violence has torn at the very fabric of the community.
These differences came from the interviews with non-governmental traditional, religious, women, and youth leaders. In conflict communities, many complained that when the government held meetings, they were just talking sessions. They met, they aired grievances, and they left. Nothing filtered down to the actors committing violence. Nothing was asked of the participants, and no practical action plans ever emerged from these monthly meetings.
The peace communities carried a different tone. Stakeholder representatives stressed that dialogue was important, but that dialogue couldn't stay within the upper echelons of these stakeholder groups. Representatives took their message to their constituents, and all were involved in forming individual community action plans: whether that involved inter-religious neighborhood watches, community relief, or any number of tangible interventions to control violence. The important introduction of women and youth leaders brought these messages to a wider audience, as these most vulnerable groups have often been ignored by local government officials who look for those in power to curb the violence, rather than looking at those most affected by violence.
It's difficult to stress how important this distinction is. By including typically disenfranchised groups in the decisions and the responsibilities of conflict and peace, the local governments in these areas have turned them from victims to actors. Rather than bemoan their lot, women realize that they have the power and the responsibility to affect change. Rather than participating in violence as little more than paid thugs, youth are tasked with the responsibility to avoid conflict. They realize then that the best way to protect their community is not to attack another, but to ensure peace through cooperation. In the end, it's a much more monumental task, one that asks something of everyone regardless of status or power. However, with that shared sacrifice comes the knowledge that everyone has something to lose if their efforts come to naught. By delegating responsibility to all, the Plateau's peace communities have fostered stronger, more resilient communities. After all, isn't this the truest responsibility of government? To prevent rather than to react? To build rather than divide?
Showing posts with label Government. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Government. Show all posts
Monday, August 15, 2011
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The Colonial Treatment
Okay, now for a funny one.
I visited Dalaba, Guinea last week, one of the smaller cities in the Fouta Djalon region. The Fouta is an area in West Africa unique to Guinea. The high plateau is called Le Chateau de l'Afrique Occidental because most of the area's major river systems (including the Senegal, the Gambia, and some tributaries of the Niger) are sourced in these highlands. It's an area that can boast some of the best hiking in West Africa plus the unique culture of the Peul people, who dominate this area and are almost single-handedly responsible for the Islamic faith in the region. It's become sort of a recipe for my favorite places to travel: combine awesome scenery with a unique culture and I'm there. So far I've found it in Boukoumbé, Benin with the Somba people and in Dogon Country, Mali. Now I have the Fouta Djalon in Guinea to add to that list. Next up? I could only hope for Niger's Aïr Mountains or the Andes' Incan ruins. I'll settle for the Bijagos Archipelago in Guinea-Bissau next week.
But for now I'll focus on the Fouta. I went to Dalaba for the hiking, but also for the climate and the colonial architecture. Dalaba sits high up on the plateau, making the days hot but dry and the nights cool, even bordering on cold, a rarity in West Africa outside of the desert regions. As a result, Dalaba became a sort of rejuvenation center for the French colonials during their time here. Unfortunately, the only colonial architecture left behind is the old governor's mansion, the Sili Villa. Luckily for me (and you), I got a personal guided tour of the colonial mansion and can share that experience here.
I'd had this kind of thing happen before, in Sassandra, Côté d'Ivoire, and, more memorably, in Klouto, Benin. You wander up a disused paved road (probably the only one in town) to discover a mansion, completely uninhabited, with one old man sitting outside as guard or caretaker. For a small "fee" (negotiable, but usually around a couple bucks) he'll give you the history of the house and a grand tour around the interior. The history usually goes something like this: The house was built around the turn of the century by the French governor (or bought by said governor from some citizen who decided he'd had enough and was returning to France). After independence, the state took over the mansion from an indifferent civil servant ("Fine, go. We never wanted you as a colony anyway."), and turned it into a retreat for a corrupt president and his cronies (or in Guinea's case, a corrupt, paranoid president and his equally corrupt, terrified cronies). The house gets used for various autocratic excesses and bacchanals until the people decide they've had enough and there's a coup.
By now, the new corrupt government wishes to distance itself from the past corrupt government and it rightfully does so by moving away from Presidential playhouses. At least in one's own country. It's the 80s now, and wireless transfers make it so much easier to funnel money out of the country and into a Swiss bank account. So the state-owned villa is allowed to go to seed. Anyway, why would you want a villa in your own country when, with all that stolen money, you can have several in France?
