United Nations peacekeeping missions are often criticized for failing to accomplish the high-minded goals they set out to do. There has been peace in Ivory Coast since, say, 2005, but the mission is still here. Meanwhile the president has succeeded in obliterating the mission's say in the way the country is being run. Initially, the UN was supposed to organize fair elections; now, its role is reduced to observing and validating, even if the elections keep being postponed time and again. It’s a huge source of frustration for those who have been around for several years, and some of them can't help asking themselves why they are even going to the office every day. Yesterday over lunch, a friend of mine let me in on the latest UN gossip: who is sleeping with whom, who has a drug or alcohol addiction, who receives kickbacks from whom, etcetera. “It’s like a fucking soap opera," he exclaimed, laughing. Time to ask him a couple of questions.
Why do you think UN staff sometimes behaves so badly?
“Here’s my theory: it’s a representation of the world. You have all these people from all these different places trying to work together and get along, but in the end, we don’t. It’s easy to clash in a multicultural environment. For example, I once stepped into the office of a West African colleague to get something from his cabinet. I saw he was busy, so I didn’t bother him and walked straight to the cabinet. He said: ‘You know, where I come from, we say hello when we enter a room.’ I said: ‘Yes, you are right, but in my culture, we don’t want to bother someone who is busy for something trivial.’ That explains just a little bit why sometimes you have misunderstandings. Worse, we are in a situation where you can pretty much do what you want. There is total impunity. If you get caught having sex with underage girls in your own country, the authorities will probably send you to prison. Here, the worst that can happen is that they repatriate you. Or maybe, just maybe, lose your job. The problem I just described also applies to foreign NGO’s where staff members are paid much more than the local population. I mean, if I want to find a girlfriend, all I have to do is buy her a gift.”
Is it diffcult to get fired from the UN?
“They can decide not to renew your contract but it is really hard to get rid of somebody. Let’s say you are an African and your chief is a white European and he is always on your case for being late or not showing up for work at all. If there is somebody from your country in a higher position, you can seek support from that person and cry foul, saying you are being harassed because your chief is racist or sexist. There are close-knit networks within most missions where people from the same country protect each other and only give out jobs to other nationals. On top of that, minorities always have that card to use. The UN is very sensitive to that.”
Anything to say in its defense?
“The UN is unique in the sense that it is often put in a situation where a job must be done which has never been done before, like rebuilding a nation or a government. The UN often has to make things up as it goes along, and that’s not an easy thing to do. Here in Ivory Coast, it’s a different situation though. There is a functioning government so I honestly don’t know why we are here. The government has willfully sidelined this peacekeeping mission. We are completely out of the loop. Maybe the biggest benefit for the country is the fact that we pump a lot of money into the economy. Most UN staff have nannies, cooks, and cleaners. Imagine all the rents we pay and the people we employ, which makes me a bit worried about what the hell is going to happen to these people when the UN pulls out. Maybe we are just here for public relations. Then again, if we weren’t here, I’d be out of a job. So I better shut up, haha.”
Friday, October 30, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
In Abidjan, one can ask a random stranger just about anything. Afternoon prayers had started at Treichville market as I made my way through the fruit stalls in search of oranges. Wildly colorful rows of women, big and small, were kneeling head down on the cement floor at the entrance gate. Only one was sitting behind a tiny stall. She cut me an orange to convince me of its sweetness and as she handed me a slice, I asked her why she wasn’t praying.
“I am having my period,” she said matter-of-factly. “You have to wait until it’s over. Then you wash yourself thoroughly and you can resume prayers. But you don’t pay credit.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t pay credit. You don’t have to catch up. When you have your period during Ramadan, you pay credit. You have to pray extra once your period is over."
“I see.”
“By the way, my name is Fatou. If you come here again, ask for me. You will see, my oranges are very sweet.”
