A journalist with no writing subject is like a blind pilot.
Lacking a plan, I looked for myself in the cafes.
There were only a few cafes in the whole city.
Everyone gathered in them - businessmen, aid workers, Frenchmen, journalists.
Bengi, the capital of the Central African Republic, was more of a village than a city.
So rural that even the important and busy have turned to conversations with those who are not to give advice on coffee and croissants.
To one and two parts of the blog:
- "Do you want to die? It will be faster to shoot yourself": An Israeli backpacker in the most dangerous country in the world
- "Killed by crossfire": The impossible task of journalists in Africa
Nicole got up at six in the morning and ran around the republic and I slept until the heat woke me up. The nun would laugh at me - "How do you always miss breakfast ?!" And I would take my clothes off the rope and drag myself to the cafe. The road to the cafe was difficult. At that time, there was not a single white person walking on the street because everyone rode in armored jeeps even for two-minute journeys. Those who walked the streets received a million sexual harassments and attempted atrocities. Pickpockets snatched bills from his pants pocket easily, and passersby did nothing but laugh. Even when it happened to me and I shouted: "Thief! Thief !!!" They did nothing. It was unbearable so I tried to catch rides in the armored jeeps, but the international organizations had a procedure - it is forbidden to pick up hitchhikers, without exception. I would see the jeeps of the French army, the African Union and the aid organizations crossing the same street every minute. I asked the locals - "What are these organizations doing here?" And they said - "I know ?!Passengers in jeeps. "
Aid workers travel in jeeps, the locals are transported on trucks // Photo: Tamar Bers,
So I made my way day after day like swimming in the sewer, until I reached the Promised Land - the cafe. The TV in the cafe broadcast the news. Every twenty minutes a campaign appeared with the slogan "I am Charlie", in light of the attack on the editorial board of the "Charlie the Bedouin" newspaper. Then the kidnappings began. On television, there was talk of abductees across the republic - politicians who went to the villages to advance the upcoming elections, ministers and aid workers. The most extreme case was of a released aid worker. Her interview has been aired dozens of times. From what I understand, it happened something like this: Anti-Balaka rebels arrested her and her colleague with guns and informed them that they had been abducted. The hijackers did not have a vehicle to complete the abduction, so they stopped a motorcycle. There was no room for everyone on the motorcycle. They then arrested a taxi driver, who was reluctantly dragged to where he was told, with stunned kidnappers and amateur hijackers whose planning was not their strong suit. She was released shortly after, after negotiations.
Armed men employ abducted civilians in a gold mine in the Central African Republic // Photo: Reuters,
"Did you see the interview that was televised?"
Nicole asked.
"Yes," I said, "only I did not understand anything because it was in French."
"I did the interview," she said. "Scouts! And she agreed, because I insisted. That's how it's done."
In the meantime, I have only been able to reach the spokesperson of the African Union.
The African Union came in to replace the UN and establish order. I did not know so much what to ask the speaker. At the end I asked "How could it be that some of the kidnappings happened at a checkpoint guarded by Union soldiers?" Happens here, "he admitted," I'm only two weeks on duty, I barely got overlapped, and I'm trying to route in a mess. "As much as we're in the same boat, I thought.
Armed with clearing group in Central African Republic // Photo: Wikipedia,
In addition to the abductions that were published, there were unpublished abduction attempts.
A French resident told me - "There is a tradition of bandits here, but it is not like the Taliban. Here you are abducted for a day or two and released for pennies. In the end you are offended by the amount you are worth" but now it has escalated.
A kidnapped French pilot who had just been released was sitting in the cafe with his friends trying to digest the experience.
"We came to the village to give aid," he told me, "and suddenly the anti-Balkan rebels come, detain the helicopter, say we are not leaving until we pay a million dollars. Since when are they asking for such sums ?! What is it, Somalia?"
He left after a nerve-wracking day.
On this occasion I will give him a fictitious name, "Victor", because he will save my trip and he will appear later.
I remember asking - "Did the village you gave aid help you with?"
And he said - "No, they were just standing there. What can they do?"
Aid workers despaired
In the evening I met the pilot's friends, aid workers.
Turns out we were hosted on the same mission.
The village where the abduction took place was a village that they adopted and assisted for a period of time.
The day before, I questioned their goals, which focused on rehabilitation and rural development.
"Why did you come here?"
I asked the director of the association, an elderly European who has been behind decades of aid in Africa.
"Why did you come?"
