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.”
Don’t Ring the Doorbell
In the interest of modesty, I decided not to bring any swimwear to Bissau in the consideration that what I possess was purchased in a southern country where the cultural clothing norms are not as stringent (to say the least). Upon arrival in the 95-100 degree weather that greets you in Bissau, I suddenly began to wish that I could throw myself immediately into a body of water, ANY body of water, save for the trash-filled lake in front of the UN (these lakes are for fishing, not swimming). Determined to remedy the situation, I went on a shopping expedition with Janet and Sara, the Gender Adviser from Portugal. We found microscopic scraps of cloth called bathing suits. When I declared my dismay, the man poking around in his duffel bag full of bikinis shrugged his shoulders and said, “Hey! What can I say…Brazilian style.” He looked rather embarrassed. I was embarrassed as well, for in my hand I was holding the smallest piece of Lycra that has even been called clothing-what they called in Brazil “fio dental” (dental floss), but to make matters worse it was bright fluorescent pink, and had a strange attachment that both confused and repulsed me. On a long braided cord attached to the thong, a round plastic apparatus with a red tassel dangled, of resemblance to a gaudy Victorian doorbell or perhaps the clapper for a very unholy church bell. Thoroughly traumatized, we stumbled out of the store and back into the heat. That was more than a week ago and I haven’t been swimming yet...
Friday, July 18, 2008
GHANA TRANSPORTATION 101
I had written this transporation guide for future int'l grad students that come to work here in Ghana, but since i've been hearing that more and more fletcherites are planning on visiting later on this summer, i'd thought i'd post it as a guide...its also quite funny...at least i had quite a laugh writing it all down...
Tro-tros
Ghanians either walk from place to place or take these large minivans called tro-tros around. Tro-tros are old school private large mini-vans that are packed to the gills with bodies and babies...even if one is not yours you tend to have one on your lap. They are super cheap, but if you take them you end up leaving with more sweat and on you than when you got in (and not necessarily your own!). Imagine nothing more than a gutted van outfitted with bench seats for maximum occupancy…it is not abnormal during rush hours to have over 25 people in a tro-tro. ‘Twenty-five people in a five row mini-van – is that possible?’ you might ask yourself. Well estimate four people sitting per row (and in the aisle) and then there’s the infants that people dole out. Many women travel with 3+ toddlers at a time and therefore hand out their children to neighboring riders to hold and play with until they arrive at their destination of choice.
Furthermore, each tro-tro goes to a distinct location. This would be ok if there were some kind of signage on the outside of each van to identify exactly where it goes, or at least a map of the key routes would be ideal…but alas, no dice. Oh yeah, and there are also no bus stops. Tro-tros basically tell people where they are going not by having formal bus stops or signs (these types of things dont exist in Ghana). Rather, the front passenger-side guy called a ‘mate’ hangs the upper half of his torso out the window and makes different waving signs with his hands – pointing strait up means the tro-tro is going to Accra, waving around in downward-pointing circles means Burma Camp (the military part of town), beckoning aggressively towards themselves means another key main part of town. Were you not to know this important hand-signal code you would think that every passing tro-tro is harassing you as they stare and wave at every passer-by just in case they should be wanting to hop aboard (while the tro-tro is still moving of course – they do not stop).
Taxis
Most expats and people working at jobs take taxis or have cars and/or drivers in Accra. This is a normal thing if you are a white collar worker as a decent taxi ride only costs a dollar or two...this of course is a lot more than the .30 or .40 cent tro-tros, but gets you to where you want to go in a timely fashion. When utilizing a taxi, prices here always need to be negotiated before one enters the vehicle, for if you wait till you get in, the drivers pretty much hold you hostage - where they want to go, who else gets in the vehicle, and what price they want to set. Be warned it is most likely that the original price anyone quotes you in Ghana is 2 to 4 times what is a normal price…most taxi rides are 2 or 3 cedi (2/3$). I think the most I have ever paid for a cab is 5 cedi and that was when there were 3 people in the car and we were travelling a long distance across town. A fail-proof, key negotiating (or rather ultimatum) tip that we learned early on is to state your price and if the taxi driver will not accept it say ‘It’s ok, we’ll just find another cab...’ this has never failed us! Now, should you find a cab, have negotiated an agreed-upon price, it is pretty common for the driver then once en route to turn around and ask you for directions! Therefore its always a good idea to make sure he knows where you are going before getting in as well as always being aware of a few notable landmarks in the general vicinity of your destination so that the driver can better identify your location.
Cars
Most of the vehicles on the road here are what western standards would consider scrap metal, threatening to sputter out and die at any given moment. Travel therefore utilizing public transportation almost always carries with it a high risk of getting stranded somewhere in the middle of the day or night (not so fun in the dark). Or, if you are so lucky enough not to break down, chances are almost 100% that someone else along your road will, and being that roads are at most always two lanes in one direction, the chances that you will be stuck in the impending traffic are almost 100-0.
Night travel in general is generally discouraged for visitors and tourists here because 1) not many people have cars and are normally dependent upon public transportation, 2) public transportation consists of the tro-tros I had discussed earlier which are VERY unreliable and unsafe (16 people were killed when one crashed into a river last week). 3) The reason I referred to above - the darkness factor - were one to break down is due to the fact that there are no street lights really *anywhere* in Ghana (ok, ok…there are one or two new roads that have been built this past year that have lights). 4) There are no signs anywhere (street signs, highway signs, traffic signals, etc) and 5) maps virtually do not exist. So the chances that one would get lost are also pretty high.
Roads
Now the distance between cities here is pretty small…many of the popular destinations in the south are 100-200km from one another. For an American or European car that trip would take somewhere around an hour to two hours to travel. However in Ghana well paved roads are non-existent outside of the big cities, and the more common unpaved roads are full of 1ft deep very wide potholes practically everywhere so that slows down travel time quite considerably. An exception to this rule is the road between Accra and Cape Coast which was paved this past year so not only is it paved, it is also well lit (gasp), as well as strait (virtually non-existent!).
Ghana’s Finest
So one night we were actually driving on a weekend evening to Cape Coast from Accra around 11:15pm, having made terrific time - 1hr45min for a 99km trip – we were held up for about twenty minutes because they had just erected a new toll booth (10cents) which virtually stopped all traffic because people have to hand their coins to individuals in the toll booths. However, here we come screaming around one of the last corners totally exhilarated that we were going more than 40mph, and were forced to screech to a halt because of an unexpected police checkpoint. Now, I should point out before I go any further that we were travelling with a Ghanian who was driving us in his own private (and legal) car. Immediately the police were furious that our friend hadn't known about the checkpoint (though there were no signs alluding to the fact that one had been set up) and had inadvertently had to kind of screech to a stop. So ten minutes, and a lot of high-toned talking and arm waving later, our friend Michael hops back in the car with a smile and a wink to continue the last few kms of our trip. BUT the car wouldn't start; the battery had died. Well-prepared Michael came to our rescue busting a very large toolbox out of the trunk which he had brought in case just such a breakdown were to occur. Another ten minutes (and a lot of banging) later, our battery had been decalcified, and we were on our way, with (I might add) the Chief of Police, who after ten minutes of chatting-while-decalcifying had gone from a virtual life enemy to very good friend status. In fact, he told us that he held us in such high regard that he was going to help us out by accompanying us to his favorite hotel in Cape Coast (yes, this was the same guy who twenty minutes earlier had seemed most likely to rip up Michael's license and throw him in jail). It wasn’t of course until the next morning when we were well rested, fed, and realizing how very far off we were from all the coastal attraction that it dawned on us that the hotel most likely had an agreement with the police where a certain commission was paid to the police guy for sending guests to the hotel!!
Tro-tros
Ghanians either walk from place to place or take these large minivans called tro-tros around. Tro-tros are old school private large mini-vans that are packed to the gills with bodies and babies...even if one is not yours you tend to have one on your lap. They are super cheap, but if you take them you end up leaving with more sweat and on you than when you got in (and not necessarily your own!). Imagine nothing more than a gutted van outfitted with bench seats for maximum occupancy…it is not abnormal during rush hours to have over 25 people in a tro-tro. ‘Twenty-five people in a five row mini-van – is that possible?’ you might ask yourself. Well estimate four people sitting per row (and in the aisle) and then there’s the infants that people dole out. Many women travel with 3+ toddlers at a time and therefore hand out their children to neighboring riders to hold and play with until they arrive at their destination of choice.
Furthermore, each tro-tro goes to a distinct location. This would be ok if there were some kind of signage on the outside of each van to identify exactly where it goes, or at least a map of the key routes would be ideal…but alas, no dice. Oh yeah, and there are also no bus stops. Tro-tros basically tell people where they are going not by having formal bus stops or signs (these types of things dont exist in Ghana). Rather, the front passenger-side guy called a ‘mate’ hangs the upper half of his torso out the window and makes different waving signs with his hands – pointing strait up means the tro-tro is going to Accra, waving around in downward-pointing circles means Burma Camp (the military part of town), beckoning aggressively towards themselves means another key main part of town. Were you not to know this important hand-signal code you would think that every passing tro-tro is harassing you as they stare and wave at every passer-by just in case they should be wanting to hop aboard (while the tro-tro is still moving of course – they do not stop).
Taxis
Most expats and people working at jobs take taxis or have cars and/or drivers in Accra. This is a normal thing if you are a white collar worker as a decent taxi ride only costs a dollar or two...this of course is a lot more than the .30 or .40 cent tro-tros, but gets you to where you want to go in a timely fashion. When utilizing a taxi, prices here always need to be negotiated before one enters the vehicle, for if you wait till you get in, the drivers pretty much hold you hostage - where they want to go, who else gets in the vehicle, and what price they want to set. Be warned it is most likely that the original price anyone quotes you in Ghana is 2 to 4 times what is a normal price…most taxi rides are 2 or 3 cedi (2/3$). I think the most I have ever paid for a cab is 5 cedi and that was when there were 3 people in the car and we were travelling a long distance across town. A fail-proof, key negotiating (or rather ultimatum) tip that we learned early on is to state your price and if the taxi driver will not accept it say ‘It’s ok, we’ll just find another cab...’ this has never failed us! Now, should you find a cab, have negotiated an agreed-upon price, it is pretty common for the driver then once en route to turn around and ask you for directions! Therefore its always a good idea to make sure he knows where you are going before getting in as well as always being aware of a few notable landmarks in the general vicinity of your destination so that the driver can better identify your location.
Cars
Most of the vehicles on the road here are what western standards would consider scrap metal, threatening to sputter out and die at any given moment. Travel therefore utilizing public transportation almost always carries with it a high risk of getting stranded somewhere in the middle of the day or night (not so fun in the dark). Or, if you are so lucky enough not to break down, chances are almost 100% that someone else along your road will, and being that roads are at most always two lanes in one direction, the chances that you will be stuck in the impending traffic are almost 100-0.
Night travel in general is generally discouraged for visitors and tourists here because 1) not many people have cars and are normally dependent upon public transportation, 2) public transportation consists of the tro-tros I had discussed earlier which are VERY unreliable and unsafe (16 people were killed when one crashed into a river last week). 3) The reason I referred to above - the darkness factor - were one to break down is due to the fact that there are no street lights really *anywhere* in Ghana (ok, ok…there are one or two new roads that have been built this past year that have lights). 4) There are no signs anywhere (street signs, highway signs, traffic signals, etc) and 5) maps virtually do not exist. So the chances that one would get lost are also pretty high.
Roads
Now the distance between cities here is pretty small…many of the popular destinations in the south are 100-200km from one another. For an American or European car that trip would take somewhere around an hour to two hours to travel. However in Ghana well paved roads are non-existent outside of the big cities, and the more common unpaved roads are full of 1ft deep very wide potholes practically everywhere so that slows down travel time quite considerably. An exception to this rule is the road between Accra and Cape Coast which was paved this past year so not only is it paved, it is also well lit (gasp), as well as strait (virtually non-existent!).
