And That’s All He Wrote

24 de Agosto 2009

After 46 hours of travel…six airports, five flights, and three countries later I am back in the United States. Other than the marathon length of the trip, this all happened without much fanfare. Sleeping overnight in the JFK international arrivals hall food court was classy, par usual, but I realized that it was actually more comfortable than a few of my nights this summer. There are no mosquitoes in Terminal 4.

From the moment I boarded my second flight (from Madrid to Boston) I knew that I was definitely headed back to a reality I hadn’t really prepared myself for. A man in the row in front of me on the plane proceeded to make a whining scene about every minor inconvenience that came his way—from crying babies to the time he had to wait for his beverage to the ultimate travesty: the taste of his meal. “Flight attendant? I’m not a cat. Why are you serving me cat food? This is disgusting; take it away,” he sassed about ten times and then demanded the name of the food service CEO so that he could write him or her an angry letter. Yes, I was definitely on my way back to the land of the free and the home of the obnoxious. Patience.

I know the inevitable faces me now: trying to sum up my “experience” in a way that’s quickly and easily relatable to those who will ask. There is so much that I have to say that I haven’t even found a way to write about in this blog which has been my open book to the world for two months; trying to make sense of everything is going to be a continued struggle. The task reminds me of a quote from Green Hills of Africa, this blog’s namesake: “I had no wish to share this life with anyone who was not there, only to live it, being completely happy and quite tired.” It seems a little selfish, almost, but I think I really do understand the sentiment.

Most of my pre-EG worries consisted of basic survival fears about things like the language, accommodations, food, insects, and other such insignificant nuances that traditionally define adjusting to life in a developing country as a struggle. Though, admittedly, life was difficult at times because of these things, their relevance faded away quickly as the weeks passed. I am convinced that with a flexible mind and the willingness to cede some control, you can adapt to anything. There is no such thing as where you belong; there is only where you are.

So here we are, at the end of the summer. A wandering journey of navigating human rights, fundamental issues in development, teaching English by chance, dozens of interviews with strangers-turned-friends, daily misadventures, hundreds of military checkpoints, and any and everything else has come to its conclusion. My time in Equatorial Guinea was not in the least bit what I had expected it to be, but it was more valuable than I will ever be able to describe effectively with words. Perhaps with some time and distance I will be able to distill things into something a little more coherent. Patience.

I honestly appreciate those who followed this blog. Knowing that I had friends and family keeping tabs on me from across the world did a lot to make me feel less isolated. I know that it hasn’t exactly been short and sweet, but for those of you who made it to the end with me, I hope that you found it worthwhile; I sure did. From this point on, I will probably go back and correct a few things and add some more pictures and post more information about my final report and basic housekeeping stuff like that. So, check back over the next couple of weeks or so to get the full picture, if you’re interested. I also hope to find some music and videos on the internet with some of my new favorite songs that I found in EG and now hope to popularize here in the states; trust me, you’ll love them.

Nine months ago I had never even heard of Equatorial Guinea, and now it is a place that has become a major part of me. It’s the nation I’ve spent the most time in outside of my own. It’s not like a vacation where one can enjoy an exotic locale for a bit and then jet off back to his life. EG will be with me permanently, and I’m certain I will return. Its future is precarious, but I refuse to not be a part of it.

“I would come back to Africa but not to make a living from it…But I would come back to where it pleased me to live; to really live. Not just let my life pass. Our people went to America because that was the place to go then. It had been a good country and we had made a bloody mess of it and I would go, now, somewhere else and as we had always had the right to go somewhere else and as we had always gone.” (Ernest Hemingway)

 

Wandering is Encouraged

19 de Agosto 2009

This blog began way back in Madrid with the idea that my verb of choice for the summer would likely be “to wander.” This was definitely a self-fulfilling prophecy. I have spent the past two months wandering—in the sense that I had no particular strategy or step-by-step itinerary to follow, but would instead take things as they came and find my own way. To most, this would probably seem inadvisable at best and downright dangerous at worst. Heading to Equatorial Guinea without a concrete plan or even a concrete place to live does seem like a reckless choice in hindsight, but I think the summer has been all the better because of it.

Going into the continent with this mentality, though I didn’t know it then, was probably essential in successfully adjusting to the world of EG. Had I tried to follow a rigorous plan of action, I would have been sorely disappointed. As we all know, nothing goes according to plan in this world, and more commonly, there simply isn’t a plan at all. Though I’ve had my fair share of frustrations, I imagine things would have been much worse if felt like I was constantly failing at maintaining my material commitments and goals.

I wandered, yes, but it was wandering with purpose. With the flexibility of a self-directed schedule and the broader aims of my work, it was relatively easy (though it probably didn’t seem so at the time) to balance my own personal aspirations with the reality of the world at hand. Sometimes I wandered into trouble, naturally, but I never claimed to want an easy and carefree journey. More often, though, I ended up finding places and people which are now powerful permanent images emblazoned in my memory. Could I have found such things with a pre-ordained agenda? Of course. But something about finding them on my own makes them feel more authentic—they were the real stories waiting to be found, rather than then the oft-reported typical Equatoguinean experience that could have been quickly and easily repackaged.

