What an eventful day the day before yesterday was. I wanted to sit and write about it while it was fresh on my mind. But here at about 430 in the morning, a couple days later, is my first real chance. There is something about stopping and writing about something right after it happens that captures the raw emotions and impulsive thoughts about it. Then again, after you let something sit and stew for a while, you trade freshness for more introspection and detailed opinion on the matter(s). Well, for some reason I was feeling pretty negative when I woke up. You know how it is. It seems like just about everything (and everyone) you see and hear irritates you to some degree. It was like that. And when you are walking the streets of Djibouti in the daytime—with all the noise, crowds, and commotion that go with it—there is so much to be negative and irritable about. And if you are a foreigner—especially a Westerner—it gets worse; taxi drivers gouge you for more money, street salesman are incessant about your need for bootleg sunglasses or t-shirts that are two sizes too small, and little children or women (that actually “rent” infants to produce more sympathy when begging) surround you with their hands out feigning starvation (who strategically hang around ATM’s) to compel you to reach into your pocket—all become targets of your frustration.
Therefore, my negative mood got me thinking about so many things I have witnessed here on a daily basis that angers me. I don’t say this from a judgmental perspective. Every nation, just like every family, has its own set of problems. When we are on the outside looking in, it’s so simple to sit and identify (not JUDGE—there is such a huge difference) them. Then after identification comes analysis—which is where I like to spend my time. However, my foul morning mood dictates that I just complain in my mind about the things I see that really burn me up; for example, a brand new multi-million dollar parliamentary building near downtown that I wonder how many “qualified” appointed officials and other “democratically” elected ones will use—not to create policy to help so many that are in need here—but to use as a giant luxurious office to discuss deals, create new ways of stealing money, and sit together to conjure up any and every form of practicing corruption. I think about the cost and labor to put such an edifice up and can’t help but wonder how many schools, clinics, roads, public housing areas, or other ways the public could have benefited from such. After all, isn’t the government elected/appointed to serve the governed? Well, maybe so—after they steal “their share” of aid money, finish their commercial building projects, ensure that political opponents and openly opinioned citizens are dealt with, make their backroom deals to protect local monopolies (in the case of the beloved President here, this includes the lucrative khat trade) and hand out businesses and positions to friends, family, tribe/clan members, and/or the highest bidding foreigner.
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| Front view of the new Parliament Building. Constructing this was more important than so many other needs here. |
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| Another view of this massive structure. |
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| This alleged $600 MILLION, Chinese built 2nd port facility was built a few years ago. Sure, it brings in lots of commerce and generates untold millions in cash--but for who? Usually priority to given to massive money making projects like this while the poor and their needs are seldom addressed. Meanwhile, money from outsiders (yes, outsiders care more than their own government) that is intended to help is usually stolen before it reaches its intended recipients. See > http://www.themarknews.com/articles/3841-corruption-plagues-aid-agency-backed-by-bono-world-leaders/#.UQkkZL919Lo "Two-thirds of funds for an anti-AIDS program in Mauritania was siphoned off, 30 per cent of funds audited in Djibouti had been misappropriated (the majority of it to buy motorcycles and cars), and tens of millions of dollars worth of anti-malaria drugs bought by the organization were being sold on the black market." |
So, with all this negativity on mind, while I was walking down one of the narrow streets with vehicles parked on each side and people going every direction, I suddenly see about two to three people about 5-8 feet in front of me telling me to watch out (with the accompanying hand signals that animate and exaggerate verbal communication here). I’m thinking maybe there is some stray mad dog about to bite me or something. But before I can even turn to see what the commotion is about, I feel a slight push on my left calf and see the plastic bumper of a car appear. Yep, I was this close to being hit, clipped, or worse—run completely over by a car in the midst of my mental list of criticisms about this country. I am all of a sudden in a “WFT?!?!?!” mode. In pure Djiboutian tradition, the guy does not at all offer apology nor seek to know if I am alright—he leans over to the passenger side and blames me for this near miss/hit scenario. I am well aware that in this country, traffic laws (and even now the newly installed traffic lights), pedestrians, safe speeds, narrow roads, dark areas, and potholes mean very little to the average driver. Nonetheless, also in Djiboutian fashion, he could have at least used his horn while dangerously barreling down this crowded narrow street. I say to him, “Dude, you can’t use your damn horn?” He, an older gentleman, who I am sure is filled with stubborn pride, yells some collaboration of French and Somali at me (of course with the accompanying hand signals) which I cannot really hear nor understand and then proceeds to mean mug me like he wants to step out and do something. Well, there are two women in the car and I am sure he cannot afford to admit guilt on front of them. So he must insult the young foreigner even though it is clear that his idiocy and carelessness could have killed me. The women in the car also look at me in disgust and I think for a minute about inviting him out to mop the streets with his ass. But the swelling crowd and the potential legal consequences convince me otherwise. After a few more words back and forth that I am sure neither of us understand, I say to him, “You need to roll the fuck on out of here, and do not get out of that car!” I am sure all he understood was that his confrontation was over and he sped off in the same reckless manner that created this mess.