Ghana’s Finest
So one night we were actually driving on a weekend evening to Cape Coast from Accra around 11:15pm, having made terrific time - 1hr45min for a 99km trip – we were held up for about twenty minutes because they had just erected a new toll booth (10cents) which virtually stopped all traffic because people have to hand their coins to individuals in the toll booths. However, here we come screaming around one of the last corners totally exhilarated that we were going more than 40mph, and were forced to screech to a halt because of an unexpected police checkpoint. Now, I should point out before I go any further that we were travelling with a Ghanian who was driving us in his own private (and legal) car. Immediately the police were furious that our friend hadn't known about the checkpoint (though there were no signs alluding to the fact that one had been set up) and had inadvertently had to kind of screech to a stop. So ten minutes, and a lot of high-toned talking and arm waving later, our friend Michael hops back in the car with a smile and a wink to continue the last few kms of our trip. BUT the car wouldn't start; the battery had died. Well-prepared Michael came to our rescue busting a very large toolbox out of the trunk which he had brought in case just such a breakdown were to occur. Another ten minutes (and a lot of banging) later, our battery had been decalcified, and we were on our way, with (I might add) the Chief of Police, who after ten minutes of chatting-while-decalcifying had gone from a virtual life enemy to very good friend status. In fact, he told us that he held us in such high regard that he was going to help us out by accompanying us to his favorite hotel in Cape Coast (yes, this was the same guy who twenty minutes earlier had seemed most likely to rip up Michael's license and throw him in jail). It wasn’t of course until the next morning when we were well rested, fed, and realizing how very far off we were from all the coastal attraction that it dawned on us that the hotel most likely had an agreement with the police where a certain commission was paid to the police guy for sending guests to the hotel!!
Monday, July 14, 2008
UNAMID Ambush
When we, in our western lives, watch the news we don't always notice the continuous headlines that flash across the bottom of the screen. Should something like 'peacekeepers ambushed in UN Mission to Darfur' be noticed, it would probably generate a minimal reaction, if any. The words 'peacekeeping' and 'Darfur' are immediately and subconsciously associated with dangerous and risky work in an extreme conflict environment—conditions that could lead to an increased threat or harm to one's wellbeing.
Seven peacekeepers from the African Union/United Nations Hybrid operation in Darfur (UNAMID) were killed in an ambush this past Tuesday in Darfur, and twenty two were injured. One was a Ghanian policeman. Many of them are likely to have taken a UNAMID Pre-Deployment 101 course—the same course I am currently enrolled in this week at the Kofi Annan International Peacekeeping and Training Center (KAIPTC). This week's UNAMID course contains policemen from Ghana, Liberia, Nigeria, El Salvador, and Bangladesh who are receiving training on the geography and political situation in Sudan, the risk of HIV/AIDS, off-road driving, and, yes, what to do if they are ambushed. We were informed of the ambush when the entire 70+ participant course was summoned to the large auditorium to observe a moment of silence.
Having spent the past four days in class, I have gotten to know a good number of the participants. I find that the best way to meet someone is at lunch. I always try to break the ice with a universal conversation starter, food: "Is fu fu (a Ghanian dish) very different from your country's food?" Almost immediately the question comes up, "How do you feel about deploying to Sudan next month?" The quick answer is a smile, wink, and "Well, you're coming too, right?" Duty and commitment to work, force, country, and continent frame most of the responses.
African contributions to peacekeeping missions have increased eleven-fold since the early 1990s. Currently nine of the top twenty troop contributing countries are African nations, and make up approximately 30% of all field personnel. This increase in commitment is the result of centers like KAIPTC, which is one of three peacekeeping training centers of excellence in the ECOWAS sub-region, and six total on the continent. As of May 31st, the joint AU-UN hybrid mission (UNAMID) was composed of 9,563 total uniformed personnel. Not only does this number fall far short of the almost 26,000 that are supposed to staff the mission, but the troops and personnel currently suffer from a chronic lack of equipment as well as cooperation from the Sudanese government.
After the announcement about the ambush, the mood of the training class was more serious than usual; as I looked around, I saw a lot of solemn, yet attentive faces. No jokes were being cracked. Instead, nervous energy was being directed elsewhere. Throughout the day there was a consistent shuffle of participants leaving the class to take a break and huddle for a few minutes in front of the 'daily news & announcements' board where stories about the incident were posted. They worried that the same fate could befall them—their worst fears had been confirmed. Never did they imagine over a decade ago—when the majority of them began their police service—that they would one day face international deployment to a war zone.
This morning as I got ready for work I turned the news on and took a few moments to sit there and give the headlines my full attention. The images of those officers' earnest faces trying to respond to my questions immediately came back to me...as well as their words about 'duty and commitment to work, force, country and continent.'
Seven peacekeepers from the African Union/United Nations Hybrid operation in Darfur (UNAMID) were killed in an ambush this past Tuesday in Darfur, and twenty two were injured. One was a Ghanian policeman. Many of them are likely to have taken a UNAMID Pre-Deployment 101 course—the same course I am currently enrolled in this week at the Kofi Annan International Peacekeeping and Training Center (KAIPTC). This week's UNAMID course contains policemen from Ghana, Liberia, Nigeria, El Salvador, and Bangladesh who are receiving training on the geography and political situation in Sudan, the risk of HIV/AIDS, off-road driving, and, yes, what to do if they are ambushed. We were informed of the ambush when the entire 70+ participant course was summoned to the large auditorium to observe a moment of silence.
Having spent the past four days in class, I have gotten to know a good number of the participants. I find that the best way to meet someone is at lunch. I always try to break the ice with a universal conversation starter, food: "Is fu fu (a Ghanian dish) very different from your country's food?" Almost immediately the question comes up, "How do you feel about deploying to Sudan next month?" The quick answer is a smile, wink, and "Well, you're coming too, right?" Duty and commitment to work, force, country, and continent frame most of the responses.
African contributions to peacekeeping missions have increased eleven-fold since the early 1990s. Currently nine of the top twenty troop contributing countries are African nations, and make up approximately 30% of all field personnel. This increase in commitment is the result of centers like KAIPTC, which is one of three peacekeeping training centers of excellence in the ECOWAS sub-region, and six total on the continent. As of May 31st, the joint AU-UN hybrid mission (UNAMID) was composed of 9,563 total uniformed personnel. Not only does this number fall far short of the almost 26,000 that are supposed to staff the mission, but the troops and personnel currently suffer from a chronic lack of equipment as well as cooperation from the Sudanese government.
After the announcement about the ambush, the mood of the training class was more serious than usual; as I looked around, I saw a lot of solemn, yet attentive faces. No jokes were being cracked. Instead, nervous energy was being directed elsewhere. Throughout the day there was a consistent shuffle of participants leaving the class to take a break and huddle for a few minutes in front of the 'daily news & announcements' board where stories about the incident were posted. They worried that the same fate could befall them—their worst fears had been confirmed. Never did they imagine over a decade ago—when the majority of them began their police service—that they would one day face international deployment to a war zone.
This morning as I got ready for work I turned the news on and took a few moments to sit there and give the headlines my full attention. The images of those officers' earnest faces trying to respond to my questions immediately came back to me...as well as their words about 'duty and commitment to work, force, country and continent.'
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Making it Official
Today is was a big day. I am now officially a card-carrying foreign resident of Bissau. Earlier in the afternoon, Aliu and I set out again to run some errands. I listed out several items, including the foreign residency card pick-up. “Agh!”, he cried, smacking his head. “We were supposed to be there by 2!” I had assumed when the woman said “after 2”, it was a general bracket of time in which specific appointments were not made (my perception of how time works in Bissau). However, Aliu explained impatiently that since the government has not paid the salaries of the workers for months, they usually go to work for half the day and then leave. We got lucky.
The office in the back courtyard was still full of people and the annoyed finger-stamp woman located my card and went through the perfunctory motions of printing my fingers for the third time, sighing in a way as if to say, “I’ve stamped so many fingers that they no longer have any meaning. You are just another thumb in this world.” She waved me off to once again dunk my inky fingers in a plastic tub filled with black water. Even after scrubbing my fingers with the sliver of orange soap provided, my hands were far dirtier than before. I wiped my hands on the blackened towel and we left. Aliu galloped away, waving goodbyes to everyone and me and my inky hands tailing behind. When he got back in the car, he smiled a toothy smile, clapped me on the shoulder and declared, “Hah! Now you can stay as long as you want!”
The office in the back courtyard was still full of people and the annoyed finger-stamp woman located my card and went through the perfunctory motions of printing my fingers for the third time, sighing in a way as if to say, “I’ve stamped so many fingers that they no longer have any meaning. You are just another thumb in this world.” She waved me off to once again dunk my inky fingers in a plastic tub filled with black water. Even after scrubbing my fingers with the sliver of orange soap provided, my hands were far dirtier than before. I wiped my hands on the blackened towel and we left. Aliu galloped away, waving goodbyes to everyone and me and my inky hands tailing behind. When he got back in the car, he smiled a toothy smile, clapped me on the shoulder and declared, “Hah! Now you can stay as long as you want!”
The Man in the Baby Blue Suit
One benefit of working with this particular organization is that, when justified by agency budget, you can take advantage of the squadron of blue-suited drivers in white jeeps in various stages of decay. Certain agencies have brand-new vehicles, others you can hear approaching from miles away. The state of these jeeps accurately reflects the financial or organizational state of each agency. Luckily, ours seems to be surviving well enough, and I was paired with Aliu, by far the most animated and well-connected driver of all. “Of course he knows everyone, he is a spy!” says my boss. Well if he is, he is a very nice spy, a very goofy looking, lanky African James Bond with personality as his only weapon.
Aliu is the man. Everywhere he goes, he shouts commentary to each person on the street, slapping shoulders, shaking hands, giving the thumb’s up, the wave, and a multitude of other gestures unique to his person that I can’t begin to explain. He also speaks so quickly that each comment comes out in a rapid jumble and by the time you have deciphered all that he has said, he has already moved on to the next topic. Aliu could easily be a radio personality. He has an opinion on everything, and likes to postulate about Guinean culture, politics, marriage habits (more on that later) and any other topic that emerges during the course of a trip to the bank or the Ministry of Such-and-Such. I benefited immensely from Aliu’s personality cult and his insights. Everywhere we went, he cut the line and no one complained. In the span of a couple hours, he had purchased me a cell phone, opened a bank account, submitted an application for foreign residency, among other errands. This would be an efficient run even in DC, but in Bissau, it was something akin to a miracle. In the cell phone store, for example, the line went out the door and there were people there who looked like they had been waiting their entire adult lives. Did I feel guilty for cutting the line? Well, of course, but there is no stopping Aliu. He is determined to do his job to the fullest, with the maximum enthusiasm possible, in the shortest span of time imaginable.
After I recuperated from my sickness, he confessed how upset he was that the nurse wouldn’t let him visit me in the infirmary. “ Just because YOU happened to choose ME as your INTIMATE friend, well then why can’t I visit you? People die in hospitals all the time, not just from their sickness, but from their MINDS because they don’t have people around them!” I assured him that the nurses had taken good care of me and within seconds, we had moved on to another topic. “Africa!” he said, “Ah, Africa. Africa can’t move forward until we change our ways. See this list I have here? This list is a list of things I must do for my family. My brother died, I have to care for his family. People say it is my right to take his wife but I said ‘no!’ I will never do that.” With the list from his family in one hand, and the list from the UN in the other, Aliu was constantly in motion.
On this particular day, we were taking care of technical reviews. Somehow I have mustered the strength to race behind Aliu like a very bedraggled, sweaty and sickly terrier, running in circles around the city. Stepping inside the narrow halls of the old building of the offices of the Ministry of Defense is like walking into someone’s shoe that has been sitting in the sun for 20 years. Why someone would decide to put down carpet in a tropical country I do not know. It must have looked very distinguished years ago. But now, like all infrastructure in poor Bissau, it stinks. Literally. Yet somehow, some way, people still work in these conditions, dressed in camouflage gear from head to toe, with black lace-up boots and black berets. The officer that led us up the stairs was so old and thin his uniform was nearly hanging off of him.
The Guinean military is an aging population, most being veterans from the war of independence against Portugal and still possessing a high rank in the hierarchy. According to a UN census, of nearly 4,500 members registered, more than 3,000 are officers, 1,800 of them holding the rank of major or above. Of the 4,500, only six are younger than 20, and there are hundreds older than 60. In addition, the military deals with a reality of no air-conditioning, no lights, no computers, no screens in the windows, and often no pay. Without a little greasing of the wheels, they probably wouldn’t survive. And neither would the government. And they don’t sweat. Me, on the other hand…well, I’m starting to smell like an old sock myself.