Letting things happen as they happen with no real direction except your own is something that anyone reading should strive to do. Naturally, such a mentality is unrealistic in the literal sense, in the “real” world (as if Africa were some exception to true life…I hate this idiom), but broadly speaking, I think that it’s possible. The people of this nation have many problems to solve, but in a big way they have a lot of things figured out. We have a tendency to complicate so many situations and interactions with such meaningless trappings that things become—to use borrowed words—nothing but rot.

I don’t want to stop wandering, and I don’t intend to. I have read many criticisms in the past of expeditions similar to my own to countries similar to Equatorial Guinea. Many cite the same line of reasoning: “Well, that’s an interesting and informative trip you’ve taken, but why do you have to go to Africa to learn about poverty or human rights issues? We have those problems here at home.” It is true; you don’t have to go to Africa to learn about such things. You don’t have to go anywhere to learn anything. But there’s a difference between learning and seeing. And seeing makes all the difference in the world. There are plenty of statistics that show that a country like the United States has its fair share of poverty and suffering. I have personally witnessed many different communities with heartbreaking battles against these statistics. But even the worst of American poverty can’t compare to what one can see in sub-Saharan Africa. In the US, we have panhandlers for a reason; in EG there exists no such poverty culture, because there literally is no money to spare. Everyone, in effect, is panhandling life itself. And in the US, such statistics illustrate the exception to the rule, while in EG, permanent poverty is the rule. I am definitely not trying to say that any type of poverty is more deserving of aid than another, but simply trying to point out the need to see such worlds (both at home and abroad) of hardship before making judgments about their relative situations.

The whole idea of “charity begins at home” really gets my goat. The “us first” mentality of many critics of international aid is a disturbing modern manifestation of xenophobia. It’s not surprising, just disappointing. When it comes to the paramount needs of real people who are living real lives, arbitrary national borders and ferocious patriotism seem comically (and tragically) pointless.

So as my wandering winds down, for now, I encourage everyone else to begin theirs. Never be content with staying in one place for too long. And remember that “home” means much more as a collection of shared experiences—and it doesn’t simply end where a line is drawn on a map. A great friend of mine who traveled to Cameroon once wrote that life is more about living with a little less control, and a little more vibrancy. It is the truest observation I can imagine, and I could not have articulated it better myself.

 

I Bless the Rains

 

Extended Family

16 de Agosto 2009

Alright, scratch that thought about the Moka trip for today. Kukin wasn’t able to find a car to borrow to take us there, and the Mitsubishi definitely can’t be trusted with such a long and mountainous journey. So, we wait. Patience. Hopefully we can go tomorrow if he can procure a vehicle and if the rains stop and the roads dry up a little bit.

By some stroke of luck there was no rain for just enough time to celebrate last night’s first communion. It was a colossal family feast, with foods ranging from the requisite plantains and fish to salami sandwiches. And the icing on the cake was…that there was, in fact, cake with icing on it. Cake! My taste buds nearly had a heart attack, as it’s been forever since I’ve eaten a desert, let alone a birthday-style cake.

The venue was so unique and tropical as well. Somehow there was an open outdoor area or alleyway wedged between some apartment buildings and businesses in downtown Malabo, but it was transformed into a perfect party space. An improvised ceiling of palm fronds covered the entire alley, and once night fell you could see the stars peeking through the slats in the leaves above your head, which was pretty legit.

I finished my final formal interview yesterday with an old man in the Los Angeles neighborhood who proudly claims no party or political affiliation. He told me that he doesn’t like to associate with people who take sides, and that as such he is left with few friends. He is not self-pitying, however, but instead he’s a calm and determined gentleman with modest but well-defined goals for his life. By the end of our brief interview I, too, wanted to renounce all of my meaningless affiliations. Perhaps what I liked most was the fact that he was the bluntest person yet when it comes to addressing my language skills: “You need a lot of practice. Keep trying,” he told me. This is a good man.

Thinking more about it, I guess I could make a similar statement about almost everyone I’ve met here in EG.

For my first week or so in Bata, Fernando was my only friend, and even though we could barely communicate initially, just knowing that I had a reliable person nearby if necessary was beyond comforting. He, like everyone else, would unequivocally go out of his way to make sure I had what I needed and then some. He was my partner in crime in Bata, and was there to swoop in and save me when I had my infamous photograph fiasco with the military. And despite the fact that I always had plenty of CFA, he would never let me pay for my own San Miguel.

Fernando.

Diana, the mother of my house in Bata, was so kind to me, without fail. Though she was very quiet and reserved and we never had long or earth-shattering conversations, she still had the obvious care of a mother and made me feel at home. And I’m sure, if you love fish and bananas, you would find her a wonderful chef. Her little baby girl, Dulce, was also one of the cutest kids I’ve ever lived with in my life.

I will never forget the powerful force that was Dr. Wenceslao and our time together both in and out of the Centro Medico Espoir Litoral. Generous beyond his means, like everyone, I’ve come to think of him as my African father (much more so than Diana’s husband). He works harder than anyone I’ve met in EG but he still makes time for his wonderful family and for the awkward Weissman fellow from the USA who showed up in Bata with no clue whatsoever. I promised him that I’ll attempt to learn French, and I really do hope to try.

Wenceslao, Doctor Extraordinaire.

