I got back to Sudan well rested, well fed and to good news. My employer offered to bring me on as a real employee. No more un-benefitted, un-insured consultancy status. Now the need to go to DC to attend orientation. A little silly, given that I’d been working for them for 6 moths already, but who am I to refuse a free flight?
Over the next couple of weeks we had training in Juba for our community workers so the decadence of a real abode continued, although for the same price of $200 in Sanaa I stayed in the beautiful 5* Movenpick. In Juba this gets you a Chinese pre-fab room that smelt like the open drain that was the shower. At least there was air conditioning. The UN royally messed up our flights, so I ended up having to send vehicles on the 26 hour trip to collect all the people we needed to Juba and take them back a few days later. The journey back was particularly eventful.
A bad spot on the road where trucks had got stuck had started to flood: construction of a nearby bridge having been halted because of political wrangling. The Government of South Sudan (GOSS) had contracted a Chinese company to dam the river in the dry season and construct a bridge across it. The Chinese had then sub-contracted to a North Sudanese company. The North Sudanese company had halted work on its government’s instruction because it feared the completion of the bridge and road would allow the south to transport arms (tanks from a Ukranian ship, perhaps) northwards to the border. Given that this is the only road in the country that connects the north with the south, a few things other than weapons travel that route: like me and my radios. On the way north we managed to squeeze by a bad spot after a few hours of delay, a lot of mud and the digging out of one stuck car.
Three days later we returned to the same town (called Wunrock) to find the road closed. The rising water had washed away sections of the road and flooded all the surrounding villages. Hundreds had been flooded out of their homes that now stood under 2-3ft of water. The temporary dam that has been put in place (that was also the road across a section of the river) was just about holding up under the of water that was collecting from rain miles away, but to the detriment of everything around it. We met there another group who had been waiting for 2 days – a mine clearance NGO headed up by a middle-aged, ex-military Canadian and a similar South African. Helen Fielding, the author of Bridget Jones, once wrote that development workers can fall into one of 4 categories: missionary, mercenary, misfit or broken heart. These guys were definitely number 3, and perhaps the most racist, bigoted and arrogant people I’ve ever met. Does it take one to know one?
They told us that work was ongoing and they hoped that the road would open within the next few hours. We parked and brought out our camping gear: we knew not to be optimistic.
We waited 3 days next to the rising water. Some army guys had arrived and felt it their responsibility to take over the management of the road reconstruction. They seriously delayed matters because the workers downed tools (or rather parked bulldozers) in the face of the military’s physical threats. The issue was quickly resolved (I think because the commander’s car had had been blocked by the heavy machinery), but work continued at a slow pace. We were held far away from the work by a roadblock, but snuck through occasionally (very difficult in big white cars) to see what was happening. Each time the soldiers berated us, but even that was better than the mind-numbing boredom of knowing and doing nothing.
I had a flight to Nairobi on Friday morning. It was Tuesday and there was no end to the repairs in site. The workers were building up mud on the water’s side of the road. As you looked down it, you saw now a 5ft high wall of mud on the right (and an equally high wall of water held behind it) and open space on the left. If that wall gave, everything along its 3 or 4km stretch would be washed away. As pressure built up along this lower-lying section, other sections of the road gave as the rising water undercut it. The construction team had been going back and forth between sections of the road and adding to the wall for days and getting nowhere.
This is what I find most terrifying about life here. In the UK or US we trust the structures on which we rely: the bridge has been tested, it will hold your vehicle’s weight and it will tell you clearly before you’re on it by way of a sign if it can’t. The roads are well constructed, won’t wash away and (excepting black cabs) are generally safe to travel on. If anything happens, there will be a price to pay by those responsible. This, reputation and a general respect for life ensures these standards are met. Of course there are exceptions, but those make headlines. I pondered travelling that road in our cars. The thought of getting stuck on that stretch scared me. It would have been impossible anyway with huge trenches of water cut across the path ahead.
Plan B: foot it. Early the next morning Samuel took one car back north to the safety and comfort of Leer. The Catholic priests there would put him up and could make use of the vehicle. Victor in the other car bedded in with the racist deminers (their team of Sudanese staff were actually very friendly and welcoming), and waited for the construction team to finish work. I and two others hoisted our bags onto our heads and walked through the water, waist high in some places. In others I don’t think it was just water I was wading through. It was about 10km to the next town. I regretted packing so many pairs of shoes – I’m kidding, I left them in the car. We hitched a ride back to Wau and took public transport from there, arriving back in Rumbek on Thursday.
Although only 4 weeks since my last break, I felt like I’d earned that hot shower and comfortable bed in Nairobi. A day later I was in the bright lights and big city of DC -- gripped by election fever. Poor Victor was stuck at the roadblock for another 5 days. But like all around me I forgot about all else in the world, was sucked in by CNN (who also seemed to forget about all else in the world), and watched America do the right thing.
DC was a great experience. I liked the city and had the chance to catch up with a friend. We had fun on election night. I also had a blessing in the form of an overnight visitor. I didn’t realize how much I had missed human contact. We just clicked in the way that allows an instant social and physical attraction. It was the easiest, most enjoyable and most satisfying night I’ve had in a long time. Maybe because I was desperate. Maybe because we knew we couldn’t see each other again. As has happened before, circumstance pushed me along and I started to really regret losing my US residency.
I then went to Florida for a week to visit my mother and promptly remembered why I’d left. I don’t miss Florida, but it has its advantages: cheap shopping and good medical services. The day before I left I managed to squeeze in a visit to the same dentist I’d convinced to take out my wisdom teeth during the 2 days I last had dental insurance just before I left for Ghana in 2002. I went in just for a cleaning, but given that it had been 4 years since I’d last had anything done I was expecting the worst. He suggested I have 4 small fillings and was amused by the repeated urgency as I was leaving the next morning. He kindly did them for me over his lunch break….and charged $900.
I stopped in London on the way back long enough to see a couple of friends, my uncle and family, and to apologize to my brother for the fact that my boxes will be staying with him for more than the previously agreed 6 months. It wasn’t enough time, but having been gone for as long as I’d been at work in the last 2 months, I needed to get back to Rumbek.
I’ve come back to what looks like a different country. Dry season is officially here and what was vividly green, verdant and overgrown the last time I saw it is now beige, dusty and wilting. The place seems generally calmer. It’s a bit like being at the beach. In all honesty, I’m a bit relieved to be back. I feel relieved to know the world I left in both the US and UK is still there and still just how I left it. When here I have this persistent nagging feeling like I’m missing something important. While I do miss all that goes on with friends and family, I am missing little else. Everyone is still consumed by their daily routine. Everyone is still hung up on appearances and impressions and money. I am too, but being outside it for a while is what brings me the relief. That’s one of the things I was looking for by coming. For the last 6 months I’ve not worked out, not eaten well and not flossed. My time in the US reaffirmed the importance of these things – and I’ll admit this – it’s the social reasons that have resold me on them. And also for my well-being. Maybe I’ve not come too far after all. And that might be a good thing – lest you relegate me to the category of misfit, too.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
A khutba in pidgin, a wudu in heels
I’ve not been keeping up with this. I think that’s a sign of contentment in that there’s not been enough to whinge about. I’ve also observed that my happiness seemed to be inversely proportional to the amount of time I spend in any one place.
This was probably the oddest Ramadan I’ve completed with some serious challenges and some easy rides. In terms of ease I had someone cooking me dinner every night. I never underestimate the value of not having to cook dinner for myself when I’m tired, cranky and incredibly impatient with innocent things like tomatoes. It was a quiet couple of weeks and we were nearing the end of the distribution. By now we were all doing this with our eyes closed and 2000 radios a day was the norm. I fulfilled my role of big man and dispatched the team to the distributions while I busied myself less easily defined program management tasks. The fact that I can’t remember what I was doing for the month shouldn’t suggest that they were unimportant…ok, maybe they were…but there was always enough of engaging stuff to do to ensure that the hours of the day to melted quickly away.
And the melting was the biggest challenge: 30+ degrees in the shade with no air conditioning meant I sweat persistently. There aren’t that may Muslims in the South and I’m the only one in my team, so like London, it was again quite a lonely experience. Especially the morning meals before sunrise. I’d bought a paraffin stove so was able to cook breakfast for myself, but it was still raining in September so I either had to cook inside (despite manufacturers claims those little Chinese stoves are not smokeless, fumeless and odourless), or outside in the rain. No electricity meant doing it by candlelight. I’m still not sure what the crunchy things in the eggs were. I stepped on a wasp. I knocked over a candle and burnt a hole in my bed. While it was nice to be able to make as much noise as I liked, the lack of conveniences such as light and running water to wash plates and myself just took a lot of time and effort. In some ways it was nice to be so far away from the developed world: my thoughts were oriented in the direction they should have been – upwards.
