Pollution Revolution

“There is a fine line between freedom and chaos,” the president said.

I promised first impressions of Cairo. Well, it is an interesting time to get some first impressions. It has been a week since the protest started and I am fascinated. I am also frustrated because I am not working, I am not out there and I have to stay indoors a lot.

Adoring Robert Fisk does not make me an expert on the Middle East.
This post is not about the region or the politics itself, just my observations.

* * *

Backdrop

I was going to write about the civilized pollution of 20 million people in the air, in the river, blowing noise in your ears. Street exhaust turns my snot black, yet this city noticeably lacks the scent of piss. A blue toilet ended up on the bank of the Nile, but I have not seen a single turd. Under the eerie orange tinted sun, like a solar eclipse, the never ending din of traffic horns is maddening.

I was going to write about the pulse of 20 million people. I walked upstream, south along the corniche, passing resters on benches along the Nile under shade trees. I visited some old churches like a tourist. I wandered through tiny streets filled with baby goats where the dust is packed neatly by old women (still a foreigner, but less of a tourist). I went to the movies at a shiny mall and saw “6 7 8”, a new Egyptian masterpiece about another type of revolution.

I was going to write about how I like this city, but it seems that this here revolution could be more interesting.

* * *

Timeline

The work week in Egypt is Sunday to Thursday. Sunday and Monday were calm and were spent moving into our new apartment.

Tuesday was Police Day and the day it started; a holiday for the country, a day off from work for all, but protests ensued and so the police did not get their day off.

Wednesday I went into town to register for a continuing studies class in Arabic at the American University. Riot police blocked several streets and intersections; it was calm, but tense and they didn’t bother me. I found the metro station on the main square (Tahrir Square) was closed, so I walked south about 10 minutes to the next station and went home.

Thursday, protests continued downtown. I stayed out of the way and successfully explored my new semi-suburban neighbourhood.

Friday was my wedding anniversary. Mario and I had planned a romantic dinner along the Nile. Friday was named the Day of Rage (or Anger ... lost in translation) because the people had planned mass protests after Friday prayers.

Friday evolved somehow sublime, slow and sneaky; filtered by 10 km of city between our suburb and downtown, filtered by our  suburban expatriate sphere, filtered by the television.
The cell phone network went down.
Then the internet, but not the land-line.
Then we tried the sat phone and it was jammed.
Then a curfew was imposed across the country, announced at 5:30 pm and started at 6:00.
The vegetable seller sold me sweet potatoes, and as usual tried to push his broccoli, while he rushed me out and complained that because of the government he had to close his shop without proper cleaning. He would see me tomorrow, Insh’allah.

* * *

In the midst of this turmoil, protest, uprising, infatada, revolution - whatever you want to call it - Cairo is colourful, exciting, moving and incredible to observe.

* * *

Since last Friday, January 28th, the situation changes quickly, yet a steady rhythm has developed in the turmoil: in the movements of people, in the news, in the sounds of gunfire. The rhythm is somehow correlated to the curfew.

The curfew ends at 8 in the morning. As the week has progressed the curfew start time has been moved up from 6 pm to 4 pm, and yesterday to 3 pm.

When the curfew lifts, people start moving for the day. The first days everyone rushed the markets, stocking up and sounding a little confused; yesterday the streets were full of expatriates waiting on the corner for taxis with piles of luggage to get out; today the gym is open, banks are still closed and foreigners know if they are leaving or staying.

When the curfew starts the city shifts. People head home, but once you are in your own neighbourhood you can be outside freely. The neighbourhood men put back up their blockades, drag their sticks on the pavement clang, clang, clang; start their fires, put on the teapot for the nightlong watch.

During the first days, I was glued to the news constantly flipping between channels because it changed rapidly (Mario translating the Arabic channels). A week on, most of the exciting news is broadcast when the curfew starts until about 9 pm. Al Jazeera had their Cairo offices shut down, some of their reporters arrested (who have since been released) and cameras confiscated, and so their coverage has become a bit more sporadic and less deep.