Purificación, the mother of Kukin’s household (sorry to reveal to the internet world that you still live at home, Kukin) is sweet and loves to feed me. In that vein, she introduced me to Africa’s version of churros which are top notch. She makes the effort every time to greet me in English, even though she only knows “Hello” and “How are you?” She reminds me a lot of my own mother in many ways—and that’s about the best I could ever ask for.

Kukin’s sister, Mari, is just a few months older than I am and it’s interesting to pretend for once that I have a sister my own age. She loves to practice her English with me, and she helped me navigate the madness that was the Malabo public market as I searched all over town for various souvenirs. I was able to score a pretty sweet soccer jersey of the national soccer team—Nzalang. Nzalang means “thunder” which is entirely appropriate given Malabo’s weather patterns. Today she has promised to give me a cooking lesson and I can’t wait to see how that goes.

Mari, with baby Nicolas.

Another shot of baby Nico sleeping, I couldn't resist.

Up the mountainside in Rebola, Carlos is the closest thing I’ve had to a “boss” figure, but he’s so much more than that. He has a permanent sense of calm that makes dealing with any calamity seem entirely possible.  Without much at all for himself, he still devotes all of his energy to the community around him, and I hope to be able to live just like that. I want to see if I can send a shipment of books and materials to the cultural center when I get back to the states.

Carlos with me at the cultural center.

Samuel is the third musketeer to Kukin and me. We are always together, and he’s really grown on me since that first night egging me into taking the “cucaracha” shot. He thinks almost everything is hilarious, and never stops laughing this wild, hiccupping, infectious laugh. He loves consulting my opinion on everything from what shoes he should buy to what Nigerian girls he should email on the internet, and I do my best to give him good advice. Almost without thinking about it I can understand his Pidgin English, and I’m really going to miss going and “get’ som’ chop” with him.

Samuel.

Without a doubt, Wences is my African brother. The short little brother of Kukin whose girlfriend made fun of my nose on my first day in Malabo is the person I probably spend the most time with here on the island. With Kukin working during the day, Wences and I are always hanging out, even if it’s just walking around the neighborhoods. Whenever he’s talking about his girlfriend, he’ll only refer to her as “my baby girl,” “my lovely,” “my beautiful,” etc.; it’s never simply “my girlfriend.” He loves talking about his times in Cameroon, but still loves this country and is proud to show it. To that extent, he’s given me tons of gifts composed of various pro-P.D.G.E. apparel and memorabilia. I feel so guilty receiving any sort of gift, and wish I would have brought more meaningful things with me from the US to be able to give away in return. This morning he gave me a photograph of himself to take back home with me, so that I don’t forget what he looks like and so that my friends and family can get used to who he is so that they’ll know him when he comes to America. I am definitely going to hold him to that promise.

Wences sporting his Harvard pride.

And of course there is Kukin (the artist formerly known as Angel), my Equatoguinean savior, quite literally. From picking me up that very first night at the airport and the subsequent terrifying crash course in how to conduct myself, he has been by my side for the entire journey (sans Bata) to get me through any situation. His perfect English, Chinese, French, and of course Spanish are indispensable and I aspire to be as proficient in as many languages as he is. He has organized everything for me when it comes to the logistics of my time here and even though I’ve had to exercise my well-honed patience skills a few times when navigating such logistics, it has always worked out in the end. Kukin is my best friend on this continent and I honestly do not know how I would have handled things here without him. Trying to remember this country without thinking about Kukin would be pointless. He works hard at MEGI but has lots of goals on the side, waiting for the right moment to take his life even further. His charismatic and laid-back nature means that he’s friends with everyone, and I’m fairly sure he personally knows most of the population Malabo. I can’t wait to see what his future holds, and I’m anxiously awaiting his visit to Boston next February. Perhaps then I can begin the impossible task of returning the myriad favors that he has done me.

Kukin!

It seems as though everyone I meet in Equatorial Guinea turns out to be such an endearing person, and this made me think for a second back to my second night in Bata and my encounter with the corrupt soldier. As I thought back over my time here, he seemed to be the only person I could truly pinpoint as someone I remembered only with disdain. And yet, when I think about it, I realize that I can’t necessary fault him as a person for his actions, and that his actions are not even really the point at all. When I try to imagine his particular situation and the things I’ll never be able to know about his life, I realize that there is probably so much more to the story behind his stony face and tight grip on his gun. This man, who struck so much fear in me, most likely grew up like all of the other small children I see running around these streets and playing in the streams of the rain runoff. When I think about him as the product of a lifetime under the never-ending stresses of this country, I really can’t blame him for whatever compelled him to rob me at that particular moment on that particular night. Thinking about the culmination of a life of difficulties that pushed him to seize the opportunity that was the source of my terror is far more valuable than thinking of him merely as corrupt or terrible by nature. Frankly, it’s surprising to me that more have not ended up like him, and without a doubt the innately wonderful people who have welcomed me into this world have outnumbered him a hundred to one.

