Christmas Book Reviews

Voyage aux pays du coton

Eric Orsenna, de l’Académie française, 2006

Eric Orsenna, nous emmène dans un tour du monde à la toile. Du Mali aux Vosges, en passant par les Etats-Unis, l’Egypte, la Chine et bien d’autre pays mystérieux, ce petit précis de mondialisation nous fait découvrir les coulisses d’une industrie sans mercis, le coton. Orsenna sait garder une position d’explorateur, sans prendre (trop) parti mais en révélant les fils et la trame d’une toile complexe, des fois aberrante. Après avoir lu Orsenna, les chaussettes que vous recevrez à Noël ne seront plus les même…

J’ai trouvé les raisonnements d’Orsenna, et certaines de ses anecdotes de voyage un peu hautaines, certaines fois même naïves, d’où les deux étoiles blanches. Mon jugement est peut être un peu trop dur, pour un livre toute fois bien écris, facile à lire et divertissant.

Voyage aux pays du coton est édité par Fayard.

The Elusive Quest for Growth

William Easterly, 2001 (paperback in 2002)

Incentives: wrong ones, or lack thereof. Easterly gives an outstanding analysis of the development failures since WWII. With the benefit of hindsight, the modesty to include his own mistakes in the analysis, humor and accessible style, he writes about the complex subject of economic growth in the poorest countries. Reading this book gave me “Incentive” lenses for weeks and tools to think critically about the projects I encounter in Burkina. Nicely documented, this eye opening book is a great intermediate between academic paper and entertaining novel. A must read.

My taste for analytical books must be reflected in the grade I gave. It might not be such an easy read for non-nerds. Yet, with multiple practical examples, it is refreshingly accessible for such a hard subject.

The Elusive Quest for Growth is edited by MIT Press.

Madame Bâ

Eric Orsenna, de l’Académie française, 2003

Madame Bâ essaye tant bien que mal de faire rentrer de longues histoires dans de petites cases, sur le formulaire 13-0021. Le formulaire, c’est la clé vers un petit fils enlevé par le football français. A travers sa quête obstinée d’un visa vers la France, Eric Orsenna nous révèle la triste réalité du développement international à la française. Madame Bâ, grand-mère, est un peu la « Forest Gump » des pays d’Afrique de l’Ouest. Traverser avec elle le fil du temps d’une indépendance nouvelle permet de regarder la France depuis l’Afrique. Un paysage pas toujours reluisant.

Ce livre est superbe. Divertissant et touchant, il est aussi fidèle à la réalité, sans maquillage. Les sujets abordés sont toujours d’actualité. Lecture obligatoire.

Madame Bâ est édité par Fayard/Stock.

Future Positive

Michael Edwards, 1999 (first edition) – revised in 2004

International cooperation is not a luxury. It is a necessity, if nations are to live peacefully. In the first part of his book, Edwards looks back. He gives a compelling analysis of past interventions from the north in the south and argues that from humanitarian intervention to large scale projects, the wrong priorities were often set by the wrong people. “Standardization, and an obsession with quick measurable results and size as measures of success, crowds our action on deeper problems” he writes, and concludes that “Consistency, continuity and coherence” is what is needed for better cooperation.

Looking forward, he argues that the solution lies in global governance, brought to life by a new set of globally aware constituencies, basing their language on positives, and facilitating the transition “from donor and recipient to relations between equals.” An appreciable aspect of his book is that it is neither naively optimistic, nor a dooms-day pessimistic. Edwards recognizes that the transition to a cooperating world requires the engagement of each of us, and a difficult compromise from today’s powerful nations. Overall, Future Positive challenges its readers: Is your thinking conventional, or are you ready to engage in something new and better balanced?

Future positive is very well written and well documented. The analyses are clear and the suggestions pragmatic. Yet, because it treats a heavy subject, it is a heavy read. Analytical minds will love this book as much as I did.

Future Positive is edited by Earthscan.

Epilogue; My headlamp or why I went to Toussian-bandougou

Once again my thoughts focus on my lower back pains. My right hand searches for a new Rônier leaf on the courtyard dirt. I wonder how long until my second bee house will be finished weaving. Night has come four hours ago already. I observe the dancing shadow of a knife resting beside my oil lamp. Moussa is beside me, sitting on his tiny stool, as usual. He’s almost done his sixth bee house. It’s nicely symmetrical. His hands are agile. He adjusts his flashlight, and takes this chance to relax his neck. He felt my look, and turns to me. It is at that very moment, after five evening weaving beside him, that it finally dawn on me. At first, the thought just froze me in place with shame. I almost said nothing. Then I got up. In my hut, I searched my backpack. There it was, nicely wrapped, at the bottom of it: my headlamp. I showed it to Moussa. He didn’t know what it was. I installed it on his head and turned it on. He understood pretty quickly and looked at me. His eyes and his smile were a mix of surprise, amusement and impressed-ness. He was laughing at his own surprise.

