So, I’m in Bissau, the non-pretentious, laid-back capital of Guinea-Bissau, at the moment, eating a delicious brunch of cheesy omelette and black tea. To say that I’m glad to be here would be the most comical of understatements. I’ve only been in the country for six days, but have found this tiny pocket of West Africa to be easily the most welcoming, non-pushy, and… how can I say it otherwise… NORMAL place I’ve been to in the region so far. Folks smile and say hello, but generally carry on with their lives. For the first time in many months I don’t feel as if I had a mouth growing out of my forehead or as if I was marching down the street on my hands. People are just NICE here.
Of course, it helps that Portuguese and Spanish are close cousins, and that the country is so unbelievably small that probably everyone here has already seen at least one toubab in their lives- no need to ogle at other one.
By contrast, up until now, I’ve been a bit of a sideshow curiosity everywhere I’ve gone. Whole families will pause, mid-meal, to gawk at me tying my shoelace. Cars flip a U-turn to slowly cruise by for a closer look. Entire church congregations will twist around in their chairs to watch me rub sunscreen on my nose.
After my last post, I’ve been slowly hugging the coastline southwards from Morocco, slipping into Mauritania to jump aboard the magnificent iron ore train and experience the legendary (though so erratic as to be nearly inexplicable) hospitality of the folks there. I then passed through Senegal and Gambia and ended up here about a week ago. At present, I don’t have much to say about Gambia, except that the people delight in hanging out and making conversation- no matter how badly you clearly need to use the bathroom or catch your bus. Also, I witnessed a man affectionately grooming and hugging his goat there. This always speaks very highly for a place.
As for Senegal: Well, I suppose I am getting the “true” West African experience. The one I came for. In many ways, Senegal IS West Africa.
A case in point: A couple days ago, I found myself eating what can only be described as Senegal’s Love Letter to Cardiovascular Disease– an epic poem of french fries, deep-fried scrambled eggs, and pasta stuffed into a baguette (then deep-fried again).
I was waiting for this diligent prepubescent to finish oiling up every cubic millimeter of my sandwich when a passerby started shouting at me, “Donnez moi l’argent! Donnez moi l’argent! L’argent! L’argent!” This is nothing new. The begging I’ve seen, especially in Senegal, vastly eclipses any that I’ve seen anywhere else, in any other decade of my life. Gangs of kids follow me around with their hands outstretched. People’ve repeatedly grabbed and shaken me demanding money or a “cadeau” as I schlep down the street.
I mean, I’m generally pretty accustomed to begging, given my travel history and also all the years I’ve spent living in San Francisco and Boston. It rarely ruffles me.
But no homeless person or crackhead on BART has ever actually touched me. Oh, there’s been plenty of cussing. A homeless dude in a wheelchair threw the Strawberry Dream salad I’d bought him at my head once, clearly enraged that I didn’t bring him the “cupcake with frosting” that he’d asked for (You’re parked in front of the Sac Natural Foods Co-op, bro. Ain’t no cupcakes with frosting in there).
Here, in West Africa, there has been plenty of touching. Touching and following, touching and throwing of things, touching and grabbing and attempting to pull stuff (necklaces, bracelets, hats, etc) right off my body. It’s incessant and unavoidable, no matter how little notice I give them.
This man was no exception. He shouted at me through the (extended) frying session of my sandwich, through the wrapping of it and the squeezing out of the excess oil of it, and through the payment of it. He was so close behind me as I neatly encased it in a reused plastic bag and stuffed it in my purse that if he had stuck his tongue out he would’ve tasted the blackhead developing at the base of my C-spine (an unattractive souvenir from my, otherwise brilliant, ride on the iron ore train).
At some point, when I finished, I turned around to this guy (who was less than a foot from my face) and asked him why I was the only person he was asking? Was it simply because I was a tourist? Did my being a tourist make it OK to follow me around and yell in my face?
I didn’t shout and I think I said it as calmly as possible, but everyone went silent. It was as if I had punched a child. The guy said, multiple times, “Désolé!” though at that point I had already crossed the street and was heading home, my meter for social interaction, like most days in Senegal, having hit its max.