 

Borrowed Words from Forgotten Literature

15 de Agosto 2009

Yesterday I found an obscure book published about ten years ago about the Monte Alen national park on the mainland, complete with pictures. If you recall, when we traveled to the park last month we found it abandoned without much explanation and with no one to lead us into the jungle to see the leopards, bush elephants, gorillas, and chimps. This book, however, was published in the late 1990s and talks of a then-thriving eco-preservation community surrounding the 2100m continental mountain peak. But perhaps my favorite part of this odd discovery was a passage describing the rural villagers who inhabited the lowland areas of the nature reserve. I took some time and typed up the following excerpt. Though these are not my words, I feel they beautifully describe the typical rural Equatoguinean experience and many aspects of the way of life here for all citizens. I hope you enjoy these compelling words as much as I did:

Their houses are low and rectangular, built with their own hands. Most are of wood, others of mud, and the roofs are of “nipa” palm or corrugated iron. Inside, there are hardly any comforts or entertainment, so I am not surprised to see that they spend their time outside.

Shyness seems to be innate in the children. Their imagination is so free. They think up their games on their own, and create their toys and build anything from a simple board for draughts to large trucks and tricycles with the pith of “nipa” palm. They always play in a group, and their laughter and shouting is audible all over the town.

Their eyes evince their desire to learn. They pay attention, listen, and fix their gaze on you when you speak to them. Fortunately, there are schools in almost all the towns and most children attend; they love it.

There, they find things they cannot find at home: books, pencils, notebooks, maps… The level of schooling is very basic, but at least, they learn to read and write as well as basic notions of mathematics, geography, and history, and more.

Although they appear to be brought up in complete freedom as there are always children running around the place, they have family obligations from when they are very small. By three years old they are helping with the easier tasks, such as tidying up the house or dusting, and at five or six they are looking after their brothers and sisters, going for water, gathering fruit or washing up in the river with their mothers. The girls are educated to be housewives and the boys to be family heads.

But they are still little girls and boys, bright, fun and warm, girls and boys who will very soon grow into women and men.

The women have rounded forms, perfect voluptuous curves, an oval face, big black eyes, prominent cheeks, a squat nose, thick lips, a smile that is both facile and naïve and black wavy hair. They are fine-looking and captivate with their intentions. In their desire to beguile, their hairdos overflow the bounds of imagination; their nails are multicolored and they try to dress fetchingly.

They are robust and exuberant by nature. They know the meaning of hard work as it has been imposed on them since childhood. They not only take on the burden and tasks connected with the household and childcare; they also work on the plantations. It is even quite usual to see the most elderly women carrying ncués, or enormous and extremely heavy baskets full of logs, on their shoulders.

But, as timekeeping comes and goes in a totally unhurried fashion in these villages, when they have finished their routine ration of work, they will wait without counting the hours, sitting down to while away the boredom. They cannot go to the bar to enjoy themselves, only occasionally and in the company of their husbands.

Things are different when they have celebrations or baleles as they call them. Then, they explode in the rhythm of their native instruments, dancing through the night and moving each and every part of their bodies to a pounding beat. Their body language is ardent, their interpersonal space very small. In these celebrations everything is hot: the night, the dancing, the bodies, looks, desire, skin brushing skin, thoughts, laughter, the beer… They are nights of feverish exuberance. They were born to give free rein to their desires. The women’s fleshy lips—although sealed—express what they wish to, and the swaying of their hips is an invitation to slip an arm around them. Women lose their virginity just when adolescence buds. Maternity overtakes them without their trying to prevent it. It’s the law of life.

Love is polygamous. The men pay a dowry for each of their wives and usually have to save a while to be able to pay the amount the family asks for. The women must play their part by showing them obedience and respect. The men have to fulfill a series of obligations with all their wives on an equal basis. If, for example, they live in the same house, each must have her own kitchen. Jealousy exists and runs through the women’s blood, but they assume that life is like that and that their man is for sharing. Their narrowness of outlook is still acute and they take the strict devotion they profess as something entirely natural.

To reach such a union, there is no formal contract, the men merely paying a sum to the woman’s family; if the union is broken, they would have to return the dowry as not to do so would be dishonorable.

The men are enigmatic and contradictory, a contrast reflected in their appearance, but which, in their case, is overlain with a layer of seriousness. As with the women and children, initially, they are distant, reserved and wary. Something in their gaze tells you they do not trust you. It’s a veil that drops away with time.

They are corpulent, all muscle and fiber and their sweat smells of yucca. They also have prominent features, eyes, cheekbones, lips, forehead, and the like.

Most of their time is spent in the forest, in the interior, hunting, clearing roads of brush and grass with machetes and working the land on the estates. Even so, a scared calm flows through their veins. If asked, they could not answer when or how. According to their way of reasoning, nothing is urgent, everything is here and now.

There are men and women with anxieties, with hopes transformed into an effort to move on, but the slow pace at which they live, the shortages they suffer and the oppression under which they subsist make them believe dreams are merely that—dreams. And they devote their time and their spirit to “drinking life in.”

–Written by Carolina Casado. (An excerpt from Impressions: Dreaming in the Midst of Reality.)

I am determined to find a copy of “Dreaming in the Midst of Reality,” to see if it holds any other such gems. And for a text that was originally written in Spanish (this English translation was added as an appendix), the ability for the translation to remain faithful to the subtle power of these descriptions is impressive.

Though I can’t say that my blog has offered the same literary flair that Carolina Casado used so well as she described the Equatoguinean experience of the late 20^th century, I hope that it’s been at least as descriptive, in its own way.

