My neighborhood is called Chão de Papel, which in Portuguese means paper floor, but in Kriol it is pronounced Tchon di Pepel, which means the land of the Pepel tribe. The house faces out onto a green plaza, which is surrounded by low barbed-wire fence and is maintained by young men cutting the grass by hand with machetes. It’s a Sisyphean task, much like the shoveling of mud from the street. During the rainy season the grass seems to spring back into place with the dawn. Every time it rains, the mud accumulates and clogs the gutter, which is a foot-deep channel that is filled with strange floating items and oily water and probably enough cholera to kill an elephant.
I have also had the dubious honor of living for a month in close vicinity with the infamous X Club. After undergoing a recent renovation, the X Club is newly painted, with large guards in black manning the door. The X Club, shockingly, is not a strip club, it is in fact an expat hangout complete with snooker tables and cheesy candelabras on the bar. The most fabulous aspect of the X Club, which somehow I failed to notice until my second visit, is the DJ booth. The DJ Booth is somewhat unusual. It is a bus. Somehow, an old bus was installed inside the Club, for what reason I cannot say. All that it lacks is windshield wipers flipping from side to side, and a petulant brown goat meandering in its path.
To make matter worse, the DJ put on a most ironic record right at the moment I was gaping at the bus. “You can check in, but you can never leave.” Hotel California is my boss’s way of describing life in Bissau. Now that she has been finagled into signing another six-month contract, the song once again reveals its frightening truth…
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Ain't no party like a Bissau party...
I am writing on the occasion of having attended what I would call my first “real” Bissau party-that is, devoid of other expats save Osmin, who doesn’t really count as he seems to get along with everyone, regardless of age or nationality. He had mentioned earlier that a colleague of his from the Armed Forces had planned to have a party. I went, expecting another bland expat event, but instead we drove into a popular area spotted with humble houses, driving the UN jeep right through the midst of a soccer game in progress, and parked under a gnarled tree tinted red by the dust. As we stepped out of the car, there, on the wall of a house, was a hand-painted, yellow Wu-Tang sign, above which there were several announcements concerning the “Ruff Ryders”, though Osmin was moving along at such a pace that I didn’t have time to inquire of this so-called organization.
The party was already well underway when we arrived, with the Guinean smooth-rocking beat played loud from an old black boom box. Several Guinean women in both western and African dress were getting down to the sounds in what would be called in Brazil the “quintal” (or little yard, thought it consisted of little more than a muddy square fenced in by woven slats of palha (palm frond). Plastic chairs were jammed into this small space, as were many bodies of varying shapes and sizes, but all in a general state of happiness. Aminata, Osmin’s colleague, had been recognized that day for her contributions to human rights protection in Guinea-Bissau. This certificate was treated as a grand honor, and more than a worthy reason for a yard party.
As soon as we arrived, plastic chairs, cold beers, and a very dubious plate of meat were quickly presented. Having spent the entire weekend in and out of the bathroom, alternatively vomiting and having dismal spells of diarrhea, I eyed that plastic plate with both fear and respect. One of the women, one of the many hosts of the party (who, consequently, I later learned did not live there) explained gleefully, “It’s goat!” and I knew this was a big deal, yet I had to swallow several times to let the nausea pass. Osmin, as it turns out, once again, was my savior. He leaned forward and spiked the most gristly, fatty and suspicious-looking chunk of goat on his fork and chewed on it, satisfied, “It’s good!” He put a napkin over the plate to keep away the flies (they are incredibly aggressive, they will continually land on your head or food and refuse to move) and continued to munch away. I stuck with my beer, while fending off the friendly but insistent requests by the other guests for me to dance.
Meanwhile, a large, effusive man in a white Guayabera, leaned over and bellowed, in my general direction,
“HEY! DO YOU LIKE BEER?”
“Yes, I like beer,” I responded, rather uncreatively.
“REALLY?”
“Yes!”
“YOU MUST COME TO A PARTY ON FRIDAY!" He yelled. Gesturing to a woman in a mustard colored dress with egregious pit stains, he screamed “HEY! ARE YOU GOING TO SERVE US GOAT OR WHAT?!” My heart was already sinking, although I commended myself quietly for having eaten some fish pastries along with my beer.
