Revolution 9

(I don't think John or Yoko will mind if I put their lyrics out of order... sort of their point wasn't it?)

(Editorial note added after: Why is Revolution 9 more appropriate to this Egypt today than Revolution? The song Revolution is before the action, almost mocking it - but Revolution 9 is clearly after the action and dealing with the chaos and the pieces and the potential of change.)

* * * 

Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine

Take this, brother, may it serve you well
Maybe it's nothing
What, what oh...
Maybe, even then, impervious in London [Cairo]
...Could be difficult thing...
It's quick like rush for peace because it's so much
Like being naked
It's alright, it's alright, it's alright, it's alright

* * *

The incessant horns of traffic have been tuned into an anthem for today. The conductor is blind and invisible. Two long and three short blasts.
Beeeeeeep Beeeeeeeep Beep Beep Beep

I am privledge to have witnessed this event. And not from my balcony, but from street level.

I met a friend at the metro station and we walked to a cafe to have a sheesha and a tea. We chatted over the loud television about the media, about how people want to go back to normal, about how incredible it is. We watched people walk by. There was a quick address, in arabic, so we kept talking - then everyone cheered. We asked for a quick translation.

"He left."
"He is no longer president?"
"Yes. The army."

Firecrackers, I say. My friend thinks it's celebratory gun fire next door. We will never know, but celebratory it is indeed. That's when the cars started honking, rolling by. Where their Egyptian flags had been stuck in windows, they were now being waved by youth hanging out of moving cars.

I walk the 20 minutes back home, the
Beeeeeeeeeeep Beeeeeeeeeeep Beep Beep Beep continues with flags and cheers, punctual but repeated.

At the small roundabout just after the train track, for the first time I have ever seen, the fountain was flowing and lighted. I jump and laugh at myself as a young man throws fireworks in the air.

* * * 

But what now? Wow, this will be interesting.

We are smiling large pumpkin grins with a shadow of

Cautious Optimism. 

This is not Africa, we say. 

Tongue in cheek, but it's true.

* * *

  There was not really enough light to get down,
And ultimately (...) Slumped down
Suddenly...
They may stop the funding...
Place your bets
The original
Afraid she'll die (...)
Great colours for the season
 

Number nine, number nine

* * *

So, I will update quite a bit in the next few days.
Until then, please check out this interview of me on a Seattle rogue podcast show (The Marty Riemer Show). He wanted to talk to me about Egypt, about what the people are saying. I didn't really want to talk about what Egyptians are saying. I guess I see his point of view, it IS interesting, but they are saying it themselves and I thought asking me was sorta lazy.  After the interview I wrote him an email, but I don't think he mentioned it on later shows. That's fine, I still dig him and his show. Check him out if you are from the area.

Here's a sorta wordy excerpt of my sorta wordy email:

"Howdy Yaz, Marty et al.

It is a really romantic idea to go join the protests here in Cairo, (to get out as you said... )
to go collect some iconic pictures on my own camera,
to be one with the people, to make history, and to yell
"Viva la revolution!" (preferably in a sweet spanish accent)
or "Down with zee facists!" (preferably in a sweet french accent).

But it is actually a stupid, not a romantic, idea for me to do that.

Foreigners like me have nothing to offer these protests: it is theirs and should remain by and for Egyptians. It is not my place. In fact, by participating I could undermine their message. By trying to interpret their message I could also undermine it. Their message is getting out by "real journalists" and by their own voices (esp. online), i.e. not by me. 
By the way- you can get an Al Jazeera English app for your smart phone that streams it live  (... and if THAT is not available from Comcast, then maybe our own government should be over thrown... ha ha ha.)

Sorry, I know there are a lot of activists and politically active people out there (a lot of them are my friends and probably your listeners) ... It is good, important and there is a place for that sort of activism. But it is not my style, nor appropriate here. You see, I find it a bit pretentious when privileged white people pretend to "feel the pain" of the less fortunate. I am a privledged white person and I try not to pretend to be anything else. We all want to help people (usually for selfish reasons, in fact, but that's another debate) but sometimes,
the best way to help someone is NOT by protesting with them
and NOT by running down to watch them for our own entertainment and awe,
but by doing nothing.