In general, the “fichas” (forms) were not ready: the person happens to be out for a 3 hour lunch, or traveled to Bafatá, or is having a meeting with a Minister of Something, or has decided to engage me in conversation long enough to distract me from my purpose. Aliu was in a great hurry to get back to take the Mine Commission people out to the fields to look at unexploded ordinance. I was also in a great hurry to get all the reviews in before 5 pm before the meeting. In our last visit, at the Association of Business Promotion, the man started to talk about how he had traveled to the United States. “Where?” “Virginia? Oh really, where in Virginia?” He surveyed the ceiling as if the answer was written there. “I don’t know…O.K, name me all the cities in Virginia and then I will try to remember..” By the time I reached “Richmond” Aliu was giving me such a pained look that I diverted the conversation back to its purpose. “Oh, the form?” he said casually, laughing and adjusting his watch, “Oh, but I haven’t looked at it. Don’t worry, I could perhaps get it to you by Monday”. By the time the words left his mouth Aliu was already flying down the stairs in his little blue suit.
Aliu is the man. Everywhere he goes, he shouts commentary to each person on the street, slapping shoulders, shaking hands, giving the thumb’s up, the wave, and a multitude of other gestures unique to his person that I can’t begin to explain. He also speaks so quickly that each comment comes out in a rapid jumble and by the time you have deciphered all that he has said, he has already moved on to the next topic. Aliu could easily be a radio personality. He has an opinion on everything, and likes to postulate about Guinean culture, politics, marriage habits (more on that later) and any other topic that emerges during the course of a trip to the bank or the Ministry of Such-and-Such. I benefited immensely from Aliu’s personality cult and his insights. Everywhere we went, he cut the line and no one complained. In the span of a couple hours, he had purchased me a cell phone, opened a bank account, submitted an application for foreign residency, among other errands. This would be an efficient run even in DC, but in Bissau, it was something akin to a miracle. In the cell phone store, for example, the line went out the door and there were people there who looked like they had been waiting their entire adult lives. Did I feel guilty for cutting the line? Well, of course, but there is no stopping Aliu. He is determined to do his job to the fullest, with the maximum enthusiasm possible, in the shortest span of time imaginable.
After I recuperated from my sickness, he confessed how upset he was that the nurse wouldn’t let him visit me in the infirmary. “ Just because YOU happened to choose ME as your INTIMATE friend, well then why can’t I visit you? People die in hospitals all the time, not just from their sickness, but from their MINDS because they don’t have people around them!” I assured him that the nurses had taken good care of me and within seconds, we had moved on to another topic. “Africa!” he said, “Ah, Africa. Africa can’t move forward until we change our ways. See this list I have here? This list is a list of things I must do for my family. My brother died, I have to care for his family. People say it is my right to take his wife but I said ‘no!’ I will never do that.” With the list from his family in one hand, and the list from the UN in the other, Aliu was constantly in motion.
On this particular day, we were taking care of technical reviews. Somehow I have mustered the strength to race behind Aliu like a very bedraggled, sweaty and sickly terrier, running in circles around the city. Stepping inside the narrow halls of the old building of the offices of the Ministry of Defense is like walking into someone’s shoe that has been sitting in the sun for 20 years. Why someone would decide to put down carpet in a tropical country I do not know. It must have looked very distinguished years ago. But now, like all infrastructure in poor Bissau, it stinks. Literally. Yet somehow, some way, people still work in these conditions, dressed in camouflage gear from head to toe, with black lace-up boots and black berets. The officer that led us up the stairs was so old and thin his uniform was nearly hanging off of him.
The Guinean military is an aging population, most being veterans from the war of independence against Portugal and still possessing a high rank in the hierarchy. According to a UN census, of nearly 4,500 members registered, more than 3,000 are officers, 1,800 of them holding the rank of major or above. Of the 4,500, only six are younger than 20, and there are hundreds older than 60. In addition, the military deals with a reality of no air-conditioning, no lights, no computers, no screens in the windows, and often no pay. Without a little greasing of the wheels, they probably wouldn’t survive. And neither would the government. And they don’t sweat. Me, on the other hand…well, I’m starting to smell like an old sock myself.
In general, the “fichas” (forms) were not ready: the person happens to be out for a 3 hour lunch, or traveled to Bafatá, or is having a meeting with a Minister of Something, or has decided to engage me in conversation long enough to distract me from my purpose. Aliu was in a great hurry to get back to take the Mine Commission people out to the fields to look at unexploded ordinance. I was also in a great hurry to get all the reviews in before 5 pm before the meeting. In our last visit, at the Association of Business Promotion, the man started to talk about how he had traveled to the United States. “Where?” “Virginia? Oh really, where in Virginia?” He surveyed the ceiling as if the answer was written there. “I don’t know…O.K, name me all the cities in Virginia and then I will try to remember..” By the time I reached “Richmond” Aliu was giving me such a pained look that I diverted the conversation back to its purpose. “Oh, the form?” he said casually, laughing and adjusting his watch, “Oh, but I haven’t looked at it. Don’t worry, I could perhaps get it to you by Monday”. By the time the words left his mouth Aliu was already flying down the stairs in his little blue suit.
"It's not easy"
As my time here is wrapping up, the camp is getting more and more quiet. I’d like to think it is a moment of silence before I leave, but it has more to do with the fact that refugees are heading home as fast as they can. “It’s not easy,” as they say here. It’s even less easy for those who don’t have UNHCR ID cards because the machine broke down about three years ago (a rumor yet to be confirmed). If you don’t have a UNHCR ID card, you cannot travel with the UN that gives refugees a free plane ride home and $100 per adult ($50 per child) upon arrival. Although the money will most likely be gone in less than two weeks since prices in Liberia are high in comparison to Ghana, it is at least a safe and free way of getting back. Finding the money to pay for rent in the overcrowded Monrovia is the next challenge. For those who have no networks in Liberia, either because their family was killed or they grew up in Buduburam, it is a frightening reality that they will not have a place to stay while they look for a home.
If you don’t have an ID card, you have to travel by road. It is rainy season, so traveling by road can be dangerous. In Ghana, the deafening pounding of a rainstorm on my tin roof is enough for me to appreciate the intensity of storms here in western Africa. If I put my buckets out to collect water, they are filled in five minutes. But in Ghana, these storms come and go. The farther you move west, the longer and harder it rains. A normally two- or three-day trip back to Liberia can turn into three weeks as the roads are destroyed and Liberians have to set up camp in Cote d’Ivoire. Cote d’Ivoire is also not safe. Because of the recent civil war there, the crime is high and many Liberians are afraid to stay multiple nights. But some can’t even afford to go by road. If refugees have no money, no vehicle, and no ID cards, they are stuck in Buduburam, which will be closing in the next few months.
Refugees have had three options over the years: local integration into Ghanaian society, repatriation back to Liberia, and resettlement to a third country such as the US or somewhere in Europe. Resettlement to the US ended last year, not including the few P3 cases (which means there are family members there) that are still being reviewed from last year. Only 1% of refugees were sent abroad, since an intense interview process picks out the most vulnerable to go. Refugees are not interested in reintegration in Ghana, which was part of the protests this past March that raised tensions between Ghanaians and Liberians. Ghanaians think Liberians are ungrateful since they have been allowed to settle in Ghana for 18 years, but Liberians know it would incredibly difficult to start a life in Ghana. Even though local integration is free, and Liberians will in theory be given all the rights of a Ghanaian, it is still unlikely they will get a job because employers will hire a Ghanaian before a foreign national.
What is going to happen to the camp once it is ‘closed?’ What does ‘closed’ really mean? What happens to the Liberian refugees who are still here, and can’t afford to go back home? These are questions I’ve asked public officials in Accra who don’t even know the answers. Some Liberians think this area will turn into an army base, while others think Ghanaians will come and live here. And as for the Liberians who can’t afford to leave – breaking up the camp in October or November is still a possibility. The more aggressive Interior Minister who was advocating for this has been replaced, and it would take a great amount of resources to do this – but it has been done before in Togo and could happen here. No one really knows what to expect.
With repatriation as the ‘preferred’ – in other words, pretty much only – option that refugees have now, everyone is heading home. Now it’s just a question of how they get home safely and how to “start their lives” upon arrival to an overcrowded city, high crime rate, and few resources. As I head home with a recorder full of interviews with nervous refugees and notes from discussions with public officials, I’ve come up with a few theories on how to better help the process of repatriation; but these ideas will be shared in a later blog entry.
It’s not going to be easy to leave the people I care about. It’s as though they are walking off a cliff with their eyes closed, unsure of how far they are going to fall before they hit the ground.
If you don’t have an ID card, you have to travel by road. It is rainy season, so traveling by road can be dangerous. In Ghana, the deafening pounding of a rainstorm on my tin roof is enough for me to appreciate the intensity of storms here in western Africa. If I put my buckets out to collect water, they are filled in five minutes. But in Ghana, these storms come and go. The farther you move west, the longer and harder it rains. A normally two- or three-day trip back to Liberia can turn into three weeks as the roads are destroyed and Liberians have to set up camp in Cote d’Ivoire. Cote d’Ivoire is also not safe. Because of the recent civil war there, the crime is high and many Liberians are afraid to stay multiple nights. But some can’t even afford to go by road. If refugees have no money, no vehicle, and no ID cards, they are stuck in Buduburam, which will be closing in the next few months.
Refugees have had three options over the years: local integration into Ghanaian society, repatriation back to Liberia, and resettlement to a third country such as the US or somewhere in Europe. Resettlement to the US ended last year, not including the few P3 cases (which means there are family members there) that are still being reviewed from last year. Only 1% of refugees were sent abroad, since an intense interview process picks out the most vulnerable to go. Refugees are not interested in reintegration in Ghana, which was part of the protests this past March that raised tensions between Ghanaians and Liberians. Ghanaians think Liberians are ungrateful since they have been allowed to settle in Ghana for 18 years, but Liberians know it would incredibly difficult to start a life in Ghana. Even though local integration is free, and Liberians will in theory be given all the rights of a Ghanaian, it is still unlikely they will get a job because employers will hire a Ghanaian before a foreign national.
What is going to happen to the camp once it is ‘closed?’ What does ‘closed’ really mean? What happens to the Liberian refugees who are still here, and can’t afford to go back home? These are questions I’ve asked public officials in Accra who don’t even know the answers. Some Liberians think this area will turn into an army base, while others think Ghanaians will come and live here. And as for the Liberians who can’t afford to leave – breaking up the camp in October or November is still a possibility. The more aggressive Interior Minister who was advocating for this has been replaced, and it would take a great amount of resources to do this – but it has been done before in Togo and could happen here. No one really knows what to expect.
With repatriation as the ‘preferred’ – in other words, pretty much only – option that refugees have now, everyone is heading home. Now it’s just a question of how they get home safely and how to “start their lives” upon arrival to an overcrowded city, high crime rate, and few resources. As I head home with a recorder full of interviews with nervous refugees and notes from discussions with public officials, I’ve come up with a few theories on how to better help the process of repatriation; but these ideas will be shared in a later blog entry.
It’s not going to be easy to leave the people I care about. It’s as though they are walking off a cliff with their eyes closed, unsure of how far they are going to fall before they hit the ground.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Summer in DC
Greetings from DC! Since getting back from China on June 10, I’ve been interning at World Resources Institute. (I still have a few things I’d like to write about our Asia Foundation portion of the trip, but that might have to wait for a rainy Saturday). World Resources Institute is probably best described as an environmental think tank. They provide research, analysis and policy proposals to address environmentally sound and socially equitable development. The organization has several departments, focusing on everything from climate change, species protection, transportation, and base-of-the-pyramid sustainable development. I’m with in the Institutions and Governance Program, on the Electricity and Governance Initiative, which works with electricity sector decision-makers and civil society leaders to promote transparency, accountability and public participation in the energy and electricity sectors worldwide. Admittedly, that’s a lot of jargon, but basically we work with governments on how to reform their electricity sector to promote sustainable energy solutions.
I have two specific projects. The first is working with the Inter American Development Bank on writing a background paper on renewable energy in Latin America. The paper presents an overview of the current state of the energy sector, and offers several policy, technology and financing solutions to meeting the growing demand with sustainable energy. The second project is analyzing the balance sheets of state-owned utilities in Brazil and South Africa to identify their overall sustainability and who is bearing the risks for their regional investments. I’m sure many of your eyes just glazed over reading this paragraph, but I have to say I’m really excited about the work I’m doing.
I’m also happy to be in DC for the summer. I’m definitely making the professional connections I was looking for, and it’s been a ton of fun hanging out with the motley crew of other Fletcher students in town for the summer. My first weekend in town, Ivan, Brett Yellen, Scott Dash, Emily Neishem, Anna Farber and I went to Mt. Vernon for the day. You’ll have to hear it from Brett in person this fall, but during our short time there George Washington was revealed to be an anti-Semite and a womanizer.