“I am having my period,” she said matter-of-factly. “You have to wait until it’s over. Then you wash yourself thoroughly and you can resume prayers. But you don’t pay credit.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t pay credit. You don’t have to catch up. When you have your period during Ramadan, you pay credit. You have to pray extra once your period is over."
“I see.”
“By the way, my name is Fatou. If you come here again, ask for me. You will see, my oranges are very sweet.”
Friday, October 23, 2009
From an email sent to companies in Ivory Coast by an employee of the national state television RTI.
PLEASE BE CAREFUL
Some time ago, a lady called madame N’Guessan mysteriously lost 220.000 francs which she had just taken from the bank to pay her children’s school fees. Upon leaving the bank, a man who claimed to be a priest approached her. He seemed worried because he could not find a certain building and was about to miss an appointment. This is what he said to her: "Bonjour madame! I have a very important meeting at the administrative building Tour C, but I don’t know how to find the place and I’ve got only ten minutes left..."
As madame N'Guessan was pointing out Tour C, a stranger, undoubtedly the accomplice of the so-called priest, appeared out of nowhere and got involved in the conversation.
"Bonjour madame! You have been blessed this morning. The man you are talking to is a very famous priest. You must thank God!"
The lady, thinking these people were honest, asked for the priest’s phone number before he went on his way. They did not touch or shake hands – all they did was talk. But get this: once madame N’Guessan arrived home, instead of the bank notes she had carefully put in her wallet at the bottom of her handbag, she found a pile of newspaper cuttings. The handbag had stayed firmly on her right shoulder throughout the conversation with the gangsters.
This is not a joke. This is a true story.
The fact of the matter is this: there is a new race of thieves who use supernatural powers to carry out their malicious plans. They hang around at banks and markets. A brief conversation will suffice to have them pass you through their mystical scanner and to rob you from your money, whatever they replace it with. So please avoid talking to well-dressed strangers who approach you in the street, especially when you have money on you.
PLEASE BE CAREFUL
Some time ago, a lady called madame N’Guessan mysteriously lost 220.000 francs which she had just taken from the bank to pay her children’s school fees. Upon leaving the bank, a man who claimed to be a priest approached her. He seemed worried because he could not find a certain building and was about to miss an appointment. This is what he said to her: "Bonjour madame! I have a very important meeting at the administrative building Tour C, but I don’t know how to find the place and I’ve got only ten minutes left..."
As madame N'Guessan was pointing out Tour C, a stranger, undoubtedly the accomplice of the so-called priest, appeared out of nowhere and got involved in the conversation.
"Bonjour madame! You have been blessed this morning. The man you are talking to is a very famous priest. You must thank God!"
The lady, thinking these people were honest, asked for the priest’s phone number before he went on his way. They did not touch or shake hands – all they did was talk. But get this: once madame N’Guessan arrived home, instead of the bank notes she had carefully put in her wallet at the bottom of her handbag, she found a pile of newspaper cuttings. The handbag had stayed firmly on her right shoulder throughout the conversation with the gangsters.
This is not a joke. This is a true story.
The fact of the matter is this: there is a new race of thieves who use supernatural powers to carry out their malicious plans. They hang around at banks and markets. A brief conversation will suffice to have them pass you through their mystical scanner and to rob you from your money, whatever they replace it with. So please avoid talking to well-dressed strangers who approach you in the street, especially when you have money on you.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Back in the grayness of Abidjan I thought of the clear blue Indian Ocean and how exhilarating it was to be able to swim, as opposed to standing knee-high in brownish water bracing myself for the next wave. Today I met with shoeshine boy Ibrahim, who showed me proof of payment of this year’s school fees which I gave him money for two weeks ago. V. took him to the beach once. Ibrahim lives in an overcrowded suburb and had never seen the ocean before. “Is the sea angry?” he asked as the waves came crashing on the shore.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
I was never much interested in game parks and everything else I associated with the picture-book Africa westerners who have never been to the continent like to imagine, a place with savannahs and lions and whites with floppy safari hats dreaming away by the campfire. It’s the kind of organized back-to-nature experience tourists are interested in, and I obviously don’t want to think of myself as a tourist, much like every other traveler on the planet. But I like animals, and seeing animals in the wild was strangely exciting. I felt helpless, small, insignificant.