“HAH! Goat? Pffff! No, I’ll give you a chicken.” At this response, he shook his head and scoffed, choosing to call her bluff.“HEY!” he said, directing the attention back to me, “DO YOU LIKE GOAT?” and all of a sudden the conversation quieted and all eyes were on me. “Well, I’m not quite familiar with it,” I said, hoping my semi-truthful answer would be accepted. “WHAT??!!!” He said.
“I mean, YES! I LOVE GOAT!” Everyone smiled and shook their heads in agreement, laughing, he declared,
“AH, GOOD, WE WILL TAKE SOME GOAT AND PUT IT ON SKEWERS, WHAT DO YOU THINK?”
“Splendid! YES!!” I was imagining those chunks stuck on a spit, grease popping in my eyes and flies perching on my ears. The deal was sealed, but the conversation was far from over.
“Where are you from?” Again, conversation stopped and at least ten people were riveted, awaiting my answer.
“United States.” “Ahhhhhh….” And there was a pregnant pause. “But I didn’t vote for Mr. Bush, but I will vote for our future president, Mr. Obama!”
With that, they burst into exclamations of support and enthusiasm, and I was handed another cold beer. My initiation was complete.
The party was already well underway when we arrived, with the Guinean smooth-rocking beat played loud from an old black boom box. Several Guinean women in both western and African dress were getting down to the sounds in what would be called in Brazil the “quintal” (or little yard, thought it consisted of little more than a muddy square fenced in by woven slats of palha (palm frond). Plastic chairs were jammed into this small space, as were many bodies of varying shapes and sizes, but all in a general state of happiness. Aminata, Osmin’s colleague, had been recognized that day for her contributions to human rights protection in Guinea-Bissau. This certificate was treated as a grand honor, and more than a worthy reason for a yard party.
As soon as we arrived, plastic chairs, cold beers, and a very dubious plate of meat were quickly presented. Having spent the entire weekend in and out of the bathroom, alternatively vomiting and having dismal spells of diarrhea, I eyed that plastic plate with both fear and respect. One of the women, one of the many hosts of the party (who, consequently, I later learned did not live there) explained gleefully, “It’s goat!” and I knew this was a big deal, yet I had to swallow several times to let the nausea pass. Osmin, as it turns out, once again, was my savior. He leaned forward and spiked the most gristly, fatty and suspicious-looking chunk of goat on his fork and chewed on it, satisfied, “It’s good!” He put a napkin over the plate to keep away the flies (they are incredibly aggressive, they will continually land on your head or food and refuse to move) and continued to munch away. I stuck with my beer, while fending off the friendly but insistent requests by the other guests for me to dance.
Meanwhile, a large, effusive man in a white Guayabera, leaned over and bellowed, in my general direction,
“HEY! DO YOU LIKE BEER?”
“Yes, I like beer,” I responded, rather uncreatively.
“REALLY?”
“Yes!”
“YOU MUST COME TO A PARTY ON FRIDAY!" He yelled. Gesturing to a woman in a mustard colored dress with egregious pit stains, he screamed “HEY! ARE YOU GOING TO SERVE US GOAT OR WHAT?!” My heart was already sinking, although I commended myself quietly for having eaten some fish pastries along with my beer.
“HAH! Goat? Pffff! No, I’ll give you a chicken.” At this response, he shook his head and scoffed, choosing to call her bluff.“HEY!” he said, directing the attention back to me, “DO YOU LIKE GOAT?” and all of a sudden the conversation quieted and all eyes were on me. “Well, I’m not quite familiar with it,” I said, hoping my semi-truthful answer would be accepted. “WHAT??!!!” He said.
“I mean, YES! I LOVE GOAT!” Everyone smiled and shook their heads in agreement, laughing, he declared,
“AH, GOOD, WE WILL TAKE SOME GOAT AND PUT IT ON SKEWERS, WHAT DO YOU THINK?”
“Splendid! YES!!” I was imagining those chunks stuck on a spit, grease popping in my eyes and flies perching on my ears. The deal was sealed, but the conversation was far from over.
“Where are you from?” Again, conversation stopped and at least ten people were riveted, awaiting my answer.
“United States.” “Ahhhhhh….” And there was a pregnant pause. “But I didn’t vote for Mr. Bush, but I will vote for our future president, Mr. Obama!”