In Cairo, they don't have any need for me (a privileged, sarcastic, white lady) right now and THAT is exactly what makes these events so powerful and extraordinary - even for my fruit dude.

Take care and I'll keep listening. Love your show.
Maybe after this settles down, I'll have another perspective (a real one) to show you... if you like. I haven't made it to the pyramids yet, but I heard they smell like piss."

* * *

Number nine, number nine
Who's to know?
Who was to know?
Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine
Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine
Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine
I sustained nothing worse than (...) 

* * *

Beeeeeeeeep Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep Beep Beep Beep

has replaced the gunfire that started this and it sounds like cautious optimism.

Tourist tales

It's been a while, I know. I've been on vacation and have now emptied my brain of all things.
Time to fill it back up.

* * *

I started this "10 writing contest adventure" back in April last year. I have entered 6 so far, again - no wins and waiting on 1 result. I will try to at least enter the last 4 before this April. Look for that coming up.

* * *

Two perspectives of malaria.

I have had malaria twice while working: first time in DR Congo, second time in Kenya. The routine when you are in the bush is to find someone to look at a blood slide, get some meds and rest (no big deal). Malaria fevers come in cycles. Mornings are clear, afternoons wreck you- so in Congo I would go to work in the morning, then go home in the afternoon and cry about my crazy sick malaria induced nightmares and headaches. Total cost: 10$ maximum.

The third time I had malaria, I was on vacation: I was 4 days back to "the homeland" from Haiti this past November. In the great United States, malaria was deemed "a life threatening condition". Emergency room, ICU, specialist infectious disease doctors, CDC reports, more doctors and visits from students. Monitors of all sorts of vital signs, IVs, worries about my low blood pressure, but never enough pain meds to eliminate the incredible headaches. Total cost: 36,000$ minimum.

* * *

Next leg of the vacation was Syria for Christmas time (and a weekend in Beirut, Lebanon). I was somehow surprised, and somehow not surprised, to find that Christmas in the Middle East is just as commercialized and tacky as it is in the states. Almost identical. Neighborhoods where neighbors compete with extreme lights displays. Sales. Carols in the malls.

Mario and his family were superb hosts to this intrepid in-law-come-tourist. We visited many stark, dusty, open, sunny, quiet, old sites... St. Simion church where a man stood on the pillar for 40 years and today rests an obilisk, the Citadel in Aleppo, Ain Dara site, Rasafa and Jabbar castle on a pristine lake. I guess because of the season, there was no one around.

It was as if all these ancient walls, rooms, stables, churches, mosques existed only for me to crawl around in. Mario was a good sport and waited patiently while his wife turned into a kid crawling down, down into water cisterns and up, up onto falling down walls where I thought the slight wind might blow me over.

Driving to and from such sites gave another view of Syria. Not the upper middle class apartments and Christmas lights. Not the ancient antiquities and tourists sites. Mud houses, nomadic tents of farm workers, bright clothes on the lines, black dirty workshops tucked into a tiny unfinished room, bus stops with tiny shade. Men working, drinking tea. Stooped women in heavy clothes. Boys collecting sticks. Girls collecting water on their backs, with donkeys. Agriculture. Rain fed. Irrigation- unlined canals, lined canals built parabolas leveled just so, weirs, gates, control valves, drip systems, boreholes, rotating sprays like Nebraska.


Syria is under drought.
Like Kenya. Like Afghanistan.
While others are under water.

To the right is me in a huge water cistern. Long ago it was filled with rain water, collected runoff in a desert in northern Syria. While differing in construction and style from those in northern Kenya, it is basically the same thing as what is called a birkad in Somali.

* * *

Then the great return to Kenya for 2 weeks. A week at the beach. Few days in the mountains. Our old haunts. Saw lots of wonderful friends.

Driving in from the airport to town, some things seemed to have changed. Some roads were repaired. A new overpass and bridge was under construction. Many new apartment buildings going up too quickly to be built to code. The slums are so big, you don't notice they grow.

Reading the paper, nothing seemed to have changed. The International Criminal Court has publicly named 6 politicians for inciting the last bout of ethnic violence associated with the 2007 elections (see post from 2008). The unity government promptly dedicated millions to defending them and is on a major campaign to keep the 6 in Kenya for trial. Meanwhile, the northern areas of the country is being thrashed by more (repeated without recovery) drought, animals and livelihoods dying, people are threatened by lack of food and water, while the farmers in the bread basket area of the country have ruined crops.