But the lack of good food began to take its toll. My diarrhoea was persistent and the cook’s evening meals not particularly balanced. Come the end of the month I’d lost about 8 kilos, and had sores on my tongue that had taken on a deep red colour: symptoms of vit B deficiency.
I found another mosque on the UN camp. On most occasions all visitors to the UN compound are searched, ID’d and questioned. Tell the guards you’re a Muslim going to the mosque, tough, and you’re waved straight through – an oddly backwards experience. In the mosque (a corrugated iron-roofed, mosquito net-walled shack that is leagues above and beyond the construction site that passes for a mosque in the town), I found a bizarre mix of worshippers every shade of human: black, dark brown, beige and white, from all the nations represented in UNMIS. The Imam was Nigerian and the Khutba given in pidgin:
“you have to ask for forgiveness, O! Behind the forgiveness is giving, O! Ramadan is about what? Forgiveness and Giving!.” No one really seemed to be following the very circular argmet and the small Banglaeshis to my right seemed delighted to have a new member of the community joining them.
My Somali friend Hassan, was a good source of company and evening meals throughout the month. One night he suggested a change from the Somali shack/restaurant and invited me to the house of a friend. I expected to meet the host and eat his wife’s food. The host wasn’t in his one-roomed house when we arrived, but Hassan welcomed me in and sat me next to a small, but impressive, set of wigs. Our host was a woman. She cooked for us a delicious meal from the outdoor kitchen and kept herself secluded from the strange men she was hosting. . I shouted my greetings and thanks across the rain smacked and muddy courtyard. She shouted back an invitation to use some sandals she had outside the door to go and wash for prayers. I jumped down into a small pair of women’s kittly-slipers. It felt very odd performing a wudu in heels, and the rakahs in front of a makeup stand, but I hope my prayers were nonetheless accepted.
I was looking forward to the end of Ramadan mostly because it marked the start of my next vacation. I got to Sanaa two days before Eid. Yemen was stunningly beautiful in every respect: the scenery, the architecture and the warmth of the people. I’m not sure how tourists are able to be kidnapped here: as well as being generous, respectful and friendly, most people were no taller than 5’7” and perpetually strung out on Qat. Now that is an impressive national habit. Every afternoon most men start chewing the leaf. By early evening they’re all acting like space cadets and not face passes without the huge bulge of the Qat in the cheek.
The beds, the hot running water, the beauty of the city and the warmth of the people that made it a nice break. What made it particularly good was that I was understood when I spoke. My efforts to learn Arabic in Amman some years ago appeared to be really quite fruitless as any conversation I tried to start in Arabic would only yield strange looks. Unable to speak, I’ve always felt a little fake. I tended to crumble under simple questioning by Syrian border guards as they try to understand why the individual in front of them looks like the one in the Jordanian passport they’re holding, but doesn’t seem to be ale to do more than stumble over a few words. There, I am an illiterate Arab.
In Yemen, though, I was a Briton who spoke some Arabic. Their hospitality meant that they tried to understand what I was saying, or at least they pretended to. It was an easy and relaxing week, despite very little English being spoken. That would have been a hard trip in the past. And I think that’s why I enjoyed this trip so much. As well as beautiful scenery, this was the first objective measure for me that I’m better off after my time in Sudan. My Arabic hasn’t gotten any better, I’m just a bit more confident. And it’s all relative: after the self-flagellation of a month of Ramadan in Rumbek, any break would have felt good. Why keep beating myself? Because it feels so good when I stop.
This was probably the oddest Ramadan I’ve completed with some serious challenges and some easy rides. In terms of ease I had someone cooking me dinner every night. I never underestimate the value of not having to cook dinner for myself when I’m tired, cranky and incredibly impatient with innocent things like tomatoes. It was a quiet couple of weeks and we were nearing the end of the distribution. By now we were all doing this with our eyes closed and 2000 radios a day was the norm. I fulfilled my role of big man and dispatched the team to the distributions while I busied myself less easily defined program management tasks. The fact that I can’t remember what I was doing for the month shouldn’t suggest that they were unimportant…ok, maybe they were…but there was always enough of engaging stuff to do to ensure that the hours of the day to melted quickly away.
And the melting was the biggest challenge: 30+ degrees in the shade with no air conditioning meant I sweat persistently. There aren’t that may Muslims in the South and I’m the only one in my team, so like London, it was again quite a lonely experience. Especially the morning meals before sunrise. I’d bought a paraffin stove so was able to cook breakfast for myself, but it was still raining in September so I either had to cook inside (despite manufacturers claims those little Chinese stoves are not smokeless, fumeless and odourless), or outside in the rain. No electricity meant doing it by candlelight. I’m still not sure what the crunchy things in the eggs were. I stepped on a wasp. I knocked over a candle and burnt a hole in my bed. While it was nice to be able to make as much noise as I liked, the lack of conveniences such as light and running water to wash plates and myself just took a lot of time and effort. In some ways it was nice to be so far away from the developed world: my thoughts were oriented in the direction they should have been – upwards.
But the lack of good food began to take its toll. My diarrhoea was persistent and the cook’s evening meals not particularly balanced. Come the end of the month I’d lost about 8 kilos, and had sores on my tongue that had taken on a deep red colour: symptoms of vit B deficiency.
I found another mosque on the UN camp. On most occasions all visitors to the UN compound are searched, ID’d and questioned. Tell the guards you’re a Muslim going to the mosque, tough, and you’re waved straight through – an oddly backwards experience. In the mosque (a corrugated iron-roofed, mosquito net-walled shack that is leagues above and beyond the construction site that passes for a mosque in the town), I found a bizarre mix of worshippers every shade of human: black, dark brown, beige and white, from all the nations represented in UNMIS. The Imam was Nigerian and the Khutba given in pidgin:
“you have to ask for forgiveness, O! Behind the forgiveness is giving, O! Ramadan is about what? Forgiveness and Giving!.” No one really seemed to be following the very circular argmet and the small Banglaeshis to my right seemed delighted to have a new member of the community joining them.
My Somali friend Hassan, was a good source of company and evening meals throughout the month. One night he suggested a change from the Somali shack/restaurant and invited me to the house of a friend. I expected to meet the host and eat his wife’s food. The host wasn’t in his one-roomed house when we arrived, but Hassan welcomed me in and sat me next to a small, but impressive, set of wigs. Our host was a woman. She cooked for us a delicious meal from the outdoor kitchen and kept herself secluded from the strange men she was hosting. . I shouted my greetings and thanks across the rain smacked and muddy courtyard. She shouted back an invitation to use some sandals she had outside the door to go and wash for prayers. I jumped down into a small pair of women’s kittly-slipers. It felt very odd performing a wudu in heels, and the rakahs in front of a makeup stand, but I hope my prayers were nonetheless accepted.
I was looking forward to the end of Ramadan mostly because it marked the start of my next vacation. I got to Sanaa two days before Eid. Yemen was stunningly beautiful in every respect: the scenery, the architecture and the warmth of the people. I’m not sure how tourists are able to be kidnapped here: as well as being generous, respectful and friendly, most people were no taller than 5’7” and perpetually strung out on Qat. Now that is an impressive national habit. Every afternoon most men start chewing the leaf. By early evening they’re all acting like space cadets and not face passes without the huge bulge of the Qat in the cheek.
The beds, the hot running water, the beauty of the city and the warmth of the people that made it a nice break. What made it particularly good was that I was understood when I spoke. My efforts to learn Arabic in Amman some years ago appeared to be really quite fruitless as any conversation I tried to start in Arabic would only yield strange looks. Unable to speak, I’ve always felt a little fake. I tended to crumble under simple questioning by Syrian border guards as they try to understand why the individual in front of them looks like the one in the Jordanian passport they’re holding, but doesn’t seem to be ale to do more than stumble over a few words. There, I am an illiterate Arab.
In Yemen, though, I was a Briton who spoke some Arabic. Their hospitality meant that they tried to understand what I was saying, or at least they pretended to. It was an easy and relaxing week, despite very little English being spoken. That would have been a hard trip in the past. And I think that’s why I enjoyed this trip so much. As well as beautiful scenery, this was the first objective measure for me that I’m better off after my time in Sudan. My Arabic hasn’t gotten any better, I’m just a bit more confident. And it’s all relative: after the self-flagellation of a month of Ramadan in Rumbek, any break would have felt good. Why keep beating myself? Because it feels so good when I stop.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Idiots with guns 2
Here’s a good idea: let’s cordon off a town at a time, freeze movements on the roads, and employ the military to do house to house searches to confiscate illegal weapons. We’ll exempt foreign aid workers and treat those whose properties we search with dignity and respect. It seemed like such a good idea at the time.
The morning after: 6 seriously injured and 2 dead.
Actually the time between conception of this, really quite good, plan and it’s implementation has been a while. It makes sense, too. The number of illegal weapons, most in the hands of young men, is shocking. But authority is easily misused and whilst searching for weapons the young, armed and sometimes drunk soldiers helped themselves to cash, store goods, vehicles women…The UN security report summed it up well: “the soldiers either were not instructed properly or chose not to follow orders,” and in traditional UN style makes no suggestions or statement for action.
