Driving out of town in a shiny USAID truck, things started looking very familiar: unpaved roads lined with lean-to boutiques and the hustle and bustle of walkers, bikers, motto-taxi men, half-naked children and agitated chickens. I could have easily been in Cameroon, particularly after having enjoyed a traditional Cameroonian meal of Koki and boiled plantains with Wendy, a fellow Peace Corps Cameroon volunteer turned USAID contractor.
And up until this point it was a normal day in Africa, but that changed abruptly as we turned into Bangui’s famous go-karting establishment. So there I was, taking in the scenery of rural Africa, surrounded by tree-covered hills dotted with mud-brick houses, while go-karts whizzed by at an alarming speed. The back-story to this aberration is not clear. While currently run from the mayor’s office, it is thought that some Lebanese businessman showed up with five or six cars and offered to sell them to the political elite for an exorbitant fee. One still wonders what would have possessed anyone to show up in Africa with a fleet of toy cars, however, Africa tends towards illogic in these cases.
So as CAR (no pun intended) slowly starts to open up to me, I have begun thinking more and more about development and its affect on a country. Saturday night I ate a wonderful Lebanese meal and then attended a lively expat party with food and drink and entertainment in excess. The hosts happened to live next to President Bozize’s girlfriend and we casually wondered whether our fête might disturb them. These are the things I find amusing; the parties, the social politics, the Saturday-night outings and the general dynamics within the lively expatriate community.
But in a larger sense, I continue to be puzzled by this place. Pre-go-karting I found myself at marché centrale, the city’s main market where I expected to roam about purchasing a few necessities and maybe indulging in a little fabric shopping. But I was quickly deterred by the ridiculously inflated prices of so many already second-rate Chinese goods. The plastic cup I would have bought for about 25 cents in Cameroon costs a dollar here. The cheaply made African dresses I love to accumulate are four times the price here in Bangui. And I was stunned to learn that it costs about 1,000 USD per month to rent a house here. Compare that to Yaoundé, capitol of Cameroon and a huge economic hub where you would be set back only about 50 USD per month…I was floored. A head of garlic is about 75 cents, a hunk of fish 5 USD and all in a country where the majority of the population lives on less than 1 USD per day. How is this possible?
As a grants intern, I am dealing with IRC’s finances at an extremely intimate level. As I watch the flow of hundreds of thousands of dollars, I realize that IRC is only a small fish in a very large sea of humanitarian aid that has absolutely inundated this country. CAR’s main source of income? White people. No joke. And it is so hard to feel positive about the role of development when you begin to realize how far removed the system has strayed from what I believe to be the fundamental reason for its existence – the improvement of people’s lives, specifically African lives. I’m here living in Africa. I spend 10 hours each day combing through reports about Africa. I engage coworkers in discussions about Africa but I have never felt further removed from a place in my life and it’s jarring to say the least.
So in order to prevent myself from succumbing to true gloom-and-doom I’ve been trying to throw out small lifelines here and there. One of the IRC chauffeurs has been teaching me a bit of Sango and I’m hoping to learn more. I replace merci with singila or ‘thank you’ whenever possible and have been rewarded with amused smiles from the Central African staff at the office. Likewise I spent a good half hour chatting with one of the guards at the guesthouse this evening as we discussed the nuanced flavor differences between pygmy goat meat and regular goats (whose legs are longer…pygmy goat is apparently tastier). It helps me feel a little more grounded and less apt to tear my hair out. It makes me hold out hope that the many thousands of dollars we might receive in September from the European Union might enact some small measure of positive change. After all, go-karts exist here so you gotta figure anything’s possible.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Work has been hectic for the office this week as everyone is working on an important NSA (Non-State Actors) proposal with a fast-approaching deadline. This means more time for me to peruse the net in search of information on CAR. If anyone is interested, the Human and Development Partnership Team (HDPT) has some very interested resources.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Bemusing Bangui
August 1, 2010
Bangui
One of the first things I noticed was the Hollywood-esque cut out letters of the city’s name on a forested hill overlooking the city. The sign is electrified and beams prominently throughout the night as if to give the impression that Bangui was some sought after tourist destination rather than the impoverished run-down huddle of buildings that make up this country’s capitol city. “I used to think the sign was very impressive.” This from one of my new colleagues at an IRC dinner at the director’s house “Well, until I climbed the hill and realized the sign is no more than a giant rectangular light with bits of black tape arranged about the letters.”