It isn't as simple as one paragraph. Or even two.
It never is.

Unemployed men still seek out small shadows under trees, bushes, skinny lamp posts on every median, every corner, every small park in which to curl and hide from sun and sons and wives during hot afternoons spent waiting.

* * *

Next up, first impressions of my new home, Cairo.

I me mine

Having perspective and having a perspective are two different things.

* * *

All thru' the day I me mine, I me mine, I me mine.
All thru' the night I me mine, I me mine, I me mine.

* * *

Last night, the BBC criticized the UN's coordination of the humanitarian response to cholera outbreak in Haiti. I told my dad, that was my job.  I am not a defensive person, I didn't take it personally (I am a small person in a big machine), I know we worked our asses off. I have my criticisms too.

* * *

Now they're frightened of leaving it
Ev'ryone's weaving it,
Coming on strong all the time,
All thru' the day I me mine.

I, I, Me, Me, Mine

I, I, Me, Me, Mine

I, I, Me, Me, Mine
    I, I, Me, Me, Mine    

* * *

George was the genius. Taking us deftly from a sweet waltz to hard riffs and screaming, imposing his rock upon the listener.
Just to make his point.
It's his song.

* * *

All I can hear I me mine, I me mine, I me mine.
Even those tears I me mine, I me mine, I me mine.

* * * 

When I returned from Haiti, I sat in the Maimi airport thinking of how selfish everyone else in the world was. Wanting to see Haiti still on the news, more than  the same false numbers updating on the CNN ticker. I wanted everyone around me to care. To know the lack of dignity that is cholera. The lack of shit pits. The lack of body bags. I wanted them all to care. And they didn't.
And I become a cliche bleeding heart aid worker who lost perspective. And I went from tears to giggles, regaining a little perspective upon my own selfishness.

* * *

No-one's frightened of playing it
Ev'ryone's saying it,
Flowing more freely than wine,
All thru' your life I me mine.

* * *

My job in Haiti was coordination... meetings, meetings, meetings. Each person in each coordination meeting had their agenda. Their message. They become characters in a sitcom.  Each had their role to play. The roles developed.
Rooms of strangers became strangely predictable.
Me too, just like everyone. I, sometimes deftly, sometimes clumsily, eventually sounded like a broken record.

* * *

I, I, Me, Me, Mine

I, I, Me, Me, Mine

I, I, Me, Me, Mine

I, I, Me, Me, Mine    

* * *

My perspective ain't no better than yours, unless I am right and you are wrong, which seems to be the case, from my perspective.

And that is precisely why a perspective is useless, but perspective is invaluable.

Indicators

The answer is 42.
But what does 42 mean, really?

Remember two things: Heisenberg and Bias.

* * *

Dirty old Heisenberg

If you look my way
I might smile or scowl
or curse
depending
on who you might be
friend or foe
or dirty old man.
Even when I seem
to do nothing
know that ignoring you
is a calculated reaction.

* * *

Inherent Bias

We wear yellow glasses. We are looking at a blue world. We see a green world. If we know our glasses are yellow, then hopefully we will remember that the green world we are looking at is actually bluer than that which we see as green.

* * *

The problem of measurement or observation or knowing is not new. Heisenberg was mentioned and there is Schrödinger and his poor cat or the quantum suicide scenario, which are more obtuse discussions about observers and the observed, whose practicality is questionable.  I am a scientist and aid worker, so that’s what’s practical to me.

An interesting and practical discussion about the perspective of being outsider on the Tales From The Hood blog rung true with me in certain situations, but he left something out.  He is right, sometimes an outsider can filter out a local bias, but sometimes an outsider can exaggerate a local bias as well. The important thing is to be aware of one’s effect and one’s biases and the situation and the complex interactions therein. We can never eliminate these things, but we can at least be aware of them.

* * *

Intelligent scientists and aid workers alike know that by measuring something you do indeed affect it. We also know, despite not being quantum physicists, that we will never know the exact value or position or whatever. Whether numbers or simple observations, we are careful to minimize these things by triangulation, awareness and thoughtful measurement methods.

