Tuuli's Blog
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Niamey, Niger
We were entering a country that had recently been in the news for a wide-spread famine. "The most wretched place on earth" was just one of the descriptions that had catapulted Niger into the Western audience's collective consciousness. Listening to the BBC and Voice of America, we were prepared for the worst. We suspected that what we were going to see would challenge our understandings of humanity. The news media had haunted us with images of starving children and dying crops, but nothing could have prepared us for what we encountered in Niamey.
As we entered Niamey, we saw beggar children dancing happily at one intersection, beckoning passersby to join into their chants and tin can drumming. As we crawled past the central market in our car, the eyes of the Nigerans I met were kinder and more passionate than those of any other people we have visited thus far. As we stopped for dinner, a woman stirred an incredible meal of couscous by mixing about eight different leaves, spices, magic and oils with her hand. There is something intense about the desert. But the intensity isn't daunting, it is intimate and captivating. This was my first impression of Niger.
Our first week in Niger was a respite. We were welcomed to Niamey by Peace Corps volunteers Drew, Kate and Seth, who kindly opened their house to us upon hearing of the work that we were doing. Talking with them and other aid workers in Niamey challenged common understandings of the food crisis, as a catastrophic and rare phenomenon. We were asked to compare the hungry season here to hungry seasons all across Africa. The reality in Niger is that the Sahel environment is harsh; many children here die each year of malnutrition and disease. This year, a combination of locusts and low rain had significantly diminished the grazing land of the nomadic herders, who were forced to sell off large portions of their cattle before the cattle starved to death. Because of the excess meat on the market, there was a significant plunge in market prices. While a large part of their cattle were lost, the herders were left with little money and dwindling savings. Children died. But was this more catastrophic than past years?
It makes me upset to hear about how aid organizations jumped on the bandwagon of famine to profiteer. The Western audience was shown that what Niger needed was food aid and indeed, heartstrings were pulled and millions of dollars poured in. Non-governmental organizations streamed into Niamey. Even concerned individuals flew to Niamey to "try to help." New offices were built. New 4 x 4 trucks were imported for aid workers. An entire hangar for food aid at the airport. Bags of rice were dropped in villages within the affected regions. But what is the result?
While I do not doubt that many aid organizations are doing important work in the area of development in Niger, a certain amount of suspicion about the goals of food aid is healthy. Critics claim that food aid is like a Trojan horse. Consider the bag of rice that was dropped in the village. One bag of rice feeds a small compound, most of them children, for one week. While this rice is welcomed by the village as a generous gift from strangers, the contribution is a drop in the bucket. However, the local person who sells locally grown rice at the market will see a drop in customers that week and his profits will diminish. Multiply this phenomenon by thousands of bags of rice... and witness the effect on the local economy. If a food aid program is allowed to operate for several years in a country, it actually discourages local farmers from growing crops because the prices of the crop are pushed lower and lower by the "free" crop. Magnify this on a global scale and one can see that food aid is a good investment for Western grain companies who wish to expand their markets in the developing world.
But these are just some thoughts. These thoughts are an opinion. I guess part of our mission here is to highlight those groups and individuals whose work we can agree with on an individual level.
We were entering a country that had recently been in the news for a wide-spread famine. "The most wretched place on earth" was just one of the descriptions that had catapulted Niger into the Western audience's collective consciousness. Listening to the BBC and Voice of America, we were prepared for the worst. We suspected that what we were going to see would challenge our understandings of humanity. The news media had haunted us with images of starving children and dying crops, but nothing could have prepared us for what we encountered in Niamey.
As we entered Niamey, we saw beggar children dancing happily at one intersection, beckoning passersby to join into their chants and tin can drumming. As we crawled past the central market in our car, the eyes of the Nigerans I met were kinder and more passionate than those of any other people we have visited thus far. As we stopped for dinner, a woman stirred an incredible meal of couscous by mixing about eight different leaves, spices, magic and oils with her hand. There is something intense about the desert. But the intensity isn't daunting, it is intimate and captivating. This was my first impression of Niger.
Our first week in Niger was a respite. We were welcomed to Niamey by Peace Corps volunteers Drew, Kate and Seth, who kindly opened their house to us upon hearing of the work that we were doing. Talking with them and other aid workers in Niamey challenged common understandings of the food crisis, as a catastrophic and rare phenomenon. We were asked to compare the hungry season here to hungry seasons all across Africa. The reality in Niger is that the Sahel environment is harsh; many children here die each year of malnutrition and disease. This year, a combination of locusts and low rain had significantly diminished the grazing land of the nomadic herders, who were forced to sell off large portions of their cattle before the cattle starved to death. Because of the excess meat on the market, there was a significant plunge in market prices. While a large part of their cattle were lost, the herders were left with little money and dwindling savings. Children died. But was this more catastrophic than past years?