I have two specific projects. The first is working with the Inter American Development Bank on writing a background paper on renewable energy in Latin America. The paper presents an overview of the current state of the energy sector, and offers several policy, technology and financing solutions to meeting the growing demand with sustainable energy. The second project is analyzing the balance sheets of state-owned utilities in Brazil and South Africa to identify their overall sustainability and who is bearing the risks for their regional investments. I’m sure many of your eyes just glazed over reading this paragraph, but I have to say I’m really excited about the work I’m doing.
I’m also happy to be in DC for the summer. I’m definitely making the professional connections I was looking for, and it’s been a ton of fun hanging out with the motley crew of other Fletcher students in town for the summer. My first weekend in town, Ivan, Brett Yellen, Scott Dash, Emily Neishem, Anna Farber and I went to Mt. Vernon for the day. You’ll have to hear it from Brett in person this fall, but during our short time there George Washington was revealed to be an anti-Semite and a womanizer.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Luz bai, luz bim
Recently, the price of rice has risen exponentially, some say by fault of the government, which has a tendency to manipulate prices for its own gain. With no electricity, it is nearly impossible to maintain fresh fruit, and foreign investment in factories is practically nonexistent. Local women travel to the border of Guinea-Bissau in the Casamance region of Senegal to buy produce like cabbages, carrots and tomatoes, although the land here can also grow such vegetables. There is no culture of eating vegetables here, what is produced or bought is sold to hotels for foreigners and not consumed locally. Occasionally, you find some slices of carrot or canned peas, a lone potato or piece of manioc among the chunks of beef or under your fish carcass. What is not purchased in the market simply goes bad and is wasted.
Some foreign investors came in recently to build a cement factory, but the government demanded 50% of the profits, so the business moved to Guinea Conakry. The political instability in the country and widespread corruption deter the rest. The World Bank pulled out of Guinea-Bissau for several years, as they estimated that nearly 80% of the money they invested was hemorrhaged (disappeared). The Bank is back now, and attempting to support efforts to increase the energy capacity, which is by far the gravest problem, besides drug trafficking, that this country faces.
There are public generators, run by the state company EAGB, and they are named “The Group of 7.” They are antiquated and often dysfunctional, and to make matters worse they are expensive, as they are not property of the government. Several have shut down, and the parts necessary to fix them no longer exist, and must be manufactured specifically for those machines, which of course has not happened. At this moment, Guinea-Bissau has a mere capacity of 3 MW. To put this in perspective, Nigeria is in the midst of an energy crisis with a current level of around 3500 MW. So the public generators run, but not all the time, and not for many. Occasionally, we get lucky. The first week I moved into our house, which is next to the yellow drug dealer hotel, we had state electricity all week. Ah, but it was an illusion. Now that the rainy season has started, light is hard to come by.
As they say in Kriol, "luz bai, luz bim" (light comes, light goes). The first big storm we had, nearly 50 houses were destroyed and families were sleeping in the streets in the rain. Certain agencies (whom I will not name) in my vicinity wanted to help these families, but inconveniently the humanitarian coordination has left (soon to be followed by many other discontented staff) and so, nothing happened.
In the meantime, our generator's spark blew and so we had no generator either. Not to mention this is all complicated by the diesel crisis, which is supposedly over but continues to be a problem. So it was bucket showers by candlelight, which is a lot less romantic than it sounds. Actually, the candles and bucket showers don't really bother me all that much, its the lack of any sort of movement of air in my room that is torturous. Forget sleeping, under that lovely mosquito net you will be tossing and turning for hours. Now the generator is fixed, we can use it for a couple hours in the evening until around 11 pm, and then it is solid darkness from then on.
Coming to America
Just as I was starting to feel better and admit this was my one necessary “adjustment” episode, I came down with a fever. It kept climbing, and I had layers of wet towels on my head all night. Finally, I decided to go see the medic at the UN. Of course, I would not think of going to the hospital, because, as the Guineenses say, “you only go to the hospital to die.” Great.
As soon as I arrived they hooked me up to an I.V. and I stayed there sleeping on and off for several days. Due to the fact that Bissau does not have much laboratory capacity, they were unable to identify what illness I was suffering from. They determined I had some sort of throat infection, put me on an antibiotic regimen, and threw in some quinine just in case I also had malaria. Malaria, known by its local name, “paludismo,” is a persistent problem throughout the country. I would estimate that, at any given point in time, a minimum of 2 employees at the UN are debilitated by malaria. My boss has had it once, and one of my Portuguese colleagues has had it 4 times over the past 6 months.
I had the fabulous luck of falling into the attentive care of the UN nurse and the doctor, who happened to be named América. Of course, with a high fever, this small coincidence amused me to no end. I’ve already learned how easily one can entertain oneself in a feverish delirium. Once, when I was in Medoza, in Argentina, I came down with similar symptoms: the throat infection, high fever, headache. I was holed up in a raggedy youth hostel with a burning forehead, and with my mind going a million miles an hour, I became convinced that I would write a splendid, long novel in Spanish in the illustrious style of Gabriel García Márquez. I could just see the words running through my head, the sentences arranging themselves into place at a mad pace. But it was not to be, as even though it made sense to me, it came out rather incoherent when expressed to others. So while I was regaining my strength on the little yellow cot, I started chatting with the nurse who dutifully checking all my vital signs every couple hours.
We started talking about the challenges that Guinea-Bissau faces and the apparent inability on the part of the government to address any of these issues. She confirmed many of my suspicions: that the issue of poverty is not due to a lack of food, but instead revolves around a problem of conservation and transportation. In the South, during the mango season, it is so plentiful that 80% of the fruit goes to waste. Cashew fruit dangles from nearly every tree, but still Guineans scrape by on a subsistence economy.
Many years ago, before the independence from Portugal, Guinea-Bissau was completely self-sufficient in rice, and exported great quantities of rice to Portugal. Those days are long over. Before the war in 1998, the economy was improving, and a cashew-nut processing plant was built, building local production capacity. However, the civil war devastated the nation’s infrastructure and little has changed over the past ten years since the war ended. Political instability is the major factor in preventing development, or better said, reconstruction. The old presidential palace still occupies a large terrain on a roundabout in front of the Foreign Ministry, pink and decrepit, riddled with hundreds of bullet holes. The roof long ago caved in.
The roads of Bissau, as I mentioned previously, could easily mangle any vehicle, save for the hardy white UN jeeps and the seemingly invincible “toca-toca” collective taxis which resemble the skeletons of former buses left to die in the 1960’s. These blue-and-yellow painted micro-buses are often covered with Madonna stickers on the back window, or have names painted in yellow on the bumper, but in all their glory they still pale in comparison even to the Brazilian white “kombi” minvans which still have seats overflowing with stuffing and doors that do not fall off their hinges.
An Evening at the Palace
NOTE: I am way behind on my posts. This one is from over a month ago...
After I had been in Bissau for a week, I began to think that I was invincible, that somehow the multiple episodes of food poisoning that I experienced while living in Brazil were exceptions. Of course, it is right at that moment when you begin to think your body is capable of taking the punishment that it falls apart.
The day I arrived in Bissau I was up until 3 a.m. working with my boss on a proposal due the next day. This pace continued through the weekend, as I somehow timed my visit precisely before the moment when all the proposals and paperwork were due. Somehow, on Saturday evening, we found respite in Bissau’s “nightlife.” Abraão, a young man who hangs around the hotel, works as an event promotor for the omnipresent cell phone company Orange, one of the few employers of local youth in Bissau. He got us tickets to see Bidinte, a famous local artist who played traditional Guinean music and also happens to be the boyfriend of the owner of the hotel.
(to see part of the show: http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=mJROdlmtedA, under my videos “Aimeez123” you can also see a couple other of my clips)
The show took place in one of the few musical venues in Bissau, a monstrous pink hotel built by the Lebanese called the Palace (“Pah-lass-ee”) Hotel. It somewhat depressed me that the President’s residence, and every Ministry that I had seen so far were dwarfed in comparison to the size and luxury of the Palace. There was light and air conditioning, which in itself is considered supreme excess in Bissau, and when you top that off with ice cubes and imported whisky, we are talking paradise.
Not surprisingly, there were barely 15 people in attendance, as the tickets were too expensive for anyone other than the expat community or the small cadre of Guinean elite. Bidinte did his best to pretend the audience was packed, and put on a great show, along with his group of young dancers, back-up singers, and the gumbe player (plays an upside-down calabash in a bucket of water, which makes a sort of hollow thudding sound). Bidinte does not live in Bissau, much like the few lucky ones who have immigrated to Europe (Although Bidinte is probably one of the few who arrives with nothing illegal in his baggage). We ate dinner at the hotel, and of course, I got sick not from the street food, but from the food at the Guinean equivalent of the Four Seasons. I had racking colic all night and other stomach ailments for two days.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Bad Leadership
June 26, 2008
Nelson Mandela finally commented about the crisis in Zimbabwe, and blamed it on ‘bad leadership.’ He never mentioned ZANU-PF (the ruling party) or Mugabe, but it is a great step forward. With the run-off elections tomorrow, and the MDC opposition leader , Morgan Tsvangirai having pulled out of the race, there could be absolute chaos. Tsvangirai pulled out in fear of his life since so many of his colleagues have been killed in recent weeks, but has offered negotiations with Mugabe to try and settle the crisis. It is an important offer to give, but we all know very well that Mugabe will never negotiate.
So why is Mandela only just speaking out against Mugabe now? Mandela was one of the best leaders Africa has ever known; even that the world has ever known. He avoided major civil war in South Africa and pulled his country out of the violence of Apartheid. He is a man who believes in peace, democracy, and term limits, and stepped down once his time was over. For the past decade, people have been saying Zimbabwe ‘can’t get much worse.’ But it has. And there was silence among almost all South Africans, the one neighbor that could have actually done something to stop Zimbabwe’s spiral towards disaster.
Mugabe and other leaders of the ZANU-PF helped protect the ANC (now the ruling party of South Africa) during their fight against the Apartheid regime. So not only do ANC members feel indebted to the ZANU-PF, but many of them see Mugabe as a symbol of the fight against white colonial rule. Mugabe was a major player in fighting the brutal white regime in Rhodesia – the colonial name of Zimbabwe – in the 1960s and 70s. Mugabe was praised as Zimbabwe's savior and has been treated almost as a God ever since.
In Africa, these bonds matter. You respect your elders, and you do not speak out against your brothers who fought alongside you. But Mugabe’s claim that he is protecting Zimbabwe from western colonialism is getting old. Although Mandela was careful not to say Mugabe’s name, the fact he said that Zimbabwe’s crisis is a result of bad leadership is a vital step forward, especially since the Southern Africa Development Community (SADC) countries are taking a stance against Mugabe as well.
From an on-ground report, apparently the slogan is “support Mugabe, vote Tsvangirai.” Civilians are forced to wear t-shirts and hats with Mugabe’s face, people have to drive with Mugabe slogans in their cars, and restaurant and hotel owners must have a portrait of Mugabe on their walls. Anyone who does not have this is considered an enemy, and is accused of supporting the opposition.
Tomorrow’s run-off elections could end in violence. Tsvangirai’s name is still on the ballot, even though he pulled himself out of the race. There is no doubt that the Zimbabwean army – both official (what is left of it) and unofficial – will be out in the rural areas forcing people to vote for Mugabe. But if Mugabe claims victory, even after the clear win of Tsvangirai in last March’s elections, who knows what will happen.
Bread costs 8 billion Zimbabwean dollars, and even the average Zimbabwean can’t afford it -- all as a result of ZANU-PF policies and Mugabe's hunger for power. Talk about bad leadership.
Nelson Mandela finally commented about the crisis in Zimbabwe, and blamed it on ‘bad leadership.’ He never mentioned ZANU-PF (the ruling party) or Mugabe, but it is a great step forward. With the run-off elections tomorrow, and the MDC opposition leader , Morgan Tsvangirai having pulled out of the race, there could be absolute chaos. Tsvangirai pulled out in fear of his life since so many of his colleagues have been killed in recent weeks, but has offered negotiations with Mugabe to try and settle the crisis. It is an important offer to give, but we all know very well that Mugabe will never negotiate.
