Annals Of Underdevelopment - Doing Good In An African Dump With Oil

Peter Bentley was an international development consultant.  In his retirement years he always put quotation marks around ‘development’, for in his many decades in the bush he never saw any such thing.  There could never be such a thing in countries rich in resources but governed by tribal chieftains who had made good and who had to repay those who sacrificed to move them up the ladder of post-colonial chiefdom. 

The end to his years of temperate assessment of enabling factors, socio-economic variables, historical consequences, and cultural influences came when he was sent on a mission to an endemically backward, hopelessly corrupt, impossibly unpleasant African country.  The country had oil, diamonds, and rare earths, and to cover for his sponsor's desire to secure these resources before the Chinese made offers the dictator could not refuse, Bentley was there to do good - a national health project aimed at the poorest of the poor which, according to World Bank estimates, were over 90 percent of the population. 

The Minister of Finance greeted Bentley and his team warmly, hoped they had a pleasant trip and were well settled into the new five-star hotel the President had built for deep-pocketed guests like him. The man was all cheery bonhomie, but Bentley knew him as the country's Rasputin, a savage killer who sat at the right hand of the President and who each year rounded up thousands of political prisoners to spend indefinite years in dark dungeons of rot and filth. 

 

The rare earths were the jewels in the crown - essential elements of modern electronics without which  cell phones and computers would not work, and as such they had become the blood diamonds of international trade.  Countries were willing to give anything and to overlook everything for a chance at these minerals. Rich oil reserves were merely the frosting on the cake. 

And so it was that Bentley entered into an agreement which would have no benefit whatsoever except for providing the President with window dressing, a pretty display of good works for his people.  He and his government would have to do nothing for the generous grant Bentley would provide.  He would take the money, send it to his various offshore accounts, and let the development workers which came with the money soldier on in the country's Paleolithic villages. 

The mission was Bentley's last hurrah of a career marked by deals such as this one - projects of every presumed social benefit imaginable, all non-starters and empty shells from day one.  Every Mercedes, Land Rover, and Humvee on the rutted, foul streets was a tribute to the President's international savvy, knowhow, and canny ability to snooker the white man. 

The opening dinner hosted by the Minister was a banquet of French wines, lobsters and oysters from Brittany, the finest New Zealand lamb, and tribal delicacies from the Minister's constituency. Musicians played traditional music while beautiful Fulani girls danced to its strains - girls, which Bentley knew, would be gifts to the members of Bentley's team. 

The Minister was an impressive man, a tribal prince whose roots went back to the great Gao Empire of Mali, acquired great wealth through the Saharan slave trade, and became a rich man thanks to his business canniness.  “I repay my debts and carry out my responsibilities in order of priority”, the Minister related, explaining the African system of 'noble largesse'. "I first repay my family, then my tribe, then my region, and finally to my country”. 

It was a lesson that Bentley had learned in every country of Africa, a hard lesson for those who still, despite millennia of history, let alone the recent chaotic years of Big Men, civil wars, and tribal conflict, believed in rational progress and responsibility.  

No one but the African autocrats seemed to get it.  We are dumps with oil, shitholes of corruption, violence, pathetic ignorance, and venality, the Minister said in so many words, but as long as there are cobalt, rare earths, diamonds, emeralds, gas and oil in the ground,  we will continue to be.

The Minister was proud of his twenty-five room mansion overlooking the Atlantic, his Bentley, Maserati, two classic Mercedes, and his TR-4 reconstructed runabout. 

The Minister spoke perfect English, but spoke French to Bentley and his mission for fun.  If his Saturday evening was to be spoiled and his assignation with his youngest and most beautiful wife delayed, why not perform?  His linguistic virtuosity, seamlessly woven historical and cultural references, his allusions to Greece and Ghana were all part of his vaudeville act. 

The dinner, too, was part of the side show – elegant china, Baccarat crystal, foie gras, filet de sole, fines de claires, all served impeccably by white-liveried, practiced servants. 

The Minister was a man among men who had used his intelligence, tribal heritage, and will to rise to power, wealth, and influence.  Because in such a corrupt administration in such a corrupt country no high official was occupied with anything official, and that leadership was more a matter of show than substance, the Minister had time on his hands; so other than a few hours delay before bedtime with his Fulani green-eyed mistress, the evening was enjoyable.  

The corruption, venality, and greed of African dictators is endemic to the continent.  From east to west, north to south, Africa is a sinkhole of poverty, misrule, and shameless financial ambition. 

East African presidents and presidential pretenders have been called before international tribunals for crimes against humanity. New countries like South Sudan, entities that never should have been created but for the racial idealism of America, are failed states.  South Africa since the end of apartheid and the transitional rule of Nelson Mandela, has become a crime-ridden, politically unstable, corrupt place.

The Big Men stay in power because of three things: 1) they are canny manipulators of Western intentions; 2) they are considered by many to be the representatives of the noble African, a native of tribal roots with profound respect for the forest and the environment, and heir to society's favor; and 3) thanks to the hundreds of millions of look-the-other-way international grants, they can pay off the police, the military, and the secret police and assure longevity and political protection. 

Bentley was looking forward to retirement and a graceful exit from a profession which had done absolutely nothing for the 'beneficiaries' intended - the poor, the marginalized, and the desperate - and served only to enrich the powerful.  If it hadn't been for his own Fulani lovers, the foie gras, and five-star luxury afforded him, he would have quit long ago; but in accepting the perks of the trade, he felt unashamedly akin to the leaders who neutered his development interests.  Life was indeed a measure of self-interest embedded in a marvelously produced melodrama.

 

In his earlier days he justified his engagement with Africa by doing his best.  Even though the projects had been designed with only political interests in mind, and even though project funds were reduced to a trickle thanks to unofficial siphoning, if he tried, tried really hard, some incidental, peripheral advantage to the poor might result. 

It didn't take long for that fantasy to vanish, and a deliberate procedural approach to replace it.  Even in an operatic melodrama there is at least a tinselly glitter of life.  'Don't get too philosophical on me', he said to himself over coquilles de poisson and a fine Sancerre.