Tonight we are attending the first communion of one of Kukin’s nieces, which I’m really excited about (read: free food). Tomorrow I am heading off for a return trip to Moka so that we can successfully hike to the summit of the southern volcano caldera this time. Crater lakes, hidden waterfalls, and all sorts of primates await us. This is basically my farewell excursion, since I most likely won’t leave the city of Malabo again once we return.  Even though this country is only about the same size as Massachusetts, I am still surprised at how much of it I’ve been able to traverse. Seeing dozens of cities and villages and every region except for the distant Atlantic island of Annonbon is something I never really imagined being able to accomplish. For comparison, I haven’t seen much of comparably-sized Massachusetts outside of Boston, and I’ve lived there for three years, so go figure.

 

Fire in the Sky

14 de Agosto 2009

On rainless nights like this one, which are rare, the sky above Malabo and Punta Europa is amazing. Punta Europa is where the Marathon Oil Company bases its operations, and there are several tall smokestack type cylinders that burn brightly with flames reaching high into the air (these flames were the first thing I saw when I landed in Malabo almost two months ago). From the city, however, the entire night sky and clouds are cast in a fiery orange glow. In a sense, it is how I might picture the sky looking if the world was ending, but mostly it is just beautiful. The presence of oil here in Equatorial Guinea somehow is always able make itself known, at any hour of the day or night. But the ominous orange sky really can serve as a harbinger of a frightening future—not the end of the world, but the end of the oil industry here. It’s a scary prospect to think about, and from the people I’ve spoken with it seems that most have decided to simply not think about it and put off the inevitable for as long as possible.

What will become of this nation when the last drop of oil is extracted from the Gulf of Guinea? The interviews I’ve conducted have given me predictions that EG will run out of oil anywhere from eight to twenty years from now. It is hard to imagine a post-fossil-fuel developed world in just 20 years, let alone a post-fossil-fuel Equatorial Guinea. The material implications for most Guineans are likely slight, as I’ve mentioned plenty of times that the oil profits do little to impact the quality of day-to-day life. But the larger political implications could be potentially disastrous. When a corrupt government has had the luxury of a copious flow of wealth for thirty years, what is it to do when this money tree dies?

It is hard, if not impossible, to predict the implications of this impending crisis. The developed world will be scrambling for alternative sources of energy, while the EG government will be scrambling for alternative sources of income. When an entire economy has been planned around oil, there are almost no other alternative industries to support the post-oil era. This country needs to diversify its economy, and it needs to do so quickly. As it stands, literally almost everything is imported into EG. One might think that such an oil-rich country would have gasoline cheaper than water, but this is not the case. There are no refineries here, so even the gasoline that is sold is imported from other African nations. Ideally, EG needs to begin producing its own goods. I’m well aware of the host of problems with ISI (import substitution industrialization) economics (thanks Professor Levitsky), but at least a minimal industrial base outside of the fossil fuel industry needs to be established.

Many factors are obviously uncertain in the present. No one can predict what will happen to the government after the death of President Obiang. I can’t even hazard a guess as to how far development in infrastructure, public health, and education will have progressed 20 years in the future. With all of these factors in play, we can only make conjectures as to the consequences of the end of Guinean oil. It seems clear that once MEGI, Hess, Chevron, and all of their cohorts dismantle their platforms and bid farewell to Equatorial Guinea, things are going to be difficult. It is up to the current government to begin planning and implementing change immediately in order to make these future difficulties as bearable and brief as possible.

This is likely a pipe dream, however, as I’ve seen the “let’s cross that bridge when we get to it” mentality predominate among even the most educated and economically active Guineans. I can only assume that government officials are taking this approach as well, convincing themselves that the oil and the money will continue to flow for as long as they need it to, and they won’t be concerned with what will happen after that point. It’s a dangerous waiting game.

Ok, I apologize for how this entry probably sounds like a political or economic policy paper. I don’t mean to bore everyone, but these issues really are important, as dry as they may be to discuss.

I wish I had more exciting personal stories or comical mistakes to tell about, but to be honest, life here has become as close to normal as I can imagine. Daily occurrences that I probably would have jumped at the chance to write about two months ago now seem so commonplace that it’s hard to distinguish what would be interesting to those of you following back home. I guess I can tell you that recently, I have been witnessing dozens of chickens crossing the road (I see this happen at least twice a day). In case you were wondering, they indeed are just doing so to get to the other side. The garbage across the road tends to perpetually seem more attractive for them to peck at. I guess you could say the trash is always greener on the other side.

Oh, and I had a standoff with a goat as I tried to make my way down the dirt road to the cultural center yesterday. He blocked my way, stared me down, and I was certain he was about to charge. Yet, anticlimactically, he instead noticed some tall grass on the side of the road and ambled off to dine on that delicacy rather than head-butting me off the side of the mountain. Such is life.

 

Discordant Developments on the Mountainside

The Cultural Center of Rebola.

13 de Agosto 2009

Teaching in the cultural center in Rebola is really an incredible job. I have actually witnessed real progress among my students in the short time I’ve been working with them, and when our time is up each day I have to double check the clock because it goes by so quickly in the classroom. We have been working on pronunciation, which has been the hardest for everyone. Essentially, the students can grasp the main ideas of a written text in English, but they are deathly afraid of reading aloud because no one has taught them the correct sounds that English consonants and vowels make. So when I do finally coax them into reading aloud in the most timid voice you’ve ever heard, they pronounce every word with the Spanish intonations. We are working at this with a fury and I hope that by the time my teaching stint ends they will have at least some confidence in speaking up. It’s an excellent challenge to tackle.