So why is Mandela only just speaking out against Mugabe now? Mandela was one of the best leaders Africa has ever known; even that the world has ever known. He avoided major civil war in South Africa and pulled his country out of the violence of Apartheid. He is a man who believes in peace, democracy, and term limits, and stepped down once his time was over. For the past decade, people have been saying Zimbabwe ‘can’t get much worse.’ But it has. And there was silence among almost all South Africans, the one neighbor that could have actually done something to stop Zimbabwe’s spiral towards disaster.
Mugabe and other leaders of the ZANU-PF helped protect the ANC (now the ruling party of South Africa) during their fight against the Apartheid regime. So not only do ANC members feel indebted to the ZANU-PF, but many of them see Mugabe as a symbol of the fight against white colonial rule. Mugabe was a major player in fighting the brutal white regime in Rhodesia – the colonial name of Zimbabwe – in the 1960s and 70s. Mugabe was praised as Zimbabwe's savior and has been treated almost as a God ever since.
In Africa, these bonds matter. You respect your elders, and you do not speak out against your brothers who fought alongside you. But Mugabe’s claim that he is protecting Zimbabwe from western colonialism is getting old. Although Mandela was careful not to say Mugabe’s name, the fact he said that Zimbabwe’s crisis is a result of bad leadership is a vital step forward, especially since the Southern Africa Development Community (SADC) countries are taking a stance against Mugabe as well.
From an on-ground report, apparently the slogan is “support Mugabe, vote Tsvangirai.” Civilians are forced to wear t-shirts and hats with Mugabe’s face, people have to drive with Mugabe slogans in their cars, and restaurant and hotel owners must have a portrait of Mugabe on their walls. Anyone who does not have this is considered an enemy, and is accused of supporting the opposition.
Tomorrow’s run-off elections could end in violence. Tsvangirai’s name is still on the ballot, even though he pulled himself out of the race. There is no doubt that the Zimbabwean army – both official (what is left of it) and unofficial – will be out in the rural areas forcing people to vote for Mugabe. But if Mugabe claims victory, even after the clear win of Tsvangirai in last March’s elections, who knows what will happen.
Bread costs 8 billion Zimbabwean dollars, and even the average Zimbabwean can’t afford it -- all as a result of ZANU-PF policies and Mugabe's hunger for power. Talk about bad leadership.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
If you give a mouse a cookie
Refugees are now asking me on a daily basis for money and favors. Some have been demanding for more than what we are already giving them -- as though all the work we are doing to help just isn't ever enough.
Not that I can blame them -- with that little income, and that much fear about my future, I might do the same. I'm lucky to be born into a world of running water and a family who can support me if I need help. I suppose that after staying in a place like Buduburam for over a month reality begins to sink in. People start to feel comfortable with you and tell you stories about their past you don't necessarily want to hear -- not that I don't care, but that is not why I am here. I want to help them focus on a more hopeful future, not on the trauma of the past.
I hate thinking "it's because I'm white." But I do, every time something seems slightly pricey. I think about it when someone is friendly to me, or even just says 'hello.' I give a friendly nod, but think to myself, "it's because they want something from me." It's as though they think you have money flowing out of the drain pipes at home.
It's a shame that's the way it is. So many of the volunteers on camp march in thinking we can make the world of difference. We do, in some ways. The orphanage wouldn't exist without the support of my organization which means 25 children would be malnourished or not even alive, and most children would go to school hungry without our morning feeding program. But sometimes it's as though they just want more and it is never enough. They want a raise for their work, they need more clothes, more food, more... more... more.
Understanding the dynamics of refugees on the ground will really affect my research next year. I do believe that these people have seen things no human being should ever have to see. Many have done things none of us should ever be forced to do. The sense of loss is so great it makes my stomach turn. But, if all we do is give away our help, then it doesn't only create dependency, it also creates expectation.
If you give a mouse a cookie, well, then he'll just ask for some milk.
Not that I can blame them -- with that little income, and that much fear about my future, I might do the same. I'm lucky to be born into a world of running water and a family who can support me if I need help. I suppose that after staying in a place like Buduburam for over a month reality begins to sink in. People start to feel comfortable with you and tell you stories about their past you don't necessarily want to hear -- not that I don't care, but that is not why I am here. I want to help them focus on a more hopeful future, not on the trauma of the past.
I hate thinking "it's because I'm white." But I do, every time something seems slightly pricey. I think about it when someone is friendly to me, or even just says 'hello.' I give a friendly nod, but think to myself, "it's because they want something from me." It's as though they think you have money flowing out of the drain pipes at home.
It's a shame that's the way it is. So many of the volunteers on camp march in thinking we can make the world of difference. We do, in some ways. The orphanage wouldn't exist without the support of my organization which means 25 children would be malnourished or not even alive, and most children would go to school hungry without our morning feeding program. But sometimes it's as though they just want more and it is never enough. They want a raise for their work, they need more clothes, more food, more... more... more.
Understanding the dynamics of refugees on the ground will really affect my research next year. I do believe that these people have seen things no human being should ever have to see. Many have done things none of us should ever be forced to do. The sense of loss is so great it makes my stomach turn. But, if all we do is give away our help, then it doesn't only create dependency, it also creates expectation.
If you give a mouse a cookie, well, then he'll just ask for some milk.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Ghana’s Most Beautiful.
I am now a celebrity not only amongst the children of the Buduburam camp but now also among all of those who watch Ghana’s Most Beautiful on Sunday nights. Ghana’s Most Beautiful is a slightly altered African version of US reality television. The stage is small, there were only about 100 people in the studio, and the judges are kind in their criticism, but everyone with a TV in Ghana watches it. It is down to four contestants and this Sunday each of them had to describe a social service project they would conduct for their country.
I went with my friend Laura who has a family member who works in the studio, along with PK from Fletcher. After we waited for a full hour past the time the show was supposed to start – technical difficulties, surprise, surprise – the show finally began. It somehow worked out that the three of us sat behind the three judges – which means that every time a judge spoke, there was one of our white faces reflecting the light in the background in an otherwise-completely-African setting. I wanted to laugh every time I saw us on the screen, only because I couldn’t believe that somehow it was the three of us who got those special seats. I got a phone call from some of the Liberians on camp when the show was over, who were extremely excited to have a celebrity friend and another American friend of mine told me there was a direct close-up of my face that took up the entire screen. Yikes, here I come, Ghana.
The past week and a half has been busy. Last week, we had to carry one of my roommates to the camp clinic in the middle of the night because she was so sick and her fever was so high. Even though she was hooked up to an IV immediately, she still wasn’t feeling well 48 hours later so we took her to the hospital in Accra. She got treated for dehydration, got some Cipro, and turns out she is ok, but the ride home was hectic. Between being forced to change taxis in the middle of the ride, two hours of traffic before we even left the city, a flat tire (which had to be changed just off the road) and almost running over a bicyclist who fell over in front of the taxi (just ran over his tire, I almost had a heart attack) we got home safely. Since then I’ve been working and spent the weekend relaxing during the day and dancing with friends at night in Accra, while also meeting some public officials for my research. Life is exciting, busy, stimulating – and exhausting.
Where is everyone else’s blogs? I want stories!!
I went with my friend Laura who has a family member who works in the studio, along with PK from Fletcher. After we waited for a full hour past the time the show was supposed to start – technical difficulties, surprise, surprise – the show finally began. It somehow worked out that the three of us sat behind the three judges – which means that every time a judge spoke, there was one of our white faces reflecting the light in the background in an otherwise-completely-African setting. I wanted to laugh every time I saw us on the screen, only because I couldn’t believe that somehow it was the three of us who got those special seats. I got a phone call from some of the Liberians on camp when the show was over, who were extremely excited to have a celebrity friend and another American friend of mine told me there was a direct close-up of my face that took up the entire screen. Yikes, here I come, Ghana.
The past week and a half has been busy. Last week, we had to carry one of my roommates to the camp clinic in the middle of the night because she was so sick and her fever was so high. Even though she was hooked up to an IV immediately, she still wasn’t feeling well 48 hours later so we took her to the hospital in Accra. She got treated for dehydration, got some Cipro, and turns out she is ok, but the ride home was hectic. Between being forced to change taxis in the middle of the ride, two hours of traffic before we even left the city, a flat tire (which had to be changed just off the road) and almost running over a bicyclist who fell over in front of the taxi (just ran over his tire, I almost had a heart attack) we got home safely. Since then I’ve been working and spent the weekend relaxing during the day and dancing with friends at night in Accra, while also meeting some public officials for my research. Life is exciting, busy, stimulating – and exhausting.
Where is everyone else’s blogs? I want stories!!
Sunday, June 1, 2008
"Is America always cold?"
Some nice men are letting me use the internet cafe for free since apparently it is closed on Sundays. But as I entered they smiled and offered me the one working computer in the place, which faces out onto the single highway going through the camp. That seems to be the general attitude of everyone here - despite the circumstances, the majority of people are focused on the community, and generously share the little they have. So this one will be quick.
When I look above the computer screen, I see a number of scenes - a sign that says "Buduburam School for the Deaf", a group of elders standing around in traditional dress and waving their arms around, a man behind them slowly transporting some chairs in a red, rusty wheelbarrow, and a young boy probably not taller than two feet carrying a bucket of water on his head. There's also a fire burning and the smoke is drifting towards me, smelling of burning plastic. I'm listening to some sort of jamaican-sounding song on the radio that the internet place is blasting out into the streets. To the left, there is a truck, probably about forty feet high packed with all sorts of various household items, such as refridgerators, tables, even lamps and drums. It is heading for Liberia and who knows how expensive things will be when it arrives.
I started my research this weekend after getting approval from Tufts IRB. I've done five interviews in the past two days and I am beginning to dig deeper into the lives people expect upon arrival in Liberia. I am hoping to write my thesis on repatriation and the role of the international community. I have yet to come up with a specific thesis yet - but as I am talking to people I am finding that there are three main concerns that continue to surface. First, most are worried about housing and where they will live. No one has money - and that is a given. The $100 they get if they travel with the UN will not be enough to get their lives started, and if they have no network they will arrive without a place to spend the night. Second, jobs. Monrovia is already overcrowded but is the only functioning part of Liberia - how will refugees return and find jobs to support themselves and their family? And third, education. Some never finished high school while they were here and have started raising families or created their own businesses alongside the main road to have some sort of income. How will they be able to complete their education so they can make a living in Liberia, when there is only one or two universities, all located in the capital city?
One of the older men I interviewed, who has a law degree and fled Monrovia in 2002 to come here, said that he wishes they could be given some cement so they could build houses outside of the capital. It turns out that most of the houses on camp were built by refugees - not UNHCR - and he said they could do the same in their own country. Buduburam has flourished over the years, and although a refugee camp (officially a settlement camp today), it is actually richer than many other villages in Ghana. This is in part because of the remittances sent back by friends and family who have made money in the US, Australia, and the Netherlands, but some of it is from people who created their own businesses from buying materials in Accra and selling their products for a profit.
More on this later. Last night, a funny comment from a young Ghanaian (there are Ghanaians still here who were part of a village before the Liberians settled here). We were watching Save the Last Dance, and there was a scene in the snow. He turns to me, completely straight-faced and says, "Is America always cold?" Sometimes I wonder how people picture the US from the movies they see and the songs they hear. There are so many American movies and soap operas on TV I have no idea of how they picture the States. It is also never cold here - and although the nights have cooled and it rains almost every day now, I still sweat through my shirt and have a fan directly on me whenever possible.
Ok, a friend just called, and I'm off to the beach....
When I look above the computer screen, I see a number of scenes - a sign that says "Buduburam School for the Deaf", a group of elders standing around in traditional dress and waving their arms around, a man behind them slowly transporting some chairs in a red, rusty wheelbarrow, and a young boy probably not taller than two feet carrying a bucket of water on his head. There's also a fire burning and the smoke is drifting towards me, smelling of burning plastic. I'm listening to some sort of jamaican-sounding song on the radio that the internet place is blasting out into the streets. To the left, there is a truck, probably about forty feet high packed with all sorts of various household items, such as refridgerators, tables, even lamps and drums. It is heading for Liberia and who knows how expensive things will be when it arrives.
I started my research this weekend after getting approval from Tufts IRB. I've done five interviews in the past two days and I am beginning to dig deeper into the lives people expect upon arrival in Liberia. I am hoping to write my thesis on repatriation and the role of the international community. I have yet to come up with a specific thesis yet - but as I am talking to people I am finding that there are three main concerns that continue to surface. First, most are worried about housing and where they will live. No one has money - and that is a given. The $100 they get if they travel with the UN will not be enough to get their lives started, and if they have no network they will arrive without a place to spend the night. Second, jobs. Monrovia is already overcrowded but is the only functioning part of Liberia - how will refugees return and find jobs to support themselves and their family? And third, education. Some never finished high school while they were here and have started raising families or created their own businesses alongside the main road to have some sort of income. How will they be able to complete their education so they can make a living in Liberia, when there is only one or two universities, all located in the capital city?