During the first days, there was little or no gunfire in my neighbourhood at all. Then some throughout the night and then a lot throughout the night. Yesterday, there was less throughout the night but more during the day. Last night was quiet, as is this morning. It is not a civil war, not people shooting at each other, per se. It seems to be people shooting in the air as warnings. At first it was smaller arms, then a bit of automatic fire.

* * *

The most iconic scene has been of the crowds of protesters at prayer time. A chaotic mass of people organically arranges itself in neat lines facing Mecca, all the while standing and kneeling in unison.

But don’t misinterpret the image. These are not religious protests; it is simply that the majority of people in Egypt are Muslim, so they pray as such and do not miss a call.

* * *

In my opinion, the lack of violence so far is astonishing. Yes: tear gas was fired, people have looted, people have been shot, people have been beaten. Not to minimize that, but it is a lot less than it could have been.

During the first days (when the riot police were present) were the worst so far in terms of violence - a dangerous, impulsive, edgy energy prevailed - but even then, the riot police did stop hitting when the protesters retreated.

The police disappeared after the first days. The army has been a constant presence.

The interactions of the army and the protesters is amazing. Tanks are everywhere downtown, they come and go, but the protesters and people welcome them. The tank drivers don’t fire on the people and respect their legitimate “right to protest”. There are official statements by the state as to this. There are slogans spray painted on the tanks. The tank drivers and protesters shake hands.

The ruling party’s headquarters were set on fire, next door to the famous Museum of Antiquities. In the beginning, protesters joined hands around the museum to protect it from the fire and looters until the army arrived.

Preserving order and protecting private property in light of chaos has fallen upon the people somewhat. Neighbourhoods have set up “vigilante groups” - a bad translation I think - they are more like a very active neighbourhood watch. Each night they stand guard with sticks, metal rods and some guns. Looking down my long street I can see about 6 stations, where the men have pulled concrete blocks into the road, moved the garbage cans into the street. Cars cannot pass. Walking people, like myself, are not hindered. (Although I have to admit, I live in a nice neighbourhood.)

“Vigilante groups” are not the same a “thugs”. The deciphered Arabic to English vocabulary of Egypt is delightful, fascinating and surprising sometimes.

* * *

It is important to understand that there are several types of security forces. As far as I can gather, the police are under the Ministry of the Interior and the military is separate (Ministry of Defence?). Both command a certain kind of respect: The police are feared, and the military is revered.

* * *

One of the first interviews I saw was with a young woman from the American University in Cairo. She came across as cold, but informed and clear headed. When asked to describe the street scenes, she said something like “Today, in the streets I saw more blood than I have ever seen. More than in the movies.” And she smiled.

* * *

When it is in front of you, it is easy to see the difference between reality and what is in the media. I am not a skeptic, but I am skeptical.

Sensational sexy stories sell: Camera angles make crowds look bigger. The most graphic images are played and re-played. The most violent quotes are iterated and re-iterated. The most shocking stories are told and re-told.

Control can check conception: Images and facts can also be manipulated to minimize the situation. Numbers and can be misconstrued or can be absolute lies propagated on purpose.  Images of streets with no crowds
present can also be played and re-played.

It is not black and white. And it is not simple. The scene is always shifting greys, with colours fading in and out depending on the angle from which you view the scene (or the quality of your webcam). Each exaggeration or downplay is based on reality, or rather someone’s vision of reality, or rather what was once reality.

* * *

There are some journalists who give and command respect; who are rational and neutral in their use of language, tone and facts. There are also some journalists who employ 'Jerry Springer' style reporting (and indeed they are on reputable stations, during non-editorial shows). They are on both sides.
They threaten the integrity of the action and seem to want to incite violence and anger and emotions.
And they make me sick.

As the government has been dissolved and ministers step down, some reporters have used the word “defect” instead of “resign”.

A woman interviewing a government representative interrupted him at least 5 times, never let him finish a sentence and screamed at him. “... these are not mobs. Men, women and children.”

