Down There

Chinatown, Africa

2010-06-12T14:28:00.006-04:00

Going back to the recurrent theme of the growing Chinese presence in Africa, here's a great video from Vanguard TV on the impact of the tens of thousands of Chinese in Angola. And don't miss the kuduro dancing at the beginning and end of the film.

Santería

2010-04-11T12:44:00.017-04:00

As I mentioned in my previous post, the great thing about Cuba is all the people you meet just walking down the street. As an example, while walking by an outdoor neighborhood bar, we were called over by a lady with a greasy piece of fried chicken in one hand, a beer in the other, and a big smile on her face. Over a beer, she explained that she lives in Italy and is married to an Italian. She was traveling in Europe years ago as an athlete and defected. Their family seemed to be expert on exporting women—something like four out of six sisters had married foreigners and were living in Europe or the US. Later we realized that the invitation we received to the santería ceremony the family was having that night may have been to give some of the younger women a chance to get married off.

I consider myself a bit of an expert on voodoo and santería, this being my fourth ceremony, but they never fail to impress. This ceremony was a kind of funeral for a sister who had passed away years ago. All the sisters had returned from their foreign homes to be with their mother and the rest of the family for the ceremony.

Below is a photo tour of the ceremony. A word of warning, this post contains some graphic images. Anybody who will be overly disturbed by a goat being decapitated may not want to continue reading (Thi Ri, that means you).

First, the priests led the crowd in prayers and in calling out to the spirits.

As the lamentations grew more intense, one woman became distraught and then seemed to be possessed and finally collapsed.

The prayers and wailing continued until another woman was overtaken and collapsed.

Then everybody came together for a final prayer.

And the drumming and dancing began.

And bring on the goat. The animal's throat was quickly cut and the blood poured into a pan. They then proceeded to cut off the hooves and tail, and then to castrate the goat.

Grandma was given the honor of taking a big bite out of the freshly removed testicle (I'll spare you that picture). Then everybody grabbed a little dinner.

Cubans

2010-03-07T12:55:00.013-05:00

So, we've established that the cuisine should not be the main draw for going to Cuba. And ultra-lefties looking for a socialist utopia may have their fantasies shattered by the mind-numbing disfunctionality and rampant materialism. So, why go? Well, for those of us who are just a bit too young to have vacationed in the Soviet Union, Cuba is about as close as you can get these days. There's definitely no other place like it. And besides the political voyeurism, Cubans are just fun people. I can't think of another place where you can spend two weeks and have so many memorable conversations with random people on the street or be invited into so many people's homes.

For example, while driving across the island and picking up hitchhikers, we met:
- University students who speak quite good English and French and are studying to work with foreigners as translators, tour guides, etc. They said they chose this career because they are interested in meeting people from different places and learning about other parts of the world. Then they said they don't mind the fact that they're not allowed to leave their country to travel abroad.
- A doctor who had spent years working in Mozambique and Trinidad & Tobago as part of Cuba's program to send doctors to friendly developing countries.
- An old man who snored while he was awake and professed his love for mulattas, saying he'd never been with a white woman his whole life.
- A middle-aged guy who loved the United States with all his heart, although he had never been there and only knew what he had seen in movies, and spoke only in clichés ("I love Disneyland. It's the happiest place on Earth." or "I love America. It's the land of the free and the home of the Brave.")

[The Cuban Evander Holyfield.]

We rented rooms in the homes of a family of hyper-intellectual theater critics, a high-ranking government official, a man whose family had been among the elite but had everything confiscated after the revolution.

[This guy and his friends were training the dog for an upcoming fight.]

There were people who would love to leave the country as soon as possible and those who defend the government and socialism until the end.

["I am what I am. And what of it?"]

We were driven around for $5 by a former star player and current coach on Havana's biggest baseball team. It would be like if taxi driver in New York was a former star on the Yankees.

What's wrong with this picture?

2010-02-11T10:29:00.003-05:00

PNUD is the Spanish version of UNDP (the United Nations Development Program). Somehow I don't think Ban Ki-moon would approve of this message, with all the UN sex scandals and all. This picture was taken in Santiago, Cuba. Santiago is overrun with Italian men who seem especially fond of the discos and the young ladies who frequent them. Now I don't know if it was an Italian UN worker who put a Playboy sticker on his car, but if I were a betting man...

Viva la Revolucion

2010-02-06T22:22:00.026-05:00

There's a lot to say about Cuba. Few countries have a recent history as compelling - a former playground of rich, hedonistic Americans and mafiosos; maybe one of the only truly idealistic revolutions in history; site of the crisis that was the closest the world ever came to to nuclear war (FYI, both Fidel and Che said they wanted the Soviets to launch the nukes, despite the fact that it probably would have meant the destruction of their country); a tiny island and long-standing bastion of communism that has stood up to the world's greatest power (and most fervent anti-communist country) only 228 miles away. Following a disastrous invasion by Fidel, Raul, Che and their fellow guerrillas in 1956, there were only 22 mostly unarmed and disoriented men wandering the mountains. Amazingly, these guys managed to take control of the country and piss off American politicians for over 50 years.

After this trip, my conclusions about the country are more or less the same as they were after my first trip eight years ago. Most people respect the revolution, but have had enough. Communism's just not really working out. A few examples:

Doctors make something like $20 per month. A good hustler can get that from a tourist in an hour. When the financial incentive is for the best and brightest to be wandering the streets of Havana looking for tourists, there's a problem. Ironically, this has created a situation where Cuba has become a prime destination for sex tourism - kind of like it was before the revolution.

People can't travel. Never a good sign.

[This notice, in a taxi, explains how to prevent catching H1N1. At the end, it asks, "Can I travel?" Well, no, you can't, but it has nothing to do with H1N1.]

