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.

Portland Procrastination

It has been nearly six months since I moved to Portland, Oregon. Naturally, reality has been different from the many ideas I had about how life might be and the ways I would spend my time. Specifically, as a man without a day job, I hoped to use my many hours of free time to make the most of the opportunity to write, (amongst other things), an activity that I always say I want to do more of but when I have the time, I mostly don’t. I’m not sure why exactly. There are times when I have written, if not prolifically, then at least consistently over a period. Nor have I lacked a muse. This corner of the Pacific North-west has stimulated my thinking and I have a list of topics to explore. However, I simply haven’t done it. Nor have I disciplined myself to even try.

Maybe the adjustment to living in America has demanded other things of me and my time. As someone who has spent many years in various different countries, I know that culture shock is real and while the USA speaks English, has familiar cultural markers and doesn’t feel particularly foreign, this country up close and personal is strange to me. Perhaps it is even more bizarre than more extreme examples of the countries from which I have visited over the past fifteen years of travel and work, such as Afghanistan and Japan. I think one of the key challenges is that I thought I knew America (not least through TV, previous visits and friends from here, including my current girlfriend), but the truth is that this familiarity is deceptive and more than ever, the disconnect between the United States I imagined and the place I live is vast. And this gap is exacerbated by the appearance of the recognisable. So, as I finally approach these Portland Paradigms, it is with the perspective of an outsider. I might seem to be local were it not for the Kiwi accent and un-American things I do and say, everything from being misunderstood when talking about the everyday to my utter disbelief at deadly serious debates over guns and the mass shootings which occur not daily in this place often referred to as ‘the land of the free and home of the brave’.

Now that I’m finally putting fingers to keyboard, I’m interested in exploring aspects of America via a Portland lens, including just how free this place is and how much bravery is required to live here. This series of essays will pursue a number of alliterative titles including ‘Portland Pot’ about legal marijuana in the city of roses, ‘Portland Parochial’ about politics, white and liberal, and ‘Portland Pubs’ all about beers in the world’s craft beer capital. I come to this with many prejudices, some of which are unhelpful and wrong, others which I like and/or are good, but none of which should go unchallenged as I wrestle with the culture here.  As I walk down the street with my Red Wing boots, denim-on-denim with Filson jacket and trucker cap on, I look the part. But I am more than that. Neither are appearances in this urban milieu best characterised by it’s various stereotypes. 

Postscriptych: How Do You Voodoo?

Good Lord who hath made the sun that shines upon us, that riseth from the sea, who maketh the storm to roar; and governeth the thunders, The Lord is hidden in the heavens, and there He watcheth over us. The Lord seeth what the blancs have done. Their god commandeth crimes, ours giveth blessings upon us. The Good Lord hath ordained vengeance. He will give strength to our arms and courage to our hearts. He shall sustain us. Cast down the image of the god of the blancs, because he maketh the tears to flow from our eyes. Hearken unto Liberty that speaketh now in all your hearts.

Dutty Boukman

In 1791 at Bois Caiman a creole pig was sacrificed and its blood shared in an oath to the cause of Haitian independence and liberation from white slave owners. This ceremony was not so different to the covenants conveyed in the Old Testament of the Bible between Israel and God. Liberation from slavery - the various African peoples dragged to these Caribbean shores wanted this, just as the Jews did when they were exiled and made slaves in Egypt. Haitians wanted a life free from captivity and they got it. Well, kind of. And as the plane lifts and rises over Port-au-Prince, I look down upon the sprawling capital, its poverty and hardships observable in my minds-eye, and it’s clear that freedom from oppression is still the cry of the majority.