* * *

I don’t have photos of the protests for this post. I am neither a journalist rushing for a story, nor a foolish idealist who thinks my presence is needed to enhance the voice of the Egyptian people. I have simply observed them from walks in calm areas, from my balcony and rooftop, through television and through conversations.

Now people are talking about economics. Stock market closed. More practically, banks are closed and ATMs are out of money.

As I write this, there is a stand off. No one is moving on either side. What’s next?

* * *

At the top of this blog, you will find a favourite quote of mine, which in context has nothing to do with Egypt, but out of context can be appropriate today.

What was once

What was once upright
rigid brightly painted or gray
is resting
tired
from a violence
absent of aggression

* * *

I can not claim to know what was once. Here.

From one perspective, I gape at walls and floors and ceilings draped over one another. I stand upon, step over fissures in the road. I listen to stories and gasp, knowing that I am only an observer, but not the only observer.  My own perspective quite the same as many, except that I am probably more intent than most on getting a good picture of the fissures in the road to impress my geologist friends.

From another perspective, this event has been measured by standard metrics: Richter, deaths, displacement of people or earth, monetary value of infrastructure destroyed.
 
Heisenberg was right. Absorbing light off the white rubble changes its direction, phase, superposition, tint, interpretation. Putting a number on this scene affects it.

* * *

I have seen the palace and the jail, the cathedral and the bridge. Each of them have split in half and what was once proud is crass.
I did not enter convinced by ghosts and twisted iron bar that locks inside some stories that only come from far.

Secondhand stories

I had another enjoyable day chatting in traffic with the driver. Today it was not the banalities of life, but rather the turning upside down of a regular day.

I heard stories about the earthquake.

I do not mean this post to be sentimental. Or sad. Or exploitative. Just simple. I mean to tell these stories as he told them.

* * *

"Everyone knows someone, near or far, who died in the earthquake."

* * *

Sometimes the ground vibrates. This time it did not vibrate, it rolled and rolled. My house rocked back and forth, back and forth. He showed me with his hands, tilting his vertical palm to and fro. A friend of mine was sitting in her car in traffic when the quake happened. She said that the earth looked like the giant snake in the movie Anaconda when it was under the soil.

* * *

This driver is often the driver of the big boss. He told me of the man who used to wash his windows everyday. He worked hard washing, quickly rubbing, clearing the glass for the boss and VIPs who visited. He fed his family this way. He eventually bought a motorbike. He kept on washing windows. The day of the quake, he went out to buy some food on his motorbike and never came back.

* * *

There was a man and a woman who had moved to the states from Haiti. They had 3 children there and made a good life. When it came to retirement age and their children were grown, they decided to return and enjoy their retirement here. They returned, all their children with them to help with the move. The day of the quake they were having a big party. All the neighbors and cousins and aunts enjoying and celebrating the retirement and the return of the family. They ran out of ice and so the father went out to get some. He returned to find them all dead. The old man walks the streets talking to his family who are all dead. It made him loose his mind.

All I ever wanted

Adventure: a new and exciting experience.

Adventrue: a known and exciting experience.

My vacation is ending and a new adventure will begin (stay tuned). I am lucky. I have had many adventrues, but none so sweet as getting back. And within that adventrue are many. The poem in my last post came from home, an island and its memories. Here are some new ones mixed with old, because you can’t really separate them.

* * *

the incredibility of tidal standing waves washes over

cradled kelp heads green pink anemones speckled seals

these sound straight channels are never full never empty

twice a day they still rise fall whip around steady rocks

discreet violence that harbors flotsam memories

* * *

* * *

I am still seven inside and slept only three hours the night before, excited for the journey. But things do change. I am not seven, but seven times five; and while the child was eager to go, I am eager to come home.

Welded steel rattles, strains and pushes its mass against cormorant laden pilings and the rocky mainland; the same old rusty ferry sliding deep into the early mist caught between the islands. Breathe deep, exhale and let the salt spray drizzle muck up your glasses or you won’t make the transition in smoothly.