He asked.
"Because I'm retarded," I said.
"I'm retarded, too," he said.
Hell for aid workers, a village in the Central African Republic // Photo: Tamar Bers,
Their model was based on a dialogue with the locals, the so-called "listening to their needs and giving them an answer".
But that was not obvious.
The village said "yes" to everything the association offered, whether it was improving education, water sanitation, medical services.
But after a period of severe birth defects, the village began to demand money.
Just money, no more.
Basically, this is what they wanted all along.
"We are trying to explain to them that it does not work that way," the association's director said, "and it is a process. It does not happen in one day."
But the next day, after trying to kidnap them and Victor the pilot who brought them, they sat in the yard and debated how to proceed.
An association worker, who came from another country from Africa, was shocked by the experience and the manager tried to reassure him.
"What's the Deal?!"
The employee said, "I do not understand this place, what are we doing here ?! I see no point in continuing."
It's hard to help, citizens in a church in the Central African Republic // Photo: Tamar Bers,
He was not the only one who did not understand "this place."
The mission hosted African Union soldiers and UN staff. They came from Rwanda, Burundi, Cameroon, Vietnam and India. There was also an Ethiopian doctor and an Indian aid worker. We would sit around the yard in the evening, drink sprite and fly mosquitoes. Sometimes we would watch boredom among the roosters. Fatal mistake - raised one hen and two hens that chased her all day and fought among themselves.We chatted in front of the roosters until the generator went off, the sign to go to sleep.
"Even Burundi is more orderly," said the Burundi soldier, "I do not think there are such things in all of Africa."
"Ethiopia is drier and more rocky," the doctor said, "and we still get something out of it. Here everything is green, they can throw seeds in the air and they will grow, but no. Everything is stuck and not functioning."
Even on the roads everything was stuck.
I thought "if I don't get an article out of here, at least I'll see some scenery," but there was no way out of Bangi.
The nature reserves were closed, and the roads were dangerous and lined with ambushes and murders.
On the eastern road were the Seleka rebels and Connie's "army."
On the northern road the clearing and anti-Balkans fought among themselves and also robbed civilians.
"You might drive a few miles south," Victor suggested, "there is nothing special there, but you will see some scenery. Even there you can be robbed and murdered, but this is the safest option, compared to the rest."
The problem was that an old law required tourists a special permit to leave the capital.
The republic has undergone several government coups since that law and the annual number of tourists has reached one hundred at best, and twelve in wartime.
"Wow, I wonder if you really need a permit," Victor the pilot said, picking up a few phones for other people who didn't know, until he found someone who did.
This someone recommended going to the Ministry of Tourism and getting a "tourist exit permit".
The next day I found myself at the Ministry of Tourism.
The person in charge of the permit was not there, and in his place was an official who said shamelessly: "Give me money, I'm poor."
Poverty everywhere, children in ruins in the Central African Republic // Photo: Reuters,
I replied to him: "I will give you money if I get the approval tomorrow" and he agreed.
The next day, the person in charge was not there again. "There is someone who needs to sign the form," said the poor official, "but his aunt is dead. Come tomorrow." I reminded the clerk that "good things will happen if I get the permit today," I said I was willing to wait for Mr. permit, and I sat down there. Mr. OK came after four hours of waiting and endless phone calls from the clerk. Mr. OK turned out to be a kind and happy man (apparently he did not lose his aunt that day). He made me coffee and talked to me about the situation. At the same time he also tried to advance the complicated processes of issuing the certificate.
The certificate form was handwritten and had to be typed and printed. But the "clearing" rebels took over the office in 2013 and looted everything - the computers, telephones, the photocopier and all the documents. After much fuss, Mr. OK was able to get a printed form. He insisted on giving me his business card - squares printed on pink Bristol. "We don't even have scissors," he said, tearing a "business card" in his hand. He told me that the rebels not only looted the Ministry of Tourism, they also burned the archives in the municipality, including all the birth and marriage certificates of the Bengi residents. Only one computer survived in the Ministry of Tourism, an old PC from the 1990s that the secretary took over. Instead of working she played him solitaire for her enjoyment, not noticing her colleague standing angrily behind her.
I left with permission, the clerk went out with an elderly man. In the mission I updated the amused guests that there is such a thing as a tourist permit, a tourist office, and also tourists in the Central African Republic.
To continue the experiences of Tamar Bers, a journalist and traveler, the dark corners of the world on her Facebook page.