You could sense the unrest in the town, but at sunset I accepted the invitation of our Somali trucker (Hassan) to have an iftar meal with him after prayers in the mosque. I was waved through the many checkpoints that had appeared –the advantage of being white. I arrived at the mosque to find the middle of town crawling with soldiers. There were a few shouts and skirmishes proportional the traffic, but nothing too hostile. I got out of the car and called Hassan – he’d been stopped and a soldier had stolen his motorbike. He didn’t sound too miffed by this and seemed more concerned that he was late to meet me. He said he was sending a boy who’d spot me. He did moments later. As we shook hands in greeting the shooting started about 10m away. I didn’t stop to look. We jumped back into the car and I took off out of town, unfortunately in the opposite direction of my compound. There was running, shouting, and screaming as it seemed that soldiers were emptying their clips. God only knew into what.
I saw a face I recognized and waved him into the passenger side. It was a guy who worked at a water bottling plant up the road a bit. “Don’t go back!” he shouted...as if our forward trajectory at 50kph suggested I was about to turn around. We continued up the road and were ushered through the metal gate by the plant’s very young-looking security guard. The guy we came with vanished, but the others in the compound – Ethiopians who I’d bought cases of water from numerous time before – were quick to welcome me and my companion. “We can accommodate you here if you wish.” The sun had set, it was time to eat, the gunfire continued.
My worry about being out of my compound quickly subsided. My homing instinct gave way to logic: stupid shit happens at night, soldiers are more drunk, darkness hides my whiteness, our compound is walled only by a bamboo fence and the watchman is about 60. Next time I’m not walking out my door without my passport.
These four Ethiopian guys gave us water to break our fast, a mat to pray on and cooked a fantastic meal of barbecued meat, tomatoes and onions, mango juice and Ethiopian coffee. We sat around sharing stories about how stupid we thought the Dinkas are. It was actually a very nice night.
Around 11pm a motorbike pulled up the front gate. As we got up to see the watchman blindly opened it. I was relived to see a grinning Hassan drive in with a soldier riding pillion. I wasn’t sure who’d hijacked who. Hassan was well known by all the Ethiopians, too. He’d navigated the roadblocks and brought cakes and a carton of milk for my breakfast and an apology for the situation. I was very touched. I was also touched by the Ethiopians making up a bed for me with a mosquito net.
The fighting quietened down quickly and by dawn the town was silent. I drove back through it at around 7 and there was no evidence of anything happening the night before. Apparently it was just twits firing into the air mostly, but some decided to fire into buildings and crowds. No one knows what started it.
I really wasn’t in that much danger, but I was scared. I called my colleagues in the compound perhaps a few too many times when the networks would allow it to make sure everyone was ok, let them know where I was, and to compensate for the fact that no one seemed to be calling me, dammit. I had a car, fuel, a flashlight, but no cash and no ID (stupid I know). On top of that: no mosquito repellent. I got bitten to shit. I’m going to turn into one of those “always ready” guys with a bum-bag and waist-hidden security belt.
No I won’t. It was a minor scare, but I’m not compromising on style. Lesson learned. It’s just another reason to relocate -- I'm pinning a lot on this move, you can see. I went property searching last week (very exciting) and saw some fun places that varied in price considerably. Like most things the initial quote varies wildly. In one conversation on a place shaded by beautiful mango trees (I was sold in an instant) the guy gave 3 prices ranging from $1000 to $3500. I think I better keep my fair skin away from the negotiating table. It's not always helpful.
The morning after: 6 seriously injured and 2 dead.
Actually the time between conception of this, really quite good, plan and it’s implementation has been a while. It makes sense, too. The number of illegal weapons, most in the hands of young men, is shocking. But authority is easily misused and whilst searching for weapons the young, armed and sometimes drunk soldiers helped themselves to cash, store goods, vehicles women…The UN security report summed it up well: “the soldiers either were not instructed properly or chose not to follow orders,” and in traditional UN style makes no suggestions or statement for action.
You could sense the unrest in the town, but at sunset I accepted the invitation of our Somali trucker (Hassan) to have an iftar meal with him after prayers in the mosque. I was waved through the many checkpoints that had appeared –the advantage of being white. I arrived at the mosque to find the middle of town crawling with soldiers. There were a few shouts and skirmishes proportional the traffic, but nothing too hostile. I got out of the car and called Hassan – he’d been stopped and a soldier had stolen his motorbike. He didn’t sound too miffed by this and seemed more concerned that he was late to meet me. He said he was sending a boy who’d spot me. He did moments later. As we shook hands in greeting the shooting started about 10m away. I didn’t stop to look. We jumped back into the car and I took off out of town, unfortunately in the opposite direction of my compound. There was running, shouting, and screaming as it seemed that soldiers were emptying their clips. God only knew into what.
I saw a face I recognized and waved him into the passenger side. It was a guy who worked at a water bottling plant up the road a bit. “Don’t go back!” he shouted...as if our forward trajectory at 50kph suggested I was about to turn around. We continued up the road and were ushered through the metal gate by the plant’s very young-looking security guard. The guy we came with vanished, but the others in the compound – Ethiopians who I’d bought cases of water from numerous time before – were quick to welcome me and my companion. “We can accommodate you here if you wish.” The sun had set, it was time to eat, the gunfire continued.
My worry about being out of my compound quickly subsided. My homing instinct gave way to logic: stupid shit happens at night, soldiers are more drunk, darkness hides my whiteness, our compound is walled only by a bamboo fence and the watchman is about 60. Next time I’m not walking out my door without my passport.
These four Ethiopian guys gave us water to break our fast, a mat to pray on and cooked a fantastic meal of barbecued meat, tomatoes and onions, mango juice and Ethiopian coffee. We sat around sharing stories about how stupid we thought the Dinkas are. It was actually a very nice night.
Around 11pm a motorbike pulled up the front gate. As we got up to see the watchman blindly opened it. I was relived to see a grinning Hassan drive in with a soldier riding pillion. I wasn’t sure who’d hijacked who. Hassan was well known by all the Ethiopians, too. He’d navigated the roadblocks and brought cakes and a carton of milk for my breakfast and an apology for the situation. I was very touched. I was also touched by the Ethiopians making up a bed for me with a mosquito net.
The fighting quietened down quickly and by dawn the town was silent. I drove back through it at around 7 and there was no evidence of anything happening the night before. Apparently it was just twits firing into the air mostly, but some decided to fire into buildings and crowds. No one knows what started it.
I really wasn’t in that much danger, but I was scared. I called my colleagues in the compound perhaps a few too many times when the networks would allow it to make sure everyone was ok, let them know where I was, and to compensate for the fact that no one seemed to be calling me, dammit. I had a car, fuel, a flashlight, but no cash and no ID (stupid I know). On top of that: no mosquito repellent. I got bitten to shit. I’m going to turn into one of those “always ready” guys with a bum-bag and waist-hidden security belt.
No I won’t. It was a minor scare, but I’m not compromising on style. Lesson learned. It’s just another reason to relocate -- I'm pinning a lot on this move, you can see. I went property searching last week (very exciting) and saw some fun places that varied in price considerably. Like most things the initial quote varies wildly. In one conversation on a place shaded by beautiful mango trees (I was sold in an instant) the guy gave 3 prices ranging from $1000 to $3500. I think I better keep my fair skin away from the negotiating table. It's not always helpful.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Control Freak
I have benefited from another’s demise. It’s a shame, but there’s not much room for regret in between the excitement and the scared shitless fear I have.
My boss was an ambitious, driven, energetic, skilled, and intrepid leader. Under his command we successfully put in place a distribution network that will get out 70,000 radios in 4 months over an area the size of France: all to his credit. But he was also the kind of guy who’d more readily ask for forgiveness than permission. Procedure, policy and paperwork were nothing more than obstacles to be circumvented. By the end of July he was unable to account for $31,500 of programme funds, all which he had issued to himself in cash advances.
He had not misappropriated it and, perhaps a little too easily, was able to produce receipts to account for it all. But given our organization’s 2 consecutive years of not so good audit findings and the fact that it’s public money, the shit hit the fan. As the finance director said, “there’s two ways to handle bad audit findings: fix the problem or blame someone.” There was a mutual agreement that he should leave to pursue other offers.
What was needed was someone who could build off the energy and networks put in place, but in a slightly more accountable manner. Someone who can do the reminder of the implementation but keep attention to detail. Call me Mr. Pragmatism. I was jetted off to meet the country director for a once over too see if I was suitable. The hour flight allowed me time to rehearse statements to hide my lack of attention to detail and tendency not to carry things through to completeness. Relative to my ex-boss, though, I’m a procedure angel. Not the label I’d have imagined for myself, if I’m honest.