With that, they burst into exclamations of support and enthusiasm, and I was handed another cold beer. My initiation was complete.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Fast Food, Slow Service
Upon arrival back in the US, I spent hours staring at my computer screen in amazement of the fast-speed internet. With air conditioning strategically positioned to blow directly at me, I've been able to catch up on my emails and blog-reading (I believe there is not a more appropriate name for our blog than "Fletcher Globe Trotters" -- we are all quite the adventure-seekers). I've taken a bunch of hot showers (unbelievable) and even jumped in the swimming pool to cool off from the intense humidity of DC. I've eaten beef (not safe in Ghana, I know this from first-hand experience....twice, actually, I didn't learn my lesson the first time). I've had real, green lettuce and fresh fruit, both of which my body has been insanely craving. We never did get that running water in my house, so even flushing the toilet makes me giddy. Not kidding.
I've been back for almost a week, and although the side effects of the malaria medicine still hits me every so often with some nausea when I least expect it, I'm strong and healthy and enjoying life at home. Nonetheless my dreams are still based in Africa, so it is clearly still deeply engrained in my mind.
In Accra there is a fast-food restaurant called Papaye with a menu that strongly resembles Popeyes. Since Accra has no street signs and taxi drivers rarely know where they are going, it is good to know some landmarks near where you want to go so that you can tell your taxi driver the general direction of your destination. Papaye is one of these places, and, inevitably, this is where I ended up eating quite a few times.
Papaye has no connection to Popeyes, which PK and I quickly figured out. In fact, I am surprised they even call the place a 'fast-food' restaurant. To an outsider, it appears to be fast-food, with the neon yellow sign out front, the plastic red and yellow booths and the matching outfits that the staff wears. But it takes no less than 45 minutes for them to serve you after you order, even if you just order some coleslaw and chicken. Now that I'm back home, I almost want to jump up and hug my waiter when he gets the food to us in a record 15 to 20 minutes.
As is the life in Ghana.
My research added a really exciting dynamic to my work in the camp. Unfortunately given the tense situation between Liberian refugees and Ghanaians at the moment, meeting with the Ghanaian government was impossible (that is another story in and of itself), but I was lucky enough to have contacts at the US Embassy who linked me up with quite a few other public officials. After hearing both sides of the story, it quickly became clear to me that refugees did not understand their options, and that before the March protests many had high hopes of being resettled to the United States even after the resettlement program was over (it is also worth mentioning here that very, very few refugees get resettled, something around 1%). Since the protests in March, refugees have reluctantly accepted their only option of going back to Liberia and are scrambling to find ways to survive. Unfortunately this is when resources from the international community are turning away from the Liberian refugee situation and towards other, more immediate crises such as that in Darfur. So now there are hundreds of people piled outside the registration office on camp -- run by Ghanaians -- to go home when six months ago it was hard to even fill up a UNHCR airplane from Ghana going back to Liberia.
Since resources are decreasing and the number of returnees is vastly increasing, this causes some major problems. What normally should be a one-week process -- from registration to a spot on the airplane -- is often taking over a month for most. It's clear that the misperception that resettlement was a viable option for them caused a vast numbers of refugees to stay in Buduburam. If they really understood that returning home was their only option years ago, then many more would have left or at least started making plans to leave earlier -- when donor countries were still willing to spend on the Liberian case.
I have come up with some recommendations and various ideas on what to do about these issues, but I won't bore you all to death with these. For now, I'm busy planning a party / fundraiser at my house for a few people I want to help go to school and send back to Liberia. Since I don't believe in giving away too much for free, I had a Liberian family make some necklaces with beads from the Eastern region of Ghana and I will be giving them all the profits.
Ghana may offer fast food and in reality provide slow service, but from my experience they do evenutally deliver. It just means the longer you wait, the hungrier you get. It is probably the same for the refugees as many of them wait to go back to Liberia. As a Liberian once told me, "they make you wait, unless you have money to give them... it's not easy when we want to go back and start life."
I've been back for almost a week, and although the side effects of the malaria medicine still hits me every so often with some nausea when I least expect it, I'm strong and healthy and enjoying life at home. Nonetheless my dreams are still based in Africa, so it is clearly still deeply engrained in my mind.