The national park looked vast on the map. On the first day, Rashid, a guide from the campsite, escorted us. C. stepped on the gas and we sped along dusty roads as slippery as ice. I found this out the next day when I took a turn at the wheel and was so busy trying to kill a tsetse fly the car nearly skidded off the road. Early on we passed a Landcruiser with three tourists seated on a mounted bench, high up as if on a throne for better viewing, and red-nosed with sunburn. The game wardens exchanged information in Swahili. After jolly goodbyes, C. and Rashid giggled. Seeing a lion is the apparent highlight of a typical safari, and the game wardens feel they have to find one come hell or high water. To avoid excitement and dampen expectations, the game wardens do not use the Swahili word for lion, simba, and talk in code about ‘the cheeked ones’. We did see a lion that day, a yellowish cat dozing off under a tree, but it didn’t look anything like the king of the beasts it is supposed to be. I held my breath when I saw a giraffe gnawing at a tree, then running away in a graceful slow-motion gallop; the herd of elephants we stumbled upon at the end of day was awe-inspiring. The sleepy lion was no match.
The next day was harder work. We drove for miles through dust and grit, a road lined with dry prickly bush and tall trees. After what seemed like hours trying to read the sporadic signposts and guessing which road would lead where, C. and I lost interest in the hippos and zebras and shifty impalas; all we wanted was a cold beer. It wasn’t available at the exit gate, so we went back into the park to find a hotel with a bar. At a dried-up river bed, a Jeep was stuck in the sand. The driver had taken off his shirt and was helplessly tugging and pulling at the back of the car; from the driver’s seat, a white woman sat waving at us. I wondered how we could cross without getting stuck ourselves, selfishly longing for a cold drink and a release from the car, but C., considerate as always, tied a cable to our bumper and pulled them out. The woman was an American tourist with a camera and pale legs in shorts, and she yelped her eternal gratefulness to C., her savior. She was staying in the hotel we were looking for, which was “not far”, the driver said. “Just over there.” More dust, more twists and turns. And finally, the hotel. ‘Welcome to Beho Beho’, said a sign on an unmanned open-air reception desk next to an airstrip.
After six years in West Africa, my standards for professional hospitality are low. Hotels, for me, are necessary evils with grease-stained doors and musty sofas. Beho Beho was different from anything I have ever seen. Black and white pictures of half-naked natives hung on one side of the bar; on a hardwood desk from the colonial days, framed portraits of a big man with a grey beard: the archetypical white hunter. The lounge was open on one side and built on a plateau overlooking a vast plain with hills and trees under which I could see an elephant flapping its ears. There were soft cushions, porcelain ashtrays, a coffee table with coffee table books, and a swimming pool. This is an Africa designed by Europeans, I thought, where one comes to see animals, not people. The waiter asked how he could help us.
“Could we please have a beer?”, C. asked.
“I’m afraid that is not possible,” the waiter said. “But let me get the owner.”
A thin white man with a floppy safari hat and a grim smile appeared. He looked at us with suspicion. To placate him, we explained that we had been driving all day from the west entrance to the east gate of the park, and were therefore in need of a beer.
“I am sorry, but we don’t serve beer here,” he said in a Zimbabwean accent. It was clear we needn’t dare to ask about the rooms.
“That is too bad,” C. said. “This is the only hotel for miles.”
“I am sorry,” the white man said. “I can offer you a glass of water if you like.”
“No, thanks.”
Back home, we looked up the website of Beho Beho. ‘Always designated as a private camp, it has fiercely protected its individuality and privileged location as one of the most magical places it is possible to visit in safari Africa’. Rooms: $1025 a night. Reservations in advance only.