I went back to my guesthouse and thought about it after. Needless to say, nothing about the encounter felt good. Of course, getting shouted at by a man who was so close to my face that I could count his nose hairs is never a savory experience, but I also felt that I, myself, had behaved like an utter ass. I might as well have been swinging a pimp cane and twirling my monocle. After all, I AM a rich tourist. I’m an entitled, privileged American that was born into all the advantages that life can offer. I am healthy, with all my original (and some newly acquired) body parts, speaking arguably the most useful world language, and leisure-traveling on a golden passport.
Oh, we try to justify it to ourselves by identifying as backpackers and living frugally, both at home and abroad. We stretch each dollar just as far as it’ll go, walking and biking to save on the $1.50 bus fare and rejoicing when we find an unopened tub of hummus in some grocery store dumpster. We sleep in train stations and hitchhike atop heaving piles of potatoes and eat food covered in flies and sweating in the afternoon sun… and we do it happily. We do it to make the money stretch. To make the trip happen at all,… because in OUR countries, we’re definitely not rich, and most of us have certainly lived the poor life, at least for a time.
But I mean, come on. You really can’t compare the two here: The amount that it costs one entire extended family to eat for a day in Gambia is less than half of what my mom pays to have her dog’s butt hairs fashionably cut. Giving out a little cash here and there, or allowing oneself to be knowingly ripped off every now and again would probably help these folks out a lot.
After all, it’s not like these people have much choice. LOOK at these countries. The land is small. There aren’t many resources. Even the highly-educated among them can barely get a job. Far be it for them to ever demand better salaries or benefits- they’d just get kicked to the curb and replaced with someone new (who’d work for even less). The police and government are either corrupt or inept, the infrastructure is crumbling, and most countries in the region perpetually teeter on the brink of civil war.
Now, my natural impulse to never give money to folks on the street wasn’t born out of just immense greed. Anyone who has seen Slumdog Millionaire knows that it’s a much more complicated matter than just handing out a couple bills. Most long-term backpackers have very strong feelings about it, and most of us have come to agree that free-form giving is not only unhelpful, but extremely detrimental to the societies we visit.
I could dive deep into this topic, but I’ll keep it brief for now:
1. You are making the least logical impact with the money. It could go much, much further with a local organization.
2. You perpetuate the idea that foreigners are all essentially walking, talking ATMs.
3. Now you’ve left a mess for the next traveler that comes long. After all, if shouting in my face for five minutes worked, why not try it on someone else? Maybe if that doesn’t work, six minutes? Seven? Fifteen?
4. You disincentivize kids from going to school. If you can make money on the street, why bother getting an education at all?
5. I’ve heard reports from other travelers of getting mobbed after giving money to someone- essentially giving off the impression of just handing out free money.
But I implore you again: LOOK at these countries. Internet gets shut off preceding any election. A chance fire engulfs a port and burns up 80% of the country’s fuel. Ebola is a very recent reality, and jihadists are a significant problem in certain border areas. Pigs graze complacently in fields of plastic trash, and baby kittens sleep peacefully in the middle of a busy roadway- having given up any sense of self-preservation or hope.
And what else would one do to help? Locals have told me that donating to organizations or schools isn’t any good, since either the headmaster keeps 95% of the donation, or they don’t distribute anything at all. If they can’t provide the same for all students, then they dare not provide it for any. Small NGOs are only tiny fish swimming against a tide here, and large NGOs are almost notorious for practically making the situation worse.
With a reality like that, is it any surprise that parents would rather their kids go out and beg than go to school? Is it any surprise that women end up having truckloads of children- if that’s the only social insurance one has in this life and hell what else is there to do anyway?
I mean, this place is POOR, yo. POOR. A. F. – and although Madagascar, Ethiopia, and other regions I traveled easily through were every bit as poor, there is something different about West Africa. Perhaps the feeling that nothing about their situation will ever change. Perhaps the reality that every time the region takes a step forward, it seems to simultaneously take three steps back.
Anyway, I’m not really sure where I’m going with all of this, but here’s a photo of a forest elephant’s butt to make us all feel a bit better.
“There is always more misery among the lower classes than there is humanity in the higher.” – Victor Hugo
Oh, the Places Chu'll Go! 