In Accra there is a fast-food restaurant called Papaye with a menu that strongly resembles Popeyes. Since Accra has no street signs and taxi drivers rarely know where they are going, it is good to know some landmarks near where you want to go so that you can tell your taxi driver the general direction of your destination. Papaye is one of these places, and, inevitably, this is where I ended up eating quite a few times.
Papaye has no connection to Popeyes, which PK and I quickly figured out. In fact, I am surprised they even call the place a 'fast-food' restaurant. To an outsider, it appears to be fast-food, with the neon yellow sign out front, the plastic red and yellow booths and the matching outfits that the staff wears. But it takes no less than 45 minutes for them to serve you after you order, even if you just order some coleslaw and chicken. Now that I'm back home, I almost want to jump up and hug my waiter when he gets the food to us in a record 15 to 20 minutes.
As is the life in Ghana.
My research added a really exciting dynamic to my work in the camp. Unfortunately given the tense situation between Liberian refugees and Ghanaians at the moment, meeting with the Ghanaian government was impossible (that is another story in and of itself), but I was lucky enough to have contacts at the US Embassy who linked me up with quite a few other public officials. After hearing both sides of the story, it quickly became clear to me that refugees did not understand their options, and that before the March protests many had high hopes of being resettled to the United States even after the resettlement program was over (it is also worth mentioning here that very, very few refugees get resettled, something around 1%). Since the protests in March, refugees have reluctantly accepted their only option of going back to Liberia and are scrambling to find ways to survive. Unfortunately this is when resources from the international community are turning away from the Liberian refugee situation and towards other, more immediate crises such as that in Darfur. So now there are hundreds of people piled outside the registration office on camp -- run by Ghanaians -- to go home when six months ago it was hard to even fill up a UNHCR airplane from Ghana going back to Liberia.
Since resources are decreasing and the number of returnees is vastly increasing, this causes some major problems. What normally should be a one-week process -- from registration to a spot on the airplane -- is often taking over a month for most. It's clear that the misperception that resettlement was a viable option for them caused a vast numbers of refugees to stay in Buduburam. If they really understood that returning home was their only option years ago, then many more would have left or at least started making plans to leave earlier -- when donor countries were still willing to spend on the Liberian case.
I have come up with some recommendations and various ideas on what to do about these issues, but I won't bore you all to death with these. For now, I'm busy planning a party / fundraiser at my house for a few people I want to help go to school and send back to Liberia. Since I don't believe in giving away too much for free, I had a Liberian family make some necklaces with beads from the Eastern region of Ghana and I will be giving them all the profits.
Ghana may offer fast food and in reality provide slow service, but from my experience they do evenutally deliver. It just means the longer you wait, the hungrier you get. It is probably the same for the refugees as many of them wait to go back to Liberia. As a Liberian once told me, "they make you wait, unless you have money to give them... it's not easy when we want to go back and start life."
Security Brief, Part 2
Júlio, the security chief of the organization, was surprised to hear of my experience, and he made sure to take down all the details according to protocol and include it in his monthly report. Our incident was the only one reported for the month. However, according to Jorge’s analysis, the country is teeming with spies. Three thousand spies. Taxi drivers, it seems, are all spies. “All of them?” “Yes, well, almost all of them, but it is impossible to know.” I found this hard to believe, considering that public employees have not been paid their salaries for months. They must be a new breed - volunteer spies! Very deadly and willing. The concept is terrifying (imagine a Peace Corps for the FBI). Despite the apparent alarmist tone of the briefing, it is evident that there are constantly parallel or subterranean events occurring on the sly. For example, there was a robbery in a tabanca (small rural traditional village) of nearly 3 million CFA (roughly $7,000). For communities that do not traditionally use money to trade, this is, in the least, strange, if not completely nonsensical.
Júlio also asserted that in order to travel outside Bissau, a security clearance was necessary, and that any travel past 7 pm was prohibited. “Is this because of the lack of street lights?” I asked. “Well, yes that is true, but primarily you can’t travel after 7 pm outside of Bissau because we have no capacity to go get you. Sometimes, to get police out there or an ambulance you have to pay for their gas or even give them a ride in your car.” Júlio continued to describe other security incidents occurring in the field.
