LVH Ch. 3 (Congo) - Part 1: A Reprise

Some things in life don’t seem to change, like this part of the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Known as the African Riviera, it is beautiful, abundant in resources, productive and full of good people. The lake calms after the steady breeze, and this is surely a paradise. A fisherman paddles by singing his rhythmic tune. My surroundings are peaceful. If only the view matched the interior of my mind and the vast volcanic landscape which sweeps westward.

I’m sitting on a lakefront balcony reflecting on my recent return to the eastern DRC. Seven years ago I was a younger aid worker, sure that if humanitarians did their job properly, then better if not good programming would be possible. Lives would improve, less people would die and we could leave the eastern Kivus in a more humane and hopeful state than the horror they had known since the Rwandan genocide spilled over and gave rise to the First Congo War. That was the humanitarian imperative and we believed at least in doing no harm. I wonder what I will find on this aid mission. 

In 2013 I wrote in this blog about my initial impressions of the DRC in a piece called ‘NGO Graveyard’. Seven years on and so little has changed in terms of the fundamentals. Armed groups still run wild in the rural areas, donors demand layer after layer of compliance measures which rarely bring the increased accountability intended and good intentions still abound in the rhetoric of NGO publicity while the cynicism or wilful ignorance of their expat employees deepens. Local mechanisms for gaining wealth from international NGOs have become more and more sophisticated in terms of kickbacks and fraud, not to mention the dependency that has been built up over nearly three decades of employment and basic provision of WASH (water, sanitation & hygiene), shelter, infrastructure, healthcare, nutrition and food (read: proxy state structures). For a snapshot of this industry in DRC read this link: https://www.thenewhumanitarian.org/investigation/2020/06/12/Congo-aid-corruption-abuse-DFID-DRC-UN-NGOs

The recent remark by the senior UN official responsible for humanitarian  aid coordination in Congo, Mr Inganji, is risible. He is quoted as saying, in response to a major review of fraud and corruption risks which highlights the loss of over half a million dollars of aid money intended for vulnerable, conflict-affected people: “Everyone will be shocked.” This is either totally disingenuous or he is deluded. It is simply not possible to spend even a short time in a context like DR Congo and not see the failure of the system to achieve it’s stated goals, the sexual abuse and exploitation of beneficiaries and employees, mostly women and girls, and the determination and success of large swathes of the state, businesses and communities in defrauding those who have come ostensibly to assist the poor and marginalised Congolese masses who continue to suffer in this troubled place.

So, I no longer believe in the sector’s dominant narratives. I wonder how I will engage honestly with the people whom I now live amongst. I have changed so much since the days in South Kivu when I believed in a fantasy-fuelled identity as an aid worker. That person died long ago. Now it is a job and one that does not define me. I love the platform it provides to observe interesting, cross-cultural realities, and ways to relate to parts of humanity who have retained dignity, a desire for a better life and even joy in the face of some of the worst atrocities and hardships witnessed by humanity in the past 30 years. The question on arrival is not whether the aid industry is broken, but how badly. Can we still help those in genuine need in spite of the messy and complex reality? Or, is reality here something totally different?

On a personal note, I wonder what will become of me as I swim in these murky waters infested by Aid’s many-tentacled Leviathan with it’s three heads - corruption, violence and exploitation. Fed by its colonial overlords, disempowerment and self-interest prevail and I know that I am powerless. As Mother Teresa said so well, “we can do no great things, only small things with great love.”

C’est la vie humanitaire.