It makes me upset to hear about how aid organizations jumped on the bandwagon of famine to profiteer. The Western audience was shown that what Niger needed was food aid and indeed, heartstrings were pulled and millions of dollars poured in. Non-governmental organizations streamed into Niamey. Even concerned individuals flew to Niamey to "try to help." New offices were built. New 4 x 4 trucks were imported for aid workers. An entire hangar for food aid at the airport. Bags of rice were dropped in villages within the affected regions. But what is the result?
While I do not doubt that many aid organizations are doing important work in the area of development in Niger, a certain amount of suspicion about the goals of food aid is healthy. Critics claim that food aid is like a Trojan horse. Consider the bag of rice that was dropped in the village. One bag of rice feeds a small compound, most of them children, for one week. While this rice is welcomed by the village as a generous gift from strangers, the contribution is a drop in the bucket. However, the local person who sells locally grown rice at the market will see a drop in customers that week and his profits will diminish. Multiply this phenomenon by thousands of bags of rice... and witness the effect on the local economy. If a food aid program is allowed to operate for several years in a country, it actually discourages local farmers from growing crops because the prices of the crop are pushed lower and lower by the "free" crop. Magnify this on a global scale and one can see that food aid is a good investment for Western grain companies who wish to expand their markets in the developing world.
But these are just some thoughts. These thoughts are an opinion. I guess part of our mission here is to highlight those groups and individuals whose work we can agree with on an individual level.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Grand Popo, Benin
As we crossed the border from Togo to Benin, the boys announced that there was a Finnish African Cultural Center in the town that we were planning to lodge for the night. I immediately thought they were playing a joke on me. Those two often try to play jokes to moderate my inflated sense of national pride (or gender equality or any of the other buttons we have all gotten to know so well). To my surprise, this was no lie!
So the next day, along the sea spray besieged coastline of Benin, I met four Finnish artists. One photographer with his girlfriend, a textile specialist and a painter. They were artists in residence at the Villa Karro cultural center in Grand Popo. The architecture and planning of the place was impressive against the backdrop of a relatively sleepy beach village. Demonstrating the Finnish love of culture, there was a library, concert stage, museum and conference center on the grounds. "Tervetuloa" (welcome in Finnish), announced a smiling young African. I giggled like a little girl because this was so out of place. He invited us to a free movie playing in the courtyard at 8PM. On this whole trip, I have never been so surprised. The Director of Villa Karro informed me that the artists may apply to stay in Benin through a special grant program organized by the Finnish Ministry of the Arts.
Returning in the evening to watch a Senegalese short film and an American B movie that weren't nearly as interesting as the prospect of speaking with Finns, I scanned the crowd for familiar blond hair. Before long, we were invited to sit on the porch overlooking the ocean to share a glass of wine. We were perched on pillows in a circle on the floor. English and Finnish were spoken simultaneously, which is something that I am used to from my own dinner table growing up. It is such a rarity to speak our language abroad that Finns will assume that those that cannot speak it will forgive us. Sean and Nate both kindly obliged. I could see that it was interesting for the Finns to listen to my strange accent (irreparably blemished by a childhood abroad). To keep with tradition, we were invited to try the local moonshine that someone had found in a fishing village up river.
The photographer Tapio told me of a study that was recently conducted by a governmental research organization that claims that Finnish émigrés are less likely to admit their country of origin, as compared with other Scandinavian countries. This sounded so strange to me, I would never have thought that this was a widespread phenomenon. Every time I meet a Finn in an exotic place, we treat each other like the best of friends. Every possibility to practice our language is indulged. I feel very strongly about where I come from. I spent most of my childhood outside of Finland but returned every back every summer to visit family and friends. It almost hurt me that a large percentage of émigrés deny their heritage, even while being from a country as unique and distinctive as Finland. Returning to Finland to work is a fantasy of mine.
The surreal quality of the evening never disappeared for me. Since there are only five million Finns in the world, it seemed pretty strange that I would happen upon a whole community of them in Benin. Nate suggested that perhaps Finns were attracted to Benin because of a common love for voodoo; but I think he might be projecting my stronger fascination with magic and the supernatural onto Finns as a group. Both the Beninese and the Finns practice rituals that celebrate a communion with nature. Finns respect and recognize nature; our names are chosen as sky, cloud, sea, forest and wind. While very few places in Finland remain untouched by the influence of Lutheranism, most everyone celebrates at least one pagan ritual or two during the year.