He’d decided to offer me the job before I arrived, based on the good word of a friend of mine who he knew. I told you this was an incestuous world. Slightly ironic that we are partly here to combat nepotism and this is the second job I’ve got in 3 months based on knowing someone. It’s probably like this the world over, we’re just a bit more discreet about it in London.
I couldn’t say no. When else will I be handed such responsibility, based on such little experience? But the potential for disaster is significant:
I have a staff of 25. [Strike?]
I have a 90,000sqm compound, and 3 more that are being built. [Fire, delays, overrruns?]
I have 3 vehicles and one more on the way. [theft, damage, crash]
I have a budget of $1.6m of US taxpayer’s money. [shopping, anyone?]
No, really, I have no intention of misappropriating funds. I’m going to allow my brother (a US citizen) to choose the colors of the new compound we’re renovating in Wau thereby allowing a taxpayer a say in how his money is spent. I think that’s generous given that I was denied a greencard.
It’s intoxicating, exciting and a little irresponsible.
I’m determined not to fuck up just because it’s such a good opportunity and I can easily commit to the task at hand. It’s easy to do that in development, even if we’re over funded and looking for ways to dump cash. I’m also committed to making sure it goes to good use. I’m trying not to get ahead of myself and to keep my feet on the ground. My new boss, the country coordinator is involved with me at a good level to make sure that I have all the help and guidance I need.
Ultimately, it’s a very good reason to stay. Life will get easier, I think, despite the horrendous to do list I’ve inherited and its daily lengthening. Now that I have more control I can make a much better case for moving the program to a more agreeable location. And as I’ve learned again and again, life is generally better when you feel like you’re in control.
My boss was an ambitious, driven, energetic, skilled, and intrepid leader. Under his command we successfully put in place a distribution network that will get out 70,000 radios in 4 months over an area the size of France: all to his credit. But he was also the kind of guy who’d more readily ask for forgiveness than permission. Procedure, policy and paperwork were nothing more than obstacles to be circumvented. By the end of July he was unable to account for $31,500 of programme funds, all which he had issued to himself in cash advances.
He had not misappropriated it and, perhaps a little too easily, was able to produce receipts to account for it all. But given our organization’s 2 consecutive years of not so good audit findings and the fact that it’s public money, the shit hit the fan. As the finance director said, “there’s two ways to handle bad audit findings: fix the problem or blame someone.” There was a mutual agreement that he should leave to pursue other offers.
What was needed was someone who could build off the energy and networks put in place, but in a slightly more accountable manner. Someone who can do the reminder of the implementation but keep attention to detail. Call me Mr. Pragmatism. I was jetted off to meet the country director for a once over too see if I was suitable. The hour flight allowed me time to rehearse statements to hide my lack of attention to detail and tendency not to carry things through to completeness. Relative to my ex-boss, though, I’m a procedure angel. Not the label I’d have imagined for myself, if I’m honest.
He’d decided to offer me the job before I arrived, based on the good word of a friend of mine who he knew. I told you this was an incestuous world. Slightly ironic that we are partly here to combat nepotism and this is the second job I’ve got in 3 months based on knowing someone. It’s probably like this the world over, we’re just a bit more discreet about it in London.
I couldn’t say no. When else will I be handed such responsibility, based on such little experience? But the potential for disaster is significant:
I have a staff of 25. [Strike?]
I have a 90,000sqm compound, and 3 more that are being built. [Fire, delays, overrruns?]
I have 3 vehicles and one more on the way. [theft, damage, crash]
I have a budget of $1.6m of US taxpayer’s money. [shopping, anyone?]
No, really, I have no intention of misappropriating funds. I’m going to allow my brother (a US citizen) to choose the colors of the new compound we’re renovating in Wau thereby allowing a taxpayer a say in how his money is spent. I think that’s generous given that I was denied a greencard.
It’s intoxicating, exciting and a little irresponsible.
I’m determined not to fuck up just because it’s such a good opportunity and I can easily commit to the task at hand. It’s easy to do that in development, even if we’re over funded and looking for ways to dump cash. I’m also committed to making sure it goes to good use. I’m trying not to get ahead of myself and to keep my feet on the ground. My new boss, the country coordinator is involved with me at a good level to make sure that I have all the help and guidance I need.
Ultimately, it’s a very good reason to stay. Life will get easier, I think, despite the horrendous to do list I’ve inherited and its daily lengthening. Now that I have more control I can make a much better case for moving the program to a more agreeable location. And as I’ve learned again and again, life is generally better when you feel like you’re in control.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Bring on the criticism
Why is it that I don’t seem to be able to keep a new Nalgene bottle for more that a few days? The first I left on the foreign exchange counter in Nairobi airport. This second one got nicked along with about 100 radios when we were rushed by a community on my most recent distribution. I was feeing very bitter about that, but later found out that that night the town was raided by cattle thieves. They lost cows and house was burned. Fate is at least fair, and a bit of plastic isn’t too much to worry about.
The vacation to London was fun, but I didn’t return energized for the work. I didn’t really expect to, though. The time away was very good and I stocked up on all the things I wanted. It took 3 days, 5 stops and $1400 to get there, but the 8 days was very much worth it, if just to speak to my mother on a clear phone line and to thank my anal-retentive brother for neatly storing all of my stuff in his attic. He even shrink-wrapped my rucksack for me. Now that’s love. In between seeing family and buying all the stuff I needed, I actually had very little free time, but did manage to catch up with some friends. It was particularly nice to be cycling again, too. On leaving I managed to get everything into the suitcase, had 0.2kgs of luggage allowance to spare, got back to Rumbek in half the time it took to go and didn’t even have to bribe anyone to get out of the airport. So, all in all, a very good trip.
I faced some harsh criticism in the UK from a friend from whom I didn’t expect it. I was hoping that my time out of Sudan would give me the chance to cast a critical eye over my experiences of the last couple of months, and a positive outcome of his criticism was that it pushed me to do it. For this I’m grateful.
The charges were:
1) I have the air of a colonial.
2) I like telling people what to do.
3) I have little understanding of the culture.
4) I lack basic respect for the people and the culture and I owe it to them and to myself to leave.
Points 1 and 2 = yes, fine, ok, true. But I take as much as I give, and I’m the first to take the piss out of myself.
Point 3, also guilty, but that’s partly because I’ve not stopped moving since I arrived in an attempt to get these bloody radios out before the rains close off every road to everywhere.
Point 4 is what hurt the most, and this is why:
I visited a friend of a friend a year or two ago in Cambodia who was working for the UN. I was most grateful for the offer of accommodation and was suitably impressed by the plush centrally-located apartment, for which the rent was apparently extortionate. I was shocked, though, when I started asking him about the city and the country to find that he knew very little. He’d been there almost 2 years. How could you not know about the place in which you lived, especially as an expatriate working for a major development organization who has an influence on every part of society? Surely you NEED an understanding of the culture if you’re going to advise and put in place systems of governance for the country?
I didn’t express these thoughts to him, but picked up the following from conversations we had. His reasoning was that he was there to do a job at which he was more than competent and he offered skills that you couldn’t find in Cambodia. Importing them was the only option.
I disagreed. I felt there was a hidden cost to the presence of an expat. His employer paid his extortionate rent in hard currency. That landlord will never accept anything else again, nor will the neighbouring landlords. A similar inflation will happen in all the goods and services the foreigner buys. It’s good for the sellers but crap for the locals who live alongside the foreigner and who see everything they buy go up in price, because the foreigner and his army of colleagues don’t mind paying a dollar for a coffee. That’s cheap on their international salary, but still would take an unreasonable chunk of, say, his Cambodian admin assistant’s salary for just one drink.
And then there’s the culture thing. Surely an understanding of the culture is vital in order to be effective at your work, no?
Apparently not. It depends on who’s evaluating the efficacy of the work.
So based on this and on my experiences as a volunteer for two years in rural Ghana, I concluded that being an expat on an international salary in a developing country was a bad thing. If you’re going to be there, you should be doing and living like the locals, not ensconcing yourself in an air conditioned expat bubble.
I think I came to this conclusion a little too easily though: partly because I’m a little presumptuous, and mostly because I still desperately wanted a career in international development but had yet to make any headway into it. Criticizing made my position more comfortable.
I thought more on the issues. I spoke them over with a number of friends. I noted the salaries and benefits of said international positions. I re-concluded: there are a lot of international development jobs out there. I’m asking moral questions that most of the people who take these jobs don’t even consider. I’ve lived the volunteer life and have been passed by a big white UN vehicle whilst I was stranded in the middle of nowhere. I know how the other half lives. If I’m not in one of those jobs, one of them will be.
I knew I was opening myself up to criticism when I came here. I knew I’d be treading a thin line. I guess I was disappointed that the friend who I thought knew me so well, apparently missed such a sizable dilemma in my life.
