Government by the people

While we say we have democracy and the free market in the West, we don't really employ it at anything other than a macro-governmental level. Even then it's more republican - government by representative - than direct governance by citizens. Heck, we don't even elect our president.. those enigmatic elector chaps do.

Shift a few time zones to the east, and you arrive on a continent notorious for the tendency of its governments to creatively reinterpret democratic institutions. Legislatures serve to approve the decisions of the rulers; judiciaries serve to legitimize them. Elections are regime birthday parties. National security and presidential security are blurred to the point of serving the same function. Welcome to Africa, home of some of the world's longest-ruling/ most-murdering/ best-manipulating rulers in the world... and several of my favorites among them. Speaking of which, may I dedicate this entire entry to the all-too-timely passing of one of the longest.. Rest In Conscience, Omar Bongo. Perhaps now Gabon finally has its own decades-late shot at free and fair elections, but from the critical vantage point of many of my jaded countrymen, democracy anywhere on the continent too often has an icicle's chance in hell.

But in the most interesting way, at the most basic level Africa has stripped away all the trash we pile on top of popular rule and the free market. Welcome to Africa, the world's last preserve of Micro-Democracy.

You see it in the haggling - in a world where the only real price is the price you're willing to pay, there is no such thing as vendor decree. Instead, the buyer (me) and the seller (her) settle on a balance, some number in the hopefully overlapping ranges of the highest price I'm willing to pay, and the lowest price at which she can still make a profit. There is a price below which the sale is no longer worth it to her, and a corresponding price above which the item isn't worth it to me. The haggle system is idyllic in that it favors the perfect result every time - a compromise in which the buyer walks away happy because they found an item they wanted/needed at an acceptable price, and the vendor goes home happy because she made the highest profit possible.

The system is attended by all the non-governmental controls theory predicts - with more time than money, consumers will check their wares over carefully before purchase, and vendors know that low-quality or spoiled wares either won't sell well, or won't sell at all. Even under most dictatorships, the micro-economy will still continue to function under democratic principles. It's as simple as that, it's Friedrich Hayek's dream - it's a free market.


You see it in the group compromise - when David warned me early on that I wouldn't always be able to open my window on a stuffy bus, I understood him to mean that the windows were often stuck shut. (Which they are.) I accepted that, but couldn't believe what he had actually meant - that other people in the bus not wanting my window open would mean I couldn't have it open.

"What do you mean, other people??" I demanded indignantly, fresh in my righteous American individualism. "It's my window, they can keep their own windows open or closed however they like."

He warned me that such an attitude might not get far, and he was right - in shock would I discover that the cross Ethiopian women sitting meters away from me in the bus could actually claim power over the window right next to my face. The force at work was one I came to appreciate (and, in time, also use) - crowd appeal. If the women could convince a few other people to ally with them against just me, they already had a clear majority to my minority, and even the window-apathetic factions in the bus would recognize their right to tell an outvoted minority what to do with her window. I wallowed in scandalized outrage each time this happened, each time I was consigned to gasping away the dusty hours in a 100°F bus only millimeters of glass away from the fresh air outside, just because some dumb #@$*% didn't want to mess up her hair. It's probably pretty obvious that a part of me still hasn't gotten over this. But I've learned to accept the fairness behind it - even small affairs I intend to control myself will be subject to a democratic system of approval or repeal.


You see it in the power of popular pressure - I perhaps did not truly appreciate the fairness of crowd appeal until a memorable pick-up ride in Zanzibar. We had paid the herder with a large bill for the trip, and asked the price from him; upon inquiring from other passengers in the truck bed what the real fare was, we asked him for our change. Seeking to squeeze a little extra profit out of the situation, he first feigned ignorance, then denied what the other passengers said, before finally decreeing that it didn't matter since we were foreigners anyway. The awkward discussion grew increasingly heated in the small benched space until he and David flew into equal and opposite rages.

Despite all David's fury, without the resource of crowd appeal, we would probably never have seen our ten bucks again. As it was, David and I enlisted the quiet sympathy of the other passengers, all of whom had witnessed the situation and all of whom knew the exact fare. Though the herder might have been able to convince just one other person to go along with him on grounds of racial solidarity, in the face of a local crowd he had no choice but eventual capitulation.