One of the older men I interviewed, who has a law degree and fled Monrovia in 2002 to come here, said that he wishes they could be given some cement so they could build houses outside of the capital. It turns out that most of the houses on camp were built by refugees - not UNHCR - and he said they could do the same in their own country. Buduburam has flourished over the years, and although a refugee camp (officially a settlement camp today), it is actually richer than many other villages in Ghana. This is in part because of the remittances sent back by friends and family who have made money in the US, Australia, and the Netherlands, but some of it is from people who created their own businesses from buying materials in Accra and selling their products for a profit.
More on this later. Last night, a funny comment from a young Ghanaian (there are Ghanaians still here who were part of a village before the Liberians settled here). We were watching Save the Last Dance, and there was a scene in the snow. He turns to me, completely straight-faced and says, "Is America always cold?" Sometimes I wonder how people picture the US from the movies they see and the songs they hear. There are so many American movies and soap operas on TV I have no idea of how they picture the States. It is also never cold here - and although the nights have cooled and it rains almost every day now, I still sweat through my shirt and have a fan directly on me whenever possible.
Ok, a friend just called, and I'm off to the beach....
Friday, May 30, 2008
Dan in Aceh!
Hello everyone,
(Quick note: pics can be found at: daninaceh.blogspot.com)
This summer I have accepted a position in Banda Aceh, Indonesia. This town was first known as the gateway of Islam into Southeast Asia, hundreds of years later it was known as the main city in war-torn Aceh province, and now it is best known as "that place where the tsunami hit."
I am working with the United Nations (UNORC) which has been here in this capacity for nearly four years. It was established after OCHA (the UN humanitarian organization) started to pull out of the region, but before the area had actually recovered from the devastating tsunami. Roughly 170,000 people were killed in Banda Aceh, 500,000 were displaced, not to mention the tremendous damage to infrastructure like homes, buildings, and records. So, this branch of the UN was established, in cooperation with the BRR (national governmental organization) as a governmental assistance mechanism - the only organization of its kind in the world.
The work now is mostly trying to make the transition form a UNORC and BRR assisted provincial government to a government that can exist without any outside help. This is easier said than done when, for example, the Governor is an ex-combatant who was imprisoned before the tsunami hit. The gentleman is charismatic and wants to do right by his people, but his capacity is lacking. So, my work (at this moment) consists of wrting a document called the ARF (Aceh Recovery Framework) that the government can use as a launching point for more effective governance. The section I am working on consists of three parts: "Rule of Law, Democratic Decentralization, and Good Governance." I have 5 pages to clearly explain the blueprints the government should use for this ... wonderful.
Of course, the majority of my work is just reiterating what the government has said with some clarified mechanisms and priorities. It is difficult, though, to pick and choose the words and to find what is missing in all of this that should be mentioned.
Quick notes about my life here (which will be elaborated on in future posts): my housing situation is great, the weather is hot, it smells like a combination of burning trash and cloves, air conditioning is wonderful, the coffee here is amazing, the food is spicey but tastey and my roommates are very kind.
I am going to continue posting text to this blog, but I think I'll keep the pictures at the other one because posting pictures takes a while, but clicking to the other blog just takes a second.
Take care, my friends,
Dan
(Quick note: pics can be found at: daninaceh.blogspot.com)
This summer I have accepted a position in Banda Aceh, Indonesia. This town was first known as the gateway of Islam into Southeast Asia, hundreds of years later it was known as the main city in war-torn Aceh province, and now it is best known as "that place where the tsunami hit."
I am working with the United Nations (UNORC) which has been here in this capacity for nearly four years. It was established after OCHA (the UN humanitarian organization) started to pull out of the region, but before the area had actually recovered from the devastating tsunami. Roughly 170,000 people were killed in Banda Aceh, 500,000 were displaced, not to mention the tremendous damage to infrastructure like homes, buildings, and records. So, this branch of the UN was established, in cooperation with the BRR (national governmental organization) as a governmental assistance mechanism - the only organization of its kind in the world.
The work now is mostly trying to make the transition form a UNORC and BRR assisted provincial government to a government that can exist without any outside help. This is easier said than done when, for example, the Governor is an ex-combatant who was imprisoned before the tsunami hit. The gentleman is charismatic and wants to do right by his people, but his capacity is lacking. So, my work (at this moment) consists of wrting a document called the ARF (Aceh Recovery Framework) that the government can use as a launching point for more effective governance. The section I am working on consists of three parts: "Rule of Law, Democratic Decentralization, and Good Governance." I have 5 pages to clearly explain the blueprints the government should use for this ... wonderful.
Of course, the majority of my work is just reiterating what the government has said with some clarified mechanisms and priorities. It is difficult, though, to pick and choose the words and to find what is missing in all of this that should be mentioned.
Quick notes about my life here (which will be elaborated on in future posts): my housing situation is great, the weather is hot, it smells like a combination of burning trash and cloves, air conditioning is wonderful, the coffee here is amazing, the food is spicey but tastey and my roommates are very kind.
I am going to continue posting text to this blog, but I think I'll keep the pictures at the other one because posting pictures takes a while, but clicking to the other blog just takes a second.
Take care, my friends,
Dan
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Avocado sandwiches
Let me explain what an average day is like here for me in Buduburam. When I was still living on camp, I used to wake up early with the rooster crowing and the sounds of pots and pans between 5am and 6am. I think I have already described this experience. Now I am living across the street; and although not officially part of camp still has the same get-up-early mentality. This morning, for the second time in a row, a man made 'camp announcements' at 4:30am. I swear he had his loudspeaker directly outside my window and was screaming at me in my bed. This bizarre form of communication continued for about a half an hour when he clearly was bored with my inaction and moved down the camp to try the same thing on some innocent sleeping souls. Since this has now happened twice, I suppose I will have to expect the same tomorrow.
After I finally go back to sleep, my alarm goes off at 6:30am. I usually meet one of our partners at the internet cafe to teach them some super-western way of reporting finances or writing proposals (google docs, that is). So far they are getting the hang of it, but there is still little computer literacy so it is incredibly time consuming - especially combined with the slow internet and intermittent change in computers when one crashes. If I am not doing this, I am cooking a Liberian breakfast (rice or gari with beans or fish) with the School Feeding Program - created by my organization - to feed every child at the elementary school before they start classes in the morning.
Then I wander down the main dirt street - I just found out they call 18th street - which is full of food and clothing stalls, little kids shouting 'white womaaahhhn', and men asking if I want to change money, just to find my favorite spot for breakfast. I eat an egg and bread sandwich - probably one of my favorite foods on camp since Abraham, the Sierra Leonian who cooks it puts all sorts of garlic (don't cringe Yanina) and onion in there. He also even has an espresso machine and puts in way too much sugar to make a super-sweet coffee. I love it; it is like drinking pure caffeinated honey. I sit in the shade and enjoy my breakfast, watching whatever he has on TV - usually Aljazeera news or a soccer match - or talking to my neighbors.
By this time it is usually around 10:30 and I have other meetings at the school or with the organizations I work with - either to train or meet about finances, reports, organizational methods, blah, blah, blah. The rest of the day is usually me running around the camp from meeting to meeting and getting burned. At least once a day I go down to the orphanage where I spend 3/4 my time talking business with the adults, and 1/4 the time cuddling various babies screaming to be on my lap. It's really fun.
You are probably wondering why I've titled this entry 'Avocado sandwiches.' Well, this is usually what I am thinking about throughout all of this activity every day. They have massive avocados here - actually, correction, they are called 'butter pears' here. At the end of my long day I usually buy one and make a sandwich just like old times in the Blakeley kitchen at Fletcher. With a little salt and mayonnaise, it pretty much tops off a productive and exciting day.
After I finally go back to sleep, my alarm goes off at 6:30am. I usually meet one of our partners at the internet cafe to teach them some super-western way of reporting finances or writing proposals (google docs, that is). So far they are getting the hang of it, but there is still little computer literacy so it is incredibly time consuming - especially combined with the slow internet and intermittent change in computers when one crashes. If I am not doing this, I am cooking a Liberian breakfast (rice or gari with beans or fish) with the School Feeding Program - created by my organization - to feed every child at the elementary school before they start classes in the morning.
Then I wander down the main dirt street - I just found out they call 18th street - which is full of food and clothing stalls, little kids shouting 'white womaaahhhn', and men asking if I want to change money, just to find my favorite spot for breakfast. I eat an egg and bread sandwich - probably one of my favorite foods on camp since Abraham, the Sierra Leonian who cooks it puts all sorts of garlic (don't cringe Yanina) and onion in there. He also even has an espresso machine and puts in way too much sugar to make a super-sweet coffee. I love it; it is like drinking pure caffeinated honey. I sit in the shade and enjoy my breakfast, watching whatever he has on TV - usually Aljazeera news or a soccer match - or talking to my neighbors.
By this time it is usually around 10:30 and I have other meetings at the school or with the organizations I work with - either to train or meet about finances, reports, organizational methods, blah, blah, blah. The rest of the day is usually me running around the camp from meeting to meeting and getting burned. At least once a day I go down to the orphanage where I spend 3/4 my time talking business with the adults, and 1/4 the time cuddling various babies screaming to be on my lap. It's really fun.
You are probably wondering why I've titled this entry 'Avocado sandwiches.' Well, this is usually what I am thinking about throughout all of this activity every day. They have massive avocados here - actually, correction, they are called 'butter pears' here. At the end of my long day I usually buy one and make a sandwich just like old times in the Blakeley kitchen at Fletcher. With a little salt and mayonnaise, it pretty much tops off a productive and exciting day.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Observations
My previous posts have been about the crazy adventures of three Spanish-speaking Americans in China. Now that we've arrived at the Chinese Foreign Affairs University for the "official" part of our trip to China, I thought I'd take a few minutes to list some observations that struck me during the past few weeks traveling.
1. Timezones- China does not have different timezones. The entire country is exactly 12 hours ahead of Eastern Time.
2. Chinese Tourists - I never expected to see so many Chinese tourists. Most places I've visited don't have much of a domestic tourist market, so it was a pleasant surprise to see so many locals enjoying the picturesque towns and breathtaking vistas that we saw.
3. Strawberries - When we arrived in Lijiang, the first thing I noticed was the massive quantities of strawberries for sale for very cheap on the side of the road. I had them in my granola the first morning at Mama Naxi's, and they were as delicious as they looked.
4. Sleeper Bus - In China, the overnight bus means the Sleeper Bus, which instead of seats has two levels of actual beds, three across, an isle then a single. The back of the bus has one big queen-sized bed meant to hold five people. Joanna aptly described the experience (we took an 8-hour sleeper from Lijiang to Kunming) as sleeping in your own coffin. Sandy and I shared the big bed in the back of the bus with an adorable old Chinese couple that unfortunately began snoring as soon as the lights went out.
5. Flashpacking - While hiking Tiger Leaping Gorge, a Brit dubbed Sandy, Jo and I "Flashpackers" for our preference for staying in private rooms with en-suite bathrooms while traveling. I think I might be old enough that I really don't appreciate or enjoy staying in the hostel dorms with communal bathrooms. I love staying in the hostel and meeting cool people on different journeys from around the world, but I really like my own space at the end of the day. Thus, it was great traveling in a group of three since really wasn't much more to "upgrade."
Tomorrow, we start bright and early at 8:00 a.m. dressed in our finest business suits to start The Asia Foundation's study tour. I can't believe my time in China is already half over, but I'm excited to see what the next two weeks will hold.
1. Timezones- China does not have different timezones. The entire country is exactly 12 hours ahead of Eastern Time.
2. Chinese Tourists - I never expected to see so many Chinese tourists. Most places I've visited don't have much of a domestic tourist market, so it was a pleasant surprise to see so many locals enjoying the picturesque towns and breathtaking vistas that we saw.
3. Strawberries - When we arrived in Lijiang, the first thing I noticed was the massive quantities of strawberries for sale for very cheap on the side of the road. I had them in my granola the first morning at Mama Naxi's, and they were as delicious as they looked.