I must apologize if anyone else is offended by my expressed demeanor or disdain, but I feel I have good reason for it. I feel I am consistent. I was disdainful whilst in Atlanta, Birmingham, London and Amman. I am equally disdainful here. It’s not a very nice quality, I know, but if I weren’t consistent, then I think there’d be a problem.
I have a basic respect for every person I meet for the fact that they are person and they have a story. Each may have suffered in their own personal way, but relative to each other I feel some warrant more time and effort. For example, those with access to free schooling and healthcare versus those with no access to basic sanitation. I do judge, also a bad habit.
Do I have respect for Sudanese culture? No, no not much, in all honesty. I haven’t seen much, nor learnt more that a few words of Dinka, but from what I have learnt, I can conclude that there is little Sudanese culture. Evidence of Cambodian culture hits the visitor immediately. Nothing like that happens here. There are not the practices and arts that you normally see of cultures that have pride: like Ashanti Kente, Jordanian Mensef, or English music concerts.
Instead, there is a pervasive practice of opportunism that is almost brutal, particularly against foreigners. If I am ever in a car accident/incident, I will be jailed and fined. If I fire one of my employees, even for drunkenness or theft, the courts will rule in his favour and I will have to pay compensation. Theft is a way of life.
Short-term thinking also pervades: get now, don’t invest time, money or effort in things that may pay off even as soon as tomorrow, such as a returning customer. Business owners fiddle the bills and over charge because you are here today, best take advantage.
There is little understanding or appreciation of the cause-effect relationship. My Sudanese employees do not appear to understand that by not doing a job properly now (like by slipping a few radios to a couple of guys nearby), there will soon be consequences (every guy nearby will rush at us to get one). The first instinct when something such as this goes wrong is to blame someone or everyone else: in this case the community was obviously insane.
The non-Sudanese employees and business owners are immediately apparent.
And then there’s the nepotism, corruption, tribalism...
So a lot of these you find anywhere on the planet, especially the nepotism, corruption, and fiddling of bills. The other issues we might explain by having just come out of a long-running war where you didn’t know how long you were going to live and knowing who your allies were governed whether you’d make it to the end of the week. What cause or effect is there, when if I’m connected I’ll be saved, if you’re not you won’t. Little else mattered. Incidentally where there was just as much South-South conflict as North-South conflict. Does this justify such behaviour today?
No, I think. But the fact that there was a war means I can better understand why it all happens. The best I can do, perhaps, is teach those I interact with that there is a better way. Or can I? Is that not being all colonial and imposing and disrespecting of local culture?
I recognize the atrocious and very long experience this country has faced, and respect that only 2 years after the formal end of the civil war, that there is little evidence of battles having been fought. But in almost every experience I have gone into since arriving, I have gone into with an open and neutral mind. I have later berated myself, in almost every instance, for not being harder or more brutal and for being a pushover. I leave with little respect for those I have interacted with, for the apparent harm they are doing to themselves. It gets to me after not too long.
It is because of this that, after even my short time here, I say that I see little promise and have little faith or respect for local culture. It’s harsh, but so is the environment. This isn’t across the whole country, of course. Just here in the Dinka strongholds of the South. Wau, a town about 4 ours away is a comparative paradise. We’ll be moving our office there in the coming months.
Ya, so you see the outcome of my critical thought and week-long vacation. My next vacation will have to be somewhere where I’m not allowed to self-analyze as much.
Why stay at all, you might be asking? There are pleasant experiences: wild monkeys on the road. Vibrant blue, red and yellow birds everywhere. No commute to work. Knowing that I am making a direct and immediate improvement to someone’s life. Frequent offers for marriage. Sunshine. Thunderstorms and lightening that put fireworks displays to shame. Being the only white guy in the mosque and seeing people’s reaction to me there. Eggs, chapattis and sweet tea by the roadside for breakfast. They’re not many, but they’ll do for now.
I’m still applying for jobs. I barraged the WHO with applications, but no love so far. Anyone know anyone who works for them who can put a good word in for me? Well, when in Rome…
Hope all are well.
The vacation to London was fun, but I didn’t return energized for the work. I didn’t really expect to, though. The time away was very good and I stocked up on all the things I wanted. It took 3 days, 5 stops and $1400 to get there, but the 8 days was very much worth it, if just to speak to my mother on a clear phone line and to thank my anal-retentive brother for neatly storing all of my stuff in his attic. He even shrink-wrapped my rucksack for me. Now that’s love. In between seeing family and buying all the stuff I needed, I actually had very little free time, but did manage to catch up with some friends. It was particularly nice to be cycling again, too. On leaving I managed to get everything into the suitcase, had 0.2kgs of luggage allowance to spare, got back to Rumbek in half the time it took to go and didn’t even have to bribe anyone to get out of the airport. So, all in all, a very good trip.
I faced some harsh criticism in the UK from a friend from whom I didn’t expect it. I was hoping that my time out of Sudan would give me the chance to cast a critical eye over my experiences of the last couple of months, and a positive outcome of his criticism was that it pushed me to do it. For this I’m grateful.
The charges were:
1) I have the air of a colonial.
2) I like telling people what to do.
3) I have little understanding of the culture.
4) I lack basic respect for the people and the culture and I owe it to them and to myself to leave.
Points 1 and 2 = yes, fine, ok, true. But I take as much as I give, and I’m the first to take the piss out of myself.
Point 3, also guilty, but that’s partly because I’ve not stopped moving since I arrived in an attempt to get these bloody radios out before the rains close off every road to everywhere.
Point 4 is what hurt the most, and this is why:
I visited a friend of a friend a year or two ago in Cambodia who was working for the UN. I was most grateful for the offer of accommodation and was suitably impressed by the plush centrally-located apartment, for which the rent was apparently extortionate. I was shocked, though, when I started asking him about the city and the country to find that he knew very little. He’d been there almost 2 years. How could you not know about the place in which you lived, especially as an expatriate working for a major development organization who has an influence on every part of society? Surely you NEED an understanding of the culture if you’re going to advise and put in place systems of governance for the country?
I didn’t express these thoughts to him, but picked up the following from conversations we had. His reasoning was that he was there to do a job at which he was more than competent and he offered skills that you couldn’t find in Cambodia. Importing them was the only option.
I disagreed. I felt there was a hidden cost to the presence of an expat. His employer paid his extortionate rent in hard currency. That landlord will never accept anything else again, nor will the neighbouring landlords. A similar inflation will happen in all the goods and services the foreigner buys. It’s good for the sellers but crap for the locals who live alongside the foreigner and who see everything they buy go up in price, because the foreigner and his army of colleagues don’t mind paying a dollar for a coffee. That’s cheap on their international salary, but still would take an unreasonable chunk of, say, his Cambodian admin assistant’s salary for just one drink.
And then there’s the culture thing. Surely an understanding of the culture is vital in order to be effective at your work, no?
Apparently not. It depends on who’s evaluating the efficacy of the work.
So based on this and on my experiences as a volunteer for two years in rural Ghana, I concluded that being an expat on an international salary in a developing country was a bad thing. If you’re going to be there, you should be doing and living like the locals, not ensconcing yourself in an air conditioned expat bubble.
I think I came to this conclusion a little too easily though: partly because I’m a little presumptuous, and mostly because I still desperately wanted a career in international development but had yet to make any headway into it. Criticizing made my position more comfortable.
I thought more on the issues. I spoke them over with a number of friends. I noted the salaries and benefits of said international positions. I re-concluded: there are a lot of international development jobs out there. I’m asking moral questions that most of the people who take these jobs don’t even consider. I’ve lived the volunteer life and have been passed by a big white UN vehicle whilst I was stranded in the middle of nowhere. I know how the other half lives. If I’m not in one of those jobs, one of them will be.
I knew I was opening myself up to criticism when I came here. I knew I’d be treading a thin line. I guess I was disappointed that the friend who I thought knew me so well, apparently missed such a sizable dilemma in my life.
I must apologize if anyone else is offended by my expressed demeanor or disdain, but I feel I have good reason for it. I feel I am consistent. I was disdainful whilst in Atlanta, Birmingham, London and Amman. I am equally disdainful here. It’s not a very nice quality, I know, but if I weren’t consistent, then I think there’d be a problem.
I have a basic respect for every person I meet for the fact that they are person and they have a story. Each may have suffered in their own personal way, but relative to each other I feel some warrant more time and effort. For example, those with access to free schooling and healthcare versus those with no access to basic sanitation. I do judge, also a bad habit.
Do I have respect for Sudanese culture? No, no not much, in all honesty. I haven’t seen much, nor learnt more that a few words of Dinka, but from what I have learnt, I can conclude that there is little Sudanese culture. Evidence of Cambodian culture hits the visitor immediately. Nothing like that happens here. There are not the practices and arts that you normally see of cultures that have pride: like Ashanti Kente, Jordanian Mensef, or English music concerts.
Instead, there is a pervasive practice of opportunism that is almost brutal, particularly against foreigners. If I am ever in a car accident/incident, I will be jailed and fined. If I fire one of my employees, even for drunkenness or theft, the courts will rule in his favour and I will have to pay compensation. Theft is a way of life.
