Ramon's Reality: 2 Chainz, Barak Obama, Kobe, & My Quest for a Phone Cover

So I got up the other morning—I was on a mission. You see, recently a good close friend of mine--near and dear to my heart, gave me a new cell phone as a gift. New cell phones in most of Africa aren’t that big of a deal. The majority of them are Chinese-made knock-offs and only look like the real thing. The stores are flooded with them. What’s even funnier is that these fake phones are often more expensive than the real models that you can find in the US and Europe. Yes, another pathetic facet of living here—paying more for fake, substandard electronics. For example, I recently went to an electronics store and asked (just out of curiosity) how much he wanted for a “new iphone 5.” This fool told me he wanted about $950. I said, “Dude, you can order a brand new one for $700 in the states.” He goes on (like every other dishonest merchant here) to shrug his shoulders and tell me that the government import taxes on such things forces him sell such items at these unrealistic prices. However, upon further inspection of this phone—I could clearly see it too was fake. To the lying store owner—GO TO HELL WALALKEY (“my brother” in Somali)! These guys ought to be one of the first ones to be executed, should this nation ever have a revolution. They prey on everyone, especially the poor by selling items at outrageous prices when they know that not only are they fake, but the price they paid for them is far below what they are asking. Anyway, back to my mission; I had to find a rubber or silicone cover for my phone. So, I take the bus into downtown Djibouti…

Who wants to ride the "USHER" bus? "I wanna make love in this bus--HEY--in this bus!!!"

I took one of Djibouti’s many buses. With so much poverty, not everyone can afford a car (you won’t believe how much gasoline is in this country). Also finding a safe taxi with an honest driver here

is like trying to find an honest politician or street corner without one of those rickety wooden green khat stands. So, I walked to the curb and waited for a bus. Here, one thing that is cheap is riding the bus. And unlike taxis, I don’t get that “foreigner discount” (I call it a Muzungu discount when I am in Kenya). What I mean by this is that whatever locals pay for taxi fare, Americans pay at least double, but most of the time, triple that. Yes, they even charge the French, their colonizers, less than us. Therefore, whenever I can hop on a bus I will. It can mean the difference between paying 40 francs (less than 25¢) and 1,000 Djibobutian francs (about $6). The buses here are a story unto themselves. Normally, they come in two types; actual large buses and nine-passenger Toyota vans. Most of the large buses are in good shape. However, the Toyota vans are about as safe as the taxis. These vehicles are for the most part on “car life-support.” The shocks are shot. The widows are cracked or shattered. The consoles are taken apart or empty with wires reaching out like some electronic octopus. Sometimes the ignition is gone and the van is actually set up to be hotwired—don’t ask. The seats are ragged and the carpet has been replaced with the cheapest and gaudiest linoleum type of material. Please, for you own peace of mind, never look at the tire treads on any taxi or bus here—it’s enough to make you want to walk. I can count at least four tire blowouts I have endured here while riding in a taxi. Thank God none resulted in an auto accident. You may ask why these vehicles are in such unsafe and poor condition… one word: khat. Some of you know what this is. For those of you that don’t, look it up in Wikipedia. I don’t have time to “go there” today.

A larger bus named "Welcome"

Another interesting feature of these buses are the decorations. I mean, they may look horrible on the inside—but nobody has buses decorated like they do in Djibouti. These buses are often painted with nice designs and color schemes. But what’s interesting is that most of these buses have names printed on them. Yes, names. Now, most of these names come from American culture. Sure, some of them have Somali and Arabic names on them. I have seen Doualeh, Ismael, Hodane, or Yahya. Some of them have religious themes in Arabic like Marsh-Allah, Alhum-du-Illah, or Illahi-Mahadi. But for the majority of them, they have names like Tupac, West Coast, Biggie, John Cena, The Rock, Obama (there are many "Obamas"), Nike, Usher, Welcome, Chris Brown, etc. Please, I have no idea how they come up with these names. Anyway, I once saw one during the 2008 presidential campaign that actually said, “Obama… Sorry Hillary.” Well, later that day wandering downtown, I actually saw a bus with the name “2 Chainz” written on the back and “Obama” on the front. Yes, nothing says American culture these days like 2 Chainz and Obama. It makes me cringe to think that these two people are thought of together, let alone mentioned in the same sentence when someone thinks of America. AMERICA, something is wrong if this is what we export. Well, I ran a couple blocks after this bus to get a photo of it. When it finally stopped, I let the driver know I was going to take a picture of it—this clown immediately gives me the universal hand signal for “pay me some money.” I looked at him like he lost his mind, said “whatever” and proceeded to snap my photos.