4. Sleeper Bus - In China, the overnight bus means the Sleeper Bus, which instead of seats has two levels of actual beds, three across, an isle then a single. The back of the bus has one big queen-sized bed meant to hold five people. Joanna aptly described the experience (we took an 8-hour sleeper from Lijiang to Kunming) as sleeping in your own coffin. Sandy and I shared the big bed in the back of the bus with an adorable old Chinese couple that unfortunately began snoring as soon as the lights went out.
5. Flashpacking - While hiking Tiger Leaping Gorge, a Brit dubbed Sandy, Jo and I "Flashpackers" for our preference for staying in private rooms with en-suite bathrooms while traveling. I think I might be old enough that I really don't appreciate or enjoy staying in the hostel dorms with communal bathrooms. I love staying in the hostel and meeting cool people on different journeys from around the world, but I really like my own space at the end of the day. Thus, it was great traveling in a group of three since really wasn't much more to "upgrade."
Tomorrow, we start bright and early at 8:00 a.m. dressed in our finest business suits to start The Asia Foundation's study tour. I can't believe my time in China is already half over, but I'm excited to see what the next two weeks will hold.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Setting the scene
The ride from the airport gave a little flavor for what I would witness in greater intensity later on; the extent to which Bissau is crumbling. The airport road is one of few paved roads in the capital. After riding around in the jeep for a long time, I came to the conclusion that dirt roads are far superior to paved roads in that you can drive down them without losing any teeth. There are streets here that are impassable because enormous potholes and pot-humps (imagine the opposite of a pothole) are alternatively filled with water, growing grass, or sheltering some errant animal. We turned down a dirt road near the largest building around, the UN compound, which is sandwiched between what I have nicknamed “Buzzards Lagoon” (Trash-filled Pond #1) and “Brown Betty” (Trash-filled Pond #2).
There is a crazy man who lives by the side of the lake. He sleeps amid hundreds of green glass bottles that he has cleaned and arranged in a pattern around his sleeping body under an old tree. The day I arrived there was also a young man with a huge ax hacking apart the rusted skeleton of an old car for scrap-metal. The lake is surrounded by what looks like a trash dump, but probably is not. Somewhat ingeniously, local people have converted huge old shipping containers from the port into family dwellings and storefronts. A block from the UN there is a corner store that is a red shipping container with a shop window and door cut out of it. As clever as they may be, I’m sure it’s like living inside an oven.
It is hot and humid, and I am more than grateful to be temporarily living in my boss’s room at the Ruby Hotel, one block from the UN. The hotel is run by the affable João, who welcomed me warmly upon arrival. Despite the maddening heat, he was dressed in a pinstripe suit with a green tie, a black turban balanced on his head and a pair of gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses perched on his nose. (To answer your question: nobody wears turbans here, it's his own personal fashion statement). Apparently he has a soft spot for Janet, and has already promised that the new dirt road in front of the hotel will be christened “Rua do Janet” (Janet’s Street). She negotiated with him to make it sound more local, so now the informal name is “Rua do D’Jane,” which ends up sounding just about the same. He has also given her a Roberto Carlos song (an old-time Brazilian crooner who sings love songs), in which the lyrics earnestly declare, “woman of 40, I want to be your boyfriend.”
There is a crazy man who lives by the side of the lake. He sleeps amid hundreds of green glass bottles that he has cleaned and arranged in a pattern around his sleeping body under an old tree. The day I arrived there was also a young man with a huge ax hacking apart the rusted skeleton of an old car for scrap-metal. The lake is surrounded by what looks like a trash dump, but probably is not. Somewhat ingeniously, local people have converted huge old shipping containers from the port into family dwellings and storefronts. A block from the UN there is a corner store that is a red shipping container with a shop window and door cut out of it. As clever as they may be, I’m sure it’s like living inside an oven.
It is hot and humid, and I am more than grateful to be temporarily living in my boss’s room at the Ruby Hotel, one block from the UN. The hotel is run by the affable João, who welcomed me warmly upon arrival. Despite the maddening heat, he was dressed in a pinstripe suit with a green tie, a black turban balanced on his head and a pair of gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses perched on his nose. (To answer your question: nobody wears turbans here, it's his own personal fashion statement). Apparently he has a soft spot for Janet, and has already promised that the new dirt road in front of the hotel will be christened “Rua do Janet” (Janet’s Street). She negotiated with him to make it sound more local, so now the informal name is “Rua do D’Jane,” which ends up sounding just about the same. He has also given her a Roberto Carlos song (an old-time Brazilian crooner who sings love songs), in which the lyrics earnestly declare, “woman of 40, I want to be your boyfriend.”
Arrival in Bissau...
It was a long flight. The beverage service had to be canceled because every time the drinks were poured a new batch of turbulence hit and orange juice splattered in all directions. Arriving in Dakar was a chaotic and sweaty affair. I somehow fumbled my way through customs and emerged in the baggage claim where I was instantly mobbed by baggage handlers dressed in khaki yelling instructions in my ear. I managed to fake them out, grab my enormous, overstuffed (exactly 50 lb) duffel only to find another "helper" waiting who grabbed it out of my hands, saying, "I'm your friend." Then he proceeded to loudly demand 20 dollars. I snatched my bags back and faced the next challenge: going outside the airport and back into the arrival gate to catch my flight to Bissau. As I emerged from the doorway, it was as if someone had rung an alarm, because people came running from all directions to hassle me about taxis, money exchanges and so on. Luckily French 1 had taken me as far as NON MERCI and I bellowed it until I made it back into the terminal.
I had a long hot wait in a non-air conditioned, under-construction terminal for another 5 hours with no water or food until the Bissau flight was called. It was a short hour-long ride in a small prop plane. Most of the passengers were Guineans but there were a few oddballs in the mix beside myself. I decided to entertain myself by playing "find the narco" which ended up being a very short game indeed. The man in the seat in front of me was Spanish-speaking, sweaty and anxious, with black sunglasses, huge piles of luggage and a black Versace shirt unbuttoned nearly to his waist. But you never know, he could have been an SSR advisor to the Spanish Government. Anything is possible!
The airport in Bissau was completely different than Dakar. There were people lined up out on the tarmac to greet people, shaking hands and laughing and nobody haranguing you for money. Luckily, Janet (my boss) had sent a driver (Fofana) from the UNDP (PNUD in Portuguese) to help me out, I found him quickly as he was dressed in a baby-blue outfit and holding a sign with my name. He pulled me out of the "foreigner" line at customs and pulled me through the diplomatic line to get my luggage while he negotiate with customs officials. I had been told it was no problem to enter without a visa, that I would simply need to pay a fee in the airport. But once in the car, Fofana assured me that "things had been taken care of." Just to make sure, I asked him about the visa. He said, "Oh, the customs official is a good friend of mine. Otherwise you have to pay too much money. Don't worry." So it is nearly a week later and I still don't have a visa, but nobody seems to care. Seems like Guinea-Bissau has bigger problems on its plate.
I had a long hot wait in a non-air conditioned, under-construction terminal for another 5 hours with no water or food until the Bissau flight was called. It was a short hour-long ride in a small prop plane. Most of the passengers were Guineans but there were a few oddballs in the mix beside myself. I decided to entertain myself by playing "find the narco" which ended up being a very short game indeed. The man in the seat in front of me was Spanish-speaking, sweaty and anxious, with black sunglasses, huge piles of luggage and a black Versace shirt unbuttoned nearly to his waist. But you never know, he could have been an SSR advisor to the Spanish Government. Anything is possible!
The airport in Bissau was completely different than Dakar. There were people lined up out on the tarmac to greet people, shaking hands and laughing and nobody haranguing you for money. Luckily, Janet (my boss) had sent a driver (Fofana) from the UNDP (PNUD in Portuguese) to help me out, I found him quickly as he was dressed in a baby-blue outfit and holding a sign with my name. He pulled me out of the "foreigner" line at customs and pulled me through the diplomatic line to get my luggage while he negotiate with customs officials. I had been told it was no problem to enter without a visa, that I would simply need to pay a fee in the airport. But once in the car, Fofana assured me that "things had been taken care of." Just to make sure, I asked him about the visa. He said, "Oh, the customs official is a good friend of mine. Otherwise you have to pay too much money. Don't worry." So it is nearly a week later and I still don't have a visa, but nobody seems to care. Seems like Guinea-Bissau has bigger problems on its plate.
Jolly Ghanaians
The Ghanaians are known for their jolly personalities and ability to get along with anyone. Since this is my first weekend with a Ghanaian family in Accra this has already proven to be true. I was welcomed immediately by my friend's family and they took me in and fed me as though I was one of their own many daughters. When we were shopping with the mother and father today, the father took all my food, dumped it in with his groceries, and asked me if I liked chocolate. When I grinned and said I loved chocolate, he grabbed about seven chocolate bars and added it to my pile 'in case I get hungry at the camp.' I reminisced about my dad and how he used to force-feed me anything of substance when I was growing up (Snickers at least has peanuts, right?), and thought how he would do exactly the same thing. I suppose having daughters does something to a man.
On the way to the mall today we saw a minor accident. A man on a motorcycle wasn't paying attention and bumped into the back of a car. He was fine and so was the car. However instead of the expected cursing and shouting, both driver and motorcyclist started giggling. I don't mean just chuckling to themselves, I mean both men were curling over in laughter. I couldn't believe it. You would never see this in New York City. You'd see the middle finger before anyone would even crack a smile in this situation. Made me love this country even more.
Had quite an adventure yesterday evening. After spending the day at the market, PK, Laura and I decided we wanted to watch a movie. We had read about this great place in the Bradt guide, where we could choose a movie and all sit and watch it in a room for about 7 gh cedi total (around $7). We got lost driving there, and after several confusing conversations with locals, PK finally spotted a faded picture of Mel Gibson and "Video Fun Plaza" with an arrow pointing us to our destination. Hallelujah!
When we finally arrived we thought we might have driven into someone's personal parking lot. It was empty and one man came towards us with a confused expression on his face. It turned out we were in the right place, though, and we got out of the car and were led to a front desk where we had our choice of imported Chinese-pirated movies (16 movies per DVD). We were shocked to hear that all ten rooms were taken, so we headed out to get some snacks while we waited. As we were leaving we noticed the place was open from 9am-6am and was only closed for 3 hours. Huh.
When we got back, we got our movie and were led down a few dark hallways to our room. It was dimly lighted and there was a long lounge-chair - more like a bed - and a TV and DVD player. Suddenly it dawned on us that this was not a regular place where teenagers went just to watch movies. I sat down, so far on the edge of the couch that I was almost falling off, and was hysterically laughing into my shoulder to muffle the sound while the man was getting the movie prepared. What could he possibly think, with three white Americans patrolling into the place - one red-headed guy with a safari hat on and two brunette girls cheerily following him into this tiny room? All we wanted to do was watch Lord of War. As soon as he left we all looked at each other. "Where's the beer?" was the first comment. We all snickered as Laura passed the black plastic bag over to PK.
On the way to the mall today we saw a minor accident. A man on a motorcycle wasn't paying attention and bumped into the back of a car. He was fine and so was the car. However instead of the expected cursing and shouting, both driver and motorcyclist started giggling. I don't mean just chuckling to themselves, I mean both men were curling over in laughter. I couldn't believe it. You would never see this in New York City. You'd see the middle finger before anyone would even crack a smile in this situation. Made me love this country even more.
Had quite an adventure yesterday evening. After spending the day at the market, PK, Laura and I decided we wanted to watch a movie. We had read about this great place in the Bradt guide, where we could choose a movie and all sit and watch it in a room for about 7 gh cedi total (around $7). We got lost driving there, and after several confusing conversations with locals, PK finally spotted a faded picture of Mel Gibson and "Video Fun Plaza" with an arrow pointing us to our destination. Hallelujah!
When we finally arrived we thought we might have driven into someone's personal parking lot. It was empty and one man came towards us with a confused expression on his face. It turned out we were in the right place, though, and we got out of the car and were led to a front desk where we had our choice of imported Chinese-pirated movies (16 movies per DVD). We were shocked to hear that all ten rooms were taken, so we headed out to get some snacks while we waited. As we were leaving we noticed the place was open from 9am-6am and was only closed for 3 hours. Huh.
When we got back, we got our movie and were led down a few dark hallways to our room. It was dimly lighted and there was a long lounge-chair - more like a bed - and a TV and DVD player. Suddenly it dawned on us that this was not a regular place where teenagers went just to watch movies. I sat down, so far on the edge of the couch that I was almost falling off, and was hysterically laughing into my shoulder to muffle the sound while the man was getting the movie prepared. What could he possibly think, with three white Americans patrolling into the place - one red-headed guy with a safari hat on and two brunette girls cheerily following him into this tiny room? All we wanted to do was watch Lord of War. As soon as he left we all looked at each other. "Where's the beer?" was the first comment. We all snickered as Laura passed the black plastic bag over to PK.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
ACCRA!