Despite what you might think from having eaten at Cuban restaurants in the US or Europe, Cuba has some of the worst food in the world. The most commonly found meals are frozen pizza, hot dogs, rice and beans with a few scraps of meat, mayonnaise sandwiches, and ice cream (Cubans eat an astonishing amount of ice cream. Literally, everybody with like seven scoops of ice cream...plus a slice of cake...plus a sundae. No joke.) The lean economic times following the fall of the Soviet Union and central planning of people's meals has all but destroyed Cuban cuisine.

["Light food: fried chicken, hot dogs and steak"]

One might think that at least Cuba would be free of annoying advertising. Nope. It's just that all the advertising is for one product: the government. There are basically two news stories in Cuba that are repeated incessantly in various forms in newspapers and on the radio and TV: Cuba is unfairly on the US list of state sponsors of terrorism (they have a point) and the five "Cuban heroes" are unfairly detained in the US on spying charges (This happened in 1998! This was also the top story when I was there in 2002. A little obsessive are we?)

[Photo courtesy of the Cuban embassy in Nairobi website. I rest my case.]

I don't really know the details of this story. Cubans told me the Five were trying to infiltrate and sabotage groups of Miami Cubans who were plotting against the Cuban regime, which sounds quite a bit like spying to me. Either way, are these really the country's biggest problems? When the Haitian earthquake hit, the news just talked about the great work the Cuban doctors were doing there.

I'd have to say the best thing about communism in Cuba, besides the obvious free health care and education (I'm dismissing these jokingly, but yes, they are truly remarkable achievements and something my country should be trying to learn from. I think my discussion of this after the first trip was a little more balanced), is the Russian (former Soviet) embassy. It may be the coolest building in the world. Look closely...I'm pretty sure it's a Transformer.

[Photo credit: Daniel Norlund]

2010-01-28T14:38:00.001-05:00

As much as I hate discouraging comments, I hate having to delete a hundred spam comments about viagra and lactating lesbians even more. So, from now on, you have to sign in to comment. Sorry.

Huambo photo essay on HELO

2009-11-23T12:27:00.003-05:00

The second issue of HELO magazine is out and I have one more photo essay in it, this time from carnival in Huambo, Angola.

Charm City

2009-11-17T14:38:00.006-05:00

Since leaving New Mexico ten years ago, I've lived in London, Prague, Nicaragua, Colombia, Brazil, New York City, East Timor, Angola, Chad, Myanmar, and Benin. So, the next stop was obvious...Baltimore. Don't look so surprised, Baltimore has...crabs...The Wire...umm...multiple buses every day to New York.

Oh, and there's Johns Hopkins University, where I'm working on my PhD in the International Health Department in the School of Public Health. After almost four years in Africa, it was time to spend a little time in my own country and in an academic environment.

I'm debating what to do with this blog, since my daily life in the library may not provide the same quality of stories. I don't know when was the last time a rebel came through here. On the other hand, Baltimore does have its share of excitement, for better or worse. And the guy I bought my furniture from had a voodoo temple set up in his closet. Also, I do happen to be in one of the world's centers of global health learning, so maybe I'll focus more on sharing some of the bits of wisdom on saving lives I pick up here. And of course my work and research will still take me down there on a regular basis.

A Voodoo Baptism

2009-10-26T21:58:00.015-04:00

I’ve really been neglecting the blog. The main reason for that is my busy new life back in the US. But I’m not going to talk about that just yet, since I haven’t finished up with Benin yet. I promised to let you all know what a Beninese voodoo ceremony is like, and I’m a man of my word.

With the end of my stay in Benin quickly approaching, I picked up the pressure on the USAID driver/voodoo priest that I worked with to make something happen. Finally, on my last weekend, he came through. With a little support from the white guy (me), he would perform a type of “baptism” ceremony for a new baby of a young couple who hadn’t yet been able to save enough money to do it. Ever on my guard after years in developing countries, I asked the priest, Noel, to make me a list of the things that would need to be purchased and their prices. The list read:

1 goat $45
cola nuts $20
4 chickens $7
2 bottles of perfume $4
candles $3
1 bottle of gin $7
2 packets of chalk $2.50
1 packet of needles $1
1 packet of razor blades $.30
praying money of your choice

Now initially he had listed a dog or cat for the ceremony, but I object to that one. I was already questioning whether I wanted to watch – and especially pay for – a goat or chickens get killed, but there was no way I was going to have a dog get its throat slit. My curiosity goes pretty far, but I think that’s right about where the line is. In the end, we agreed that the only animals to be sacrificed would be the chickens. Generally, I’m pretty against killing animals for non-nutritional purposes, but I justified my support with the argument that I was just helping with a ceremony that was going to happen anyway. A little weak, I know.

So, what’s a voodoo ceremony like? I’ll disappoint you right now – no pins in dolls, nobody got possessed, and alas, not one single person turned into a lion. There was lots of praying and chanting. At one point, he went to each person and rubbed cola nuts on them. Questions about the person’s future prospects were and asked, and the nuts are thrown on the ground like dice. It’s believed that a god is answering through the nuts (turned up means yes, etc.). The baby’s father, after assuring Noel that he had been treating his wife well, was outed by the nuts. It turns out he’d been out late drinking with his friends. Don’t try to fool the nuts. I’m happy to report that I’m going to very healthy, successful, and wealthy in my life.

The ceremony then moved on to the grim stage, with the slitting of some chicken throats. Just like the Santería ceremony I attended in Cuba, the chickens were rubbed on a person to soak up all the bad vibes and then are sacrificed, with the blood poured over idols on the altar.

Finally, the chickens were buried and each person had a chance to make a personal prayer. All in all, a quiet, intimate, and interesting ceremony – even a bit touching at times.

Dangbo, Benin

2009-09-30T19:43:00.006-04:00

A few photos from a great trip through some pretty remote and waterlogged villages in Benin.