Sleepy legs under heavy bags push up the tarpaper boardwalk and find a spot for me to wait; the cold stone wall where I lean back on my warmed pack above the fuel stained creosote dock. I take in the busy view. I know the boat when it rounds the point. I rest, watching her come in.

I am the only passenger back. After hellos, we settle into comfortable silence and skirt the shores before crossing the channel. The waves are small, constant and graceful; dancing with bull kelp among familiar carved conglomerate; lifting then dropping sea birds just a foot; slapping the metal bow just hard enough that my knees bend and straighten in time.

But things do change. The dock is taller but the dockhouse is the same, although shifted to where you can not leap, and so the resulting difference in jumping height is similar. The water seems colder and trees seem smaller, although they’ve grown. Cell phones work, making logistics simpler, but not simple.

By three boats I landed on three islands, each dock smaller until none, just a gravel beach in a protected rocky bay. The second run brings friends, flowers and spiced beans; the beginning of festivities no one can dispute. I smile, breathe, exhale and clean my glasses.

* * *

I am alone and quiet, snuggled into the orchard, thankful for the clearing. Cassiopeia rises, her W matching the jagged tree line. Breathe, exhale, my glasses were already off so I stretch and lay back. I spy a shooting star and watch its long fall. It burned, lit and then exploded in the atmosphere. Alone in the silence I whoop, hands up in appreciation, and wonder who else saw it.

* * *

Many good hugs hello don’t make up for one goodbye.

An Optimistic Pre-quel

Back in 2006, I arrived in Kenya and was on my way to the wild northeastern bush- Mandera. I didn't know much about Kenya or Nairobi and, more importantly, I didn't know much about Mandera... just that it was dry, there was a strict curfew and nothing to do anyway but sit on the roof and gaze over the hills at Ethiopia or Somalia. I'd need some entertainment.

In preparation, I dutifully went to the bookstore downstairs from the movie theater and started picking stuff up.

It was here that I discovered "Kwani?" - the Kenyan literary magazine.

It is full of fantastic writing in English, Kiswahili and Sheng (an evolving slang language of the youth). Okay, let's be honest, I can really only say the English is entertaining, I can't read Kiswahili or Sheng.
It has poetry, stories, cartoons and other sort of creative stuff.

It has a pulse.
It is political.
It is gives an insightful perspective into the thoughts of Kenya and - to me personally - a bit of optimism for this country.

Since the post election violence at the end of 2007 (see Kenya Quickie)- Kwani? has sponsored and lead some of the most moving efforts at showing and questioning what really happened to people, as well as peace building and reconciliation through art. Take a look around thier site.

So there I sat on my way to Mandera with the 2005 edition of Kwani? in hand, in a yellow, 7-seat, twin-prop plane. There were plasic jerrycans of fuel stored in the nose and wings of the plane. The fumes wafted back. The big people were spaced in the plane to balance it out. Someone's daughter was on the lap of the Head of Mission. It flew low but finally did make it. The flight was 5 hours long (or more?) and I didn't read a page. An interesting beginning to my relationship with Kenya...

Since then, there has been at least 3 more Kwani? published, as well as some feature length books, some of which I bought - and then at some point I seemed to have lost or given away somewhere.

(And a historical note, it was on my way out of Mandera when I started this blog.)

Kenya Kataclysm

Back in November, I took a little trip to Takaba. That is up in Northeastern Kenya where we have some cool programs running. It was in the rainy season and it was lovely... except the flat tires (that's the hook there, can't beat a little suspense).

***

On the road between Malkamari and Takaba:

There wasn’t much to see the second time round

Lightning still broke the wide skies, silent as the sun sank
We past this turn before, she thought
As roads became rivers, melting sand to glass pathways
without wind before but waves behind shifting beneath tires
Red to green muddled eyes climbed muddy trees
A wild grey cat in the shadows motionless watching waves
Rain and thunder joined the lighting and still no wind
Perhaps there is indeed some magic here to see
she thought the second time around


***

On Takaba by night:

Seems these days I don’t hear anything
Only silence and bullfrogs singing off the hills
Filled their ponds, their houseboats
Where are they in drought?