Here is the rear of the "Obama/2 Chainz" bus.

Here is the front of the "Obama/2 Chainz" bus.

OK, riding the buses is interesting. Most foreigners here from the US don’t ride the buses. So, when I get on, there is usually a stare or two. I am used to it. People stare for one reason or another everywhere I go (smile). If the bus is packed, the locals will be polite enough to make room or point me to a suitable spot. “Suitable?” you may ask. Yes, you see there is a segment here that is very religious and usually a religious woman will not want to be seated next to a male Westerner as myself—especially being a “Kafir American.” Most people here are not even like that, but you run into that on the bus more often than not. And, unfortunately at times when I have to sit by a religious woman, she openly glares at me in disgust (like I am leper or something) and may mutter something like, “Astaghfirullah”—apparently she assumes my ignorance of both the Arabic language and Islamic religious terms. I just pop in my headphones and ignore it. I mean hey, the root word of IGNORANCE is IGNORE, right? Moving on… sometimes the bus rides are interesting. You meet nice and cool people. And if you know anything about me, I can start a conversation with an iceberg and have it talking for hours. One day I remember meeting a young woman who was veiled to the point where I could only see her eyes. I assumed she was pretty religious and kind of kept my distance. Well, she noticed I was kind of lost, so in very eloquent and smooth English she asked if she could help, moved next to me, and started a conversation. In the brief time we spoke she shared with me that she was schooled Dubai and a few other things. Unfortunately, I had to get off the bus soon after we started speaking. I guess I learned about assuming that day too. Back to last Sunday. I finally made it to the market area and thought about a few comical things on the way. You see, I have been here for over five years now and whenever I am on a bus full or in a crowded area of Somalis, I think of things. I let my imagination go:

You want to see something funny? Go into a crowded area of Somalis and yell “Warya! Abdi!” You’ll immediately see at least 40% of all the men there turn around and look your direction. It seems to me that here, whoever is not named Mohamed is called Abdi. You see, Abdi is short for so many Arabic names. You will know someone either named Abdo-Kalder, Abdi-Rachid, Abdul-Kareem, Abdurrahman, or maybe Abdullah (or the Somali version, “Abdillahi”).
I have not made up my mind—do Somalis “speak,” “yell,” or actually “scream” the language of Somali? It is definitely not a quietly spoken language.
As I wander through the market, I hear the conversations of many people vie against one another to be heard… and every other word is either “walah?” or the usual response of “walahi!” (of course accompanied by the appropriate hand gesture). Well it’s more like “WAAAHLLAHEE!!!” (Arabic for “I swear to God!). If you sit and listen to Somali’s carry on a normal conversation (after you get past the loud volume—even indoors) you will hear this term being tossed back and forth countless times. It’s probably the most used term in this language. I guess lying is so common, unless you “swear to God” about it, it cannot be accepted as truth.

Market shot

bags and what not at the market

Anyway, walking through the old market in Djibouti under the towering green and white mosque is always interesting (well, unless of course it has just rained—then it sucks so bad because this place sits in a depressed lowland type of area and there really is no drainage system so the mud sits there for hours under the humid conditions and a smell arises along with bugs which then get mixed with trash and other debris and well—you can imagine the rest). Yes, the old Djibouti market; the constant sound of haggling, gossip, arguments, greetings, the horns of the taxis and buses, little transistor radios pumping out traditional Somali music (which I absolutely love listening to), and the smell of a thousand different dishes from the makeshift outdoor “restaurants” intermingled with the fragrance of automobile exhaust—ah, a delight to all the senses. Now about the merchandise… this is a relatively small market compared to others I have been to—like Mercado in Addis Ababa. However, there is just about everything you can imagine here in hundreds of small shops and stands thrown together in menagerie of informal commerce. You have stands where you can buy food products like coffee, fruit, vegetables, places to buy new and used clothing along with fabric to make your own, there are even tailors outside to take your order or make repairs, there are cell phone repairmen (don’t ask me where they got certified or if the work is actually guaranteed), shoes of all types (however just about all the athletic shoes—i.e. Nike, Adidas, Puma, etc. are clearly fake), hair care products, electronics to include satellite dishes (we are getting ripped off in America), radios, cell phones, TV’s, video game consoles (again, just about anything in this category with a name brand—i.e. Sony, Samsung, Toshiba, etc.—is fake also), places to buy religious materials like Qur’ans and the white caps you wear after you return from Hajj, toys of all types with kids clothing and baby materials, and on and on and on. One of the more comical types of stands is the lingerie stands. The bras (of all sizes and colors) simply hang like strips of dried meat from atop a wooden plank with other products like panties (again of every pattern, design, and color) stacked like bricks in the remaining space. It kind of sucks for the women here when it comes to this; I mean what woman wants to rummage through bras and drawls in front of some dude who operates the stand? Furthermore, how can she possibly be sure that bra is her size or if the way it is made will be comfortable? If anyone would ever open a real lingerie shop in Djibouti with quality merchandise—they would me a millionaire overnight! (HINT!)

