Niger - part 2

I have read somewhere that the only lasting global legacies of the colonial British Empire are the sport of soccer and the expression “fuck off”. This was not the case for the French colonial empire in West Africa. It was not yet relevant to look for its legacies because, for most intents and purposes, it was still in existence.

The focal point of central Niamey, the capital of one of the poorest countries in the world, was a large French supermarket, apparently stocking exactly the same range of produce as might be found in Lyon or Bordeaux, although for double the prices. There was a large French Novotel. The French Embassy acted as the representative for many of other countries in the region, as I discovered when I went seeking visas for my intended later destinations. The French Army maintained a base. The customers in the supermarket appeared to be mainly French or Quebecois – it was far too expensive for the locals, who shopped in the open-air petit marché opposite – sweeping up in gleaming white four-wheel-drive Toyotas sporting the logos of major international aid organisations.

The currency, the CFA has a fixed exchange rate with the French franc (and now to the Euro), and backed by the French treasury. Theoretically CFA stands for Communauté Financière Africaine (African Financial Community), but previously the ‘F’ stood for Francaise, and before that the ‘C’ for Colonies. Not much seems to have changed apart from the name. Over a dozen former colonies still use it. Its exchange rate is artificially high, although to howls of outrage from the ruling elites of these technically “ex”-colonies, the exchange rate was abruptly halved from 50 to the franc to 100 to the franc in 1994. There was real substance behind the local jokes: “Question: what is the capital of Cote d’Ivoire? Answer: Abidjan. Question: and what is the capital of Abidjan? Answer: Paris.”

Away from the French imperial centre-ville, Niamey was a very quiet town. In part this was a consequence of the daytime heat. (I have often wondered if the protestant work ethic could have evolved anywhere with a decent climate.) Apart from the 4WD Toyotas, motor traffic was light, consisting of battered taxis and the occasional grunting goods truck. An iron bridge spanned the Niger, already broader than the Thames 1500km from its delta. Their disapproving mouths appearing contemptuous of the trucks, tall camels swayed regally across, bundled high with crops.

River Niger at Niamey

Animal hides were laid out along the river banks, being cleaned in preparation for tanning. Occasionally a small group of men would bestir themselves to soak the hides again in the river and then beat them vigorously, before themselves plunging into the river to cool down again. Further along the banks, small groups of women laundered cloths in a similar manner, beating them clean and setting them out on the ground to dry. It was often quiet enough for their chatter to carry several hundred metres across the river.

I wandered down the main boulevard towards the old Presidential Palace. Although a guard waved me half-heartedly over to the other side of the road and away from the walls, and despite a history of coups and takeovers, there was none of the paranoia evident in other regional capitals – it was simply too hot to attempt anything as strenuous as a presidential assassination.

It was my birthday. I decided I had earned the minor treats of a pizza in the (French-owned) restaurant down by the banks of the Niger washed down by an almost cold beer, and a then bar of chocolate from the supermarket for desert. That night I was violently sick.