Networking Cotton

I have lost count of just how many times during my grad school years someone has admonished me to remember the old colloquialism that it is “not what you know, but who you know.” While I was at York and early on at McMaster, each time I heard this phrase expressed I would get a little hot under the collar. It seemed to me to be a cliché that was essentially anti-intellectual. In my slightly anger-laced political rejoinders I typically asserted that knowledge production should have priority over networking. However, as time went on my responses mellowed somewhat and I often found myself grudgingly agreeing with the sentiment. My slow acceptance probably had quite a bit to do with the fact that despite my idealism and my doubts I was transforming myself into a major networker. I had learned that competence in contact building was necessary for self-preservation and self-advancement even in an academic context where, as the story goes, knowledge is supposed to be pursued as an end in itself. The development of my thinking on the latter subject also influenced my perspective on networking. I came to believe that as far as the social sciences go, the idea that research can somehow be ‘value-free’ or disinterested is more often than not a myth. As the relationships or institutions that social scientists did not question in their writing became more apparent to me I took on board a lesson that many professors had imparted over the years: if the status quo is problematic, push to change it. This notion became my political rationalization for networking. If principled young thinkers did not engage in such efforts I came to believe that another old chestnut – plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose – would certainly apply within the ivory tower and beyond. That being said, I was not prepared for just how much value networking could also add to my fieldwork. The raw material inputs I am collecting here in Sénégal will help me to construct an academic finished product, and it is only through a truly golden cotton network that I have been able to access these resources.

On my second full day in Dakar I met with Eric HAZARD and Sally BADEN, two well-known Oxfam UK experts on the West African cotton industry and the world cotton trade. After passing along a bag of Rwanda’s finest coffee to Eric as a token of my appreciation for the many letters of recommendation he had written over the past year for my various scholarship applications and for McMaster University Ethics Board approval, he made a few brief phone calls on my behalf to industry insiders. Eric subsequently turned to me and in English that is much better than my French explained that there was a truck heading to the hub of the cotton zone on Saturday morning that I could catch a ride with. Happy to have a stroke of luck so quickly I headed back to my new office at ENDA Tiers Monde with Barry ALIMOU, Eric’s old research partner and another cotton expert. After a lonely evening with my language learning software I arrived refreshed Friday morning at the office to find Alimou waiting for me outside. He informed me that Amdiatou DIALLO, the Directeur exécutif of the Fédération Nationale des Producteurs de Coton (FNPC), and Moussa SABALY, the FNPC Président, were departing for Tambacounda in one and a half hours and that I had a seat in their truck. Alimou flagged a taxi and we raced through the morning traffic to collect my things and find a bank machine. Three out of service ATMs later we found one that was operating and proceeded to enter a heavy traffic jam en route to the rendezvous at the offices of SODEFITEX, the cotton company. As we neared the meeting point screams of agony pierced through the murmur of running engines and the occasional horn blasts. As we approached I surveyed the scene and ascertained that moments before a young boy on a motorized bicycle had apparently been run over by a large transport truck. The tire marks were clearly embedded in his shattered lower left leg. It was a gruesome sight and fortunately for the boy quite a few people had already made haste to offer assistance. Sadly, such efforts cannot be counted on in other places I have visited this year. When we finally reached SODEFITEX I was still a little shaken. To escape a bit I pulled out my camera to take a few pictures of the street scenes around the place when a guard appeared from nowhere and informed me that I should not be taking photos of private property. Not being exactly in the best of spirits I demanded to know the reason. He offered none and I was left wondering if he had taken action just because I was white and had a camera. The issue of my whiteness was at the forefront of my mind as perhaps a dozen young boys had wandered by during the previous minutes making the inevitable demands: give me your bottle or give me your money, white man!

After meeting Moussa and Amdiatou we proceeded inland. The temperature gradually became more oppressive as we left the Atlantic behind and traversed a baobab-filled landscape. During our 3pm lunch stop I learned that our destination was not Tambacounda and that we were bound for the town of Vélingara instead. To save time we were to pass through the salt mining area around the Saloum River riparian zone and then cross into The Gambia. At the border immigration stamped my passport for 72 hours and as I walked back to the truck the first thing I noticed was that the kids were asking me for things in English instead of in French. As we traveled on into The Gambian countryside I learned that the shortcut plan is always a gamble. Each village on the highway has its own police check point. We passed through four such roadblocks unscathed but had a problem on the fifth go as the local cop demanded to be paid what he termed a “customs fee.” His issue was with the validity of the FNPC paperwork and not with my passport. Even so, since I was the best English speaker available I took it upon myself to resolve the situation. I looked him in the eye and asked if I could see his customs identification. In hindsight it seems like a slightly testosterone-jacked question to have asked a guy with a big gun. However, I was wearing a t-shirt that read “Kiss me, I’m Canadian,” and figured at the time that only the fashion police would take it upon themselves to shoot someone wearing a t-shirt like that. After a few moments he relented by informing us that if he ever saw us again he would arrest us on the spot.

We zoomed along and arrived at the first of two ferries that would take us across The Gambia River. The second was notable as it was powered by hand. All the men lined up along the Eastern side of the ferry and pulled a cable moored to both sides of the crossing. I tried to snap a picture of the President pulling in unison with everyone else but he ducked out just in time and I had to settle for a picture of him with Amdiatou in profile. On the ferries people also continued to ask me for things and I found myself recalling passages on the topic that really frustrated me in a book named “The Masked Rider” by a notable Canadian rock star and drummer about a bicycle trip he took through the region. He equated the phenomenon of kids asking for things with a “socialist” mentality in West Africa. While this particular author’s well known libertarian agenda was a problem for me, I also was not happy with the way he seemed to nonchalantly describe his dismissive treatment of the kids. Now I found myself in The Gambia behaving in a similar fashion and my annoyance with these occurrences somewhat overwhelming. Luckily, my benefactors woke me up with a random act of kindness. They invited three people without a ride to hop into the back of the truck and we rode for the border as twilight descended.

In Vélingara the following day I found myself perched atop a bale of cotton lint in the SODEFITEX yard reading my French dictionary while the FNPC leadership met with Bachir DIOP, the Directeur Général of SODEFITEX, and his team. It was a marathon meeting. While I waited I tried out my French with a few of the workers and had some success. Driving to Tambacounda with Bashir and Amdiatou after the gathering adjourned I witnessed first-hand the convivial relationship between the producers’ organization and the sole buyer of cotton here. The contrasts with Tanzania were stark save for one commonality: the excellent hospitality. Networks rule!