Victoria's Secret--Djibouti Style

Shoes at the market

Another lingerie stall, notice the hanging bras.

Well, right on the outside of this area you have the tourist traps—errrrr, I mean “souvenir” shops (ironically, the “African” merchandise sold here is also mass produced in.. yep, China). Here’s where suckers (like I was when I first arrived) are swindled constantly. If you are French they speak French to you and tell you stuff like “viva la France!” and perform other shameless displays of Francophile @$$-kissing (yes, when I see it, it makes me nauseous). If you are a White American you are usually greeted with, “Welcome to Djibouti, please come into my shop. Just to look is free. I have a special price for you today.” If you are a Black American they will hit you with the old, “My brother, my brother we are the same color. You are my brother. Please my brother I have a good price for you—a special price.” Yeah, the price is special alright—like the taxi cab rates—you’ll pay AT LEAST triple what the locals pay. A “special price” indeed; and if you don’t fall for this crap and come into the shop, they resort to a tactic invented back in 2008—“I love Obama! Obama good!” So, I reply, “Well why don’t you call him and tell him to come into your shop.” On a side note, I remember when all my local friends here were so excited about President Obama’s initial election. Aside from the historical significance of it all, I did not get caught up in the hype and hysteria. Then I was pulled aside and asked by one of the locals, why wasn’t I so happy that America finally had a Black president. To this ridiculous assumption I countered, “When you got a Black president, did it help you any?” Yeah, you can probably guess what kind of facial expression I got in return. Then you have the dudes that are walking around balancing t-shirts, post cards, fake cologne, steering wheel covers, electronic fly-swatters, etc. asking you if you need any of their items—half of which you never knew existed. I just look at them in the eye and with a loud voice yell, (in broken Somali) “Madooneyo walalkey!” (Somali for “I don’t need/want it my brother”). Usually this is enough to work—but sometimes they remain persistent. For some reason, dude is convinced that if he keeps pestering me and following me, I will capitulate and buy some medium wrinkled up t-shirt with a cartoon of two camels kissing with the words “bisous de Djibouti” (French for “kisses from Djibouti) written on it.

clothing and fabric at the market

Dried tobacco at the market

Nonetheless, after making my rounds to just about every electronics shop, I could find no cover for my phone. Just my luck, out of every fake phone bought and sold in Djibouti, I get the one nobody has accessories for. It’s funny, the fake phone given to me (with two sim-card slots) costs about $180. When I look on Amazon.com at the real thing, it goes for so much less than that. This is the curse of the African combination of restrictions and high taxes on the import of authentic merchandise and basically no regulations regarding imitation products. The markets are flooded with low quality Chinese goods that break easily, work like crap, and in the process provide huge profit margins for the dealers. So why should the government change things? As usual, “Screw the citizenry!” Life here sucks—sometimes--well, MOST of the time. Anyway, I finally find a guy who swears to me he can get the cover for my phone (yeah, I know better—there’s always this guy that promises big and produces little—if anything). So, I show him my phone and tell him I will be back in an hour.

Fake perfume, nick-nacks, and other feminine stuff

Another market shot.

OK, to kill time I go and visit an old friend of mine and we spend an hour talking, insulting each other, and reminiscing. Before I leave, I spot a life-sized cardboard cutout of Kobe Bryant advertising for Turkish Airlines. If you know me, you know that if I am anything in this world, I am a huge LAKERS and KOBE BRYANT fanatic. Therefore, I snapped a couple photos next to it and went back to see “that guy.” Of course he didn’t have the right cover for my phone. Hell, not having what you ask for never stops them from promising it. The hope is that when they return with whatever item that they know is not the correct one, you will be so frustrated from looking all day that you will just give in and pay them for it anyway. If you refuse, then they will go into how they searched so far and wide for you and to please give them something for their journey. My point is, “Fool, you promised me you had it and I trusted you. It’s not my fault you were full of BS!” Nevertheless, I was “so frustrated from looking all day” that I took the ill fitting merchandise and figured I would make it work anyhow. And that’s Djibouti in a nutshell. Everybody is searching for what they want and need. However, it’s rarely found. So, you take what you can get and you make it work somehow. That’s why no matter how angry I get at this place—I’ll always fit in.