HELO magazine

2009-08-31T13:59:00.005-04:00

A friend has taken the leap to follow his bright idea of creating a magazine detailing life in the humanitarian world through diverse styles of writing and photo essays on humanitarian aid, countries in conflict and life in the field. There's nothing else like it out there and it shows promise to be a quality read - and this plug is unrelated to the fact that I've contributed to it. Check out HELO Magazine.

Oil Money

2009-08-01T13:42:00.011-04:00

A friend of mine in Angola sent me a bunch of pictures of construction projects in Luanda that are reportedly approved or already under construction (below are just a few of them). Obviously the changes in saw in Luanda over three years were nothing compared to what's coming. While I'm glad to see tangible signs of development coming from Angola's oil wealth, I have this lingering feeling that perhaps building a bunch of luxury high-rise buildings and sports stadiums shouldn't be the country's number one priority. I guess it's safe to assume they've already taken care of those nagging problems of child and maternal mortality, malaria, AIDS, land mines, malnutrition, water and sanitation, and the lack of economic opportunities for the poor. Otherwise they wouldn't be spending all this money on shiny buildings in Luanda, right?

But even if I forget social responsibility for a minute, as someone who spent a lot of time in Luanda and was part of the upper quintile in income, I have to ask: What the hell good are all those buildings when nobody can get to them because Luanda's streets are completely gridlocked with traffic from 5am to 9pm?! How about investing in a little public transportation?

Nigerian Love Note

2009-07-22T19:31:00.000-04:00

A couple months ago, I attended a World Bank conference in Cotonou. After a coffee break, it was announced that somebody had had a phone go missing. I didn’t think much of it, but when I later looked in my bag, I saw that my iPod and pocket video camera were missing. I reported it to the facility manager, who couldn’t have cared less, and wrote my electronic toys off as lost (I was particularly annoyed because I had just received that iPod from the US two days before).

The next day, while walking into the building for the second day of the conference, my colleague Simplice spotted a teenage kid who had been sitting behind us in the conference room the previous room. Simplice had suspected him as he obviously looked out of place among a bunch of middle-aged guys in suits. He gave us a “bonjour” as we walked by looking at him suspiciously.

At the morning coffee break, there was the kid, helping himself to sandwiches and a Coke. Simplice walked up to him and asked who he was and what he was doing there. The kid said he was just attending the conference because he was interested in the topic. Everybody was a bit suspicious that this teenager was that interested in the mid-term review of the World Bank Malaria Booster Program in Benin. To his credit, the kid played it cool and stuck with his story for a couple of hours. Finally, after calling the police, he broke down and admitted that he had stolen the phones and my iPod and video camera. Unfortunately, he had already sold everything the previous day. With that, the cop loaded him into a car and they went searching the streets for the people who had bought the stolen items. I cynically laughed at their futile attempt to find these random guys somewhere on the streets of Cotonou, but was impressed that they were at least making an effort.

At lunch I walked out of the conference room just in time to see the cop coming in leading two guys by the arm into a side room. They had bought the two stolen phones (which were recovered) and were now being interrogated by an ever-growing group of people. One of the guys was a young Beninese and the other was a Nigerian man that didn’t speak any French. Both were visibly very nervous. As the group of observers got larger, the interrogating turned into heckling and threatening, taking turns abusing the Nigerian in English and the Beninese in French. As the heckling escalated – people started telling them that they were going to go to prison and would get their fingers chopped off – the guys were becoming more and more panicked. At this point, the Beninese kid started sobbing uncontrollably and raised his hands in prayer with pleas to God for help. The Nigerian is talking non-stop to anyone that will listen to him. The crowd from the conference is enjoying the whole scene immensely and the more the kid cries, the harder they laugh. I was starting to feel really bad for these poor guys – I mean all they really did was buy a phone. I wanted to go give the kid a hug and tell him nobody was going to cut his fingers off. Mob justice is alive and well in Africa.

Then all of a sudden the cop walks in triumphantly with two new guys in tow and raises up my iPod and camera in victory. I’m shocked. I never thought in a million years I would ever see them again. The new guys are another Beninese and a Nigerian. Instead of handing me my things, the cop pulls me, the purchasers, and the kid who stole the stuff into a back room. I’m sure this will be the request for payment for services rendered. But, instead he explains that they found the stolen items, hands them back to me, and explains that they will deal with the thieves and I can go. I’m not sure what he had in store for those involved, but I imagine it involves them paying him to let them go.

Months later, I was looking through the videos on my camera and found some random Nigerian guy talking up at me. Before having his new purchase rudely taken from him, the guy who had bought my camera had recorded a love note to a girl (that he had never met). I was so touched, I just had to share it.

The Venice of West Africa

2009-06-28T09:44:00.013-04:00

Ganvié, sometimes referred to as "the Venice of West Africa" by people who have never been to Venice, is a town on the coast of Benin. It's a UNESCO world heritage site and if Benin has any tourist sites, this is it. The attraction lies in the fact that the whole town is on water. It might be the biggest lake village in Africa (it's hard to know things for sure in Africa).

The town was built on water to escape invading warriors from the dominant Fon ethnic group; apparently Fon warriors were forbidden by their religion from entering the water. While the likelihood of a Fon warrior attack these days is slim, the townspeople continue to live on the water.

The town did provide a nice site for photography. Unfortunately, the townspeople may have been the rudest bunch of people I've ever come across. Ironically for a tourist town, they really seem to despise tourists. There was an overt sense of hostility, with people asking for money and then acting really aggressive if you don't give, lots of dirty looks, mean-sounding comments, and hand gestures that I'm pretty sure didn't mean welcome. At one point, I even thought a guy was going to hit us with an oar. Maybe they were on better behavior when the UNESCO people visited. Anyway, it's kind of a nice place in pictures.