Short-term thinking also pervades: get now, don’t invest time, money or effort in things that may pay off even as soon as tomorrow, such as a returning customer. Business owners fiddle the bills and over charge because you are here today, best take advantage.
There is little understanding or appreciation of the cause-effect relationship. My Sudanese employees do not appear to understand that by not doing a job properly now (like by slipping a few radios to a couple of guys nearby), there will soon be consequences (every guy nearby will rush at us to get one). The first instinct when something such as this goes wrong is to blame someone or everyone else: in this case the community was obviously insane.
The non-Sudanese employees and business owners are immediately apparent.
And then there’s the nepotism, corruption, tribalism...
So a lot of these you find anywhere on the planet, especially the nepotism, corruption, and fiddling of bills. The other issues we might explain by having just come out of a long-running war where you didn’t know how long you were going to live and knowing who your allies were governed whether you’d make it to the end of the week. What cause or effect is there, when if I’m connected I’ll be saved, if you’re not you won’t. Little else mattered. Incidentally where there was just as much South-South conflict as North-South conflict. Does this justify such behaviour today?
No, I think. But the fact that there was a war means I can better understand why it all happens. The best I can do, perhaps, is teach those I interact with that there is a better way. Or can I? Is that not being all colonial and imposing and disrespecting of local culture?
I recognize the atrocious and very long experience this country has faced, and respect that only 2 years after the formal end of the civil war, that there is little evidence of battles having been fought. But in almost every experience I have gone into since arriving, I have gone into with an open and neutral mind. I have later berated myself, in almost every instance, for not being harder or more brutal and for being a pushover. I leave with little respect for those I have interacted with, for the apparent harm they are doing to themselves. It gets to me after not too long.
It is because of this that, after even my short time here, I say that I see little promise and have little faith or respect for local culture. It’s harsh, but so is the environment. This isn’t across the whole country, of course. Just here in the Dinka strongholds of the South. Wau, a town about 4 ours away is a comparative paradise. We’ll be moving our office there in the coming months.
Ya, so you see the outcome of my critical thought and week-long vacation. My next vacation will have to be somewhere where I’m not allowed to self-analyze as much.
Why stay at all, you might be asking? There are pleasant experiences: wild monkeys on the road. Vibrant blue, red and yellow birds everywhere. No commute to work. Knowing that I am making a direct and immediate improvement to someone’s life. Frequent offers for marriage. Sunshine. Thunderstorms and lightening that put fireworks displays to shame. Being the only white guy in the mosque and seeing people’s reaction to me there. Eggs, chapattis and sweet tea by the roadside for breakfast. They’re not many, but they’ll do for now.
I’m still applying for jobs. I barraged the WHO with applications, but no love so far. Anyone know anyone who works for them who can put a good word in for me? Well, when in Rome…
Hope all are well.
Monday, July 7, 2008
All about me
Ok, now I’m bored of this. I know, it’s only been 2 months, I have the attention span of a gnat and in professional terms I’ve only been here 2 seconds. But as the novelty wears off and the annoyances mount, I’m beginning to see this whole experience for what it really is: a job.
I’m benefiting, no doubt. It is a well-paid job and the journey each day down an appalling road to a different distribution location with the now normal obstacles of mud and water sure as hell beats the daily and repetitive commute to Islington town hall. The challenges are novel and most surmountable: get to place x, budget accordingly, make repairs on the way, buy and carry fuel, arrange distributions in these locations, avoid those locations, notify now for distribution to happen then, keep team motivated throughout... A lot of it is fun and tiring in a good way.
But there’s a lot that’s not so fun. I’m doing something that I’m slightly opposed to morally. Whilst in Ghana I came across an American woman there on behalf of the Baptist church whose mission (both God and church-given) was to distribute toys to children. Thinking at that time was that actually they could do better with water, sanitation and education. Are radios any better than toys? In many ways I think no.
It’s not that I think giving people access to reliable information at any time they wish is a bad thing, it’s just that a couple of white guys showing up and doling out shit for free is completely not the type of thing I agree with. If someone wants something, should they not be willing to work for it? Whilst I do not tolerate the physical threats that are unsettlingly numerous, I no longer get upset when people in the communities we go get angry when we run out of radios. Why have we favored some to give them a radio and not another? Are we really unbiased? Am I more likely to give a radio to someone who’s attractive, has a nice smile, greets me and is Moslem? Probably, yes.
We threaten dire (though secretly unenforceable) consequences if we find someone trying to sell their radio. Each has a serial number that is recorded with their name when they collect it. I actually think we should be encouraging them to do what they want with the things – sell it for money, dissect it to learn how it works, trade it for favors – now that’s what I call empowerment. The information we gather about populations and their make up is no doubt finding its way to someone who wants it (it’s a US government project). And the most fantastic irony: we encourage people to listen to a particular program about Sudan’s development broadcast by Sudan Radio Service. The program is on each morning from 8-9am in Arabic and English. The vast majority of our female recipients, who are fully occupied during the morning hours, speak neither language. Our funding organization is staffed by women who all remind me of Bridget Jones. They seem very vague about what they want, what they are trying to achieve and how they are going to do it.
I’ve mentioned before that the culture is hostile one. A few more incidents have brought this home recently. We came across a 20-ton truck stuck in the mud on a road on our way home this past week. The Somali driver begged us, with what seemed like genuine fear, to try to pull him out even though his vehicle far out-sized my two combined. I soon understood his concern. Nearby was an army barracks and the soldiers, wanting him to give them a lift to their destination 40km away, chose to abuse him rather than work to get him (and their only transport) free. The driver and his mates had been beaten and had their cargo and diesel stolen. We managed to pull the truck free (I wish I’d had camera for that, and for the expression of joy on the driver’s face), but the celebrations were killed off when the MP who was looking on took a swing at me when I refused to carry him. Prick. This is what happens when you give idiots guns.
Whilst I could rely on my team in the face of an outright threat like this, I questioned them later. We ran out of money and I was looking to exchange some of my personal stash of USD. You get poor rates for small bills and even poorer rates for notes of older series. Many places won’t even accept notes from prior to 2001. This pisses me off because they’re all accepted by the central bank. Each exchanger claims to need to protect his interests (from what I’m unsure). As I went to reluctantly change a bill from 1998 for 20% less than one from 2004, one of my team stopped me and offered to change it for me at the same rate: he wanted dollars and knew he could get a better rate when we reached back to Rumbek. My first thought was “git, if you’ve got cash, loan it to us so we can get home,” but by that point I was tired and hungry so gave him the $. I guess he wanted to protect his interests too.
My boss and I have butted heads few times. It took one particular argument to remind me, very vividly, why it was that I decided to leave the US: the pervasive sense of selfishness. Having been sent on two consecutive days to locations that failed to be notified that we were coming for the distribution (his responsibility) I had to face an inquisition on my return over why I had not distributed all the radios I carried out. In one location I had to drag guys off the car. An email that he sent back to the our head of programmes addressing our funders concerns of our going too fast and cutting too many corners read something like “I’ve always addressed each of these points personally in my distributions. I don’t know what Shareef has been doing, but I’ll make sure he does it as I do from now on.” This is utter bollocks. The corners I’ve learned to cut, I’ve done so from watching him. I guess as program manager, he has interests to protect, too.
It is instances like these, particularly the latter two where a threat comes from within, that really drives the message home: you are on your own.
So, what’s the remedy?
1) Start acting the same way and 2) go on vacation.
Things aren’t so bad that I’m having to look for other jobs – but I am looking, nonetheless. I think it’s best I keep my eyes open and feel no sense of obligation to this project or my colleagues. I do hold the title of consultant, after all. I’m aware of many overpaid and underworked UN positions so might look to give one a try. Maybe I’ll also stay content if I remain solidly mercenary. I will stay as along as I’m learning and am being well paid for it.
Regarding the vacation: it’s been 2 months, which means I get a week of break and a grand to leave the country to anywhere I want. Talk about cushy, huh? I want to go somewhere with where I can act to my own schedule, eat fruit and vegetables and a variety of foods and fish, drink fruit juice, enjoy a fast internet connection, use a kitchen and a clean flushing toilet, buy music and movies, and have a good possibility of getting nookie. And because I’m starting to think all about and around me, I’m not going to tell you where it is.
xx
I’m benefiting, no doubt. It is a well-paid job and the journey each day down an appalling road to a different distribution location with the now normal obstacles of mud and water sure as hell beats the daily and repetitive commute to Islington town hall. The challenges are novel and most surmountable: get to place x, budget accordingly, make repairs on the way, buy and carry fuel, arrange distributions in these locations, avoid those locations, notify now for distribution to happen then, keep team motivated throughout... A lot of it is fun and tiring in a good way.