I’ve even cleared a new hurdle when it comes to the military checkpoint on the way to the village. Most of the guards seem to recognize me by now, so there is less intimidation with checking my papers and what have you. But they never fail to ask what I’m doing day in and day out going up and down the mountain. I always explain that I’m just a volunteer English teacher, but the soldiers are baffled as to why I take taxis instead of my own “coche especial” (special/private car). I dared making a joke yesterday by saying “Because I’m not rich,” but the solider actually laughed. It’s a fine line, indeed.

The cultural center itself is truly a great place. I think it is the closest approximation I’ve seen so far to the “proper” way to establish development in struggling countries like this one. A battle wages constantly between competing schools of developmental theory, but a general consensus, at least from my point of view, is that successful development must be locally-driven and maintained. This is precisely how the Rebola center works. After the initial (admittedly indispensable) outside contribution—the financing and construction of the center itself by MEGI—was completed, the operations and management of the initiative was handed over to the villagers themselves. They now hold the power to dictate what needs the center should serve—i.e., which classes to offer, which speakers to invite, which programs to develop, etc. all based upon the self-identified demands of the villagers. This is essentially a model of an ideal NGO, with external contributions to help overcome initial hurdles, and then locally-driven development and management taking over.

The drawbacks that I can glean from this approach, however, are important to address as well. First, the construction and continued operations of the Rebola cultural center called for a very large infusion of capital from MEGI, despite the admittedly tiny population of the village. Continued development in such a manner would obviously be unsustainable. Second, if NGOs were to step in instead of a corporation like MEGI, the locally-driven component could risk alienating foreign volunteers. To ask NGOs to assume the role of a mere cash dispenser to kick-start development and then evacuate and leave control up to the locals discredits much of the ideas and innovations of the NGO staffs. These dedicated individuals often have strong commitments to the territories they aim to serve, and to use them simply for their money and manpower would likely discourage the active NGO community. So ideally, we’d like to find a way to combine the ingenuity of the foreign NGO members with a commitment to locally-driven management.

I think that I can sort of fit into this puzzle with my role as an educator at the cultural center: through an NGO, I am working actively in a community that is important to me, while at the same time I’m performing a service that’s demanded locally, rather than imposed in a top-down manner from the NGO. My duties aren’t permanent, but the cultural center and its contributions to the village of Rebola most certainly are. With the miniscule number of similar projects happening here in EG, it’s hard to compare development approaches (Becca’s work in Senegal can probably shed a lot more light on this), but from what I’ve seen, the Rebola approach is succeeding quite well.

Yesterday I interviewed Carlos, the Rebola villager in charge of the cultural center, and his experiences as a community figure were compelling to say the least. More importantly, he is active in the CPDS—Convergencia Para Democracia Social—the only major opposition party which I’ve talked about in past entries. As he told me about the past struggles and future goals for the CPDS, I asked him about how specifically life was more difficult for opposition party members, expecting to uncover unjust taxes, electoral fraud, and other such usual suspects of corruption. His response, however, really shook me. “Oh, I’ve been tortured. Most of us have,” he said, as casually as if he was talking about the yesterday’s weather. I quickly asked again, making sure that I didn’t get the translation wrong, but he confirmed in broken English that he had, in fact, been tortured. As in, he was arrested at his home, taken to prison, and subjected to physical beatings and food and water deprivation. But for Carlos, this was just another fact of life, and he didn’t even seem particularly animated, passionate, or vehemently upset by his experience, which I would have been, to say the least. His entire story proceeded with a calm matter-of-factness that I think told equally as much as his words themselves. For everything here that inspires me, there is something else that will be inescapably heartbreaking, like Carlos’s story.

Rebola itself is a center of CPDS/opposition activity, because most of its residents are members of the Bubi tribe. Time for a very quick history lesson. EG is made up of two primary ethnic groups: the Fang majority and the Bubi minority. The Bubi were the initial inhabitants of Bioko Island, but the Fang migrated from the mainland and then exerted ruthless control over the Bubi who continue to be subjected to ethnic discrimination and subjugation to this day (the ruling P.D.G.E. party is a Fang-controlled organization). As such, the Bubi minority has taken up the inevitable role of the opposition, though some are far more vocal than others. Carlos prides himself on his Bubi heritage, and even lent me a book to help me learn a few Bubi phrases which I will now impart to you, my friends:

Ko bóyállo! (Hello! / Yo te saludo.)

Potóö. (Thank you. / Gracias.)

Twë’a óbaril. (Good day. / Buenos días.)

Ká wë lè? (How are you? / ¿Cómo estás?)

Në lèllè! (I am well. / Estoy bien.)

Nè nnë James. (My name is James. / Me llamo James.)

This is about all I’ve learned of Bubi so far, but we’ll see what I can do with a few more lessons. Studying my Bubi book is a lot more interesting than trudging through my lame LSAT prep manual. I’m about ready to toss that thing. But with each day the rigid world at home of precise regulation lurks ever closer, so I know that I can’t abandon such trivial conventions as much as I’d love to. Fortunately for me, for the time being at least, life is buena, simple, y lenta.