This has been rather typical of my first few days in the Central African Republic (formerly known as the Central African Republic, FYI). Ranked 178th out of 179 countries by the Human Development index, I’d prepared myself for the difficulties of living in a post-conflict, landlocked Subsaharan country. That is, I didn’t expect much and yet I was immediately surprised by all that IS here. International Rescue Committee project materials are littered with stark black and white portraits of refugees in tattered clothing with clinging babies against a backdrop of burned-out villages…and so this becomes your imagery. This is what you expect to see but in fact, I was driven to the guesthouse I now call home to find my very own air-conditioned tiled room. Next door, a bathroom with running water, full kitchen and wireless internet service did its best to make me believe I was not in a conflict zone. Yesterday at the grocery store I bought French emmental grated cheese and a couple cans of ravioli. I was given a cell phone and computer before going out to dinner at a nice restaurant in town…
Now don’t get me wrong. I am now an expatriot working for a large international humanitarian assistance organization and the creature comforts I am able to enjoy on their tab are certainly not available to the average Central African (a term I finally learned after toying unsuccessfully with ‘Central African Republican’). But the point is: these things EXIST here, despite everything. Despite the war and the poverty, despite the dysfunctional government and the complete disinterest shown by the international community, the picture of this place is clearly not-so-black-and-white.
Let me back up: I spent the last two weeks traveling about Cameroon with Hypolite. We drank beers and ate heartily and enjoyed the company of a wide array of Cameroonian friends. I had the opportunity to chat with a number of people who had either lived or worked in Bangui and their impressions of both the city and country as a whole were less than complimentary. “Fais attention avec les refuges” cautioned Tiki, my former Peace Corps program director, “ils sont tous bizarre la bas.” But then again, chatting last night with my compound’s security guard I was given the rundown on Cameroonians: “Les gens du Cameroun sont trôp dûr. Ils n’aiment pas les étrangers. Ils veulent te deranger seulement. Et en plus, ils ne sont pas solidaire comme nous ici en Centrafrique. Ici, tout le monde est gentil! C’est pas le cas la bas au Cameroun…” Interesting, said I.
There are bits of truth to all of this. Driving through the town, I immediately noticed the lack of stores, people, buildings, and above all else – bars. The tree-lined streets of Bangui are never clogged with cars or mottos because there just aren’t that many cars or mottos to muck things up. All roads not emanating directly from the center of town are unpaved and despite being in a capitol city, the days (and nights) are quiet (this in stark contrast to the raucousness of Yaoundé). Material goods are extremely expensive as everything must be shipped from Cameroon or imported from France and education levels are low. I was flabbergasted when an IRC chauffer pointed out the Presidential Palace en route to the office – doors wide open to the world, no guards in site. Biya is practically entombed by his elaborate security posse who very rarely allow him to venture into the public sphere.
And I haven’t even started in on the whities. There is already much to be said about my fellow expats and the new community in which I will be spending the next 12 months. I have been told that the cultural immersion experience so revered by Peace Corps afficianados is not only nonexistent but impossible to replicate given the socio-economic disparities between whites and blacks in CAR. It’s something I’d prepared myself for, and yet the stark contrast from my days lounging about in Mvangan makes me feel unsettled and uncomfortable. The pictures of me and Hypolite taped to my wall seem almost quaint and naïve in my current context and I wonder what kind of box I’d be written into if I were to publicize the existence my African boyfriend…
But all this I have time to ponder at the moment because work does not start until tomorrow. IRC is having trouble securing project funding and my housemate has been at work all weekend while I merely putter about. I’m looking forward to diving in, being busy and having the chance to travel north and west to the field sites which are the true heart of this organization’s work.