An example: Hydrogeologists poke holes (i.e. dig wells) into aquifers and in doing so disrupt what was once, and in being aware of that, we accept it because it is good enough to understand the system. It is that, in fact, our goal in observing anything: to understand what is going on. 

When we do science in aid work, we are still scientists and indeed report a range of values or other interpretations that reflect uncertainty. The methodology (how these numbers are arrived at) is rigorous and has been peer reviewed, published and duplicated by experts. The documentation of such methodology is available, transparent and clear, even to someone outside the relevant technical field who has basic mathematics background, some curiosity and half a brain.

An example: We measure a certain number of randomly sampled children to represent a greater population which is very specifically defined and say, for example, that for this defined population there is an 80% chance that we are beyond the emergency threshold of global acute malnutrition or that the level of X problem is Y% with a 90% confidence interval of +/-Z.

* * *

On NOT understanding Heisenberg: The danger in science and in aid work is when people do not take the time to understand what a number or observation means: how it was measured, the constraints and limitation inherent in it, some people don’t even know the units associated with that number (e.g. 42). Without some knowledge about the mechanics of the observation, you will never know what anything actually says about the system or population or, really, about anything.

On NOT understanding Bias: This can be your bias (your yellow glasses), as well as the bias of the presentation. The most dangerous and common thing of all is to talk about a number or to compare two numbers that are not related at all and then draw some wide-sweeping conclusions from them. There are many particularly worrying examples of this. Some examples of this are well intentioned but careless, and some straight-up-dirty manipulation of data.

Back to practicality. We make observations to come to conclusions. I hate conclusions. They are usually wrong because they depend on a complexity of things. But alas, conclusions are a necessary evil.

Understanding Heisenberg + Bias = better conclusions. Knowing what the number or observation means helps filter some bias, but can’t get it all. By being aware of bias, and especially the bias of the audience, and by trying to take off or lighten the yellow glasses makes the conclusion stronger, more realistic and inherently better.

* * *

One problem with my argument is that it is too idealistic and simple. Bad science, bad measurements and bad observations are rampent. Which makes pretty much any view of them moot. (But can you expect me to address everything in a single blog post? Really?) And the point is, by using the noggin a little and not just accepting what you read, you can identify this "badness."

Another problem with my argument is that I am guilty too, I sometimes draw conclusions too fast, I have biases, I have a sick sense of humor that gets the best of my biases. But sheesh, I am human. The point is not that I know best, it is that I am thinking about it and you should too.

* * *

Did I bore you? Confuse you?
If so, read it again.
If not, enjoy lighter side of indicators.

* * *

In every niche there are standard, quantifiable indicators. For me professionally, this often boils down to things like the prevalence of WASH related diseases, number of people per latrine, liters of water per person per day, fecal coliforms per sample etc. We also have qualitative indicators which may give another, less number-full view of the situation, but equally valuable.

I have come up with a few indicators of my own, which mean nothing, are not scientific and are most undoubtedly influenced by my sick sense of humor and biases. The ones I will present here relate to the level of development of a place, mostly the economic development of that place.

I hoped I didn’t have to say this, but I guess I need a disclaimer: In all seriousness, these are really complicated subjects. Please realize that by presenting these ridiculous indicators, that I am demonstrating exactly the danger of this entire discussion. My apparent hypocrisy is intentional. I am a sarcastic person and I intend to remain that way.

* * *

Fire: And god said let there be light, and it was good. And man discovered fire and flint. And then matches were available on the local market. And then lighters. And then lighters with flashing lights inside. And then lighters with flashing light and a button to make those flashing disco lights be projected onto a close wall or floor.

Beer for your buck: The bigger and cheaper the beer, the more dire the economic situation of the country.  Can the average cost per swig of beer be positively correlated to the average income of a household or somehow be an inverse proxy indicator for GDP? You find big, cheap beers in Congo and Guinea; smaller, expensive beers exported from Europe. Do note that Budweiser has a pretty cheap, twenty-two ounce beer. America is going to shit.

McDonalds for peace: Some people claim that there are fewer wars and less strife in countries with McDonalds. Clearly a chicken-vs-egg argument should ensue, but in my recent history I have lived in countries with relatively high levels of strife and not one had a McDonalds. (Not my own idea, just one I thought was worth sharing.)

