Annals Of Underdevelopment - In Africa's 'Miasma Of Misery', The Arabian Nights

Harper Collins was a journalist for a highly-renowned international publication, and had planned to travel to every country in Africa in the hopes of being the chronicler of the last informational frontier, a continent which had been neglected and all but forgotten.  He would write stories of human interest, moving tales of human gumption and courage. He would not, of course, neglect the better known saga of misrule, corruption, civil strife, and economic medievalism; but he would be evenhanded and balanced in his reporting, fair, and objective. 

The Chief Public Affairs Officer for the President of an important central African country, had heard of Collins' interest in visiting. The country and its President had been badly maligned in the press, the result of neo-colonialist sentiments never far from the surface when it came to Africa.  Westerners for whom Africa was still a heart of darkness, a jungle of unimaginable savagery, tribalism, and Paleolithic primitivism would never understand.  

Its leadership was heir to the powerful, shamanistic traditions of the forest, its animism, totemism, and naked intimacy with the environment.  If it seemed 'corrupt, venal, and exploitive' to outsiders, it was nothing of the kind.  President Boubacar M'bele simply was acting on millennia-old native practices, well understood by his constituents, and embraced as their own. 

M'bele was proud of his rise to the top, thankful to his family, his clan, and his tribe for enabling his immeasurable talents, encouraging his ambition, and promoting a generous, capable son of the jungle; and repaid them in kind.  Every one of his extended family shared in M'bele's wealth, and his clan and tribe prospered. 

As the early African explorers Mungo Park and Rene du Chaillu quickly found, deepest darkest Africa was just as the legends had it - a primitive, savage, cannibalistic society which slaughtered and dismembered its enemies, raped and enslaved women, and bartered or sold young, healthy captives.  Park was kept alive only because of his white skin - an unusual, valuable commodity, a prized trophy worth thousands. 

M'bele was proud of this tradition and felt no shame in embodying its ethos.  He, too, would be the forest warrior of his tribe, only this time he would be sitting on a throne of gold.  So when his Public Affairs Officer told him of the journalist's intention to visit, he said he would graciously accept his offer. 

Now, as evenhanded as Collins considered himself to be, he was not without the prejudice of the European.  Africa had been a vile, primitive place before colonialization, during it, and for the long years since independence.  It was a hopeless sinkhole, a 'miasma of misery' as it had been described by one unkind but honest reporter.  On every point of the compass, the continent was an unholy pit of terror, intimidation, and misrule.

'I refuse to succumb to this white, privileged, obscene cant', he said before his departure. Pride in his trade and in his own moral rectitude would keep his eyes focused and him mind opened. 

Yet and still he was unprepared for trip in from the airport to the capital and M'bele's Presidential Palace.  There were stinking, rotting, garbage heaps piled alongside the rutted, narrow road. Naked children played in the stink of ordure, mud, and feces. 

'Hold your horses', he said. 'Be calm.  This surely cannot continue'; but it did for miles and only slackened as he approached the city limits - the density of the slum slackened, lightened, and thinned, but spread out within the city limits. Rancid-smelling goats, hideously deformed beggars, dead bodies, and addled prostitutes were the city's calling cards. 

Again Collins reminded himself that he was a journalist, here to report not to judge; but he found this reserve harder and harder to maintain as the nastiness, the abominable, miserable blight continued. 

Finally and at long last the car turned into a private way, up a long, well-tended, palm-lined road.  On both sides were luxuriant, green rice fields.  They passed a few small, prosperous settlements, pleasant groves, oases of well-being.  Well-dressed men and women were sitting together drinking, playing cards, and laughing. Music played, a light breeze ruffled the awnings above the verandahs of the cafes. 

The palace itself was a grand structure, a mix of style and design- Mediterranean, Victorian, Greek Revival, and Midwest modern.  There was no cohesion, complementarity, or fusion - it was all just cobble of Ferrara marble, Islamic minarets, and Egyptian porphyry.  The building was set amidst a vast Versailles-inspired formal garden complete with fountains, sculptures, and mazes.