The ultimate returning of change was judiciously, impartially, and professionally brokered by the two men across from David, a senior Muslim and a middle-aged businessman who emerged by their status and age as Arbiters. (This, by the way, is just as important a personality as any I've ever talked about before - even more interesting than the Shopper - and has become by far my favorite.) Their calm counsel was understood to represent the local opinion, and they were thus able to exert far more pressure on the herder to relinquish our money than any threat we could have made. Popular pressure demanded that he back down, and popular pressure alone upheld the standards of fairness.


And when members of society break that trust, you see it in the instant (and all too excessive) public justice. While in areas of tension this goes dangerously overboard, in daily life it serves to settle disputes fairly - as in Zanzibar - or punish unacceptable behavior. A guilty party may present to those present their excuses or mitigating factors - think of it as an instant trial, with a jury of witnesses. A judge (the Arbiter) emerges naturally among the bystanders as a local authority, perhaps a senior member of the community, or just someone who can command a presence of calm impartiality and reason. Redress is decided upon and carried out, and in irreparable cases the transgressors of acceptable conduct are punished with shaming.

I'm not sure if this would work in the private, individual culture of the United States, where scorned refractory citizens are all too happy to retreat from the public eye to the sacred territory of their own home (or the internet). Here in Africa, however, to be shamed is worse than a slap. The power of public shame is immense, the mere threat of which serves to hold together the delicate trust fibers of one of Africa's best inventions - Window Shopping.

I was blown away the first time I ever witnessed the window shopping. Though I wouldn't have imagined it, it was impossibly simple - as vehicles slow for police roadblocks or speed-bumps, locals from neighboring villages run up to the car or bus windows bearing goods for sale in their hands or on their heads. Passengers roll down their windows or lean down from high seats to peruse the wares, which most often are local produce, but occasionally other food or crafts.

In creating thus the potential for direct producer--consumer exchange at minimum prices and maximum profit, the window market makes perfect sense.. until you remember that it's taking place on one side from the interior of a barely paused vehicle, and sometimes at a vertical distances so great participants have to throw things at each other. All too often transactions are completed as the vendor begins to jog alongside the bus, hand outstretched to catch that last coin as it drops from the window, or holding the purchased sack of freshly fried dough-balls towards receding fingertips. Yet I have almost never seen a failed sale. Each time the buyer manages to catch all his purchases, and the vendor (often a kid), all his coins.

As an American I never understood this - what's to make sure I really do toss down my coins after my wares are thrown up? I'd only have to hold out a moment before the bus began to move, and then I'd be scot-free. Or alternatively, what's to stop them from grabbing the coins and scampering off if I throw down first, or if I don't have exact change? One of us has to go first, and neither of us is in a position to protest if the other doesn't follow through.

David and I discussed this through several countries before deciding that in the case of a cheating vendor, the passenger must ask the driver to stop; likewise, against a cheating customer, the locals must flag the driver down. This didn't really provide a satisfying explanation, however, because what's to say the bus-driver cooperates? or even hears over the oft-blaring radio? We still wondered.

Our Congolese train trip killed this fledgling theory beyond any resuscitation, for despite the conductor being insulated from any appeal dozens of cars away, the window market was as strong as ever. Yet it also ultimately revealed the true explanation behind why the window market works in

As we delayed for a 'croisement', women and kids from the neighboring villages swarmed below the train windows with platters on their heads. Aside from the varied produce were bottled drinks, plastic sacks, clothes, grilled meat, and tupperware, but I wasn't paying much attention to the market. When we finally started rolling again, a clamor taking place outside the bus drew even my sleepy, jaded attention; women and kids were screaming and began to run alongside the train, now gathering speed. Other locals noticed and began to yell also, smacking on the side of the car below the high windows and attracting the notice of the other passengers, who instantly got involved. A female Arbiter emerged from the seat behind me - she was a really cool, friendly lady with natural presence - and pushed her way up the crowded aisle to sort out the situation. As it was all conducted in a local language, I couldn't follow the details, but it was pretty obvious that a man on the train had somehow cheated the woman still sprinting alongside the train, yelling with energy but falling behind. The Arbiter was pissed at such a clear breach of the window-market trust, and the entire train car fell silent as things got ugly. Though it was kind of too late for payment, it was our impression that under popular pressure, he did throw the last few coins out the window for the woman to hopefully find later; excuses were muttered but not accepted, and as the Arbiter made her way back to her seat, her stony face signalled the response of the entire train car, quietly united in their disapproval of this one man.