Gambling as an indicator of early recovery after displacement:

I see Haiti eight months after the earthquake. Life is not normal here and won’t be for a long time, but it is transitioning back slowly. With this bias, I look for signs of normalcy. I search them out. And I found one. The lottery is up and running, people are gambling again, so one can conclude that this place is getting back to normal.

The lottery kiosks or shacks or buildings are newly painted. They say “BANK – LOTTO- CHEZ TITI.” Other types of kiosks haven’t been repainted, even if they are starting to reopen. Not the water sellers. Not the pharmacies. But indeed the lottery bosses are back in business. Folks are crowded around the blackboards on the walls and doors which are updated twice a day with the winning numbers. A clear early warning indicator of recovery.

So my boss asks, can you assess Maya Camp, where people are re-settling?  How is it there? I visit. I don’t even have to get out of my air-conditioned, white Land Cruiser to draw my conclusion. I see that a Chez Titi kiosk is up and running within the camp and I know that these people are ready to get back to normal. They are doing fine.

* * *

Perhaps I can solicit Paul Collier and his army of ingenious grad students to run an in depth retro-analysis on existing data to check the validity of my new-fangled-sarcastic indicators.

* * *

On inspiration: This post was gourbled out of my head, somewhat, by checking out the aforementioned blog, and in particular his post about Skynard and simplicity, actually many of his posts. Clearly I dig this dude’s style and outlook on aid work. Take some time to check out his posts.

Editorial note added afterwords: Hey number-geeks and aid-workers, here is some interesting questions posed by statiscians dealing with the MGDS. It's a start. (Thanks Trish, for pointing this out to me.)

Pissed off

This may be my most explicit post. I do hold back and usually keep it pretty clean. But not this time. It's not that I am having a bad day, it is just that today I will share my judgment and rancor.

* * *

Looking up, the remnants of tropical storm Gaston makes the clouds churn, black and full of rain over the mountains, while towards the bay is white and puffy. Not unique, simply a beautiful, complex sky.

Looking down, the steep street is dirty and the smell of urine flows uphill. Urine in the street is ubiquitous, not unique to Port au Prince (see posts about Kabul and Kenya), and today is no different than any other, except that I have to blame someone.

I blame the men around the world who whip it out and piss along the concrete walk.

I drove about an hour to a meeting and (just like any other day) along the way I saw at least seven men pissing in the open. Not behind a tree, not tucked away somewhere, not in the woods. Along the street. I could see the streams of their piss sparkle in the sun.

They disgust me.

* * *

The bitch with black spots,

her white coat brown, rough and crusted,

mangy red teets swing, panting

while she squats

over discarded plastic,

rotting fruits and a flat styrofoam box.

The man with oil stained jeans,

has no coat, steps over that same debris,

and shields just his cock, pausing

while he pees

upright, upon a busy street

exposing his sequined stream.

* * *

One could attack me as a hypocrite. And that is fine, perhaps I am. But an honest one.

I grew up peeing in the woods, I pee in the bush on a long car ride, I am an expert and rarely wet my feet. I also have no aversion to excreta (that's my job) or even to the smell of urine (which is in fact sterile). But there is something disturbing about city-scape, concrete laden, public man-pissing. Some of what bothers me deeply, perhaps, is seeing the pee raining down without regard to the throngs of strangers who are forced to watch this display. Forgive my sexist tendency, but no woman anywhere in the world would take a piss on a busy street. (Yes okay, indeed if she is ill or completely wasted.) There is something to be said for respect and dignity.

Taiwara

"On the road again,

goin' places that I've never been

Seein' things that I may never see again,

And I can't wait to get on the road again."

- Willie

Trayle is takin' ova!
Taiwara district is in Ghor province, in central Afghanistan. It is pronounced like you would say "whore." We have a great WASH program there, but no expats had visited for over a year. Matteo, the Head of Mission and I had the pleasure of going in June... And it was SUPER!
Hills are red and yellow and green!