 

More Visual Backstory

11 de Agosto 2009

This photo update has been somewhat of a nightmare; the internet in Malabo is a snail-paced force to be reckoned with. I am not even sure if this will work correctly, but I’m giving it a shot. Given these technological shortcomings, this is likely to be my last photo update until I return to America. Apologies as well for the lack of captions, for now just try and invent your own and see if you can match them with the stories I’ve posted so far. I promise I’ll go back and fix everything when the technology permits. But from this point on, words and words alone will have to suffice. But for now, enjoy!

The road to Evinayong

Probably under my bed

BBPP Research Center at Moka

The beach at Arena Blanca

Pirogues at Arena Blanca

The beach had its drawbacks. Spot the rooster!

My life in Bata, every day

Dinner with Kukin: rice and beans in Los Angeles

Looking down my street in Buena Esperanza

The hillside church of Rebola, I spy goats

The Shrine of Rebola’s Patron Saint

Kukin’s Birthday Dinner in Malabo

 

Street Sounds and Discontents

10 de Agosto 2009

Today is Kukin’s birthday. I am not sure if we will be celebrating in any particular way, and I’m really not sure how old he is turning as well, but it’s worth recognizing. I wanted to get him a birthday card but quickly realized such things are impossible to find in Malabo, so he will have to settle for a less-than-Hallmark-worthy notebook paper card.

The weekend was sort of a bust. From Saturday morning until Sunday night we were doused in monsoon-like torrents of rain that simply refused to let up. The rainy season is turning out to be everything it was supposed to, unfortunately. All of the streets were flooded and I was trapped inside without electricity, trying to read using the light from my cell phone. Everything I’ve worn in Malabo is mud-caked from the knees down. I also had to reschedule my meeting with an opposition activist because of the weather—and this guy has no functioning phone or reliable internet access, so rescheduling the interview is going to be a fun task.

Surprisingly, even with the nearly permanent lack of electricity, somehow this city continues to be the loudest place I’ve ever lived. As I mentioned back when I lived in Bata, music is a staple of daily life here, and it’s not music if it’s not blasting at the highest attainable volume. From sunrise until late into the night, music is everywhere here—homes, bars, shops, construction sites, pharmacies, you name it. Much of the music is imported American rap and Spanish love songs (an odd combination to say the least), but the majority is the local beats of Equatoguinean music.

I have a love/hate relationship with the music of Equatorial Guinea. Essentially, it is a collection of almost Caribbean-like sounds with African rhythms and the words are usually a combination of Spanish and the local languages (most often Fang). The tunes are decidedly upbeat and everyone here (especially the taxi drivers) has most, if not every, Equatoguinean song ever recorded on a collection of a dozen or so CDs. My perspective, however, is that if you’ve heard one of these songs, you’ve heard all of them. I’m sure the same can be said of most of popular American music these days, but I seriously can’t fathom how anyone can tell these EG songs apart.

And the worst part is that a good amount of the EG songs are pretty full of pro-P.D.G.E. propaganda if you actually stop and listen to the lyrics. For example, one song really is just a shameless endorsement of the president and his party: “P.D.G.E. is the best party ever! President Obiang has made this country great! Every city is better because of President Obiang and the P.D.G.E. May they live forever!” And there are several similar songs that tout the various praises of the ruling regime. I know that music has never been immune to politics, but to see people bopping their heads nonchalantly to these songs can be a little destabilizing. With music, it appears that like almost everything else in this country, there is no reason not to be blunt when it comes to getting your message across. Though sometimes disconcerting (as with the propaganda songs), this bluntness is actually a quality which I find very admirable.

“Rich people listen to music, poor people make music,” Kukin told me a few weeks ago when I was still in Bata. At first this didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but I am beginning to understand the real sentiment behind it. Those here in the barrios of Malabo not only blast the songs of local pop stars through the streets, but they add their own, raw, “music” to the cacophony of life here on this African island. These are the sounds of the vendors’ shouts, the banging of pots in the preparation of the day’s Pepe Sup, the pounding of flip-flops on rocks as children chase after one another, and the beeping of the taxis’ horns. On the other side of the coin, the government elite will lounge in the enforced solitude of the isolated compounds where the music of the citizenry far off in the distance probably sounds unfamiliar and faint at best.

It really bothers me that so many things that I observe, ponder, and write about always seem to come back to this “us vs. them” mentality where I by default take the side of the average citizen. A big fear of mine is that I came to this country with a pre-conceived judgment of the state of affairs, and that as such I have deliberately witnessed this world from a perspective that would only confirm my assumptions. To be blunt, I’m worried that I’ve only seen EG the way I wanted to see it, and only in a way that fits the narrative of the human rights conflict established by the NGO that gave me the opportunity to be here. Maybe my preconceptions and reality are one in the same, but from this point on it is my new goal to observe life here in Africa for exactly what it is and not what it is supposed to be.

As my time begins to wind down I hope to be able to soak up all of the observations I can. To the extent of my ability, I don’t want to leave any part of Malabo unexplored and I don’t want to let any question go unasked under the guise of timidity. I will continue to learn, teach, write, and speak, even if it’s by candlelight. “Real” school and the safety of routine starts again in about three weeks, and it couldn’t be farther from my mind.