In this look I understood that Moussa and I were friends. For a long second, neither of us spoke. Then he took the lamp off his head and gave it back to me. “It’s going to deplete your batteries; I’m going to work late again tonight.” I understood quite well, so I refused categorically and gave the lamp back to him. He put it back on his head, and started weaving. Sitting on my stool, I felt sad to see how hard Moussa is working everyday to make sure his daughter will go to school in a few years. Maybe being the same age contributed to my feeling. That evening, the only difference between Moussa and I was our birthplace. I was overwhelmed by that thought and had to get up and go to bed.

Once in my bed, I thought about Moussa’s situation. At thirty years old, with a three year old daughter, his fiancée and his remarried father, Moussa is a farmer full time, and a honey maker at night. His energy at work, his determination and his entrepreneurial spirit were inspiring to me. I wondered where this attitude came from. For sure, his own character is a reason. Necessity is another. But I think there is something else: the coaching relationship he and Safiatou have developed over the years. Safiatou lives in Orodara, not far from Toussian-bandougou. She is an enterprise counselor for the PAMER. Living in the area, she knows everybody, and she understands the life realities of the people she works with. She has earned their trust, and can adapt her coaching and encouragements to each of them.

To be able to offer such a service, the PAMER necessarily has to trust people like Safiatou to know what is best. In fact, leaders at the PAMER try as much as they can to engage the enterprise counselors in the planning process. They also try to plan their activities to answer demands from the project’s beneficiaries.

Coming back to Bobo Dioulasso, in the coordination office, after seven days in Toussian-bandougou, I am better able to make plans that fit Moussa’s reality. More importantly, I have understood that decision power is better used close to the field. From Ouagadougou, Paris or Rome, plans are good in theory. In Orodara, or in Toussian-bandougou, they are good in practice.

Day four: A funeral

The day started with sad news: the neighbor’s wife died in the night, unexpectedly. Moussa explained that we will have to change our plans for the day. No weaving. Instead we’ll go spend time with the grieving family and help dig the grave. Doing otherwise would be an unfriendly gesture. One could always skip and apologize later, but if you expect that people will come dig the grave and celebrate the funeral for you, it is important that you do the same for them.

Moussa dressed to work so I did the same. I surprised myself thinking that for a funeral, my stained pants wouldn’t do, but we’re going to dig, so I guess one has to dress appropriately. Moussa’s fiancée brought us breakfast before we go. It’s Tau with peanut sauce. Tau is a paste made from maize or millet that has been pounded into a flour. The flour is mixed with water and cooked over charcoal or wood while constantly steering. It’s a pretty hard job that women are extremely good at. My shoulder strength is put to shame by the youngest women here. To eat Tau, you have to break small handfuls away, and dip it in the sauce du jour (peanut sauce two thirds of the time). We eat Tau everyday, breakfast, lunch and dinner. It’s pretty good. One gets used to it.

The kitchen in which Tau is cooked everyday

Breakfast swallowed, we walked fifteen minutes to the neighbor’s house. At seven am, there were already quite a few men, sitting in a circle in front of the property’s main entrance. The women were inside the compound, crying loudly, giving me a pretty sad feeling. The men were silent. We sat with them for a while. Only the noise of the daba hitting the ground beside us paced the morning.

Moussa stood up and gave me a look saying I should go with him beside the grave. Two young guys were inside, digging with huge energy. A crowd of 40 must have been standing around the grave, all young guys waiting for their turn. Once the workers climbed out of the grave covered in sweat, they would be replaced by another couple. Everyone participates to his ability. It’s Moussa’s turn. I understand by the looks that people in the croud are joking that the white guy should dig as well. I gesture that I can. I take my shoes off. Noooo. White people can’t do physical exercise, one tells me. It’s OK. Thank you, thank you. “You know, digging is difficult” one explains to me. I didn’t insist.

Day Three – visiting the chief

My hands are sore, and I guess Moussa knows it. This morning he declared we have to go pay a visit to people in the village. What I haven’t dared to tell him is that my butt actually hurts as much as my hands, from sitting on a tiny wooden bench all day to weave yesterday. My rear will have to adapt… and a walk through the village will do me some good.

The village chief’s house is ten minutes by foot on a tiny sandy path. We’re travelling across his mango orchards, beautiful and large plantations of mature trees, half of which are in full blossom… a sugar fest for the village’s bees! The chief himself has gone to the fields. We are invited to take a seat for a while. The chief’s compound is breathtaking by size. I count around twelve mud huts and the same number of grain storage units. The number of kids is also disconcerting. Moussa explains that a household here groups many generations, and many wives, especially when the so tiguy, the “chief of the house”, is wealthy. In fact, the chief’s brother’s family is here too. As the latter passed away, his wife and kids have come to live with him, contributing by their work to the life of the household.