That the abomination of slavery is gone in Haiti is wonderful but there are other chains that still demand breaking and not all of them belong to a white master. In the late 18^th century the blancs were the obvious enemy, not so anymore. Yes, the West and America have a profound legacy and ongoing influence but that doesn’t satisfactorily explain why most Haitians suffer. For over two hundred years there has been, in principle, the possibility of transformation in terms of healthcare, education and infrastructure, all these things that would alleviate difficulty and facilitate opportunities for better living. It doesn’t matter who you are or where you are from, when you are sick you want a doctor, parents want their children to learn and people want the possibility to make a living and be secure. This country has seen much change and some improvements in living conditions but it is far from what my Haitian friends want. I have lots of ideas but no good answers and the truth is that I don’t need to provide them. It seems to me they will have to work it out for themselves and just like me will have to wrestle with themselves, each other and their government to see greater freedom.

In our own lives we are often our own worst enemies and barriers to what we desire. When it comes to societies it becomes even harder and for those in power it is worse. It is easy to hate the tyrant and we should oppose him (well, usually it’s a he), but don’t we all suffer under tyranny? The tyranny of our families, the guilt of our wrongdoing, the circumstances of our birth, the fortunes of our home countries, our sense of self and the inevitable bumps and bruises along life’s journey. Life isn’t easy for anyone and for some it’s really hard. We have this in common – we long for more life than we currently experience. I believe that the challenges humans face are mostly held within us and that the greater manifestation of these problems in countries like Haiti, and truly global issues like the growing gap between rich and poor, are symptomatic of human nature. 

So, how do you voodoo? Well, pretty much the same as everyone probably. However attractively ‘together’ we may think we have got our lives, we are in truth bumbling and fumbling along trying to survive and stay true to our beliefs, whatever they might be – voodoo itself, environmentalism, gender equality, veganism, self-before-other-ness, any-other-ism, comfortable self-preservation and/or faith in Jesus. We all choose our way in life, consciously or not, willingly or not, and that determines so much of our lives or not (natural phenomenon and perhaps God as some might see it). The point is (to bastardise the saying), we have to live in the worlds that are created for us and engage with them as we decide. I decided to return to aid work last year, dip my toe back in those murky waters, and do what small good I could. Seven months in Haiti haven’t broken me. Despite the failure to implement any meaningful humanitarian programming I am not disillusioned or cynical. I made my choices as did everyone else and life happened. There was the comic and the tragic, as well as the good that happens every day in the world which rarely makes the news headlines. We built no houses but were busy working and spending (and in one obvious sense wasting) money every day as the authorities postured, pushed for what they wanted and ultimately prevailed. No houses were built and the poor people who so admirably rebuilt their humble homes after the devastation of Hurricane Matthew continued to live their lives without assistance from us or their leaders. That is normal for them and yet still they found a measure of joy and kindness day by day. It is always the poor that endure the most and often are the most content.

The rich are the powerful for sure but regularly discontented. People even say that under the Duvalier dictators, Papa and Baby Doc, at least there was more respect in society and less crime although the thuggery of the Tonton Macoutes (the national security service) was infamous. Unfortunately humanitarian organisations have to navigate the difficult terrain of politics. I would have more happily worked side by side with the people I was there to help but sadly it never happened. When the local mayors were still blocking access after months of negotiations, we decided to leave. Such was the reaction in one location that roadblocks were set up and people raided our depot. News travels fast and the Prime Minister summoned me to his residence to explain. Without governmental approval NGOs simply can’t work in an area (that’s the usual procedure). At every step of the process we respected the law and remained committed to the humanitarian imperative to help those in need without prejudice. The PM seemed a reasonable man, polite and even decent, and with a vision for a better Haiti for all (most leaders do). He understood the impasse and accepted, with regret, our decision to abandon the project. However, it is clear that the reality of that political and social melée will remain shrouded in mystery and clouded by cross-cultural confusion.

When I was a young man I dreamed of doing diplomatic work in foreign countries and here I was conversing in my somewhat brutal French with the Haitian PM, the Minister of Planning and the head of mission for USAID. I didn’t expect it to look like this but I guess dreams are often strangers upon realisation. Looking down on the brown river snaking towards the sea through a scarred landscape stripped of the verdant forest which once covered the land, I make my peace with the past months and accept them with as much honesty as I can, acknowledging as I do so that I am not defined by the work I do and that to spend time again in Haiti has been a privilege.