Now That's a Labor Problem

2009-06-15T12:57:00.006-04:00

I remember back in a previous life when I was an intern at General Motors (good thing I didn't stick with that career path!) everybody was worrying about a possible auto workers' strike. The impact would have been...I don't know...decreased productivity and profit, some extra time with the family for the workers. Half of the French population strikes each year because they want a 4-day weekend. But in the end, I'm not sure how much these disputes affect daily life. Now imagine a labor dispute causing the hospitals and clinics in your country to close for months. Unthinkable? Not in Benin.

For three months now, nearly all public health services throughout the country have been closed, including even emergency care. Some open just one day a week, others not at all.

Not only have routine health services shut down, but due to the strike, Benin failed to take part in an 11-country polio vaccination campaign that was supposed to start on May 29th. In unrelated news, Benin has recently reported 20 new polio cases to date in 2009, compared to six cases in all of 2008 and zero cases from 2006-2007. 19 cases may not seem like a lot, but this is a disease that is on the brink of being eradicated. One polio case in a country is a failure. This news from Benin is an unmitigated disaster. Only three countries - Nigeria, India, and Sudan - have had more cases this year. That's a country with over a billion people, one in endless war, and one that's Nigeria (the perennial problem child when it comes to polio and vaccination rates). In terms of cases per population, Benin is number one. It's not known when the campaign will take place here.

So how does this happen? I don't know all the details, but it seems clear that a large portion of the blame has to go to incompetent management within the Ministry of Health and questionable priorities at higher levels. The whole problem started when the Ministry granted a bonus to doctors at the central level. This set off a chain reaction with every other level of health worker demanding a similar bonus. Unfortunately, the government doesn't have nearly enough money to pay for this. They approached international donors about covering the gap, but this goes against pretty much every donor's policies. So, they didn't pay and the health workers striked. And kept on striking.

To make matters worse, a couple ministers reportedly made a deal (without the approval of the president) to pay the bonuses to a larger number of health workers. Then they went on the news and announced the strike was over. Unfortunately, there were two problems: 1) they don't have the money and 2) the deal still didn't cover a large number of lower level health workers (who basically are the health system in Africa) and so the union was not satisfied. So, the doors remain shut.

I sure hope I don't get sick.

Voodoo

2009-06-06T10:48:00.006-04:00

My mission to see a man turn into a lion continues.

Benin is known as the heartland of Voodoo (spelled Vodun in Benin). It is the predominant traditional religion in parts of West Africa, especially the southern parts of Nigeria, Benin, Togo, and Ghana. There are also many commonalities with traditional religions throughout sub-Saharan African. Voodoo in Haiti, the Dominican Republic and Louisiana; Santería in Cuba; and Condomblé in Brazil are all partly based on West African Vodun, and have integrated aspects of other African religions (including from the Kongo Kingdom, where I used to live in Angola), Catholicism, and indigenous religions. Apparently, there is also a group of African-Americans in South Carolina and Georgia called the Gullah, who have maintained much of their African culture and practice a religion similar to West African Vodun (sounds like a good road trip).

[Photos from the Voodoo-related Snake Temple in Ouida, Benin]

Voodoo was about the only thing I knew about Benin when I came, and I was pretty excited about the chance to learn more about it. I’ve previously participated in a Santería ceremony in Cuba, heard endless tales of black magic in Angola, and learned about Voodoo in Haiti (and freaked everybody out at JFK airport arriving with an interesting souvenir [see below]).

While traveling to another town for work, I got to talking with the driver, Noel. It turns out he’s a Voodoo priest. We talked about his beliefs and my interest in learning about the religion. He said I was welcome to come the next time he did a ceremony. Or if I wanted, he would initiate me into Voodoo. I said I was interested, but what I really wanted to see was some of the crazy magic I had heard about in Angola (shrunken men, men turning into animals, belts turning into snakes, etc.). He said that stuff exists here, but he doesn’t do any of that. Contrary to what I learned watching The Serpent and the Rainbow, that kind of thing has nothing to do with Voodoo. Those things are magic, which always comes from the Devil. Voodoo is only used for good and is about communicating with the deities, not doing magic. So, it seems that all the cool stuff is evil…figures.

I asked Noel if he has seen magic.

“Oh, of course! It’s everywhere!”
“What have you seen?”
“Lots of stuff. A chicken is walking around, and with one word, it just drops dead. You can make people have bad stomach pain all of a sudden.”
“In Angola, people said it was common for men to be shrunken to doll size and put in bottles.”
“Oh yeah, that happens all the time. I knew a guy who used to do that all the time. He would disappear and then would appear inside a bottle. You could see him dancing around like crazy in there. He had the same face, just really little.”
“And you saw this?”
“Sure.”
“With your own eyes?”
“Yeah, I saw it!”
“So how does he get in and out of the bottle?”
“He just appears in there and then appears outside big again. But one time he couldn’t get out. Finally we broke the bottle and he died. I was at the funeral.”
“You had a funeral for a tiny shrunken man? Did he have a tiny coffin?”
“No, no. When he died he went back to normal size.”
“Oh, ok.”
“I also had an uncle who used to turn himself into a lion all the time.”
“Your uncle could turn into a lion?”
“Yeah. He did it a lot.”
“You saw this?”
“Sure.”
“With your own eyes?”
“Yeah! Lots of times. But one time, some enemies of his found his idol and broke it and he died. His body had turned back into a human, but his head was still a lion’s head.”
“Did you see the body like that?”
“Sure, we drove it all the way back from the village like that.”
“So, you had a body of a half-human, half-lion and you didn’t take a picture?”
“Well, we didn’t want to upset his children if they saw a picture of their dead father.”
“Yeah, but come on, it’s a person with a lion’s head. You didn’t feel any desire to share that with the world?”
“Would you want someone to take a picture of your father’s body?”
“If he had a lion’s head, yeah!”