But there’s a lot that’s not so fun. I’m doing something that I’m slightly opposed to morally. Whilst in Ghana I came across an American woman there on behalf of the Baptist church whose mission (both God and church-given) was to distribute toys to children. Thinking at that time was that actually they could do better with water, sanitation and education. Are radios any better than toys? In many ways I think no.
It’s not that I think giving people access to reliable information at any time they wish is a bad thing, it’s just that a couple of white guys showing up and doling out shit for free is completely not the type of thing I agree with. If someone wants something, should they not be willing to work for it? Whilst I do not tolerate the physical threats that are unsettlingly numerous, I no longer get upset when people in the communities we go get angry when we run out of radios. Why have we favored some to give them a radio and not another? Are we really unbiased? Am I more likely to give a radio to someone who’s attractive, has a nice smile, greets me and is Moslem? Probably, yes.
We threaten dire (though secretly unenforceable) consequences if we find someone trying to sell their radio. Each has a serial number that is recorded with their name when they collect it. I actually think we should be encouraging them to do what they want with the things – sell it for money, dissect it to learn how it works, trade it for favors – now that’s what I call empowerment. The information we gather about populations and their make up is no doubt finding its way to someone who wants it (it’s a US government project). And the most fantastic irony: we encourage people to listen to a particular program about Sudan’s development broadcast by Sudan Radio Service. The program is on each morning from 8-9am in Arabic and English. The vast majority of our female recipients, who are fully occupied during the morning hours, speak neither language. Our funding organization is staffed by women who all remind me of Bridget Jones. They seem very vague about what they want, what they are trying to achieve and how they are going to do it.
I’ve mentioned before that the culture is hostile one. A few more incidents have brought this home recently. We came across a 20-ton truck stuck in the mud on a road on our way home this past week. The Somali driver begged us, with what seemed like genuine fear, to try to pull him out even though his vehicle far out-sized my two combined. I soon understood his concern. Nearby was an army barracks and the soldiers, wanting him to give them a lift to their destination 40km away, chose to abuse him rather than work to get him (and their only transport) free. The driver and his mates had been beaten and had their cargo and diesel stolen. We managed to pull the truck free (I wish I’d had camera for that, and for the expression of joy on the driver’s face), but the celebrations were killed off when the MP who was looking on took a swing at me when I refused to carry him. Prick. This is what happens when you give idiots guns.
Whilst I could rely on my team in the face of an outright threat like this, I questioned them later. We ran out of money and I was looking to exchange some of my personal stash of USD. You get poor rates for small bills and even poorer rates for notes of older series. Many places won’t even accept notes from prior to 2001. This pisses me off because they’re all accepted by the central bank. Each exchanger claims to need to protect his interests (from what I’m unsure). As I went to reluctantly change a bill from 1998 for 20% less than one from 2004, one of my team stopped me and offered to change it for me at the same rate: he wanted dollars and knew he could get a better rate when we reached back to Rumbek. My first thought was “git, if you’ve got cash, loan it to us so we can get home,” but by that point I was tired and hungry so gave him the $. I guess he wanted to protect his interests too.
My boss and I have butted heads few times. It took one particular argument to remind me, very vividly, why it was that I decided to leave the US: the pervasive sense of selfishness. Having been sent on two consecutive days to locations that failed to be notified that we were coming for the distribution (his responsibility) I had to face an inquisition on my return over why I had not distributed all the radios I carried out. In one location I had to drag guys off the car. An email that he sent back to the our head of programmes addressing our funders concerns of our going too fast and cutting too many corners read something like “I’ve always addressed each of these points personally in my distributions. I don’t know what Shareef has been doing, but I’ll make sure he does it as I do from now on.” This is utter bollocks. The corners I’ve learned to cut, I’ve done so from watching him. I guess as program manager, he has interests to protect, too.
It is instances like these, particularly the latter two where a threat comes from within, that really drives the message home: you are on your own.
So, what’s the remedy?
1) Start acting the same way and 2) go on vacation.
Things aren’t so bad that I’m having to look for other jobs – but I am looking, nonetheless. I think it’s best I keep my eyes open and feel no sense of obligation to this project or my colleagues. I do hold the title of consultant, after all. I’m aware of many overpaid and underworked UN positions so might look to give one a try. Maybe I’ll also stay content if I remain solidly mercenary. I will stay as along as I’m learning and am being well paid for it.
Regarding the vacation: it’s been 2 months, which means I get a week of break and a grand to leave the country to anywhere I want. Talk about cushy, huh? I want to go somewhere with where I can act to my own schedule, eat fruit and vegetables and a variety of foods and fish, drink fruit juice, enjoy a fast internet connection, use a kitchen and a clean flushing toilet, buy music and movies, and have a good possibility of getting nookie. And because I’m starting to think all about and around me, I’m not going to tell you where it is.
xx
Sunday, June 22, 2008
I do hope this is skimmed milk
Another couple of weeks, another bunch of remote places, another few thousand radios. Ok, I’m getting used to this now. There were trees, more mud huts, more mud and lots and lots of black people. Does this crate the necessary imagery in lieu of my lack of camera? There are actually more pictures on flikr, none taken by me, but all from my most recent journey out in to the bush.
This trip (two combined in one) was actually different in a lot of ways. Most notably because I was running the show for 2 weeks - my boss was on leave. This, in and of itself was thrilling, and from this fortnight I understand why managers get paid just that little bit more. Christ, it was like babysitting. Bickering aside, there were some very good days and I think this is because I’ve heeded the advice of a good friend in a similarly uncivilized location (Dudley, UK) and am much less fighting the situations in which I find myself, and more just letting them unfold. In most cases the situation does not go exactly as I planned, but the outcome is as I wanted and those who felt that they should have been in control, felt so. A win – win situation all round. What’s been good:
I’ve discovered that I speak the language of civil servants. I knew my time in local government would pay off. I’ve found myself addressing groups of County and Payam (level below a county) Administrators – in a very Humphrey Appelby manner - and getting exactly the response I was hoping for. I quite enjoyed this, as you can imagine.
I stayed for a few days at a UN compound upcountry in a town called Rubkona. I now have first hand proof that the UN does almost nothing apart from swanning around in white vehicles that non UN staff are not allowed to look at let alone ride in. But I got to stay in one of their plush converted shipping container-turned rooms (cut 2 holes for windows, one for door and one for AC). The AC felt particularly decadent, but it was my birthday – also celebrated by an orange, apple, grapefruit, and mango. I was having fantasies about fresh fruit, and almost immediately as if by divine intervention, I saw a man selling fruit on the side of the road (the first I’ve seen in Sudan). I made him very wealthy. I’ve been blessed by such moments at just the right intervals over the last couple of weeks to keep me generally quite happy. Another was finding a woman who makes strong Arabic-style coffee, but with ginger and tea with cinnamon, and sitting in the back of the tent the was serving from, letting the smoke from the sandalwood burned to chase flies away also hide me, and shade the bright afternoon light that streamed in.
In one community, Mankien, I experienced something else new. I think this was in part because until now we’ve been working at a frenetic pace. It was a good sign when we arrived and a woman approached the car simply to greet the newcomers. In every place I have been up until now, people have approached to ask for something. Here was the first where it felt like we were firmly on the receiving end. And it got better.
Peter, Mankien’s head catechist, had been plying me with food and drink since my arrival late in the night a few days before. He found me within 20 minutes of my arrival in the town. I'd not been allowed to buy even a bottle of water for myself, and it was only narrowly that I convinced him that he didn't need to house or wash the clothes of me and my 6-member team (plus 2 drivers). I conceded to have dinner each night and breakfast with him each morning and by 7:45 on the morning of the planned distribution I was washed, dressed and drinking my second glass of strong, sweet and milky tea. It had taken me two days to piece together two facts here: 1 – the milkiness was really full flavored and there was a skin on top of the tea, like you get with fresh milk, 2- there were three cows in the corner of the compound. As I begun to pray that mixing with hot tea would equate to pasturization, my thought process was interrupted by a visitor who wished to speak specifically to me.
I couldn’t guess her age, but she moved slowly. The softness in her eyes was framed by a story of something much harder, as the deep wrinkles mingled with her tribal markings. She introduced herself via Peter, and wanted to thank us for bringing her and her community the opportunity of knowledge by giving them these radios. She was praying for God to bless us.
I stammered a comparably feeble response along the lines of "I'm just deliverin em, luv,” (I blame it on the milk) but Peter translated this into what he seemed to think I should have said and the woman was happy.
And she was just one of many to express her gratitude. Because the surrounding communities were inaccessible by vehicle, the members of those communities who received blue pre-distribution cards had come Mankien. Most had arrived the previous day. Their, up to 4 hour, walk across the swamps had not abated their excitement and processions of drumming and singing weaved their way around Mankien until late in the night. They started again early the following morning. In another community I cocked up the numbers and arrived with too few radios. The local administrator was very worried about trying to explain this to the community, for fear that they would accuse him of keeping them for himself, so he asked me to address the crowd. I did so (more Evita than Humphrey Appelby here), apologizing and asking for their forgiveness. A bold girl at the back shouted in response “it’s ok, what you’ve brought is enough for us”. Mwaaaaa.