We flew first to Chagcharan, the capitol of Ghor spelled Ghwor on Google Earth, by Beechcraft airplane and then we drove for 8 hours to Taiwara, a district in the south. We drove and drove and we reached the top of a big hill to get out and rest (and pee). This hill was in the middle of no where, nothing to see for miles and miles. Wahkil, the logistics and administrator for the Taiwara base and our guide, announced this was the last place there was phone coverage. So we all had fun making calls. I called my dad, said hi and chatted about investing money. Totally surreal at the end of the world.

Coming into "downtown" Taiwara. Oh the hills are alive with color.

Villages are small and filled with mud houses and compounds. River run through as this year is a good year in Ghor. Lot's of water after 8 years of draought.

I just love this photo, taken by Matteo. The men are the program manager, Taher, and a local elder. Of course nothing captures the biggness like being there.
Here's the team, Taher, Abdullah (with his hands in the well) and Matteo, fixing a broken pump we found as we surveyed the water points.
This may be the only forrest in Afghanistan. Not really, just the only one I have seen. That is Abdullah with me. It is so unbelievibly green for this raw country. The results of this good rain year. After a long walk through the only woods I've ever seen in Afghanistan, we ate some tasty apricots. Afghanistan grows a lot of apricots.
So there are some images of the last region in which we work here in Afgha! You have seen Kabul, Hazerajat and Ghor! what a beautiful place. Maybe some more creativity to come, but with this workload I just am getting by....

Hazerajat - Day Kundi Province

Typical Hazerajat village in a valley.

Can you see the irrigation channels?

View from the roof of the compound at sundown.

spring time

Ahhh. The field at last – out of Kabul and into Afghanistan. Started in a helicopter! What fun, a great sensation, but once you get going just like a small plane really, but louder. They do a small test where we were hovering just feet above the ground, then start going. It is like being in a loud box, pulled by a big crane over the sky.

From Kabul we landed in Bamian, where the big buddas are. Left from long ago, and destroyed throughout the history (that I know so poorly that I dare not try to tell). From the helipad there you can see millions of caves – small simple holes to great big budda shaped things, 10 stories tall. Really amazing. I would like to return for longer than 30 minutes at the airport. There is a project there to rebuild the buddas, and until they are built to replace them with lazers that outline where they once were in some sort of cool effects. Nice idea. Until you realize where you are talking about and that maybe lazers are a waste of money considering... well a lot of things. But it is art and it is politically incorrect to criticize art.

So we take off again and bob along through mountains, snow covered but melting. Rock colors changing from red to grey to green to black, melted by erosion, each tint spilling down the valleys in inverted triangles from the topmost layers into those below. Some places are wet, giving away the hiding places of springs as they themselves spill through the grounds, leaving a saturated patch running down the side of the hills.

We turn a corner mountain and there are wide spaces of granitic rock, flaking away like Desolation wilderness, cracked and chiseled by ice wedging and worn away by spring rains and winds. Grey and rounded, cracked into unbelievable shapes, with holes and caves. There are pockets of green crops (wheat, I know) and fruit and nut trees (apricots and almonds) now and you can see the miles and miles of irrigation chanels.

We land and I am met by some of the local team and head back to the base. Two other expats and my engineer are still on the way, they came by plane (little tiny Cesna) leaving two hours before my helicopter, but the airstrip is 5 hours away. We drive to the base- up and down and up and down about 15 minutes only but incredible turns. The base is simple, one office, one bedroom for the girls and one for the boys. 2 tents inside full of stock, a third full of fuel and a large blue water tank. We have a land line, we have radios and several thurayas for communication. No internet… yet.

Fixing the generator in paradise.

I am in Nili.

To do internet, you climb the hill behind the compound (quite a feat at 2200 meters, I am all out of breath) and then there are 2 metal boxes, shipping crates to be precise, and a huge satellite dish. See the photo. You enter one of the boxes, one has a desk and the other does not. You sit on the floor with your laptop in front of a big server beeping like Hal on top of an Afghan hill surrounded by snow capped peaks and the sun sets, putting it all on fire. And the server keeps beeping.

Watsan equipement in paradise.

Goats and sheeps hangin' on the hillside.

Gaurd, Driver and my Engineer fixin' a mean Kabob.

We had a barbeeque day at the river.

The watsan team in the field. Kickin' ass as usual. The road was bad. We had to walk the last half a kilometer or so to the village we were assessing.But this man was happy for the visit.