Of course, Noel doesn’t do this kind of thing. He can however, help somebody find love or a good job. In fact, he has a lot of foreigners who send him money and their name and he helps them with a problem they have (and asked if I had any friends in the U.S. who were interested in Voodoo). I expressed my skepticism to Noel. For every example of proof of his powers (A guy was looking for a job and couldn’t fine one, then after going to Noel, he found the job he wanted), I would give a reason why that was not actually proof (Maybe the guy just found a job). As the aspiring epidemiologist that I am, I said I would like to do a randomized case-control study to see whether the people he helps actually have better fortunes than the control group. He didn’t seem that interested in the idea.

We’re now talking about preparing a Voodoo initiation ceremony for me. At the very least, I should get some good photos and a story out of it.

Pendjari

2009-05-30T08:59:00.011-04:00

Lots of people think Africa is all about lions and elephants. In fact, I rarely run into lions here. But it does happen on occasion. A few weeks ago, I traveled to the north of Benin to visit the Pendjari park. West Africa's generally not known for its parks and big game, but there are still a few animals running around.

[Trash cans...the new natural habitat of baboons.]

[Word in the park was that nobody had seen a lion in many months. We caught this one cruising with a baby warthog in her mouth.]

[We even spotted the elusive West African Amish.]

Another Year, Another Rebel Invasion Season

2009-05-07T04:22:00.010-04:00

This time last year, I was living in Chad. A peace accord had recently been signed by the presidents of Chad and Sudan with the aim of ending the support each country provides to the other's rebel groups. Most people held their optimism at bay considering that a peace deal had also been signed in 2007 and, well, that didn't really work out so well, with rebels invading and nearly taking N'djamena in early 2008 (subsequently, the Chadian government dug a moat around the city, a piece of information that remains one of my all-time favorites). Shortly after last year's peace deal was signed, Chadian rebel groups were making incursions into eastern Chad and Sudanese rebels attacked Khartoum (one year ago last Sunday - happy anniversary!). Both countries accused each other (rightly) of supporting the other's rebels and ties between the countries were broken. Further rebel invasions in Chad ensued and I was making preparations for evacuation.

Fast forward to 2009.

May 4: The presidents of Chad and Sudan sign a peace deal ending hostilities. Yay! Peace at last!

May 6: Chadian rebels invade eastern Chad and engage in fighting with the Chadian military. Doh!

No peace deal is going to stand in the way of the cycles of nature. Dry season comes along and Chadian rebels make their annual migration towards N'djamena.

Seriously though, if you're not going to stop the rebel invasions, at least put an end to the peace accords. It's all getting a bit tiresome.

Rebels were also reported to be in the border region between Chad and the Central African Republic, which has me a little worried, as that is where I was living and I still have friends there. I talked to one of my colleagues there who says that rebels have been seen in the border area, but so far things are calm in the south.

Mullahs and Spanking Skirts

2009-05-01T12:11:00.006-04:00

There's a story I've been waiting for for months. Adam was reporting from Afghanistan and Pakistan for a few months. Of course, he came with the obligatory stories of insurgents, bombs, religious radicals, blah, blah, blah. But I've been waiting for the story about the little sex apparel factory in Karachi, Pakistan. The one where the employees don't really get why the outfit they're producing has that hole there. Finally, the piece has run in the New York Times, and it doesn't disappoint. The video, in particular, is pretty amazing. I would love to start a podcast of these guys reading erotic stories.

Slavery + Jacksons = One Great Vacation

2009-04-26T09:35:00.014-04:00

I'm already planning my vacation. It's such an obvious idea, I can't believe nobody has thought of it before: a slave history theme park and Jackson 5 museum, all in one place. Brilliant.

Marlon Jackson, Micheal's brother, has come up with the completely random idea to build a $3.4 billion luxury resort in Nigeria. The themes of the resort are to be the horror of the inter-continental slave trade and a celebration of the poppy greatness of the Jackson 5.

For some reason, a lot of people seem to have taken offense to the idea, saying, "It's like dancing on the graves of dead people and telling them your honoring them."

Maybe they have a point. It would be a little hard to remain solemn while viewing photos of terrible atrocities with ABC playing in the background. They certainly did choose the right location though. It would be just wrong to build this anywhere but Nigeria.

The Beauty of Animated Statistics

2009-04-14T14:22:00.002-04:00

Check out the video below and many more like it at gapminder.org. A fascinating way to see the world through statistics. And he swallows a sword.

Is There a Role for Religion?

2009-03-28T10:30:00.005-04:00

This post was cut up so much by the World Bank censors, there wasn't even any point in posting it. I'm starting to think the World Bank may not be the ideal vehicle for my self-expression. At least I can still offend whoever I want on this blog.

So the Pope says it’s just not as good when you use condoms…control of the AIDS epidemic that is.

I just finished blogging about how science, not religion or ideology, should be guiding our decisions on global health policy and what happens? The Pope has to come to Africa and tell people not to use condoms. What the hell?! Did he not read my post?

Not only did he discourage the use of condoms (which is nothing new from the Vatican), but he went so far as to say that condom use can make the epidemic worse. He backed up this controversial assertion with…um…nothing. Oh wait, I almost forgot, the Pope is infallible.

The Pope’s recent comments just underscore for me how far out of touch the Catholic Church is with the issues facing the modern world and exemplifies why the church continues to lose support in most parts of the world. In fact, Africa has become the Vatican’s best hope for continued relevance.

But the problem goes beyond the Pope and the Vatican. At the funeral for a three-year old girl who recently died here in Benin, the priest addressed the question of why such a young child should be taken. His answer: God has a plan for us and only he can decide when our time has come. He advised the child’s mother that she should celebrate that the child is with God, rather than mourning her loss. This statement angered me. Both because it seems to me that pain and loss are the only appropriate emotions for a mother who has just lost her child and because of the deeper implications of his statement. If I take that comment to its logical conclusion, what he said was that my work, and the work of everybody who is trying to reduce mortality, is a waste of time because, in the end, it’s not up to us. I personally find these kinds of statements – and beliefs – entirely unhelpful. There are things we can do to prevent our children from dying and mothers and fathers need to know that they are the key to improving and ensuring their children’s health.