That was all sharply contrasted to the place I’ve just come from, where the villages were crawling with soldiers and a lot the men wear women’s dresses – not because cross-dressing is popular, rather because the men have intercepted aid goods intended for women. They fought over everything and fought us at every step of the way. The County administrator’s first question to me was “where is the radio for me?”
When we arrived in the town, we greeted a man and asked for direction to the catholic mission. “You’re not from here,” he replied and studied us for a good moment before reluctantly pointing the way.
I think it’s a result of ethnic homogeneity. Down here in the South it’s almost 100% Dinka, whereas up North it’s a mix of indigenous Nuer, Dinka from the South, Arabs from North Sudan and black Muslims from Darfur. In Mankien they resented the colossal green mosque in the middle of their primarily Christian town (a handdown from the war when the town was occupied by the Northern army), but the ethnic Arab traders who stayed on have become a part of the community. As they all brush up against each other there is friction, but they all seem to recognize the difference. And that probably makes each reflect on himself.
Not down here in Dinkaland, where there is a dangerous combination of pride and ignorance. They are closed off from the rest of the country and the rest of the world. As far as they are concerned, outside has nothing to offer. Our distribution had to stop as a minor riot broke out and ran over someone’s house. All aid organizations have pulled out of this area, stating complications when trying to work with the community.
Ah well, some people got radios. I hope they use them, appreciate them and learn of the world beyond their towns. If I could, I’d have taken the batch back up to Mankien. But maybe these demonstrably ignorant and aggressive people one are the ones in greater need. It’s just good to feel appreciated, I guess. It’s interesting, though, that given that the war ended just 2 years ago, the ex-occupied towns are the most hospitable and developed. This says something about preparedness for independence.
Don’t worry, my arrogance isn’t carrying me away. A couple of things that brought me back to earth: I got sick again (not Brucellosis). I think a touch of Cholera this time – it was not pretty, but I’ve made a full recovery, thank God. Also a near car crash where a goat ran in front of me at 80kph on a dirt road. I really can’t remember what I did with the pedals and the wheel, but I’m quite certain that it wasn’t governed by much logic. The result was a skid down into the ditch on the right side of the road, then up, over and down to the left side of the road, then back to the middle in a large (albeit graceful) arc the left us pointing in the opposite direction. I thanked God for saving us and restoring my humility.
Off again today.
xx
This trip (two combined in one) was actually different in a lot of ways. Most notably because I was running the show for 2 weeks - my boss was on leave. This, in and of itself was thrilling, and from this fortnight I understand why managers get paid just that little bit more. Christ, it was like babysitting. Bickering aside, there were some very good days and I think this is because I’ve heeded the advice of a good friend in a similarly uncivilized location (Dudley, UK) and am much less fighting the situations in which I find myself, and more just letting them unfold. In most cases the situation does not go exactly as I planned, but the outcome is as I wanted and those who felt that they should have been in control, felt so. A win – win situation all round. What’s been good:
I’ve discovered that I speak the language of civil servants. I knew my time in local government would pay off. I’ve found myself addressing groups of County and Payam (level below a county) Administrators – in a very Humphrey Appelby manner - and getting exactly the response I was hoping for. I quite enjoyed this, as you can imagine.
I stayed for a few days at a UN compound upcountry in a town called Rubkona. I now have first hand proof that the UN does almost nothing apart from swanning around in white vehicles that non UN staff are not allowed to look at let alone ride in. But I got to stay in one of their plush converted shipping container-turned rooms (cut 2 holes for windows, one for door and one for AC). The AC felt particularly decadent, but it was my birthday – also celebrated by an orange, apple, grapefruit, and mango. I was having fantasies about fresh fruit, and almost immediately as if by divine intervention, I saw a man selling fruit on the side of the road (the first I’ve seen in Sudan). I made him very wealthy. I’ve been blessed by such moments at just the right intervals over the last couple of weeks to keep me generally quite happy. Another was finding a woman who makes strong Arabic-style coffee, but with ginger and tea with cinnamon, and sitting in the back of the tent the was serving from, letting the smoke from the sandalwood burned to chase flies away also hide me, and shade the bright afternoon light that streamed in.
In one community, Mankien, I experienced something else new. I think this was in part because until now we’ve been working at a frenetic pace. It was a good sign when we arrived and a woman approached the car simply to greet the newcomers. In every place I have been up until now, people have approached to ask for something. Here was the first where it felt like we were firmly on the receiving end. And it got better.
Peter, Mankien’s head catechist, had been plying me with food and drink since my arrival late in the night a few days before. He found me within 20 minutes of my arrival in the town. I'd not been allowed to buy even a bottle of water for myself, and it was only narrowly that I convinced him that he didn't need to house or wash the clothes of me and my 6-member team (plus 2 drivers). I conceded to have dinner each night and breakfast with him each morning and by 7:45 on the morning of the planned distribution I was washed, dressed and drinking my second glass of strong, sweet and milky tea. It had taken me two days to piece together two facts here: 1 – the milkiness was really full flavored and there was a skin on top of the tea, like you get with fresh milk, 2- there were three cows in the corner of the compound. As I begun to pray that mixing with hot tea would equate to pasturization, my thought process was interrupted by a visitor who wished to speak specifically to me.
I couldn’t guess her age, but she moved slowly. The softness in her eyes was framed by a story of something much harder, as the deep wrinkles mingled with her tribal markings. She introduced herself via Peter, and wanted to thank us for bringing her and her community the opportunity of knowledge by giving them these radios. She was praying for God to bless us.
I stammered a comparably feeble response along the lines of "I'm just deliverin em, luv,” (I blame it on the milk) but Peter translated this into what he seemed to think I should have said and the woman was happy.
And she was just one of many to express her gratitude. Because the surrounding communities were inaccessible by vehicle, the members of those communities who received blue pre-distribution cards had come Mankien. Most had arrived the previous day. Their, up to 4 hour, walk across the swamps had not abated their excitement and processions of drumming and singing weaved their way around Mankien until late in the night. They started again early the following morning. In another community I cocked up the numbers and arrived with too few radios. The local administrator was very worried about trying to explain this to the community, for fear that they would accuse him of keeping them for himself, so he asked me to address the crowd. I did so (more Evita than Humphrey Appelby here), apologizing and asking for their forgiveness. A bold girl at the back shouted in response “it’s ok, what you’ve brought is enough for us”. Mwaaaaa.
That was all sharply contrasted to the place I’ve just come from, where the villages were crawling with soldiers and a lot the men wear women’s dresses – not because cross-dressing is popular, rather because the men have intercepted aid goods intended for women. They fought over everything and fought us at every step of the way. The County administrator’s first question to me was “where is the radio for me?”
When we arrived in the town, we greeted a man and asked for direction to the catholic mission. “You’re not from here,” he replied and studied us for a good moment before reluctantly pointing the way.
I think it’s a result of ethnic homogeneity. Down here in the South it’s almost 100% Dinka, whereas up North it’s a mix of indigenous Nuer, Dinka from the South, Arabs from North Sudan and black Muslims from Darfur. In Mankien they resented the colossal green mosque in the middle of their primarily Christian town (a handdown from the war when the town was occupied by the Northern army), but the ethnic Arab traders who stayed on have become a part of the community. As they all brush up against each other there is friction, but they all seem to recognize the difference. And that probably makes each reflect on himself.
Not down here in Dinkaland, where there is a dangerous combination of pride and ignorance. They are closed off from the rest of the country and the rest of the world. As far as they are concerned, outside has nothing to offer. Our distribution had to stop as a minor riot broke out and ran over someone’s house. All aid organizations have pulled out of this area, stating complications when trying to work with the community.
Ah well, some people got radios. I hope they use them, appreciate them and learn of the world beyond their towns. If I could, I’d have taken the batch back up to Mankien. But maybe these demonstrably ignorant and aggressive people one are the ones in greater need. It’s just good to feel appreciated, I guess. It’s interesting, though, that given that the war ended just 2 years ago, the ex-occupied towns are the most hospitable and developed. This says something about preparedness for independence.
Don’t worry, my arrogance isn’t carrying me away. A couple of things that brought me back to earth: I got sick again (not Brucellosis). I think a touch of Cholera this time – it was not pretty, but I’ve made a full recovery, thank God. Also a near car crash where a goat ran in front of me at 80kph on a dirt road. I really can’t remember what I did with the pedals and the wheel, but I’m quite certain that it wasn’t governed by much logic. The result was a skid down into the ditch on the right side of the road, then up, over and down to the left side of the road, then back to the middle in a large (albeit graceful) arc the left us pointing in the opposite direction. I thanked God for saving us and restoring my humility.
Off again today.
xx
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