Recently, there was an incident in Biombo, where some members of the Pepel tribe converted to Islam. These individuals, in adopting their new religion, decided to no longer attend to the altar frequented by community members. The altar, where people would leave offerings, was therefore left unattended. Several troublemakers burned the shrine, and blamed the newly converted Muslims for the deed. It was a deliberate act to instigate conflict among the members of the community. As a co-worker commented, the“dust will rise”, and the community will most likely try to rid themselves of those people. Apparently the police have arrived to conduct interviews and investigate the situation, but considering the lack of resources, training and facilities, little progress will likely be made. The police in Bissau, the capital city, do not even carry guns, let along know how to use them. They stroll around the city on foot, in little groups, nonchalantly twirling their only weapons, black batons.
Of course, it is Aliu who has the last word on security.
“You get all these people together around a table: Ministers, the EU, UNDP, and the Russian Ambassador. So the European Union, they bring the money. The Ministers, they listen. The UNDP, they negotiate, and Russia…Russia is just there for the bombs!”
Júlio also asserted that in order to travel outside Bissau, a security clearance was necessary, and that any travel past 7 pm was prohibited. “Is this because of the lack of street lights?” I asked. “Well, yes that is true, but primarily you can’t travel after 7 pm outside of Bissau because we have no capacity to go get you. Sometimes, to get police out there or an ambulance you have to pay for their gas or even give them a ride in your car.” Júlio continued to describe other security incidents occurring in the field.
Recently, there was an incident in Biombo, where some members of the Pepel tribe converted to Islam. These individuals, in adopting their new religion, decided to no longer attend to the altar frequented by community members. The altar, where people would leave offerings, was therefore left unattended. Several troublemakers burned the shrine, and blamed the newly converted Muslims for the deed. It was a deliberate act to instigate conflict among the members of the community. As a co-worker commented, the“dust will rise”, and the community will most likely try to rid themselves of those people. Apparently the police have arrived to conduct interviews and investigate the situation, but considering the lack of resources, training and facilities, little progress will likely be made. The police in Bissau, the capital city, do not even carry guns, let along know how to use them. They stroll around the city on foot, in little groups, nonchalantly twirling their only weapons, black batons.
Of course, it is Aliu who has the last word on security.
“You get all these people together around a table: Ministers, the EU, UNDP, and the Russian Ambassador. So the European Union, they bring the money. The Ministers, they listen. The UNDP, they negotiate, and Russia…Russia is just there for the bombs!”
Security Brief, Part 1
The particular organization I happen to work for is enamored with protocol. Every process, meeting or report has one. However, unless one is born with the protocol embedded in one’s genes, it is unlikely that you will be able to follow the complex threads of decision-making and report writing required. Generally, if the protocol is not obvious, the easiest way to discover it is to do something and you will quickly learn how wrong your procedure inevitably is. When you inquire, “why was I never informed of this protocol?”, you are told, “you never asked.” However, it is difficult to inquire about a protocol when one does not even know it exists. It is a fun process. It is like living inside the book Catch-22, except that it makes less sense.
In the first month of my time in Bissau, I made an effort to attempt to follow protocol. I had a official crachá (identification badge), and made an appointment to meet with Júlio, head of security for a thorough briefing. In comparison with Rio, the security situation (at least in terms of petty crimes) seems tranquil. The only incident I have suffered occurred on my third day in country. Janet and I were walking to the Restaurant Ta Mar, in old town Bissau. Like all streets in Bissau, the street we walked on had no lights. It was pitch black, and we followed the weak spot of Janet’s flashlight. Two young boys were walking behind us, and one of them tried to pry Janet’s cell phone from her hand. However, the poor boys had no idea they were dealing with a professional peacebuilder. Janet swung around, clocking the boy in the head with her heavy flashlight, first POW! to the left and POW! to the right. The boys, stunned, quickly ran off, and I stood there in the street, yelling “Yeah! That’s right! Get out of here, you thieves, you bandits!” Then we realized we were still standing in the middle of the street like idiots. We came to our senses and left the scene.