***

Takaba was cool (work wise) - except then it got hot (security wise) and we had to bolt out the back door to get back to Nairobi: via Moyale. Driving from Takaba to Moyale is only 5 hours usually, but it took us about 10. We braved the mud pits! Then we smartened up and just drove through the brush to avoid the mud pits, the drivers keeping top speed as not to sink... Then the epic of the flats began.

Two at a time - with only one spare (which is half flat, so really only a quarter of what we need)!

What to do? What to do?
(.... interlude under the only shade tree for several hours, talking human resources....)

Ah - Ha! What is coming over the horizon? That's a Matatu (local public transport, see photo below)! And oh what luck, the driver of this truck is a friend of our driver and he lends us his spare tire. And we are off again, with the matatu spare that is too big for our car and rubs at every turn. And our original spare is low on air, but it'll have to do... Ah - Ha! What is that bumping down the road? It is a BIG truck, and a nice one! They have an air compressor and are very nice and fill up our half flat spare... And we are off again...

As we roll into Moyale (a boarder town with Ethiopia that hasn't much to offer) the spare from the matatu gets a leak! But we tax the tires and keep driving, leaking and all, to the hotel and park the car at the police station just as the tire becomes too flat to move.
We have dinner at the Prison Canteen "under da shades" and da stars.

(Just a note, the next day I fly back to Nairobi and having been in the bush eating goat meat for a week, Mario takes me out for Sushi. On the way to the restaurant ... you guessed it! We got a flat tire! 4 and a half flats in 36 hours. That's a pretty good record.)

Back to Moyale, the boarder town with not much to offer, as I mentioned. Moyale by night is not an exciting thing. But we let sleeping goats lie...

This is our hotel in the day time. The hills in the background might be Ethiopia. They might not be. Who knows.

Moyale Intenational Airport, Gate 3, Boarding for Nairobi
The pilot inspects the plane before takeoff and seems to spy a problem.
"Is it gonna fly?"

Not until we get the cows out of the landing gear!

Just kidding! That's not really our plane (and that's not the pilot, it's our watsan engineer). That's a dead plane on the airstrip (no African air strip, dare I say airport, is complete without a dead plane or two, see blog of "Welcome back Congo").
We made it back to Nairobi safe and sound.

***

On Kidnapping:

Each time it seems to get closer; hoping it's an illusion
like when the moon is on the horizon and it seems bigger.

*** *** ***

A few months ago I had a blog about “Kenyan Quickie” where I described my rapid adventure in toilet building in the camps that developed when people were displaced due to fighting and violence after the 2007 Kenyan elections.

So… 1 year later. Those political folks in the elections found a “power sharing deal.” There is a report into the violence on the table, with ultimatums of a Kenyan tribunal or the Hague. Personally, I can’t help but be skeptical. Is there real accountability, real responsibility, real closure? I can’t help but feel sad; those who were harmed, stay harmed and they are the ones who want this peace, who want reconciliation, who just want to live the life they have or had, who want their sons and cows and sheep and houses back. There’s a lot of fear and a lot of hope and my biased, skewed and skeptical view won’t really help fix the hurt either way. And neither will all the 378 latrines we built.

And yes, so 1 year later and we are closing our programs in that area (Nakuru) because it is time - the emergency is over, things are getting back to "normal" and the situation is outside our meager mandate. You can only save the world if you're focused, you know. But we built a lot of latrines and showers and water supply systems, some trash bins and distributed a lot of tools, jerry cans, soap, water filters, and other hygiene products and to top it off a lot of hygiene promotion (awareness raising). So what was the impact? Why do we do what we do? Well, we just did a survey to find out – and here is what we found. In areas where we worked people are twice as healthy (or half as many general illnesses); there is 3 times less diarrhea for children! People are 4 times more likely to drink potable water. So that’s nice.