 

The Secret Life of the American Oil Worker

7 de Agosto 2009

I finally have managed to sneak a peek into the furtive world of life on the Exxon-Mobil compound. It is beyond fascinating, and the closest thing to “little America” that you can find in Equatorial Guinea (well, I’m sure you can find it on all of the other companies’ compounds as well). These few acres of land along the main road to the Malabo airport seem so out of place compared to the world outside of their walls. There are sprawling ranch style single-family homes, curving driveways, landscaping, guaranteed power, and…get very excited…hot water.  Chris (the American I met at Moka) invited me to come check out the compound and introduced me to this strange, high-security bubble of Western luxuries.

Before, my experience here in EG with respect to the American oil corporations was more hyperbolic. It was easy to demonize these big, bad corporate entities for flooding Obiang’s corrupt government with disposable riches. A huge part of my work has been trying to advocate for greater oil revenue transparency and oil-led development, and so it was easy enough to characterize companies like Mobil as the bad guy, working against the needs of the poor people I see and interact with every day. But after stepping into Chris’s house on the MEGI (Mobil Equatorial Guinea Inc.) compound which was much, much nicer than my family’s house in Ohio, I realized how much more complicated the world of foreign oil actually is.

Of course it would be easy to pounce on the irony of a dozen suburban McMansions standing only a few hundred yards and a security wall away from the slums of Malabo, but I think there is more to it than that. In the US, visual disparities like these surely exist, but they are instead symbols of capitalism rather than a human rights crisis. I also know that comparing EG to the US is definitely an apples-to-oranges deal, but it’s worth thinking about.

I’ve come to accept the reality of the oil industry, and MEGI has done some really important and interesting development projects here in EG. From rebuilding local schools to helping finance clean water sources to constructing the cultural center in Rebola where I teach English, there has been some relevant re-investment. Publicity motives aside, some citizens are being helped directly by American oil companies. It is just unfortunate, from my vantage point, that these small initiatives seem more like token projects rather than true sustainable development. And this is precisely why Obiang’s government is such a disaster to live under—because, as little as MEGI may do for the citizens of EG, the government does even less.

It is futile for me to criticize the over-the-top lifestyle of MEGI’s employees on the compound. Offering such perks is likely the only way to convince an average middle-aged American oil businessman to move to Africa to work for a few years. But I do think that the completely-isolated atmosphere is counterproductive to forming true working partnerships between the oil companies and the community of Malabo. With airtight security, dedicated internet access, and every type of consumer product you can imagine shipped in directly from America, there is (very literally) no reason for these workers to ever leave the compound. And they rarely do. I am convinced that one could live in this little sanctuary for years without ever having to set foot in the city of Malabo.

I can’t envision how you could come all the way to such an eye-opening world as this one and be content to just live in the comforts of an oil compound. When my English students in Rebola ask me a thousand questions about what life is like in the States, I now want to simply take them on a field trip to the world of MEGI and show them.

And speaking of my students, the teaching project continues to surprise me. However, it sure is a hassle getting to Rebola. There is a military checkpoint on the way that stops my taxi or van every time they see my smiling Caucasian face sitting in the backseat. Yesterday, the soldier demanded to see my documents, and after going through this a thousand times the whole process has become second nature. Except this time he began to make a fuss about why I didn’t have a visa. I explained to him that Americans don’t need visas to travel to EG (thanks again, oil industry!). He responded by saying that I only had an “Entry” stamp from six weeks ago, and no “Exit” stamp. I explained that this was because I am, in fact, still in the country (this all seems like common sense to me, correct me if I’m wrong). We then got into the “What are you doing here?” arguments which I’ve been through plenty of times, and I told him I would be leaving in a couple more weeks. “But what if you are only lying and saying that you will leave, and then actually after a few weeks you will just remain in the country?” he asks me suspiciously. What? Is this guy serious? I’ve now been arguing for five minutes in Spanish with this soldier and everyone in the sardine-packed taxi van is glaring at me. Finally he just throws my passport back at me and lets us pass. I apologized to the rest of the villagers in the van with me, and one nice woman told me “Don’t worry. This country is ridiculous.” But finally making it to Rebola to teach makes all of this hassle worth it.

Yesterday’s lesson was about the differences between schooling in EG versus the US. One student had even studied in Cameroon and France and was able to talk a little bit about schooling in those countries. But lessons and translations are the boring part of class; question and answer time is really the best. The questions these villagers ask are some of the most honest inquires I’ve heard in a long time. Our discussion of the difference between public and private schools somehow took a few wild turns and we ended up talking about how a young girl should deal with a pregnancy, the morality of abortion, and the role of monetary wealth in learning.

“James, is wealth a criteria for gaining admission into a good university?” one girl asked. Talk about a loaded question. I did my best to unpack this one, but it left me with more questions than answers myself. The students loved the idea of financial aid and that if you have the grades and a strong work ethic, any university was open to you. Essentially, this is true, but it is a lot more complicated than that, and quite a challenge for an intro-to-English afternoon class. I think we got a lot out of the discussion, and seriously, if these kids aren’t determined to make it to the United States one day, I don’t know who is.

It is hard to believe I’ve been back in Malabo for more than a week—at some point it started feeling like I belong here and I didn’t even notice it. Some days time seems to be flying, while other days seem like a never-ending sweat-soaked struggle. I still never know what will come next, and I have decided that that is the only appropriate way to live one’s life.