As the car drove up to the entrance of the palace, a troop of caparisoned regimental guards saluted, and he was met with a garland, a kiss by a lovely, light-skinned African woman, and a handshake from he President himself. 

In an instant, the miasma of misery was forgotten. 

'You must be tired after your long journey'. said the President.  'Let my aides show you to your rooms', and with that his luggage disappeared and after winding through ornate passageways, dark, fragrant-smelling alcoves, and high-ceilinged hallways, he arrived at his suite.  It was a fantasy out of A Thousand and One Nights, a perfumed, flower-filled, spacious room with a verandah overlooking the rice fields and the mountains behind.  On the table was placed an assortment of tropical fruits, a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet, and a silver bell to call the servants waiting outside the door. 

'And this is Fatima', said the Chief Presidential Aide, 'She will provide you with any service you might require'. 

Fatima was a Fulani, a Hamitic, Euro-Asian ethnicity which had originated in Alexandria and made its way across the continent on the rich trade routes from the East.  She was beautiful, her perfect Caucasian features wet in a burnished copper-toned skin.  Her eyes were dark, almond-shaped, and luminescent.  She was dressed in a white, flowing gown that was at the same time elegant and sensuous.  

'A scam', Collins thought.  'A transparent attempt to influence, a shameless, familiar trick', but he couldn't take his eyes off the marvelous Fatima who was turning down his bed, smiling, and trailing the most engaging, floral scent, quietly left the room.  'If there's anything you need', she said, 'do not hesitate to ring'. 

The meeting with the President the next day was as congenial, accommodating, and pleasant as that with the lovely Fatima.  M'bele was gracious, open to questioning and generous with his time.  He was anxious, he said, to open wide the doors to Africa, and was grateful and honored that Collins had chosen his country to begin his journey of exploration. 

He cited statistics, produced geological maps, described the many development projects underway to assuage the unfortunately persistent poverty in those few regions in the south, and showed the journalist an album of scenes from the new dam, power plant, and mining operation which would add significantly to GDP in the coming years. 

'But you want to see with your own eyes, Mr. Collins, and I have arranged a visit for you'. 

This was not the first time that foreign journalists or dignitaries had visited the Palace, and he President knew how to 'show them around'.  He had spared no expense to build otherwise unused roadways, all going through agricultural or vernal forest land, to selected 'construction' sites.  M'bele put Louis B Mayer to shame with his soundstages and Hollywood assemblages.  Everything had been beautifully staged, produced, and choregraphed.  Collins was impressed, duped, and fooled like a backwoods rube. 

He was taken to faux markets, filled with tropical fruits and vegetables, imported cloth, toys, and hardware; faux schools with children in clean, pressed uniforms, polished floors, flower vases, and neatly arranged books in French and English; faux community centers, childcare services, and homes for the elderly.  

The rewards of this bald chicanery were clear - millions in 'development' funds from the US and the EU were channeled to the country; and journal articles praising 'The New Light In Modern Africa' appeared in The Economist and The Financial Times. 

After one or two days of these field trips, Collins was content to stay at the palace and review videos prepared especially for him of the various investment opportunities in the country - resorts, golf courses,  five-star hotels, and particularly rewarding mining of rare earths. 

Every night he was visited by the lovely Fatima who spent the night, served him tea and breakfast like a Geisha, and returned for his afternoon siesta.  Life was good. 

Of course life is always good for journalists, foreign dignitaries, and development consultants in these 'dumps with oil', countries of unimaginable poverty and gross mismanagement and corruption.  The hotels are worthy of Paris, London, and Rome.  The restaurants managed by Michelin-starred chefs, and the women as stunning and complaisant as Fatima. 

It was no wonder that, to the surprise of their European and American colleagues, these men were more than anxious to return to Africa which they had reported as needy, and deserving of every dollar that development banks and aid agencies could muster. 

'Ahh, Africa', mused an older consultant who had experienced the same delights as Harper Collins at President M'bele's palace. 'Quite a place.'