I imagine that the remaining 6 hours in the crowded car were not very pleasant for him. Maybe it was worth the 80 cents for him. Maybe in American eyes, he still got away with it. But here in Africa, where 80 cents can mean a lot of money, the honor is still worth more.


So Africa may not be a champion of democracy as we know it, but it definitely employs government by the people. Democracy can be a bit thin at the national level, and it isn't always assured that your government will watch your back.. but at least you know that the people will.

Perhaps not "to the re-see" for Gabon...

Considering how hard we had to work to get to this country, it's hard to say it lived up to our expectations.. but perhaps we're being a bit hard on it. They do, after all, have perfectly paved roads. But who picks favorite countries based on that?


Food: Some of my best experiences of Libreville were culinary. For starters, it's got so many foreigners that the sheer diversity of food available is refreshing. Beyond the usual Indian and Chinese, we found Lebanese, Senegalese, Moroccan and of course French.

The African food we tasted on the way to the capital was also very tasty if a bit uncreative; peas, onions, rice, beans, game meat, eggs, baguettes. Delicious and hearty.

Best Thing Eaten: It's silly, but even among so many fantastic restaurants came from the right-out-of-Paris Casino grocery store. Fromage de chèvre spread on freshly-baked pain de campagne.. paradis.

Worst thing Eaten: I can't actually think of anything for this except the bland, chemically-tasting Turkish cookies David bought, chiefly because they were Turkish. (?)




Most Unexpected Turnaround: Five minutes after I decisively announced to David that our hotel proprietor Sherif hated both our guts (but primarily mine), the man volunteered to walk me to the laundromat, insisted on carrying our de-mudded clothing, and grandly offered to take me out dancing that night.
I still don't know what that was about.




New Hygienic Lows - or perhaps I should say, Updates: I have fantastic news for everyone who has been asking. As the little red spot on my leg swelled to such a massive size so quickly, we've decided it's impossible it could be any sort of parasite. What instead is much more likely is that the swelling is an allergic reaction to an unusual bite, probably from one of the near-palm-sized spiders I saw hanging about my hotel room Wednesday night. That thing hurt like nobody's business though, and the possibility of necrosis crossed my mind, but by the time we left Libreville it had already gone back down a bit. No parasites!!

Quote: While I don't think it's unfair to claim fluency in French, there are occasionally specific terms whose meaning within an unfamiliar context I don't understand. One of these reared its ugly head in the post office when, mailing off a package, the clerk asked me if I wanted it to be recommandé.

Recommandé..? I asked.

Yes, she drawled with deliberate enunciation, recommandé. We have recommandé, and we also have not recommandé. Do you want it to be RECOMMANDE, or NOT.


Thrown by her attitude, I confessed quickly I didn't understand what she meant by the term, at which she put down both her hands on her desk and said, "So what am I supposed to do if you can't even understand."


Privately, I would have thought the answer was obvious - explain the term's postal significance. Perhaps the real question instead is, What am I supposed to do if you use a term I don't know, and refuse to explain it to me?


I suppose the answer is: Leave. In the end I went with recommandé, which I imagine conveys some additional postal protection; we'll see if it ever gets there.





Worst Experience: Gabon might be a bit tough for the tender-hearted towards animals. Driving between villages, various wild animals with their faces shot off are hanging out for sale by the road, and a fellow passenger in our bus bought something small, deerish, live and frightened and stuffed it under his feet for the ride to the capital. I never could have imagined buying something yet alive like that, and David had to explain to me where the shrill shrieks of panic I kept hearing were coming from.


The capital, while largely devoid of doomed wildlife, isn't much better. Despite its European feel, wealthy Libreville definitely has a third-world attitude towards dogs. Strays, likely descended from the select elite of pampered expat pets, wander the streets at all hours of the day, hopefully friendly to passersby, whimpering for food or water, and in awful medical shape. It gets to you after a bit.



Could I live here? Not on your life. Despite the understandable attraction of living in Africa's longest-running dictatorship, I'm not sure I'd be willing to put up with French aloofness and European prices in an equitorial climate with African convenience and a race-based hierarchy right out of colonial times. I exaggerate not. Disgusting.