Bangui
One of the first things I noticed was the Hollywood-esque cut out letters of the city’s name on a forested hill overlooking the city. The sign is electrified and beams prominently throughout the night as if to give the impression that Bangui was some sought after tourist destination rather than the impoverished run-down huddle of buildings that make up this country’s capitol city. “I used to think the sign was very impressive.” This from one of my new colleagues at an IRC dinner at the director’s house “Well, until I climbed the hill and realized the sign is no more than a giant rectangular light with bits of black tape arranged about the letters.”
This has been rather typical of my first few days in the Central African Republic (formerly known as the Central African Republic, FYI). Ranked 178th out of 179 countries by the Human Development index, I’d prepared myself for the difficulties of living in a post-conflict, landlocked Subsaharan country. That is, I didn’t expect much and yet I was immediately surprised by all that IS here. International Rescue Committee project materials are littered with stark black and white portraits of refugees in tattered clothing with clinging babies against a backdrop of burned-out villages…and so this becomes your imagery. This is what you expect to see but in fact, I was driven to the guesthouse I now call home to find my very own air-conditioned tiled room. Next door, a bathroom with running water, full kitchen and wireless internet service did its best to make me believe I was not in a conflict zone. Yesterday at the grocery store I bought French emmental grated cheese and a couple cans of ravioli. I was given a cell phone and computer before going out to dinner at a nice restaurant in town…
Now don’t get me wrong. I am now an expatriot working for a large international humanitarian assistance organization and the creature comforts I am able to enjoy on their tab are certainly not available to the average Central African (a term I finally learned after toying unsuccessfully with ‘Central African Republican’). But the point is: these things EXIST here, despite everything. Despite the war and the poverty, despite the dysfunctional government and the complete disinterest shown by the international community, the picture of this place is clearly not-so-black-and-white.
Let me back up: I spent the last two weeks traveling about Cameroon with Hypolite. We drank beers and ate heartily and enjoyed the company of a wide array of Cameroonian friends. I had the opportunity to chat with a number of people who had either lived or worked in Bangui and their impressions of both the city and country as a whole were less than complimentary. “Fais attention avec les refuges” cautioned Tiki, my former Peace Corps program director, “ils sont tous bizarre la bas.” But then again, chatting last night with my compound’s security guard I was given the rundown on Cameroonians: “Les gens du Cameroun sont trôp dûr. Ils n’aiment pas les étrangers. Ils veulent te deranger seulement. Et en plus, ils ne sont pas solidaire comme nous ici en Centrafrique. Ici, tout le monde est gentil! C’est pas le cas la bas au Cameroun…” Interesting, said I.
There are bits of truth to all of this. Driving through the town, I immediately noticed the lack of stores, people, buildings, and above all else – bars. The tree-lined streets of Bangui are never clogged with cars or mottos because there just aren’t that many cars or mottos to muck things up. All roads not emanating directly from the center of town are unpaved and despite being in a capitol city, the days (and nights) are quiet (this in stark contrast to the raucousness of Yaoundé). Material goods are extremely expensive as everything must be shipped from Cameroon or imported from France and education levels are low. I was flabbergasted when an IRC chauffer pointed out the Presidential Palace en route to the office – doors wide open to the world, no guards in site. Biya is practically entombed by his elaborate security posse who very rarely allow him to venture into the public sphere.
And I haven’t even started in on the whities. There is already much to be said about my fellow expats and the new community in which I will be spending the next 12 months. I have been told that the cultural immersion experience so revered by Peace Corps afficianados is not only nonexistent but impossible to replicate given the socio-economic disparities between whites and blacks in CAR. It’s something I’d prepared myself for, and yet the stark contrast from my days lounging about in Mvangan makes me feel unsettled and uncomfortable. The pictures of me and Hypolite taped to my wall seem almost quaint and naïve in my current context and I wonder what kind of box I’d be written into if I were to publicize the existence my African boyfriend…
But all this I have time to ponder at the moment because work does not start until tomorrow. IRC is having trouble securing project funding and my housemate has been at work all weekend while I merely putter about. I’m looking forward to diving in, being busy and having the chance to travel north and west to the field sites which are the true heart of this organization’s work.
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