However, after spending nearly another two months here, nothing has happened, and no one I know has had any problems. Considering the reality of the economy and the hundreds of unemployed, underfed and bored youth, it is almost inconceivable how safe the city is. There are no real prisons, and you rarely see police on the streets. The police have no cars, except for the vehicles that follow the President when his convoy goes screaming around town with great fanfare. In fact, I have been told that if you want to find a policeman, you must have his personal cell phone number (which you can only obtain if you know someone). According to recent releases by national press sources, youth groups called “N Kumans” are imposing vigilante justice in Bissorã, in the north of Guinea-Bissau. These groups practice violent acts against other civilians. Members of the Armed Forces have refused to turn in members of the group to police. This protection on the part of the authorities of such violent organizations contributes to the atmosphere of impunity in the country.
Additionally, youth are vulnerable to the influence of the drug trade, and many become users or participants in trafficking activities. Many young men and women in Guinea-Bissau have limited access to schooling, job opportunities, recreation or extra-curricular activities. These youth are at risk to participate in illegal activities, contributing to the environment of political and social instability in the country. Additionally, many young men are victims of human trafficking, and are sent to Senegal. These “Talibé” children are controlled by organizations that force them to beg on the street to help support their religious activities. However, the children themselves live in destitution and do not have access to schooling, health care, or contact with their families. The lack of educational or employment opportunities in Guinea-Bissau for youth contribute to the absence of options for young people to engage themselves in productive activities, leaving them vulnerable to human trafficking, sexual exploitation or prostitution, and early marriages and pregnancy. Thus, the idea of the youth initiative…but more on that later…
In the first month of my time in Bissau, I made an effort to attempt to follow protocol. I had a official crachá (identification badge), and made an appointment to meet with Júlio, head of security for a thorough briefing. In comparison with Rio, the security situation (at least in terms of petty crimes) seems tranquil. The only incident I have suffered occurred on my third day in country. Janet and I were walking to the Restaurant Ta Mar, in old town Bissau. Like all streets in Bissau, the street we walked on had no lights. It was pitch black, and we followed the weak spot of Janet’s flashlight. Two young boys were walking behind us, and one of them tried to pry Janet’s cell phone from her hand. However, the poor boys had no idea they were dealing with a professional peacebuilder. Janet swung around, clocking the boy in the head with her heavy flashlight, first POW! to the left and POW! to the right. The boys, stunned, quickly ran off, and I stood there in the street, yelling “Yeah! That’s right! Get out of here, you thieves, you bandits!” Then we realized we were still standing in the middle of the street like idiots. We came to our senses and left the scene.
However, after spending nearly another two months here, nothing has happened, and no one I know has had any problems. Considering the reality of the economy and the hundreds of unemployed, underfed and bored youth, it is almost inconceivable how safe the city is. There are no real prisons, and you rarely see police on the streets. The police have no cars, except for the vehicles that follow the President when his convoy goes screaming around town with great fanfare. In fact, I have been told that if you want to find a policeman, you must have his personal cell phone number (which you can only obtain if you know someone). According to recent releases by national press sources, youth groups called “N Kumans” are imposing vigilante justice in Bissorã, in the north of Guinea-Bissau. These groups practice violent acts against other civilians. Members of the Armed Forces have refused to turn in members of the group to police. This protection on the part of the authorities of such violent organizations contributes to the atmosphere of impunity in the country.
Additionally, youth are vulnerable to the influence of the drug trade, and many become users or participants in trafficking activities. Many young men and women in Guinea-Bissau have limited access to schooling, job opportunities, recreation or extra-curricular activities. These youth are at risk to participate in illegal activities, contributing to the environment of political and social instability in the country. Additionally, many young men are victims of human trafficking, and are sent to Senegal. These “Talibé” children are controlled by organizations that force them to beg on the street to help support their religious activities. However, the children themselves live in destitution and do not have access to schooling, health care, or contact with their families. The lack of educational or employment opportunities in Guinea-Bissau for youth contribute to the absence of options for young people to engage themselves in productive activities, leaving them vulnerable to human trafficking, sexual exploitation or prostitution, and early marriages and pregnancy. Thus, the idea of the youth initiative…but more on that later…
Tragedy Strikes at the Ruby Hotel
It was dark by the time I left work, and upon arrival at the Ruby, the mood was somber. Glenn the Swede looked concerned and confused, and João was standing outside the wall of the terrace with his hands on his hips. Apparently, a local neighborhood boy had jumped the fence and fallen into the tiny pool. He didn’t know how to swim. He was scooped out the pool, and Glenn, being the only person around knowing cpr, attempted to save him to no avail. He was eight years old. So João was draining the pool.