Chief Incentive for Staying Here A Moment Longer Than Planned: Considering the impressive wealth of the capital, it's absolutely criminal what happens to its relatively friendly dogs. With an investment of 15k, someone could seriously do something about it. I wouldn't need much - a couple rooms that could become a clinic, a vet, a van, and a rabies shot and the first thing I would do is drive around the city and pick up all those dogs. Water, medical care, neutering, and domestication, in that order, and then I would bully the wealthy elite to adopt them as their pampered pets. Fake AKC papers if I had to. And beg or bribe Omar Bongo to back me up on it.




Best Experience: To celebrate the halfway point of our trip and having survived the merde, David and I took Sunday off as a selfish golden-ghetto-style expat day. We took a speedboat out to Point-Denis and idled the day away as regular beach bums. I reached a new hight of engineering prowess in sandcastle construction. White sand, warm lapping waves, and six or seven separate applications of Coppertone SPF 45.. it was exactly what I needed to regain my sanity.

Cultural Latitude

During my first few months in Japan, I had a great deal of difficulty getting along at work, making friends, understanding situations, even performing everyday tasks. While part of this was naturally due to my inability to communicate in the local language upon arrival (and for several months after), that wasn't the only problem. Language issues aside, intercultural incomprehension resulted in huge amounts of frustration for everyone until I began to appreciate how I needed to alter my attitude and behavior. You could call it "Japan Mode", and once I learned to adopt it I was amazed to find how easy and friendly living in Japan became.

Despite what devoted Japaphiles say, the necessity of relocating your cultural mindset is hardly unique to Japan (though it is, perhaps, one of the more striking examples). To a lesser extent, I had to do the same thing as a student in Paris, and I have certainly found that adopting something like an "Africa Mode'' on this trip has greatly enhanced my interactions with locals and improved my ability to get around.

I love Africa Mode, though the mindset does demand complete immersion - which I can't always manage - not to be exceptionally frustrating. In general, though, Africa Mode makes few demands on the adherent. A relaxed attitude towards life and especially schedules; a playful sense of humor; jovial manners; and a willing abandonment of all sense of urgency outside life-or-death situations. Africa Mode is actually quite a fun way to live, though it wouldn't get you far in Paris.

Consciously in Central Africa, I didn't even think twice about waltzing into Libreville with brash, merry Bonjour!'s and the informal, lax manners I've picked up here. The resulting frosty reception I attributed first to some odd personal crankiness of the bank clerk, and next to unwarranted snobbery in the pâtisserie waitress. Pretty soon, though, I began to notice a pattern and - just as so many Americans do in Paris - complained bitterly to David that the locals were just plain rude.

I finally figured it out on the sidewalk outside the huge French grocery store chain Casino - finally put together the disdain, the stiff manners, the clipped accents in response to my own lazily anglicized French: Libreville had adopted French Mode.

I instantly switched tactics. Formal, careful manners; precise diction; a consciousness of my own good taste; brisk professionalism; no smile except once rapport has already been established. And what do you know, I immediately enjoyed a surge in popularity. While my comportment would have seemed brusque to the Japanese, unfriendly to Americans and rude by most African standards, to the Francophile denizens of the Gabonese capital I was showing I respected myself and others enough to maintain polite professionalism in public. Excessive friendliness would have been percieved as either false or foolish, and informal manners as an insulting indication of what I thought the other person deserved. I hasten to say that the French are in fact often extremely friendly, but not generally to perfect strangers in a business setting. Friendliness, instead of a means to an end, must grow naturally out of some little history of mutually positive interaction.

Sure enough, after a few days of faithfully patronizing the same corner pâtisserie, our formerly condescending waitress warmed up to my own brisk aloofness and, with a curious smile, asked where we where from. It felt really good to finally be welcomed, and I almost ruined the whole thing by gushing into a massive monologue about we're American but we're travelling through central Africa and we just came overland from the Congo and oh my god the mud and we're headed to Equitorial Guinnea next and you know your pastries are seriously good... but I stopped myself. She was interested in our trip, but not inordinately so, and the relationship remained wholly positive until we left the city.

French mode isn't entirely uncomfortable for me, and I absolutely loved my short time living in Paris. Paris is a moveable feast. But to be honest, acting Parisian wasn't something I expected to do in central Africa, and it does feel a bit put-on. To be completely and brutally honest, despite how hard we had to work to get here, I think I'm already ready to move on.