Like I said, you can only save the world if you're focused.

Kenya Quickie

I was back in Kenya for the past 2 months (February and March) for a short mission being the WASH (water, sanitation and hygiene) program manager of the emergency response programme for Kenyans displaced by the violence after the elections. (Mission in my job means "assignment" - I assure you it has nothing to do with "missionaries" nor "top secret" missions.)

What a great time. I have learned a lot and working in camps, which has been a new challenge. Here are some photos. I am a bit cautious to comment on generalities, as the situation is quite political. I guess what was important for my life was the pace of work, the lessons learned from colleagues, analysis, protection discussions. Most memorable were the smiles of those who'd lost everything or who brought it all with them, stories and laughs and wondering where the truth is...

........

One man hid in a well for 2 days to escape people who were trying to hack him up. Then one day I saw a crow on phone line and it was wobbling, on the wire, all ruffed up with feathers sticking out all which ways, back and forth, about to fall off, back and forth.... And I thought of this guy in the well.

So with their houses burned they ran with nothing, or from just a fear of burning, rumors of burning they packed up their things. Some with nothing. Some with everything.

It is easier to show you those that packed it all up ... their chairs beds tv antenna , literately the kitchen sink.

Still smiling.

Not exactly welcomed to the stadium in Nakuru, but also not refused.
The showground had more people, although this picture was taken before they moved into this section of the camp. A bit strange like a ghost town for ghosts that have never been.
Some didn't feel safe in places like the showground or the stadium.
Some settled at polices stations all around the country, like this tiny group of ramshakle shelters made as just a roof from plastic sheeting with dirt floors. They felt safer there, the police to protect them, but they had no tents and rarely food.
In this camp (shown above) a baby had been born with no medical care available, the photo below was taken inside one of these tents with the mother (behind) and her sister holding the baby.
...............................................................................
My work entailed building a lot of toilets. I have never built so many toilets and showers and clothes lines in so little time. Here is a view from a top the water tanks looking out over the showground upper site - as you can see the folks had moved in by this time.
These are the water tanks from which the previous photo was taken. We, with the Kenyan Red Cross built the tanks and water supply. Good collaboration thanks to some speical people.

Flashback to Shabunda

Every now and then we recieve here in Kabul the Gaurdian Weekly.

A few weeks ago I was flipping through, looking at the photos and I saw a bridge that I knew.
I looked again, and said yes indeed I have crossed this river many times on a motorbike and on foot (as I decended to cross on foot because sometimes the tires of the motorbike would fall through the decaying planks) during my time in Congo. This is in the middle of no where, the bush - so imagine my surprise. The bridge is the only part of the road wide enough for a truck to pass - not that it could support a truck at that time, so we all crossed on foot, the drivers pushing the motorbikes, sometimes pulling them out of holes in the planks. The photo shows that the planks on the bridge have been replaced since my time there.

We protected springs in the area and some of my most fond memories are of cruising through the jungle on a one lane path on the back of a motorbike with a 10 kg HF radio on my back. We paid men to carry over 200 50 kg sacs of cement, 1 and 2 at a time up this road on their bicycles. Wow. What lovely memories.

I read the article. It agreed with the stories told to me during my time there and had fantastic photos. The names of the towns are where I have spent nights with rats chewing on my toes or running across my pillow. Where I have tasted smoked monkey meat and porky pine (neither are recommeded). Where I have climbed down ravines with no trails to a mucky spring. Where I have eaten many many plates of foo-foo (manioc goo) with chicken and palm oil sauce with lots of hot peppers. Ahhh. what faboulous memories.

Please check it out.
Article: http://www.guardian.co.uk/congo/story/0,,2162182,00.html
Photo gallery: http://www.guardian.co.uk/news/gallery/2007/sep/01/congo?picture=330664279

It is worth the read and the photos - the roads, the people, the airstrip. Some of the folks hanging around the airstrip are ACF staff - or were at one time.