“You know, this is Africa. If he died there, I must drain it. People start talking, you know, about witches.” “So it is like a curse?” I asked. “No!” he said defensively, “There is no curse. Just…you have to be careful, you know. Then they’ll have a funeral and bury him.” Janet asked, “In the cemetery?” João huffed, offended. “Janet! You must know about this African culture! You are in Africa! Where did they bury Barack Obama’s father?” Janet and I gazed blankly at each other. “Well of course they buried him behind the house! They will bury him like Barack Obama’s father, understand? That’s Africa. We will go to the funeral and bring them some things, some rice. Then they will bury the boy. You know, what can we do?” Water streamed out of the hose, flooding the street and scattering beetles in all directions. João shook his head.
In the evening, I accompanied Janet to make an offering to the family, who lived in a very modest dwelling on the street behind the hotel. There were six family members of varying sizes sitting in plastic chairs in the entrance to the house. Inside, the grandmother sat alone, in the candlelight. She did not cry. Upon our entrance, a bevy of young children appeared in the doorway and watched the proceedings. We expressed our condolences and Janet handed her some folded bills on our departure. She mumbled in response and nodded numbly. We walked back in silence.
“You know, this is Africa. If he died there, I must drain it. People start talking, you know, about witches.” “So it is like a curse?” I asked. “No!” he said defensively, “There is no curse. Just…you have to be careful, you know. Then they’ll have a funeral and bury him.” Janet asked, “In the cemetery?” João huffed, offended. “Janet! You must know about this African culture! You are in Africa! Where did they bury Barack Obama’s father?” Janet and I gazed blankly at each other. “Well of course they buried him behind the house! They will bury him like Barack Obama’s father, understand? That’s Africa. We will go to the funeral and bring them some things, some rice. Then they will bury the boy. You know, what can we do?” Water streamed out of the hose, flooding the street and scattering beetles in all directions. João shook his head.
In the evening, I accompanied Janet to make an offering to the family, who lived in a very modest dwelling on the street behind the hotel. There were six family members of varying sizes sitting in plastic chairs in the entrance to the house. Inside, the grandmother sat alone, in the candlelight. She did not cry. Upon our entrance, a bevy of young children appeared in the doorway and watched the proceedings. We expressed our condolences and Janet handed her some folded bills on our departure. She mumbled in response and nodded numbly. We walked back in silence.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Ponto de Encontro (The Meeting Place)
In the first weeks, it was an entertaining activity to go around each night and find a new place to eat. However, the novelty of this game wore off quickly, as Bissau is what one would call in Portuguese an “ovo” (an egg), meaning, it is really very tiny. One of the more popular haunts is the “Ponto de Encontro,” or meeting place, which is a small café with a big screen television. During the European Cup, Ponto was the place to be, filled to the gills with Europeans, Guineans and the occasional Spanish-speaking miscreant, puffing on cigars and cigarettes until even the sandwiches tasted like tobacco leaves. Most of the time, I avoided Ponto unless for an occasional craving for a over-cooked mini pizza (ah, la gastronomie bissuaene) or a cold beer. One evening, we were sitting at one of the little tables outside, watching the hordes walking back from work when suddenly, in the corner of my eye, I noticed an enormous yellow apparition.
On an unpaved red dirt road in the country ranked 175th out of 177 in the Human Development Index, a brand-new, yellow Hummer with shiny silver rims rolled by. The driver was in his twenties. To give a perspective, most workers earn around $100 a month in a country where a sack of rice now costs $50 (21,000 CFA) and public employees have not been paid for 4 months. What baffles me is…if there is this intense international scrutiny, training and support against the drug trade, why is there a big banana hummer up in my face? It is so easy to spot these anomalies it is absurd. While we were gaping at the novelty of a car so large it can be seen on googlemaps, a little girl in rags with a plate of mangoes on her head walked by. Then a strange man holding up a rotting leopard skin dangled it in our faces. My boss chided him, saying that this was a illegal act. “No, no, no” he declared. I told him that even its not illegal, the next time he goes out to catch one, the leopard’s family would eat him. “Ha, ha ha” he laughed. “So, are you going to buy it or not?”