Benin's practice of voodoo is similar, it has not remained untouched by the Muslim and Christian religions. There are pockets where the practice lives on, such as Ouidah, where traditional beliefs and cults co-exist with newer religious cults. From an outsider's perspective, voodoo rituals seem to be a way to rationalize the sometimes uncontrollable forces of nature, such as thunder, lightning and small pox. Nothing we heard suggested voodoo as a means to control nature (or people) in any spiteful sense. Granted, this is a conclusion I came to after having seen tourist sites associated with voodoo, sites that the Beninese have come to understand tourists will pay to see. However, rituals are a part of every African society. Fearing rituals because they are exotic (and not fearing a midnight bonfire in the middle of the forest in Finland) may be due to a poor understanding of local culture. At least for me, I was hesitant and nervous to learn about voodoo because I didn't know what it was all about. In the end, I felt nothing malicious and even gave a token offering for Legba, a voodoo god who is seen as both a guardian and/or a trickster, with the wish that we land safely in South Africa.
The most malicious thing we learned of in Benin was the existence of a warrior kingdom that historically profited from the slave trade. Unfortunately, this is not a rarity; similar kingdoms existed up and down the coast of West Africa. Another malicious event was whe a bean vendor ripped us off by insisting we pay a ridiculously high price for her sandwiches.
As we crossed the border from Togo to Benin, the boys announced that there was a Finnish African Cultural Center in the town that we were planning to lodge for the night. I immediately thought they were playing a joke on me. Those two often try to play jokes to moderate my inflated sense of national pride (or gender equality or any of the other buttons we have all gotten to know so well). To my surprise, this was no lie!
So the next day, along the sea spray besieged coastline of Benin, I met four Finnish artists. One photographer with his girlfriend, a textile specialist and a painter. They were artists in residence at the Villa Karro cultural center in Grand Popo. The architecture and planning of the place was impressive against the backdrop of a relatively sleepy beach village. Demonstrating the Finnish love of culture, there was a library, concert stage, museum and conference center on the grounds. "Tervetuloa" (welcome in Finnish), announced a smiling young African. I giggled like a little girl because this was so out of place. He invited us to a free movie playing in the courtyard at 8PM. On this whole trip, I have never been so surprised. The Director of Villa Karro informed me that the artists may apply to stay in Benin through a special grant program organized by the Finnish Ministry of the Arts.
Returning in the evening to watch a Senegalese short film and an American B movie that weren't nearly as interesting as the prospect of speaking with Finns, I scanned the crowd for familiar blond hair. Before long, we were invited to sit on the porch overlooking the ocean to share a glass of wine. We were perched on pillows in a circle on the floor. English and Finnish were spoken simultaneously, which is something that I am used to from my own dinner table growing up. It is such a rarity to speak our language abroad that Finns will assume that those that cannot speak it will forgive us. Sean and Nate both kindly obliged. I could see that it was interesting for the Finns to listen to my strange accent (irreparably blemished by a childhood abroad). To keep with tradition, we were invited to try the local moonshine that someone had found in a fishing village up river.
The photographer Tapio told me of a study that was recently conducted by a governmental research organization that claims that Finnish émigrés are less likely to admit their country of origin, as compared with other Scandinavian countries. This sounded so strange to me, I would never have thought that this was a widespread phenomenon. Every time I meet a Finn in an exotic place, we treat each other like the best of friends. Every possibility to practice our language is indulged. I feel very strongly about where I come from. I spent most of my childhood outside of Finland but returned every back every summer to visit family and friends. It almost hurt me that a large percentage of émigrés deny their heritage, even while being from a country as unique and distinctive as Finland. Returning to Finland to work is a fantasy of mine.
The surreal quality of the evening never disappeared for me. Since there are only five million Finns in the world, it seemed pretty strange that I would happen upon a whole community of them in Benin. Nate suggested that perhaps Finns were attracted to Benin because of a common love for voodoo; but I think he might be projecting my stronger fascination with magic and the supernatural onto Finns as a group. Both the Beninese and the Finns practice rituals that celebrate a communion with nature. Finns respect and recognize nature; our names are chosen as sky, cloud, sea, forest and wind. While very few places in Finland remain untouched by the influence of Lutheranism, most everyone celebrates at least one pagan ritual or two during the year.