A house (center) , and a food storage unit (left)

I ask Moussa how one becomes chief of a village. Civic representation, like land ownership, is a matter of who was here first it seems. The first person to be there was a hunter, Moussa tells me. The chief’s family came in this area and settled in what is now Toussian-Bandougou. People settled here, and appropriated land by cultivating it. Now there are two hundred people in the village. Some older families own more than a hundred hectares. Newcomers own no land, and they cultivate what the land owners can’t cultivate themselves. This doesn’t reflect any consideration of superiority. Everyone cares for his or her neighbours. On the other hand, land cannot be sold here. It is free and if they ask for it, it is naturally lent for an agricultural cycle to the people who can cultivate it. Yet the owner will not often accept that the borrower plant new trees on the land, as this would mean long term use of the land. Practically, it represents a change in land ownership, which has to be discussed beforehand.

Banji collection. Four times a day - 11pm, 4am, 10am, 3pm

The chief has now showed up, with two of his nephews. We are served some Banji in a calabash. Banji is the sap of the Ronier, collected by some villagers making it their trade, four times a day. The drink is sweet in the morning, and alcoholised in the evening (The Perfect Drink...) We meet Si Barthelemy Sanogo, the first son - as his name, Si, indicates – of the chief’s deceased brother. Si is also a beekeeper. He says he used to weave traditional houses. Like Moussa, he has received training on honey making by the PAMER, the project I work for, and now owns one modern bee house. His take on honey making is drastically different from Moussa’s though. It seems that with the revenue from the mango orchards, Si doesn’t really have any incentive to make money on his honey. The modern bee house he got just replaced the numerous traditional houses he had to weave to replenish his own yearly supply of honey. We are far from the enterprise Moussa is considering, yet they received the same technical and commercial training by the project I work for.

Second day

It’s the end of my second day working with Moussa. We’ve been weaving traditional bee houses all day, us cutting the necessary tall grass, him climbing the Roniers to get leaves for material and me blistering my thumbs until late in the evening weaving at a third his pace. It is ten, time to get a rest.

At the end of November, the agricultural season is slowing down a bit. The maïs has been harvested and is drying in the sun. Moussa’s father, Mr. Sanogo, spends his days harvesting the groundnuts and peas, allowing his only son still at home to spend more time weaving. Moussa is thirty years old, and as I can’t help to think how close in age we both are, just a few months, and yet our lives are so different, with neither of us having chosen it. Moussa is the only son in age of working the family’s plot in the rainy season. His father asked him to stop school when he was 10 to come work in the fields. His mom had passed away and it was necessary to ensure there would be enough cereal to go through the year. Until last year Moussa was able to cultivate one and a half hectare by hand with his daba, producing enough cereal to feed the whole family on a good year. This year’s investment in a bull for labour drastically changed the deal, saving tons of time and allowing cultivating larger fields. He lends his bull to his neighbour, who in turn helps him weed his fields, as he could not do it alone on such a large surface.

Honey making has been a traditional activity for the Sanogo family since before Moussa’s father. The honey is used for the family’s consumption, as a medicine, an energy booster and a celebration gift at Lo, when young men have to offer honey to their promised wives. Moussa wants to make beekeeping a business. He has already invested in four modern, wood-built houses that produce more honey and are more durable. Each are 22,500 FCFA, a small fortune really. He knows that the more traditional houses he weaves this year, the more he will be able to invest in the next season’s harvest. He thought of micro credits but one has to repay those on a monthly basis, and the harvest is yearly for honey. Hence he will weave one or two houses a day for forty days, from 5:30 am until 10 pm. Moussa works with a flashlight secured between his neck and his shoulder after 6pm. Once the houses are ready, he secures them in trees, where they can stay for three to four years before they deteriorate. There is always a competition between squirrels and bees and whoever gets to the house first gets to stay. As a consequence, a great part of his work benefits rodents, not him. Moussa has a fleet of sixty houses approximately, producing a hundred and thirty litres every year. He knows it means education for his daughter in a few years, provided his business takes off.

My first night in Toussian-bandougou

Moussa (on the left) and the family.

I arrived at the end of the afternoon. I gave a few kola nuts to my host, Moussa. He directly went to his father, keeled down and gave the nuts to him. I was given water in a calabash, and I drank it. I was showered with questions on my health, my family, my wife and my kids. I was blessed many times and served food at least twice. I felt home after a few minutes. Moussa showed me around the compound before dinner. Now it’s dark out and we’re getting ready to go to sleep.

The compound

...

The only light out is the full moon, low on the horizon. Shadows are stretched and all we can hear is our footsteps and the mysterious songs of night birds. Moussa is walking is front of me, and I make sure to stay close behind. The metal of his daba blade shines in contrast to the wooden handle, on his left shoulder.

Moussa has stopped now and started digging. I’m standing beside him. The soil is sandy and rock hard. It’s the dry season already. With a small hole on the ground he stands back straight. “This is how you do it” he says, putting one foot on each side of the whole and crouching. “It falls down there, and you cover it with the dirt.” He really thinks I know nothing…