I'm lying in bed with wireless internet and air conditioning blowing in my face. Oh the joys of Accra. I'm staying with a friend who is doing research on education in the camp for her PhD, and invited me to come stay at her family's place in the city. Loving. It.
I met up with PK from Fletcher last night. So much fun to see him here. We spent $15 on dinner - a shocker after spending only $3-4 per day on food at the camp - and drank some Star (Ghanaian) beer. We ended up going to a local place and sat outside, which was really nice despite the beggers constantly at the edge of the table. He is working in the Eastern Region (near the Volta region that borders with Togo) in a village where he is doing business consulting for artisans. He's told me in great detail the three kinds of beads that they are making and how they make them. Part of his job is to ensure that the price they are selling the beads at is profitable while also the wages are fair for the workers. Interesting stuff. I'm hoping I can get up there at some point and check the place out. It is supposed to be beautiful out there.
I got a phone call from my Australian friend last night who had a 103 fever and was really ill. She somehow ran out of malaria pills so I'm pretty sure we both know what it is. Luckily she had two other people watching after her, and she went to a nearby hospital. She will be fine and I heard from her on her way home last night, but I'm just hoping she feels better today.
Before I left there was a threat that the orphanage was going to lose their home this week. Thanks to the organization I'm working with, this was avoided. Long story short - I will spare you the painful details - the chief (a Ghanaian) wanted to take over the house but we put that off for another few months while they get ready to go back to Liberia. This 'family,' since that is essentially what this orphanage is, is extremely nervous about the camp being split up into different communities. There are 25 kids to take care of and it could potentially separate them. Next week I am going to try and find out whether anyone knows more about the details and hopefully help come up with a plan if this happens. I am still hoping it is a rumor, but there have been signs that it may not be.
Ok that's it for now. I'm off to explore Accra.
I met up with PK from Fletcher last night. So much fun to see him here. We spent $15 on dinner - a shocker after spending only $3-4 per day on food at the camp - and drank some Star (Ghanaian) beer. We ended up going to a local place and sat outside, which was really nice despite the beggers constantly at the edge of the table. He is working in the Eastern Region (near the Volta region that borders with Togo) in a village where he is doing business consulting for artisans. He's told me in great detail the three kinds of beads that they are making and how they make them. Part of his job is to ensure that the price they are selling the beads at is profitable while also the wages are fair for the workers. Interesting stuff. I'm hoping I can get up there at some point and check the place out. It is supposed to be beautiful out there.
I got a phone call from my Australian friend last night who had a 103 fever and was really ill. She somehow ran out of malaria pills so I'm pretty sure we both know what it is. Luckily she had two other people watching after her, and she went to a nearby hospital. She will be fine and I heard from her on her way home last night, but I'm just hoping she feels better today.
Before I left there was a threat that the orphanage was going to lose their home this week. Thanks to the organization I'm working with, this was avoided. Long story short - I will spare you the painful details - the chief (a Ghanaian) wanted to take over the house but we put that off for another few months while they get ready to go back to Liberia. This 'family,' since that is essentially what this orphanage is, is extremely nervous about the camp being split up into different communities. There are 25 kids to take care of and it could potentially separate them. Next week I am going to try and find out whether anyone knows more about the details and hopefully help come up with a plan if this happens. I am still hoping it is a rumor, but there have been signs that it may not be.
Ok that's it for now. I'm off to explore Accra.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Leaping Tiger Ladies...
We're back in Lijang after two days of hiking Tiger Leaping Gorge, a spectacular hike with vistas of the snow-covered Jade Dragon Mountain and the rushing start of the Yangtze River (called Jinsha at the start). We hiked six hours on the first day, up the infamous 28 bends, to Tea Horse Inn, where we stayed the evening with travelers from across the globe. While we rested our feet and drank shandys (sprite + beer), we played a game of "spoons," but we had to improvise with chopsticks.
Early the next morning we hiked the remainder of the trail to Tina's Guest House, literally forging waterfalls along the way. The weather was spectacular for the hike and when we arrived at the end, we descended down into the gorge, after paying the local trail keeper 10 yuan ($1.20). The trail zigzagged down the mountain face and into the gorge. Standing at the bottom, we had a view of a 100 foot cascading waterfall and the river gushing down a narrowed passage (known as the mythical spot where the tiger lept across the gorge). The force of the water created a +5 rapid and we dipped our sore feet in the water before attempting the ascent back up the rock face.
Back in Lijang now, we discovered a fabulous youth hostel run by the craziest Chinese "mama" in town, known endearingly by every backpacker as Mama Naxi. She sets the ground rules quickly, imposing a curfew of 12:30pm, and if you're late you risk being yelled at by Mama or worse, sleeping on the streets. Her English is halted, but somehow you understand everything and if you need anything (bus tickets, taxis, food, medicine, pants mended) -- she arranges it an instant. Dinner starts at 6pm sharp, and everyone gathers family style for a delicious Chinese meal.
Today we're renting bikes to explore a few of the villages surrounding Lijang, including Baisha where Dr. Ho, a taoist physician, runs the Clinic of Chinese Herbs. We'll be back at Mama Naxi's house for dinner at 6pm sharp and then we have an overnight bus trip back to Kunming in order to catch our onward flight to Beijing on Sunday, marking the end of the "tourism" portion of our travels and back into the academic realm...
Early the next morning we hiked the remainder of the trail to Tina's Guest House, literally forging waterfalls along the way. The weather was spectacular for the hike and when we arrived at the end, we descended down into the gorge, after paying the local trail keeper 10 yuan ($1.20). The trail zigzagged down the mountain face and into the gorge. Standing at the bottom, we had a view of a 100 foot cascading waterfall and the river gushing down a narrowed passage (known as the mythical spot where the tiger lept across the gorge). The force of the water created a +5 rapid and we dipped our sore feet in the water before attempting the ascent back up the rock face.
Back in Lijang now, we discovered a fabulous youth hostel run by the craziest Chinese "mama" in town, known endearingly by every backpacker as Mama Naxi. She sets the ground rules quickly, imposing a curfew of 12:30pm, and if you're late you risk being yelled at by Mama or worse, sleeping on the streets. Her English is halted, but somehow you understand everything and if you need anything (bus tickets, taxis, food, medicine, pants mended) -- she arranges it an instant. Dinner starts at 6pm sharp, and everyone gathers family style for a delicious Chinese meal.
Today we're renting bikes to explore a few of the villages surrounding Lijang, including Baisha where Dr. Ho, a taoist physician, runs the Clinic of Chinese Herbs. We'll be back at Mama Naxi's house for dinner at 6pm sharp and then we have an overnight bus trip back to Kunming in order to catch our onward flight to Beijing on Sunday, marking the end of the "tourism" portion of our travels and back into the academic realm...
Tiger Leaping Gorge
The weather finally broke, and just in time for our epic hike along Tiger Leaping Gorge and the Yangtze river. We left the town of Lijiang (something like Disneyland for Chinese tourists, with completely rebuilt "historic" houses fronted entirely by shops selling everything from traditional Naxi jewlery to imported Thai and Indian clothing) and drove two hours north, watching the rice paddys slowly give way to fields of wheat as the elevation climbed to 3000 meters.
The two-day trek took us up into the Jade mountains, along a narrow path high above the Yangtze river. The first day was almost entirely uphill, but we spent the night in a comfy room at the Tea Horse Hostel. We hiked with a ragtag group of trekkers whom we met on the bus ride to the gorge. One of the best parts about traveling is the random people and fast friends we've met along the way. The Kunming-Dali-Lijiang-Tiger Leaping Gorge is a popular backpacker route, so we've run into many of the same people along the way, including an adorable couple from New Zealand and three fun Argentinians.
The view from the highest point of the trek was nothing short of awe-inspiring, and I have plenty of pictures to prove it. The second day took us down from an altitude of 3,600 meters closer to the river. The final hike down to the river to where the mythical tiger actually lept across the gorge was stunning, and cooling my feet in the icy cold water as the rapids crashed around us was amazing.
When we returned to Lijiang, we moved into the famous Mama Naxi hostel. Mama Naxi runs the place with an iron fist, treats the backpackers as her children, and is generally beloved by all the travellers we've met. When she saw me sneeze today she gave me a special tea for my cold, and last night I saw her helping a clueless Brit mend a whole in his pants. We've got one more day in Lijiang before heading to Beijing to start the Asia Foundation's program. The sun is out, so hopefully we can find a place to rent bikes and explore the surrounding villages.
The two-day trek took us up into the Jade mountains, along a narrow path high above the Yangtze river. The first day was almost entirely uphill, but we spent the night in a comfy room at the Tea Horse Hostel. We hiked with a ragtag group of trekkers whom we met on the bus ride to the gorge. One of the best parts about traveling is the random people and fast friends we've met along the way. The Kunming-Dali-Lijiang-Tiger Leaping Gorge is a popular backpacker route, so we've run into many of the same people along the way, including an adorable couple from New Zealand and three fun Argentinians.
The view from the highest point of the trek was nothing short of awe-inspiring, and I have plenty of pictures to prove it. The second day took us down from an altitude of 3,600 meters closer to the river. The final hike down to the river to where the mythical tiger actually lept across the gorge was stunning, and cooling my feet in the icy cold water as the rapids crashed around us was amazing.
When we returned to Lijiang, we moved into the famous Mama Naxi hostel. Mama Naxi runs the place with an iron fist, treats the backpackers as her children, and is generally beloved by all the travellers we've met. When she saw me sneeze today she gave me a special tea for my cold, and last night I saw her helping a clueless Brit mend a whole in his pants. We've got one more day in Lijiang before heading to Beijing to start the Asia Foundation's program. The sun is out, so hopefully we can find a place to rent bikes and explore the surrounding villages.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Karibu in Nairobi
I arrived in Nairobi about a week ago and I am slowly settling in. I already moved once (from one house to an apartment that's closer to the office) and have already had dinner with a fellow Fletcherite in East Africa.
I'm interning with an American NGO called PACT, which mainly does capacity-building of civil society organizations, facilitating funding and coordination between them. I work on PACT's peacebuilding project PEACE II, which works together with a regional intergovernmental conflict early warning and response mechanism to prevent and mitigate disputes and violence across borders in East and the Horn of Africa. We are currently organizing a consultation meeting in the northeastern corner of Kenya, right on the border with Ethiopia and Somalia, with a bunch of government, civil society and business leaders from all three parties (Kenya, Ethiopia, Somalia). I'll get to travel up there for a week at the end of the month and I'm really excited.
My colleagues, mostly Kenyans, are all very friendly and helpful. I've already had extensive conversations about Kenyan opinion on the US elections and about the "disturbances" (i.e. riots) in Kenya of early this year.
Nairobi has the characteristics of many other big African cities: it's dusty and noisy. Nairobi is huge but relatively modern. I'm on the outskirts of town and haven't seen much of the city center yet. Because of the high crime rate, I am somewhat confined in my mobility, which is pretty frustrating. I basically depend on taxis (which are expensive), and starting at dusk I shouldn't really be walking on the streets by myself. But there are supermarkets, internet and regular cafes and movie theaters all over the place. And there are paved roads! (Huge improvement from Kampala last summer.)
Other impressions: Neighborhood dogs decide to bark in concert every few hours in the middle of the night. The houses are gated and have security guards. And the mzungus (white people) basically live in their own little world behind their gates, the shopping malls and in their SUVs. TV features random (and old) American shows (and American Idol) as well as the expected Nigerian movies and gospel channels. People are very religious (mostly Christian and Muslim). And dress at work is very proper. Though I was assured that there are not many mosquitoes in the city, one lone mosquito found my bedroom and ate me alive two nights ago. I am now suffering the consequences. The fruit is fresh; and cell phone SIM cards are cheap (75 cents). Nairobi is expensive though. I pay basically the same amount for food that I would have in Boston.
I'm practicing the bits and pieces of Swahili I have learned so far, and my colleagues' faces light up when I manage to burst out an "Asante sana" (Thank you) or "Habari?" (How are you?).
Hopefully I'll soon have more exciting tales to tell, but for now I thought I'd share the beginnings... I hope everyone is well and that you're settling in for the summer.
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