Then we have other examples – Americans who refuse to vaccinate their children, denial of women’s rights, children who are killed because of traditional beliefs, the Hindu caste system – of harmful practices carried out in religion’s name.

On the other hand, I’m sure the majority of health advice given in churches and mosques and temples is good advice. And I’ve been to many an African village where the local church or mosque is the one institution that can reach and mobilize the whole community.

The cases of harmful religious practices I point out above can be – often rightly – dismissed as the work of extremists operating outside the code of established religion. In fact, some claim that scientific evidence shows that religion has a positive impact on health. Others, of course, question this evidence. However, the comments of the Pope are a stark example of how mainstream religious teaching can discourage rational examination and reduce belief in scientific evidence.

So my question is, is there (or should there be) a role for religion in determining policy on development, global health, etc? Is the church – or other religious institutions – beneficial, harmful, or simply irrelevant when it comes to global development and health policy?

The Fragility of Life

2009-03-19T13:39:00.002-04:00

Last week a Peace Corps volunteer was murdered while sleeping on her porch in the Beninese village where she had taught children English for a year and a half. Today, I attended a funeral for a colleague’s three-year old daughter who died suddenly a few days ago.

I’ve only been in Benin for six weeks, but it doesn’t take long for the subject of death to come up. And once again, I am led to ponder the role of death in different parts of the world.

The volunteer, Kate Puzey, was by all accounts beloved by the community she lived with and nobody seems to be able to make sense of her death. My colleague’s child was fine when she went to school in the morning. In the afternoon she became ill and was taken to a clinic (one of the better ones in the city). She seemed to be recovering, but then she went to sleep and never woke up. The cause isn’t really understood, but medical malpractice is suspected.

Read full post at the YouThink! blog.

The End of AIDS?

2009-03-12T13:31:00.003-04:00

Once somebody asked me why we can’t eradicate malaria by treating every person in malaria-endemic countries with an effective ant-malarial drug at the same time. As long as they all stay on the drug for as long as it takes for the current generation of infected mosquitoes to die (1-2 weeks on average, maybe a month maximum), then the human reservoir will be eliminated, no new mosquitoes will become infected, and that would be the end of malaria. It was an interesting idea, but who, exactly, was going to take on the task of putting every African on the same drug at the same time and making sure they stick with it long enough?

Now we are beginning to hear talk of a similar solution to AIDS. Can we eliminate AIDS without having either a vaccine or a cure? Some are starting to think the answer is yes.

Discussion has begun to gather momentum on an ambitious idea – eliminating AIDS through mass testing and early treatment. The idea, which was put forth in the Lancet journal by some experts at the World Health Organization is predicated on evidence that transmission of HIV is greatly reduced in people who are on anti-retroviral therapy (ART).

Read full post at the YouThink! blog

Myanmar: What Happens Now?

2009-03-09T14:36:00.004-04:00

The last year and a half has been an interesting time in Myanmar (the country formerly known as Burma). First, in September 2007 there were mass protests led by Buddhist monks. Then, in May of last year, cyclone Nargis devastated the Ayeyarwaddy Delta, the country’s most populous area and its agricultural heartland.

Read full post at the YouThink! blog

Time to Re-enlist Science (and Condoms) in the Fight Against AIDS

2009-03-04T12:22:00.003-05:00

I wrote about global HIV/AIDS policy and its deviation from scientific evidence in favor of conservative ideology on the YouThink! site. Unfortunately, the World Bank censors did some pretty heavy cutting. Criticizing governments is not appreciated in a political organization. So, the original (which reflects the opinions of the author and not the World Bank) is below.

My favorite part of Barack Obama’s inauguration speech was “We will restore science to its rightful place and wield technology's wonders to raise health care's quality and lower its costs.” Science and the scientific method – the process of making decisions based on observable, empirical and measurable evidence – have profoundly changed the way much of the human race (and even some of the luckier animals) live in this world. Yet – as Obama alluded to – science has in recent years lost some of its stature and prominence in decision making, at least in the United States.

Nowhere has the marginalization of science been more evident than in global HIV/AIDS policy. The AIDS virus has been lucky enough (or impressively crafty in its evolutionary development) to have a principle mode of transition that many people are afraid to talk about. The fact that controlling the spread of the HIV virus means talking about sex has been critical in the world’s general inability to aggressively and effectively fight the disease.

When I was in graduate school, I interviewed with a large Catholic international NGO for a fellowship to work on global HIV/AIDS projects. It seemed like a good opportunity and I seemed a good match. That is until I was told I would be expected to respect certain policies of the faith-based organization – basically that abstinence would be the key intervention, with no promotion of condoms included. Unfortunately I don’t respect that policy and obviously didn’t get the fellowship.

The kicker is that these policies were not only in place because of the religious nature of the organization; it was also the official policy of the donor – the U.S. government. President George W. Bush has rightly received praise for committing unprecedented amounts of money to fight AIDS (through the President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief [PEPFAR]) and malaria (through the President’s Malaria Initiative [PMI], which coincidentally pays my salary). That money has undoubtedly had an impact, but so much more could have been done had policies been based on evidence rather than ideology. A number of journalists and bloggers have pointed out what global health experts have been saying for years. Many of the U.S. policies were counter-productive: one-third of PEPFAR funds for prevention were earmarked for abstinence until marriage programs; condoms were promoted only for “high-risk” groups; PEPFAR did not support needle exchange for drug users to prevent HIV transmission; funds could not be made available to organizations that don’t “explicitly oppose prostitution”; and finally, the Global Gag Rule prohibited U.S. funding to foreign organizations that provide safe abortion services. These policies contradict the advice of the majority of scientists and other experts on HIV/AIDS and global health, who recommend a comprehensive effort, including promotion of condoms, harm reduction in the form of needle exchange, and avoiding stigmatization of those with the disease.