So now the house sits abandoned by all save one guard (I think to be conidered a caretaker the property must have some kind of value of which to take care) in the employ of, presumably, the state. He sits, day in, day out, with not much to do except stare at the marble statue of a horse. So when a white guy with a couple bucks comes along, he jumps at the chance to play tour guide.
"This is a colonial bedroom, where the governor had his bed. Take a picture."
Where's the bed now?
"Oh, someone probably used it for firewood. Take a picture of where it used to be. For a souvenir."
This guy was particularly enthusiastic that I take pictures of everything. "This is a colonial bathtub."
It's made of cement.
"I know. That's colonial cement. This is a lightbulb. A colonial lightbulb. Take a picture. And over here is the colonial sink. And here, the colonial toilet."
And is that a colonial turd floating in the bowl?
"Yes... Take a picture!"
Overall the houses are dilapidated shells just waiting for some enterprising individual to rehabilitate them as a hotel or private residence. But for now, they'll just continue to sit in their decay, year after year, with a little old man watching over as it slowly crumbles into dust.
"But colonial dust."
Take a picture.
I visited Dalaba, Guinea last week, one of the smaller cities in the Fouta Djalon region. The Fouta is an area in West Africa unique to Guinea. The high plateau is called Le Chateau de l'Afrique Occidental because most of the area's major river systems (including the Senegal, the Gambia, and some tributaries of the Niger) are sourced in these highlands. It's an area that can boast some of the best hiking in West Africa plus the unique culture of the Peul people, who dominate this area and are almost single-handedly responsible for the Islamic faith in the region. It's become sort of a recipe for my favorite places to travel: combine awesome scenery with a unique culture and I'm there. So far I've found it in Boukoumbé, Benin with the Somba people and in Dogon Country, Mali. Now I have the Fouta Djalon in Guinea to add to that list. Next up? I could only hope for Niger's Aïr Mountains or the Andes' Incan ruins. I'll settle for the Bijagos Archipelago in Guinea-Bissau next week.
But for now I'll focus on the Fouta. I went to Dalaba for the hiking, but also for the climate and the colonial architecture. Dalaba sits high up on the plateau, making the days hot but dry and the nights cool, even bordering on cold, a rarity in West Africa outside of the desert regions. As a result, Dalaba became a sort of rejuvenation center for the French colonials during their time here. Unfortunately, the only colonial architecture left behind is the old governor's mansion, the Sili Villa. Luckily for me (and you), I got a personal guided tour of the colonial mansion and can share that experience here.
I'd had this kind of thing happen before, in Sassandra, Côté d'Ivoire, and, more memorably, in Klouto, Benin. You wander up a disused paved road (probably the only one in town) to discover a mansion, completely uninhabited, with one old man sitting outside as guard or caretaker. For a small "fee" (negotiable, but usually around a couple bucks) he'll give you the history of the house and a grand tour around the interior. The history usually goes something like this: The house was built around the turn of the century by the French governor (or bought by said governor from some citizen who decided he'd had enough and was returning to France). After independence, the state took over the mansion from an indifferent civil servant ("Fine, go. We never wanted you as a colony anyway."), and turned it into a retreat for a corrupt president and his cronies (or in Guinea's case, a corrupt, paranoid president and his equally corrupt, terrified cronies). The house gets used for various autocratic excesses and bacchanals until the people decide they've had enough and there's a coup.
By now, the new corrupt government wishes to distance itself from the past corrupt government and it rightfully does so by moving away from Presidential playhouses. At least in one's own country. It's the 80s now, and wireless transfers make it so much easier to funnel money out of the country and into a Swiss bank account. So the state-owned villa is allowed to go to seed. Anyway, why would you want a villa in your own country when, with all that stolen money, you can have several in France?
So now the house sits abandoned by all save one guard (I think to be conidered a caretaker the property must have some kind of value of which to take care) in the employ of, presumably, the state. He sits, day in, day out, with not much to do except stare at the marble statue of a horse. So when a white guy with a couple bucks comes along, he jumps at the chance to play tour guide.
"This is a colonial bedroom, where the governor had his bed. Take a picture."
Where's the bed now?
"Oh, someone probably used it for firewood. Take a picture of where it used to be. For a souvenir."
This guy was particularly enthusiastic that I take pictures of everything. "This is a colonial bathtub."
It's made of cement.
