Out of West Africa
Before the military coup in March, Mali was touted as an exemplar of democracy in West Africa. The military junta has since stepped down, but beatings and arrests continue in Bamako, the capital.
Meanwhile, the situation in northern Mali is even worse. Armed Islamic extremists (like the members of Ansar Dine, who are intent on applying Shariah across Mali, and fighters affiliated with al-Qaida in the Islamic Maghreb) have taken over the northern half of the country, nearly unhindered since the coup left the Malian Army in disarray. Not only have the religious fanatics destroyed ancient tombs in the fabled city of Timbuktu, they have also whipped and beaten Malians for simply taking evening strolls, or walking without their husbands.
As a volunteer in a Malian nongovernment organization four years ago, I am saddened by how tens of thousands of Malians now have to flee their homes. They are not able to practice their moderate, personal brand of Islam, which allows them to practice their faith AND enjoy life. This is an essay I wrote four years ago, when that was still possible.
Right now I am on the verge of crying. Deciphering the lyrics of the Vanessa Paradis song “La Bataille” fails to distract me from my hot almost-tears. The French words on the screen are almost bodiless; like phantoms, they disturb and make me remember a discomfiting life metaphor.
Life is a battle.
A harsh comparison, but a fitting one for life in West Africa (Bamako, Mali; Lomé, Togo; Dabola, Guinea). I like to say that my life here is a series of struggles—one marching challenge after another. Which is exactly what I came here for. With a grand sense of control, I had designated this region as the locus of my character-building mission.
Except it is not always the controlled lab I imagined it to be. Some comforts were intentionally eschewed, but some losses were naively unexpected, making them loom large in my list of fatalities.
Inconveniences like the difficulty of finding a deodorant in time for a date, or finding out that one has to eat sad, soft biscuits, were irritating but hardly scathing. The loss of an almost flawless right calf to a burn mark, two abscesses, and weirdly permanent mosquito bites, as well as the loss of productivity and cheer for almost three weeks because of malaria, paratyphoid C, allergies and respiratory troubles, and another bout of malaria, were more worrisome, not just leaving me with a weaker body but also afflicting me with cyberchondria. But the deepest wound of all, the cause of my frustration today and an almost-permanent pessimism, is the in-your-face inefficiency and everyday corruption.
As a Filipino, I should know that many institutions are not reliable and government is capable of ostentatious corruption, but the fact is I never experienced these firsthand. Here, in places where I least expect it, such as public hospitals, banks, and airports, people who seem gracious and helpful can actually be swindlers! As for the widespread ineptitude, I have learned that the expectation that nothing works is actually the best mindset; as my best friend in Lomé loves to say, “Everything here is cassé (kaput/not working)!”
But the suffering and scars come with stirring stories—of wild and improbable adventures, exotic spectacles, and, of course, one’s triumphs and glimmering moments…
One advantage of being a tu-babou (“white” person) here is that children’s Duchennes are almost automatic when they see me. A little girl even squeals with glee every time I pass her house; some ooh and ahh as they touch my long (artificially straightened) hair. For them, as for many men, I am a sight to behold—someone who is beautiful just because I am not black.
Being salient can sometimes be tiring; dodging men’s attempts to get my number and go out with me is an activity I can live without. But it can also be touching. Once, as I was trying to figure out how to get to my new home, a woman explained to the cabbie where I lived. Almost everyone in the periphery of Jeunesse et Developpement, the NGO I work at, knows who I am; sometimes I feel like Belle in the opening scene of “Beauty and the Beast,” bon jour-ing away in the big village that is Bamako.
Speaking of Jeunesse et Developpement, I saw how this NGO, with its creative projects like teaching about reproductive health using peer educators (not unlike our barkada) and helping the youth to finance businesses they conceptualized themselves, is able to really make a difference in people’s lives. Cheick Diarra, proud of his African nose, dark skin, and his family’s emblem, the lion, has especially taught me how important literacy and adult education and learning are in fighting the many injustices in this world. With his incredible tales of West African empires, his dish on (some) African leaders’ sinfully extravagant lifestyles, his candor and kindness, he has showed me that my logico-positivism is sometimes baggage and that there is value in unearthing my nose from books to “read the world” instead.
As for the exciting and colorful, West Africa is in rich supply of big mamas in bright boubous (traditional African ensembles), waves of Muslims in united genuflection, sauces that seduce (can’t get enough of the peanut-based tigadégé), mutton and beef brochettes that made me throw away my vegetarian dream, an amazing range of music, from Toumani Diabaté’s classical kora to the energetic coupé decalé (music arising from the Ivory Coast’s military-political turmoil), and fesses dance tricks that make me wonder if there’s a special African butt gene.
Lastly, I will never forget how I stupidly rode a motorbike wearing a miniskirt and a T-back, how I can be a brat of a language learner just because I am usually quick on the uptake and taught psycholinguistics before, and how I can be an occidental ass when it comes to “culture.” But I also impressed myself with my perseverance in watching French TV shows, including feuilleton (even soap operas, yes!) and my being able to figure out how to take the soutramas (Bamako’s jeepneys). But what I cherish the most is how being here has given me the impetus to be more involved in Philippine civil society, and a shining, new running-back-to-home appreciation of Manila.
Now I can finally let my tears drop. In the beginning they were due to difficulties, but now I can see they are products of sentimentality, too. Yes, life in West Africa was one big fracas, but the fuss was worth it.
With a precious chi wara (an African mythical animal symbolizing hard and excellent work) in my hands, I know that I was an interesting English teacher and a good enough editor of advocacy documents in English. But beyond the work-related accomplishments, this battleground allowed me to be witness to an Africa much richer, more generous than the Africa in our minds, making the beginnings of a humbler heart possible.
Krupskaya M. Añonuevo used to teach at the Department of Psychology, University of the Philippines Diliman. Now she is able to try her hand at being part of the NGO world.