Nowhere are the results of turning our backs on science more telling than in Uganda, where a comprehensive and aggressive campaign of ABC (Abstain, Be faithful, use Condoms) helped dramatically slow the spread of AIDS in the country and made Uganda a model for AIDS control in Africa. Then, under pressure to emphasize abstinence and fidelity and deemphasize condom use, the “C” began to disappear from ABC. After reducing HIV prevalence rates from a peak of around 15% of adults infected in 1991 to around 5% in 2001, the rate has again begun to increase.

This PBS Frontline documentary gives a disturbing account of the evolution of HIV/AIDS policy in Uganda.

While the reasons for Uganda’s successes and failures in controlling HIV/AIDS are not completely understood, it is clear that policy should be based on evidence rather than ideology. It is indeed time to restore science to its rightful place.

Another Perspective

2009-02-28T08:54:00.003-05:00

Somebody going through my photos on Flickr was taken with one of the Peuhl refugees that I was also taken with and asked to paint a picture of the photo. Here's the result (and the original). I like it.

Nigerians in Space

2009-02-26T12:20:00.004-05:00

Somebody help this poor, stranded (yet in good spirits), rich, secret Nigerian astronaut.

Subject: Nigerian Astronaut Wants To Come Home
Dr. Bakare Tunde
Astronautics Project Manager
National Space Research and Development Agency (NASRDA)
Plot 555
Misau Street
PMB 437
Garki, Abuja, FCT NIGERIA

Dear Mr. Sir,

REQUEST FOR ASSISTANCE-STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL

I am Dr. Bakare Tunde, the cousin of Nigerian Astronaut, Air Force Major Abacha Tunde. He was the first African in space when he made a secret flight to the Salyut 6space station in 1979. He was on a later Soviet spaceflight, Soyuz T-16Z to the secret Soviet military space station Salyut 8T in 1989. He was stranded there in 1990
when the Soviet Union was dissolved. His other Soviet crew members returned to earth on the Soyuz T-16Z, but his place was taken up by return cargo. There have been occasional Progrez supply flights to keep him going since that time. He is in good humor, but wants to come home.

In the 14-years since he has been on the station, he has accumulated flight pay and interest amounting to almost $15,000,000 American Dollars. This is held in a trust at the Lagos National Savings and Trust Association. If we can obtain access to this money, we can place a down payment with the Russian Space Authorities for a Soyuz return flight to bring him back to Earth. I am told this will cost $ 3,000,000 American Dollars. In order to access the his trust fund we need your assistance.

Consequently, my colleagues and I are willing to transfer the total amount to your account or subsequent disbursement, since we as civil servants are prohibited by the Code of Conduct Bureau (Civil Service Laws) from opening and/ or operating foreign accounts in our names.Needless to say, the trust reposed on you at this juncture is enormous. In return, we have agreed to offer you 20 percent of the transferred sum, while 10 percent shall be set aside for incidental expenses (internal and external) between the parties in the course of the transaction. You will be mandated to remit the balance 70 percent to other accounts in due course.

Kindly expedite action as we are behind schedule to enable us include downpayment in this financial quarter.

Please acknowledge the receipt of this message via my direct number 234 (0) 9-234-2220 only.

Yours Sincerely, Dr. Bakare Tunde
Astronautics Project Manager
tip@nasrda.gov.ng

http://www.nasrda.gov.ng/

The Spin-Off Blog

2009-02-20T08:37:00.005-05:00

For those of you who just can't get enough of my insightful insights, you can now read me at a second blog. I've been asked to be a regular blogger on a World Bank website aimed and educating and mobilizing youth around the world on international development issues. So, I'll be writing entries on the YouThink! website 1-2 times per week. I'll be writing about issues and happenings that spark my interest related to development, global health, humanitarian aid, international politics, etc.

For reasons of ownership and uniqueness of content, I won't be posting the full entries here, but I will post a portion of each entry and a link to the full entry on the YouThink! site, so if you come here you won't miss anything (whew!). I will also be keep writing the more personal, trivial, offensive and/or politically sensitive stories exclusively on this site.

The Hugo Chavez Show

2009-02-16T12:27:00.008-05:00

Hugo Chavez can now be president of Venezuela for forever. Sweet. After losing a referendum on his proposal to eliminate term limits just 15 months ago, he tried again and won. The moral: if you're a president and you really want something, just keep calling referendums until you win. So simple it's kind of brilliant.

I'm as pro-poor as the next guy, but is it not possible to have a leader who is pro-poor and rational at the same time? To get an idea of Chavez's management style, I highly recommend this pretty amazing documentary from Frontline called The Hugo Chavez Show.

My President

2009-01-28T23:58:00.010-05:00

For the first time in my life, I feel like I have a president.

Angolan Music

2009-01-28T13:49:00.006-05:00

One of my favorite parts of living in Africa is the music, and the way music and dancing are an integral part of daily life. Angola - along with the Democratic Republic of Congo, Mali, Cote d'Ivoire, Tanzania, and others - is one of the musical standouts. Because I miss Angola and I miss people dancing in the streets, I'm going to share a sampling of Angolan music.

The most internationally well-known and respected form of Angolan music is Semba. Allegedly Angolan Semba holds the roots of Brazilian Samba.

Next is Kizomba, which is similar to Zouk in other parts of Africa. It's generally pretty cheesy and so less popular with the Western crowd, but this is what most Angolans love to dance...all night long. Most Western girls get freaked out dancing Kizomba with an Angolan, as it's a little more up close and personal than they're used to. There's also Tarraxinha, which is like Kizomba, but even more sexual.