As I watched his car zoom away, I was then hit (yes, “hit”)with the reality that had things been a bit different, that car could have killed me. With clinched fists of anger but a heart pumping in shock, I began to wonder why this happened in the midst of me being in such a nasty mood. Did they have anything to do with one another? Then, I moved from being angry to thankful. The truth is, it could have been a lot worse. So, I went to eat lunch and afterward found myself in another restaurant sipping on some tea. To me, this is the second near death experience I had since moving here over five years ago. The first one is recounted here: http://ramonsreality.blogspot.com/2011/01/about-night-my-buddy-and-i-almost-got.html.
While I was sitting in the local eatery I frequent now and then, I was immediately grabbed and hugged from behind and turned to see an old friend—little Oubah. My mood became a joyous one and I asked her how she was. Oubah is one of many children you see in the downtown area walking the streets either begging or selling things out of cigar boxes like cigarettes, chewing gum, facial tissue, etc. Whenever I see her, she always has the same line—“Hey, you remember me? Oubah—flower.” I always say, “Yes, of course, ‘Flower’ I know. How are you?” She always flashes her beautiful innocent smile and in pretty good broken English shares small talk with me. If I have money, I give it to her. If not, I promise her some the next time I see her. She always smiles and replies, “Thank you” or “Okay, next time.” I remember a few years ago when I first met her at the market (errr—local tourist trap) that sells souvenirs. She was so excited to tell me her name and explain to me its Somali meaning—hence “flower.” Since then, whether I am in the downtown area day or night, she usually finds me. On a side note, my heart goes out to such kids here, especially the young girls. At any given time—even 4am, you can see children running up and down the street selling things and begging for money. Sure, my first question is, “Where are your parents?” or “Don’t you go to school?” But this ain’t the US and I already know the answers so I don’t even waste time letting these inquiries leave my brain to form the questions with my mouth. The kids are raising themselves. They learn how to look sad and destitute. But it’s hard to hold in a laugh when a chubby kids point to their mouths and tell me how hungry they are. Truth is, the kids all eat. But they beg for money and take it straight to an adult waiting somewhere. In any third world country it’s the same. I first ran into this in China. There the begging street children even smear dirt and grime on their faces to add dramatic flair. Of course, as pretty much every Westerner, when I first encountered this slew of begging children and women with infants in Djibouti I would quickly empty my pockets. But as time went on, I learned to funnel such charity to the ones I know and some personal friends of mine whose children I know belong to them. Yes, some of the begging mothers here are holding their actual infants—while others hold onto babies that they paid the mothers to use all day. Nothing garners sympathy like a destitute looking woman with a whimpering infant—right? What angers me now as I write this, is that sometimes the heat here is so intense (well over 100° F), and you can see these women out there using these babies to make money exposing them to the heat. Sometimes the poor babies aren’t even awake. They’re out there under the blazing sun sleeping in the sweltering heat on the back of these women with their little heads dangling to one side. Anyway, back to the children. The boys as they grow out of this lifestyle will one day realize that begging and selling small goods will not get them very far. So, what are their choices? The girls, well, you see it all the time. They start out innocent wandering the streets looking for money, helping people find places, even translating—but as they grow into teens and young women, we all know that there are few choices that await them with regards to survival. So, they end up going in and out of nightclubs—and well, you know the rest. Another tragic thing is that while they are still young and prepubescent they also have to ward off the ill intentions of the European perverts that love to travel to 3rd world countries and take advantage of such children. Yes, some of my local friends here tell me that such vile acts do occur here in Djibouti.
As I think about young Oubah, who according to her is now 13 years old, I wonder where life will take her. So, at the table I asked her where she learned English. She said she just picked it up from the streets. Truth be told, young kids like her can actually employ on average 3 to 4 languages. They have to learn—survival will do that to you. You can stop and speak to any one of these kids in English, French, Arabic, Amharic (the main Ethiopian language), Somali, and maybe even Afar. But when you walk these streets and one of the kids say “akuna matata” please don’t try your best Kiswahili, they don’t speak it. It’s a testament to the dumb Americans that only know this phrase (and no other spoken in Africa) from watching the Lion King (gotta stop and laugh here if this describes you). Anyway, I know that for whatever reason, she does not attend school. But there are plenty of small inexpensive English schools here. I mention this because in talking about her ability to speak English, she told me that she wished to attend such a 6 week course but she had no money. I asked her she what wanted to eat and drink, ordered it for her, and then enquired about the fees for the school. She told me it cost 1,500 Djiboutian francs (about $9). I reached in my pocket and pulled out 5,000 francs (almost $30) and gave it to her. Will she actually take some of this money and go to the English school in her neighborhood? Who knows? I hope so, but at the least I guess she didn’t have to run the streets so much that day.