LVH Ch. 3 (Congo) - Prologue: 29 Napalms

Until recently I’ve been on the run. As Portland, Oregon was locking down due to COVID-19, my American wife and I fled south against the flow of people increasingly fearful, staying at home and not comprehending Covid. Nearby Seattle was in upheaval due to civil unrest and positive cases were increasing in Washington, the state at the forefront of the American outbreak. Our goal was to get to Los Angeles so we could fly to my boyhood home of New Zealand (which seemed to be handling the pandemic responsibly) so we could base ourselves there and return to humanitarian work far from America. That didn’t happen due to travel bans and border closures. So began a period of exile in the southern-Californian desert near Joshua Tree. In fact we spent most of our time in 29 Palms, a poor town that serves a massive military base where the US prepared especially for its invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq. Desperately needing space to myself, I began constructing a contemplative labyrinth on the large property where we were staying. I found myself needing ways to be alone and simply accept my circumstances. I felt trapped and lonely in a foreign land, one which heavily influenced my decision to become a humanitarian and  work towards a more humane world where people so often suffer at the hands of America and whose many atrocities are indisputable.

So many Americans I know hate their country’s foreign policy and rightfully awful reputation for hypocritically declaring their belief in democracy and freedom while actively undermining it or even fighting against it wherever it does not serve their national self interest. That has been the dominant geo-political reality of my life. Each time I descended the hill to the place where I was living, the lights of the base shone with an abrasive napalm glare which filled me with a deep sadness and sense of helplessness. In a land full of guns it seems collectively the citizens of the United States are incredibly disenfranchised and caught up in a capitalist system that has religion but no heart. The 2nd Amendment of the American Constitution gives the right to take up arms against a tyrannical government yet no one seems to think we are living in such a moment. Not that force would be the answer. This morning I saw pictures of Portland burning and finally I was able to write down thoughts that have been brewing for decades. The positive potential of the US has been evident for generations but its failure at home and abroad makes it more divided by the day. The regular mass shootings and murders of unarmed black people by police point to the deeply unjust and racist country this place remains. This is unsurprising as it wasn’t originally intended that all people be treated as equals here. A revolution is required if things are to change. Civil war may be coming.

I walked around the sandy path, well-trodden after weeks spent meandering along its meditative route marked out by old tires, chain, rocks and scrap iron. The rusty nails and weatherworn cross in one part remind me of the suffering we all experience and the powerless condition of most people, regardless of the country we find ourselves in. How do we stand up collectively as homo sapiens and inhabit the fullness of our humanity?

So often I want to walk away into the wilderness and rid myself of society and the cultural and political environments that poison us. Although there have been incredible developments both for good and evil in how we live, the basic conclusion I have reached after 46 years is that we have lost our way as a species. The driving motivations of the systems we have created operate in such a way as to kill us even as we are breathing. Consider the money spent on deliberately destroying life of every sort on our planet. America has a special place in this devastation and it seems very little will change. If there is a cataclysm approaching (which many agree there is), denial and comfortable self-preservation seems to still be the order of the day for late-stage capitalism. 

In my new home in the Congo, I have closer proximity with the way the majority of the world lives. There is simple appreciation for breath and daily bread. The lakeside birds busy themselves with the necessities of the day, singing their vibrant tunes. This brings me joy and peace, pointing to lessons for us all in nature.

C’est la vie humanitaire.

 

Brewgodly - Part 2: Trappist Traditions

The monks of Mt Angel Abbey make great beer. Their dubbel, St. Gabriel 2.0, is a strong, dark ale balanced beautifully with dark malt character and classic Belgian yeast esters. You don’t find many trappist breweries outside of Europe and yet they do exist. Some like Benedictine Brewery started brewing only seven years ago despite the abbey’s creation in 1882. They make beer to be enjoyed “in gatherings of food and fellowship, nourishing both the body and the spirit.” Self-sufficiency has been at the heart of monastic communities for centuries and normally they  produce only enough to help support their basic needs and use ingredients they grow themselves and water found on site. They are simply not motivated to make more money regardless of the material wealth or market share that might be gained. Their priority? “Beer with a higher purpose.”