"I know. That's colonial cement. This is a lightbulb. A colonial lightbulb. Take a picture. And over here is the colonial sink. And here, the colonial toilet."
And is that a colonial turd floating in the bowl?
"Yes... Take a picture!"
Overall the houses are dilapidated shells just waiting for some enterprising individual to rehabilitate them as a hotel or private residence. But for now, they'll just continue to sit in their decay, year after year, with a little old man watching over as it slowly crumbles into dust.
"But colonial dust."
Take a picture.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
The Tragedy of Man
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
A Note from My Journal
22 September 2008 7:11 pm
I went out exploring my market town (pop. 6000) and discovering the things I should have discovered six months ago. I went to the mayor's office, saw the big mosque, and visited the doctor's office.
The lokotoro kwaara (lit. "doctor's house"), which I just assumed was a school when I first saw it, was a sad sight. The walls were cracked and dirty, it didn't have electricity, and it had only a few taps for running water. Posters from former awareness campaigns hung in the hot, fly-infested waiting area. About twenty people were waiting to see the infirmary workers, two of them and one trainee, but no certified doctor. At least I can say that these workers didn't look overwhelmed.
The hardest part about being there was seeing the children. I suppose children are the main clients due to Niger's sheer number of them and the expense of drugs/treatment. Most adults probably wait it out, for better or worse. But even the children are forced to wait until their condition is severe. One child there looked so emaciated and pathetic that it's a wonder he made it to the doctor.
When I think about the contrast between the poorest of the poor developing countries and what I know of Westen services, I can't overcome the gulf of difference. I lost my phone a few weeks ago. When I went to the police station in Niamey, I felt like I'd been transported back to Mexico in the 1930s. It was like a movie. Concrete walls with chipped, faded paint, no doors, no electricity, red-ink rubber-stamped paper affadavits, goats in the courtyard, a flag bleached by the sun after who knows how many years. I mean I'm surprised there is even enough money for a flag. And it's not like the workers can do much about it (I guess they could get rid of the goats). They just have to keep going and do the best they can with what they have. No wonder there's so much corruption. WHy shouldn't a civil worker skim a little extra when they're powerless to affect change? I don't condone it, but you have to expect it.
The doctor's office is the real issue though, from today's journey. I'd like to start working there a few days a week, if I can stand it. Maybe I can get some information on community health projects. A former neighbor once said one of his most satisfying days in country was when he helped with child polio inoculations. Even if it's just a lot of little things, at least it'd help a little bit.
I went out exploring my market town (pop. 6000) and discovering the things I should have discovered six months ago. I went to the mayor's office, saw the big mosque, and visited the doctor's office.
The lokotoro kwaara (lit. "doctor's house"), which I just assumed was a school when I first saw it, was a sad sight. The walls were cracked and dirty, it didn't have electricity, and it had only a few taps for running water. Posters from former awareness campaigns hung in the hot, fly-infested waiting area. About twenty people were waiting to see the infirmary workers, two of them and one trainee, but no certified doctor. At least I can say that these workers didn't look overwhelmed.
The hardest part about being there was seeing the children. I suppose children are the main clients due to Niger's sheer number of them and the expense of drugs/treatment. Most adults probably wait it out, for better or worse. But even the children are forced to wait until their condition is severe. One child there looked so emaciated and pathetic that it's a wonder he made it to the doctor.
When I think about the contrast between the poorest of the poor developing countries and what I know of Westen services, I can't overcome the gulf of difference. I lost my phone a few weeks ago. When I went to the police station in Niamey, I felt like I'd been transported back to Mexico in the 1930s. It was like a movie. Concrete walls with chipped, faded paint, no doors, no electricity, red-ink rubber-stamped paper affadavits, goats in the courtyard, a flag bleached by the sun after who knows how many years. I mean I'm surprised there is even enough money for a flag. And it's not like the workers can do much about it (I guess they could get rid of the goats). They just have to keep going and do the best they can with what they have. No wonder there's so much corruption. WHy shouldn't a civil worker skim a little extra when they're powerless to affect change? I don't condone it, but you have to expect it.
The doctor's office is the real issue though, from today's journey. I'd like to start working there a few days a week, if I can stand it. Maybe I can get some information on community health projects. A former neighbor once said one of his most satisfying days in country was when he helped with child polio inoculations. Even if it's just a lot of little things, at least it'd help a little bit.
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