“Man,” C. sighed. “I wish we hadn’t helped that American woman.”
The national park looked vast on the map. On the first day, Rashid, a guide from the campsite, escorted us. C. stepped on the gas and we sped along dusty roads as slippery as ice. I found this out the next day when I took a turn at the wheel and was so busy trying to kill a tsetse fly the car nearly skidded off the road. Early on we passed a Landcruiser with three tourists seated on a mounted bench, high up as if on a throne for better viewing, and red-nosed with sunburn. The game wardens exchanged information in Swahili. After jolly goodbyes, C. and Rashid giggled. Seeing a lion is the apparent highlight of a typical safari, and the game wardens feel they have to find one come hell or high water. To avoid excitement and dampen expectations, the game wardens do not use the Swahili word for lion, simba, and talk in code about ‘the cheeked ones’. We did see a lion that day, a yellowish cat dozing off under a tree, but it didn’t look anything like the king of the beasts it is supposed to be. I held my breath when I saw a giraffe gnawing at a tree, then running away in a graceful slow-motion gallop; the herd of elephants we stumbled upon at the end of day was awe-inspiring. The sleepy lion was no match.
The next day was harder work. We drove for miles through dust and grit, a road lined with dry prickly bush and tall trees. After what seemed like hours trying to read the sporadic signposts and guessing which road would lead where, C. and I lost interest in the hippos and zebras and shifty impalas; all we wanted was a cold beer. It wasn’t available at the exit gate, so we went back into the park to find a hotel with a bar. At a dried-up river bed, a Jeep was stuck in the sand. The driver had taken off his shirt and was helplessly tugging and pulling at the back of the car; from the driver’s seat, a white woman sat waving at us. I wondered how we could cross without getting stuck ourselves, selfishly longing for a cold drink and a release from the car, but C., considerate as always, tied a cable to our bumper and pulled them out. The woman was an American tourist with a camera and pale legs in shorts, and she yelped her eternal gratefulness to C., her savior. She was staying in the hotel we were looking for, which was “not far”, the driver said. “Just over there.” More dust, more twists and turns. And finally, the hotel. ‘Welcome to Beho Beho’, said a sign on an unmanned open-air reception desk next to an airstrip.
After six years in West Africa, my standards for professional hospitality are low. Hotels, for me, are necessary evils with grease-stained doors and musty sofas. Beho Beho was different from anything I have ever seen. Black and white pictures of half-naked natives hung on one side of the bar; on a hardwood desk from the colonial days, framed portraits of a big man with a grey beard: the archetypical white hunter. The lounge was open on one side and built on a plateau overlooking a vast plain with hills and trees under which I could see an elephant flapping its ears. There were soft cushions, porcelain ashtrays, a coffee table with coffee table books, and a swimming pool. This is an Africa designed by Europeans, I thought, where one comes to see animals, not people. The waiter asked how he could help us.
“Could we please have a beer?”, C. asked.
“I’m afraid that is not possible,” the waiter said. “But let me get the owner.”
A thin white man with a floppy safari hat and a grim smile appeared. He looked at us with suspicion. To placate him, we explained that we had been driving all day from the west entrance to the east gate of the park, and were therefore in need of a beer.
“I am sorry, but we don’t serve beer here,” he said in a Zimbabwean accent. It was clear we needn’t dare to ask about the rooms.
“That is too bad,” C. said. “This is the only hotel for miles.”
“I am sorry,” the white man said. “I can offer you a glass of water if you like.”
“No, thanks.”
Back home, we looked up the website of Beho Beho. ‘Always designated as a private camp, it has fiercely protected its individuality and privileged location as one of the most magical places it is possible to visit in safari Africa’. Rooms: $1025 a night. Reservations in advance only.
“Man,” C. sighed. “I wish we hadn’t helped that American woman.”
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