While Oubah ate her pasta, I noticed an old gash near her elbow. I asked her what happened and she uttered one word, “Police.” I clearly understood. You see, the children here that beg, as well and the young ladies toting the rent-a-babies, are constantly harassed by police. Now when I say harass, I don’t mean how it is used in the US. I mean the police, who are armed only with a club, (and occasionally about a half a bushel of khat) believe in using it to beat away beggars of all ages—apparently they are seen as a nuisance. I have witness this in action. If you suddenly see begging children and women holding infants disperse at top speed, chances are that someone spotted a local policeman. I have seen this too many times. After she told me how she received this injury, my mind drifted back to a scene involving another little girl a few years ago. I had given another little girl some change from my pocket only to see her return to me a few minutes (and a few blocks) later in tears. From what I could gather through her sniveling and my small understanding of Somali, someone hit her and took her money. I was furious. So I asked her to show me who did it. Ready to knock out some young punk, she walked a few paces and pointed to a wiry old woman who had to be at least 65-70 years old. Though she was old, she was feisty and mean—like a rattlesnake. I confronted her and asked about why the child was crying. In the meantime (as always when there is any type of commotion) a huge crowd on onlookers encircled us and I’m wondering if I should even be here now. The old lady tried to convince me that the little girl is lying while at the same time giving her a dirty look, raising her hand as if she is going to slap her, and telling her to shut up every time the little girl looks at me and protests. It was obvious the old lady jacked her for her money and expected the little girl to just shut up about it. Soon others start to join the ruckus and I know it’s way past time for me to leave. I fished out a few more coins, put them in the girl’s hand as her tears magically dry up, and walk away as fast as I can leaving the old lady arguing and raising her hands threateningly at the crowd of people. Ahhhh, there is no sound in this world quite like hearing people argue in Somali. I don’t know what is more violent—the screaming or the hand gestures?
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| Where the "lucky" reside. This is also near the same area where I had my first near death experience. |
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Where the "unlucky" are forced to live
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| Some of my local friends get upset at such photos, but this is the reality of those that are neglected so that the government can further enrich itself |
Back to little Oubah—well, I then told her I wish her the best and asked where the school was. She told me that it was in “quartier quatre” or roughly translated “neighborhood/section four.” In Djibouti, they call some of the poorer areas (in some estimates, slums) “quateirs.” Though I have been to this particular one many times to visit local friends with no problems, some of the other numbered sections are in very bad shape in terms of the condition of the housing and safety at certain times of night. But, I have never, and will never be hesitant about visiting someone because of where they live. Some of the best times I have had here have been in some of the worst places. But my friends live in these places—so it doesn’t matter. My mother raised me not to see the world in such an arrogant way. Thanks mom. I remember once when I was visiting a good friend in this area, I got lost and was wandering around and actually ran up on this school she spoke of. I hope she gets enrolled. It’s one little option she has to make a small improvement to her life. Many—no, most--here are just not fortunate. And it’s funny how the only “lucky ones” are the rich and upper middle class. Beauty is nice. But it can often be a curse (or temptation for “easy” ways out) for young women born into poverty. I can see that Oubah will be a beautiful young woman someday and hope with all of my heart she is given opportunities to make good and beneficial decisions. However, the reality of this place with what I have witnessed during my five plus year stay here tells me different. If something does not happen for her, she’ll be speaking good English at some bar or club to someone not fluent in French or Somali.
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What breaks my heart most about these areas is the constant presence of children.
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Such housing projects are going up fast all over the place. Sure, they suit the rich and create money, but housing for the poor is low on the list of things to address.
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More shots of the other side.
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Well, this day was also about me coming to grips with the fact that I must leave soon—for good. It has been such an amazing ride here for me. I have lived, learned, loved, and laughed so much in Djibouti as well as the other 8 nations I have visited here on this wonderful continent. I hope to return to Africa one day and visit more. Of course, as with so many things about life, I have mixed feelings about Djibouti. I care for people so much. That’s why I get so frustrated by some of what goes on here. But then, there are times when I have hope and am inspired by what I see. Then other times, I can only just sit back and shake my head—like one time when I was walking at night with a buddy of mine and in the dark a local screams out, “Hey, fuck you nigga!” Wow, how do I take that? Or when I had a huge neglected beard on my face and I was once standing on a street corner and two of the local youths stopped and asked me if I was from Afghanistan. When I told them no, they doubted my answer, pointed at me and yelled, “You Al-Qaeda!” But the one of the funniest of all is when I was walking down the street one night and a young lady on her way to work, at one of the bars presumably by the look of her uniform, says to me, “Welcome to Djibouti, where every day is a holiday!” When I first heard this I almost suffocated from the laughter but after over five years, I have to agree; it’s been quite a holiday for me.
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| My "Afghanistan" beard that got so much attention |
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