But it’s just beer right? Well, not in their world. Or mine. For me, brewing in the depths of rural Congo (and the hardships of high ambient temperatures) or London (and the travails of hard water and the gritty city), it has always been about more than just good beer. These days, especially in Portland, Oregon, if you throw a stone from anywhere in the city, you will hit at least one brewery and it will be serving great beer. I guess that could be enough. But should it be? Something tells me that a sated craft beer lust isn’t enough. What of deeper purpose and community?

Mt Angel beer is not the best by world standards and certainly can’t match the finest breweries in this part of America, but that’s not the point. It has a quality which makes it excel in ways difficult to define. It is connected to tradition and sustainable ways of living which are profoundly good (even as the Catholic Church is sullied by paedophilic disgrace). There is an evocative incarnational aspect which means it transcends the approach taken by most breweries. Some might say it has heart.

What goes in comes out somehow. Can you taste a prayer? Does motivation matter? The monks believe it does. I agree.

For the love of beer,

brewgodly

Brewgodly - Part 1: Betty Beaverton

Betty Beaverton riffs off Beavertown’s Black Betty (Black IPA, 7.4% abv) like Logan Plant in the footsteps of his father. The immense Led Zeppelin frontman’s son toured as a rocker across the US with Sons of Albion, but beer is where he found his groove. My take on Black Betty (forget obvious pop references about ramming lambs) is a bigger version of this wonderful beer and brewed stateside in Beaverton, Oregon. A larger bill of the same grains was used and followed by an aggressive hop regime using the same varietals. The result is a solid beer brewed with a dark, robust malt structure of which my London counterparts would be proud. 

As much as it grieves me that Beavertown would accept money from  big, multi-national beverage producers, until recently largely disinterested in high quality or tasty beer, their control of tap lines means that if Black Betty replaced a mediocre lager, it would be a win for good beer. Big isn’t always bad, but when it comes to beer (and a great many other things), ownership by international corporations is very rarely good news for the product or people who drink it. But maybe a new brewery could only be paid for by a huge conglomerate. Only time will tell if the soul of Beavertown will live on and whether those who love their beer will continue to do so now that Heineken is under its skin. It may infect everything or a beautiful hybrid strain may emerge. It will certainly not remain the same but such is life my friends. I guess record companies always held sway over the manufacturing of music and so I wonder if brewing beer is really much different.

For the love of beer,

brewgodly

On the Level - Postscript: Stones Cry Out/Heads Will Roll

From the glass-fronted cafeteria at Powell’s Books I look out upon springtime sunny streets and the parade of Portlanders strolling. Turning my gaze inward there is row upon row of books of every description. I am always intrigued by the variety and quantity of  material on display. So much time, talent and knowledge (perceived or otherwise) has been invested in the pages. How do they all get published and what makes these books worth writing? Is there a point beyond being printed and thereby read (potentially) by someone? What value is there in the unpublished word? How about the unread script? Why is the written word treasured? I guess I question the value, and perhaps arrogance, of my own words and the sporadic desire to transform my part-time and often half-arsed word-smithing into polished final pieces ready for publication. At this point my thinking becomes esoteric and mystical or even judgmental. At times the words of John the Baptist resonate and I feel I have something worth saying even if it feels like the voice of one crying in the wilderness. Of course, the price he paid for speaking out was the loss of his head as well as the fame or infamy of announcing the coming of Jesus of Nazareth. It’s probably vanity or blasphemy to compare myself in any way to John.

On my recent work contract in Jordan I had the privilege of visiting many sites of archeological, religious and historical significance. One of these was Machaerus where the very same John was imprisoned by the ruler Herod. It’s fascinating to walk the ground where stories you have read about since childhood actually happened. There is room for the debate on the importance of John in history and his significance in the human story but as historical fact, the basics of his life are as undisputed as most other well known characters from antiquity (Julius Caesar, etc). As I wandered the ruins on a high hilltop overlooking the Dead Sea, I pondered Bible stories of these cousins, John and Jesus. I reread aloud to my fellow visitors, words from Matthew chapter 3.