Benin's practice of voodoo is similar, it has not remained untouched by the Muslim and Christian religions. There are pockets where the practice lives on, such as Ouidah, where traditional beliefs and cults co-exist with newer religious cults. From an outsider's perspective, voodoo rituals seem to be a way to rationalize the sometimes uncontrollable forces of nature, such as thunder, lightning and small pox. Nothing we heard suggested voodoo as a means to control nature (or people) in any spiteful sense. Granted, this is a conclusion I came to after having seen tourist sites associated with voodoo, sites that the Beninese have come to understand tourists will pay to see. However, rituals are a part of every African society. Fearing rituals because they are exotic (and not fearing a midnight bonfire in the middle of the forest in Finland) may be due to a poor understanding of local culture. At least for me, I was hesitant and nervous to learn about voodoo because I didn't know what it was all about. In the end, I felt nothing malicious and even gave a token offering for Legba, a voodoo god who is seen as both a guardian and/or a trickster, with the wish that we land safely in South Africa.
The most malicious thing we learned of in Benin was the existence of a warrior kingdom that historically profited from the slave trade. Unfortunately, this is not a rarity; similar kingdoms existed up and down the coast of West Africa. Another malicious event was whe a bean vendor ripped us off by insisting we pay a ridiculously high price for her sandwiches.
Friday, October 07, 2005
The search for Klouto, Togo
Entering Togo, we expected to confront the aftermath of a period of political volatility that erupted into violence and hundreds of deaths in the capital some months ago. Instead, we fell under a spell of vague relaxation and confusion because of the tranquility of the Togolese countryside.
The confusion started at the border. Sean's and my passport were both stamped with an exit date from Ghana of October 70, 2005, rather than October 7, 2005. Another customs official seemed to have misplaced his stamp in a town ten kilometers away. When we located the stamp, his junior customs official stamped our important carnet document in the wrong place. Our arrival in Togo was charmed, as the pressure was definitely off. Our fears about meeting abrasive military officers armed with AK47s quickly subsided.
We drove through mountain villages that sleepily acknowledged our presence, noticing that people seemed to take pride in their front yards. There were beautiful arrangements of colorful flowers, bushes and trees in front many of the houses, providing contrast to the earthy mud brick houses in which they lived. Some houses had their shutters adorned with colorful paintings. I estimated that if I were born here in a coming lifetime, this would mean I had done well.
Driving through the calm regional capital of Kpalimé, we turned up a road to the mountain village of Klouto, known for its butterflies. The road was stunning. It had been lined by German colonialists with mahogany trees to prevent erosion. Those Germans are so forward thinking. The result after fifty years was a winding, pleasant and shady one-lane road up the mountain. Butterflies fluttered about, playing in the rays of light that filtered through the trees. We passed a waterfall and the view to the plain below started to reveal itself.
After a half an hour of this road, we arrived at a police check point, in the town we expected to be Klouto. We asked the police man for directions to Klouto. He looked confused. Assuming that there was a good chance that we were pronouncing the name of the village wrong, we begin a chorus of intonations. How do the French say the 'ou' sound again? We haven't spoken French in almost two months since Ghana was English-speaking. Klooto, Kluuto, Kloutou, Kleeto. Klaate? Sounding more like a bunch of monkeys than people in need of assistance, the man just stares at us with a blank look in his eye. Finally, he points his finger down the road we just came up and says that we must go back down the mountain. Thinking that perhaps we had missed a turn somewhere, we acquiesce and follow his advice. So we descend.
Back in Kpalimé we receive instructions from some women that Klouto is in Kpalime, to which we simply laugh that this must be impossible... I let an intolerant thought about how African women never seem to leave their compound pass through my mind. Following our own sense of direction, we turn back around and begin to climb back up the same road we just descended. The mahoganies are still exceptional, the butterflies numerous, the shade inviting, the waterfall refreshing, the view grand. There is a mildly annoying feeling that something is wrong.
Half way up the mountain and upon closer examination of our guidebook we affectionately call the Lonely Bastard, we decide that the women and the police officer were actually right and that Klouto is in the opposite direction. In a state of utter confusion, we turn around. View, waterfall, shade, butterflies, mahoganies, half an hour. As we enter into Kpalimé, we stop at a hotel for directions. The hotel manager unfolds a clearly defined tourist map that in three languages tells us that Klouto is up the mountain we just descended. I think that we have lost it. Why had people been trying to throw us off for the past two hours?
We calmly, but assuredly decide that Klouto is not for us and choose instead to visit some waterfalls on the other side of Kpalimé. As we arrive at the junction of the road toward the falls a bunch of teenage boys declare that the waterfalls are closed. One of them guides our vehicle to a glorified bush trail. Suddenly, four other guides appear from thin air and start running in front of and behind the car. The cabin of the car floods with insects that are tumbling off the vegetation that brushes the sides of the car. We begin to wonder where they are taking us. We feel uncomfortable with the thought of leaving the car in the bush as we hike to waterfalls with these four young guides. We fear that we will return to a pillaged skeleton of a car. Once again, for the fifth time today, we decide to turn around.