That is Bissau for you: a hummer, a child selling mangoes, and a skinned wildcat. Basically, it's just like Dupont Circle, except without the electricity and the white people.
The size of the city can be suffocating. Even in your work, you find yourself meeting with the same actors from civil society and government over and over again. If certain people are difficult, you have no choice but to continue working with them, unless you can work around them. I have heard many complaints of the “lack of political will” on the side of the Guinean government, which is certainly true in specific areas, especially those of a polemic nature (security sector reform in particular). However, it is evident that these reforms are taking place with little national consultation. Without local input, such reforms cannot be effective and may even worsen the situation. This lack of success is not surprising, because if you bring in consultants who cannot even speak the local language, how can you expect them to integrate a local perspective or even to minimally understand the complicated socio-political environment.
My favorite example of this incompetence occurred in the hotel, where a German consultant for an anti-trafficking agency was eating his breakfast. In town for a mere 2 weeks, he was charged with writing a long and influential report on the drug trafficking situation in Bissau. While he was munching his toast and tapping away at his laptop, our neighborhood Colombiano walked by cool as a cucumber to go jump into his gold car parked outside. The German guy was completely oblivious.
The activity here is “sem vergonha” , that is, there is no shame, there is no hiding the evidence. A policeman friend of mine who is here to consult with the national police said that this character came up to him one day and introduced himself as “the Colombian you are running after.” My friend said “actually, I’m not running after you, I am here to do trainings.” The Colombian gave him a wink, handed him a business card with his name and phone number, and said “Well, if you ever need to contact me, this is how you can find me.”
On an unpaved red dirt road in the country ranked 175th out of 177 in the Human Development Index, a brand-new, yellow Hummer with shiny silver rims rolled by. The driver was in his twenties. To give a perspective, most workers earn around $100 a month in a country where a sack of rice now costs $50 (21,000 CFA) and public employees have not been paid for 4 months. What baffles me is…if there is this intense international scrutiny, training and support against the drug trade, why is there a big banana hummer up in my face? It is so easy to spot these anomalies it is absurd. While we were gaping at the novelty of a car so large it can be seen on googlemaps, a little girl in rags with a plate of mangoes on her head walked by. Then a strange man holding up a rotting leopard skin dangled it in our faces. My boss chided him, saying that this was a illegal act. “No, no, no” he declared. I told him that even its not illegal, the next time he goes out to catch one, the leopard’s family would eat him. “Ha, ha ha” he laughed. “So, are you going to buy it or not?”
That is Bissau for you: a hummer, a child selling mangoes, and a skinned wildcat. Basically, it's just like Dupont Circle, except without the electricity and the white people.
The size of the city can be suffocating. Even in your work, you find yourself meeting with the same actors from civil society and government over and over again. If certain people are difficult, you have no choice but to continue working with them, unless you can work around them. I have heard many complaints of the “lack of political will” on the side of the Guinean government, which is certainly true in specific areas, especially those of a polemic nature (security sector reform in particular). However, it is evident that these reforms are taking place with little national consultation. Without local input, such reforms cannot be effective and may even worsen the situation. This lack of success is not surprising, because if you bring in consultants who cannot even speak the local language, how can you expect them to integrate a local perspective or even to minimally understand the complicated socio-political environment.
My favorite example of this incompetence occurred in the hotel, where a German consultant for an anti-trafficking agency was eating his breakfast. In town for a mere 2 weeks, he was charged with writing a long and influential report on the drug trafficking situation in Bissau. While he was munching his toast and tapping away at his laptop, our neighborhood Colombiano walked by cool as a cucumber to go jump into his gold car parked outside. The German guy was completely oblivious.
The activity here is “sem vergonha” , that is, there is no shame, there is no hiding the evidence. A policeman friend of mine who is here to consult with the national police said that this character came up to him one day and introduced himself as “the Colombian you are running after.” My friend said “actually, I’m not running after you, I am here to do trainings.” The Colombian gave him a wink, handed him a business card with his name and phone number, and said “Well, if you ever need to contact me, this is how you can find me.”
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