In those days John the Baptist came preaching in the wilderness of Judea, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.” For this is he who was spoken of by the prophet Isaiah when he said, “The voice of one crying in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord; make his paths straight.’”

At Machaerus not much remains of Herod’s castle where a few walls and pillars show the proud position of the fortress and the many caves suggest where prisoners were held. It did however evoke visions in my mind’s eye of Salome dancing for the king on this very site two thousand years ago and, at the prompting of her mother, requesting the head of John on a platter as a reward. The view across the sea to Israel and occupied Palestine stands silent over the atrocities and abuses of power that endure in this region perhaps more than others. And in that silence, the words of Jesus from Luke chapter 19 still echo:

He answered, “I tell you, if these [his disciples] were silent, the very stones would cry out.”

Indeed. And with these words the Kingdom of Heaven was announced. A reign which declares an end to tyranny and injustice which remains aloof here, just as it has for the two millennia since Jesus died declaring it. We continue on to Madaba and the aptly named church of St John the Baptist. Having climbed the bell tower to view the panorama over the town and surrounding desert, we descend to the ruins of previous structures below and an ancient Moabite well named after Ruth (also of Bible fame) who is said to have married Boaz and lived out her days in this part of Jordan. Leaving via the crypt we pass by the ceramic head of John on a platter. A fitting way to end the day. In these days of ‘fake news’, my mind is full of questions about how we understand facts, archeological findings and the ways we present them to the world and its readership. It seems, however, that whenever people speak out in ways that challenge power, heads will roll. And you can be sure that it won’t belong to those (usually a man) in charge. Such has it been since the time of beheaded John and crucified Jesus. For all the words written so that we might learn from history in order not to repeat past ills, not many are taking much notice.

Surely the stones would cry out if they could.

Alas, silence.

On the Level - Part 2: From the Balcony

It’s stormy outside. The persistent clear skies of late autumn and heat of the small sun trap of my balcony have gone. It seems there will be no more lazy Friday mornings with feet up, sipping coffee while reading of the litany of war and horror across the region in Robert Fisk’s The Great War for Civilisation, as I gaze west to the far bank of the Jordan and the expanse of the desert beyond south Amman. In the relative comfort of the capital’s affluent west side it’s easy to forget the extreme suffering and brutality of the regimes which have dominated the area since the earliest of times. I don’t read Fisk to be morbid. Rather, I do so to keep myself grounded an in tune with the reality of this world - from the Iran-Iraq conflict of my childhood to the current Syrian Crisis - and my work which seeks to relieve some of the suffering which shows no sign of letting up here or anywhere for that matter. The only question is whether you can stomach the view, turn your eyes with honesty towards the condition which a majority of humankind experience. Will I continue to cast my eyes beyond the balmy balcony or seek out a comfortable self-preservation? 

Yesterday I walked to work in a steady drizzle, under grey skies much like those I am familiar with from London. The smell of a fire built to warm the hearth or dampened doorway pervaded the air but was more likely a lot less romantic than my imaginings. The smell of coal smoke (despite its environmental impact and bad reputation) will forever prompt fond thoughts for me of the warm, homely setting in the north of England where I was born. A refuge from exile in the cold streets. The reality here is unlike my fantasy. In Amman the heating systems are fuelled by diesel, the fumes of which permeate the lower floors of buildings. The waft of fuel is often the odour that greets me upon entering my home.