This day sticks out in my mind because as everything went wrong, Sean, Nate, and I didn't get on each other's nerves at all. Eventually, after hours of perpetual delusion, we decided to stay in Kpalimé and drink Togolese amber ale instead. In the end, we all decided that we really like Togo. There is simply less tension in Togo than we had expected and this made us all happy.
Entering Togo, we expected to confront the aftermath of a period of political volatility that erupted into violence and hundreds of deaths in the capital some months ago. Instead, we fell under a spell of vague relaxation and confusion because of the tranquility of the Togolese countryside.
The confusion started at the border. Sean's and my passport were both stamped with an exit date from Ghana of October 70, 2005, rather than October 7, 2005. Another customs official seemed to have misplaced his stamp in a town ten kilometers away. When we located the stamp, his junior customs official stamped our important carnet document in the wrong place. Our arrival in Togo was charmed, as the pressure was definitely off. Our fears about meeting abrasive military officers armed with AK47s quickly subsided.
We drove through mountain villages that sleepily acknowledged our presence, noticing that people seemed to take pride in their front yards. There were beautiful arrangements of colorful flowers, bushes and trees in front many of the houses, providing contrast to the earthy mud brick houses in which they lived. Some houses had their shutters adorned with colorful paintings. I estimated that if I were born here in a coming lifetime, this would mean I had done well.
Driving through the calm regional capital of Kpalimé, we turned up a road to the mountain village of Klouto, known for its butterflies. The road was stunning. It had been lined by German colonialists with mahogany trees to prevent erosion. Those Germans are so forward thinking. The result after fifty years was a winding, pleasant and shady one-lane road up the mountain. Butterflies fluttered about, playing in the rays of light that filtered through the trees. We passed a waterfall and the view to the plain below started to reveal itself.
After a half an hour of this road, we arrived at a police check point, in the town we expected to be Klouto. We asked the police man for directions to Klouto. He looked confused. Assuming that there was a good chance that we were pronouncing the name of the village wrong, we begin a chorus of intonations. How do the French say the 'ou' sound again? We haven't spoken French in almost two months since Ghana was English-speaking. Klooto, Kluuto, Kloutou, Kleeto. Klaate? Sounding more like a bunch of monkeys than people in need of assistance, the man just stares at us with a blank look in his eye. Finally, he points his finger down the road we just came up and says that we must go back down the mountain. Thinking that perhaps we had missed a turn somewhere, we acquiesce and follow his advice. So we descend.
Back in Kpalimé we receive instructions from some women that Klouto is in Kpalime, to which we simply laugh that this must be impossible... I let an intolerant thought about how African women never seem to leave their compound pass through my mind. Following our own sense of direction, we turn back around and begin to climb back up the same road we just descended. The mahoganies are still exceptional, the butterflies numerous, the shade inviting, the waterfall refreshing, the view grand. There is a mildly annoying feeling that something is wrong.
Half way up the mountain and upon closer examination of our guidebook we affectionately call the Lonely Bastard, we decide that the women and the police officer were actually right and that Klouto is in the opposite direction. In a state of utter confusion, we turn around. View, waterfall, shade, butterflies, mahoganies, half an hour. As we enter into Kpalimé, we stop at a hotel for directions. The hotel manager unfolds a clearly defined tourist map that in three languages tells us that Klouto is up the mountain we just descended. I think that we have lost it. Why had people been trying to throw us off for the past two hours?
We calmly, but assuredly decide that Klouto is not for us and choose instead to visit some waterfalls on the other side of Kpalimé. As we arrive at the junction of the road toward the falls a bunch of teenage boys declare that the waterfalls are closed. One of them guides our vehicle to a glorified bush trail. Suddenly, four other guides appear from thin air and start running in front of and behind the car. The cabin of the car floods with insects that are tumbling off the vegetation that brushes the sides of the car. We begin to wonder where they are taking us. We feel uncomfortable with the thought of leaving the car in the bush as we hike to waterfalls with these four young guides. We fear that we will return to a pillaged skeleton of a car. Once again, for the fifth time today, we decide to turn around.
This day sticks out in my mind because as everything went wrong, Sean, Nate, and I didn't get on each other's nerves at all. Eventually, after hours of perpetual delusion, we decided to stay in Kpalimé and drink Togolese amber ale instead. In the end, we all decided that we really like Togo. There is simply less tension in Togo than we had expected and this made us all happy.
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