My third floor flat it is like an icy mausoleum. There is no insulation, like an airy, tiled hammam in the dead of wintery night, with the heat off. Even when the central heating is on, its ability to radiate throughout my apartment, let alone make a meaningful difference to the room temperature is limited. Often I huddle next to the radiator in the kitchen appalled by the veneer of modernity. One might assume good design, comfort and functionality but the reality here as in other countries chasing the Western curve of development is vain, ill-conceived and superficial. Large concrete buildings are preferred even though the lack of insulation and general un-liveable-ness is tangible to all, especially in the middle of winter. But also in summer when the temperatures soar to the early forties on a regular basis. The cheap and ugly wall cabinets do nothing to cheer me and I spend time surrounded by them purely due to proximity to warm drinks and the fact that the kitchen actually warms up, eventually. This room must be the least aesthetically pleasing room I have had the misfortune to spend time. I’d take a cosy mud-brick home heated by a bukhari (Afghan-style pot-belly stove) with no electricity or running water over my current situation any day. It is a mystery why countries that effectively found ways to survive and even flourish in harsh climates for centuries have seemingly abandoned all reason and common sense when it comes to building materials, architecture and design for the sake of appearances and maybe Western approval. Yes, I take a dim view of the sorry legacy of imperialists - Russian, American, British and French mostly - in the places I have chosen to spend much of my time. At least there was good beer in Congo, but don’t get me started on the Belgians!

I walk away to the only place I feel at ease other than my bedroom. The sun is out! South-east facing, and sometimes even warm on a still day in the middle of winter, this corner of the massive flat I live in with its nook-shaped couch feels like a different world. I sit there reading, with coffee in hand, and the internal woe, architectural and otherwise, fades. Soon I am down to a T-shirt and bare feet when only moments ago, indoors, I was wearing heavy boots and a down jacket. How crazy is that? As a rule it is warmer outside than inside the buildings I inhabit. Out on a day trip to al-Salt, the chaps and I relax with strong and muddy Turkish coffee on a sunny cafe balcony and survey the scene (see photo). Despite the mess of power lines and construction sites, the minarets are elegant on the skyline and the brickwork of the old buildings seems to belong, as does the call to prayer.

On the Level - Part 1: The Street

The first noticeable building I saw as I was driven into the capital from Queen Alia Airport was the large Ikea by the side of the highway. Its yellow and blue edifice, evoking the dream of an urbane fantasy built around Scando-minimalism at affordable prices, is part of the wannabe middle classes of all the world’s medium-to-large-sized cities. Yes, Amman. Peaceful with a largely functioning infrastructure. This majority Muslim, Middle Eastern city with all the trappings of Western modernity is  a multinational’s growth market wet dream. What was I getting myself into here?

As we sped down the smooth tar-seal, overtaken by BMW and Prius alike, this arrival on a humanitarian aid contract was unlike any I had experienced. This was not the usual violent dysfunction and adventure I was used to and had even come to crave. There is nothing quite like the feeling of travelling into a disaster full of danger and corruption. The anxious exhilaration of not knowing if you will make it safely to your accommodation or ever return to the avian gateway which acts as a portal back to the safe, the known. The delightful discomfort of these uncertain moments only really lasts until the lights of the terminal fade and then you are into the reality of the journey. The flight is like getting high. The time in country mirrors the ups and downs of drug-fuelled experience as they work their way through your system for good or bad. The initial rush never lasts and the trip seems more often something to be endured. Arriving in Jordan I mostly felt the latter. This city is what is known as a family posting. I had chosen the easy option and as I lay my head down to sleep that first night, it spun with the other options I had avoided for the sake of comfortable self-preservation. The questions and doubts spiralled like dancing DNA strands on amphetamines until finally something familiar sounded out across the neighbourhood; “Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar”. With that call to prayer - its beautiful, gentle incantation and melodic recitation washing over me - a peacefulness entered my mind and spread throughout my tired limbs. Sleep descended quickly and I dreamed of Afghanistan.

Awaking to the sound of busy morning traffic and a strange room, empty but for impersonal furniture and my bags by the wall, I find myself considering my choice to be here in the new day’s light and from the inside looking out. This is not Kabul and like the view from my window, I feel  cluttered, confused, the horizon or what lies beyond unknowable. On that first walk to work I am most powerfully struck by the smells at street level. Men on their way to work smoking cigarettes as they drive. Cutting down a side street the fragrance of cologne is pungent but there is nobody nearby. I notice a man fifty yards away with his window down and it’s not until I pass him that I realise the source is him. The smell of fresh bread wafts from a local boulangerie and I step inside to buy breakfast. Perhaps we always make sense of the new and unfamiliar in reference to our own cultural reference points and past, even something simple like fresh bread in the morning. The poppy seed-covered croissants filled with local cheese are delicious, their crust flaky like those produced so beautifully in France where the quality of this bread would not be out of place. 

Walking to work I notice the pavements are somewhat ridiculous here. Time and money has been invested into them but zero thought it seems. You can barely walk ten yards in many places without encountering an obstacle to be navigated. Sometimes this is just a curb where access of vehicles has been prioritised for easy access or egress. There are trees - perhaps half a dozen of them, quite tall and sturdy - near my house which stand centrally in a 4-foot-wide sidewalk which to pass you have to squeeze by between a wall or parked cars. Then there are the sections which have been converted to miniature green spaces or dumping grounds of affluent fly tippers. There are also sentry boxes for security guards of police in the richer areas which will take up the entire width of the pavement. In short, when folk walk here they use the road. As I turn onto Paris Street where my offices are located and compose myself for the day ahead. Stepping into the smoke-filled stair well I am reminded of when I loved to smoke. Those days are long gone but that still familiar aroma comforts me and puts me at ease. Upon reflection it seems I am forming touch-points for engagement with new people, in a place and speaking a language, none of which I understand. But I understand this work and that most people, most of the time, hold good intentions toward others, even strangers, especially in majority-Muslim contexts where hospitality is taken very seriously and is largely heartfelt. Things tend to work out somehow and I’m sure this Middle East adventure will be similarly full of rich experience. I turn toward the Medair sign and step across the threshold. Here we go again.

Heading back from work that first week I came once again to a busy four-way intersection with no traffic lights, stops signs or even guidance about who yields (see photo). The pedestrian crossings  traversing this junction are faded and on foot in rush hour you enter at your peril. Jordanians step out with confidence trusting that the driver is always held culpable if someone is knocked down. Presumably there is local etiquette that ensures a degree of safety before entering the hazardous melee. I treat it more like an obstacle course and I’m sure my approach appears comic to bystanders. I also find it funny but am mostly trying not to die. Amman is many things but it is decidedly not built for those who travel by foot (or bicycle for that matter but that’s a separate matter). The roads are big, smooth and fast. People behind the wheel regularly speed and are openly impatient with each other. The beeping of horns from six cars back begins the moment traffic lights turn green even though it is impossible that the honker could be moving any sooner or gain anything (other than venting) by doing so. Such is life in these large conurbations where there is competition for space and progress in almost every sphere.

As I head towards relatively quieter streets near my apartment, I  wonder about the crossroads in my own life and how I will navigate my way through another humanitarian contract, the distance from my girlfriend in America and the feelings of exile which I have carried ever since my first aid mission in northern Afghanistan. In the words of Bob Dylan ‘no direction home’ is how I feel and yet here in Amman I will have an apartment to myself, mostly, and that’s the closest I ever get to a stable physical base; when I’m away and working. I dream of a cabin somewhere, with space all around, a place of sanctuary and simplicity where I can lay my head and put down my burden and bags, unpack this life in boxes. The alternative is to embrace this nomadic lifestyle I’ve come to live over the years since I became an aid worker. Sometimes I think if I could accept that home is where the heart is, or simply where I happen to be, then I wouldn’t worry about having a place of my own to lay my head and house my possessions. Never putting down roots but instead travelling light, doing away with bags and boxes I never see but always carry somehow and simply trust that anything more is not needed, heed the bedouin’s beckoning call. I step through the doorway and head up to my apartment, as much of a home as I’ve ever had over the years. For the next four months this is my base and I am grateful for this contract provision.