Then there's Kuduro (which translates as "hard ass"). Kuduro is more for the young folks and is less refined, but by far the most fun to watch. Kuduro recently got some international recognition as M.I.A. collaborated on a song/video in Angola.

Finally, Hip Hop and R&B are big in Angola, but most of it is a pretty generic copy of American generic Hip Hop and R&B. There are a few notable exceptions. This guy (MC K) is my favorite. Good beats, good flow and his lyrics actually say something.

The Land of Enchanting Cockfights

2008-12-29T17:14:00.003-05:00

I'm chillin in my hometown of Santa Fe, New Mexico visiting friends and enjoying lots of chile. Being here reminded me of a story I wanted to share. Last summer, my good friend Adam, who is a journalist for the New York Times, did some stories in my home state. What did he find? Cockfighting. New Mexico has recently become the second to last state in the US(Louisiana being the last holdout) to outlaw cockfighting.

It's funny, the last time I can remember a story about New Mexico in the NY Times - some four years ago - it was a story about...cockfighting. I feel so proud.

Here's the video that goes along with the story. My favorite quote: "A gamecock shows me what an American should be like."

Bad News from Cambodia

2008-12-22T18:13:00.005-05:00

Some news has recently come out of Cambodia that is bad for not only that country and Asia, but for the rest of the world as well.

As somebody who works in infectious disease control, resistance is possibly my least favorite word. Viruses, bacteria and parasites, through a normal process of mutation and evolution and the process of survival of the fittest, develop resistance to drugs designed to kill them. Likewise, mosquitoes and other vectors of disease develop resistance to insecticides. Resistance to the insecticide DDT is a part of the reason why the campaign to eradicate malaria in the 1950s-70s failed in many regions.

Due to resistance, pharmaceutical and chemical manufacturers are in a constant race against our little enemies. Most drugs that are developed eventually lose their efficacy as resistance develops. This phenomenon threatens our ability to control AIDS, tuberculosis, malaria, and countless other organisms that threaten our health.

The news out of Cambodia is that our key weapon against the malaria parasite maybe losing its effectiveness. The introduction of artemisinin combination therapy (ACT) revolutionized the treatment of malaria, and came at a time when the disease was being treated by increasingly useless drugs. The new compounds are meant to be given only in combination with other drugs in the hope that this would slow the development of resistance. Up to now, things were looking good and the drug was saving lives. Now resistance has been found in southeast Asia, the spot where resistance to all the other antimalarial drugs began. There is little on the horizon in terms of new drugs. This is what we all knew would happen, but hoped would be delayed as long as possible.

Cured of HIV

2008-12-13T11:53:00.002-05:00

[Photo of bone marrow cell from Time Magazine]

It seems that for the first time, a person may have been cured of HIV. This is huge news, but at the same time of questionable relevance to the public health world and the millions living with HIV/AIDS.

An American patient with HIV and leukemia underwent a bone marrow transplant to treat the cancer. What is different is that the doctor took advantage of the situation to carry out an experiment: he used bone marrow of a donor that had a genetic mutation that made him virtually immune to HIV infection.

The mutation prevents a molecule called CCR5 from appearing on the surface of cells. Without CCR5, the HIV virus can't enter cells. It seems that about 1% of caucasians have the mutation from both parents, which makes them virtually immune to HIV. Another 20% of white people are thought to have one copy of the mutation, which makes them somewhat less susceptible to the disease.

The discovery that some people seemed to be immune to HIV was a breakthrough in its own right, and started people thinking about how that knowledge can be used to prevent or treat HIV/AIDS in others. This latest discovery, is a significant step forward. Unfortunately, even if the patient remains free of HIV, which is by no means guaranteed, the treatment is hardly replicable. Bone marrow transplants are no joke; 30% of patients die during surgery. But this raises the prospects of finding a means of prevention or cure through gene therapy.

The New Light of Myanmar

2008-12-06T15:44:00.000-05:00

I'm a big fan of propaganda, and any government that's called a "junta" usually provides some good material. The New Light of Myanmar is the government-run English language newspaper...and it's available online!. And going back to my last post, I highly recommend the official website of the Democratic Republic of North Korea.

I had to keep a few issues of the New Light of Myanmar as souvenirs and to share with the rest of you. Now, to be fair, this paper is by far the most ridiculous in the country, and no self-respecting Burmese would be caught dead reading it. When I would bring it up, people would just roll their eyes and recommend reading something else.

Here are a few of my favorite clips. Enjoy.

[This is on the front page every day.]

[This was on the back pager every day. I was very disappointed not to see "skyful liars" greeting me one morning.]

[There is a lighter side to the paper. Most of the international news comes from the Chinese news agency or "internet."]

[When you live in a city that is closed to the rest of the world, "black and white babies" are big news.]

North Korea Lite

2008-11-21T14:28:00.004-05:00

Brutal and persistent military dictatorships, little contact with the outside world, delusions of world importance, paranoia, leaders with questionable capacity for rational thinking, leaders without questionable commitment to their citizens’ welfare (it’s definitely not there), a special dislike for the US, Asian people…North Korea and Myanmar have quite a lot in common. Unfortunately, none of the Burmese generals are half as entertaining as Kim Jong Il. I guess you can’t have everything.

Before continuing, let me discuss a common point of confusion: the country’s name. Under British colonial rule, the country’s name was Burma. In 1989, as part of a “Myanmarification” campaign, the name was changed to Myanmar. However, this name has really failed to catch on with the rest of the world. Perhaps it’s because Myanmar is less comprehensible to Western ears than Burma, perhaps because of some romantic feeling associated with the name Burma (especially amongst the British and the old). For me, I think I always called the country Burma because I associated Myanmar with the military regime. Burmese opposition groups have also refused to accept the name because it came from what they see as an illegitimate government. In fact, as it was explained to me, Myanmar is the real name of the country. Burma seems to be a British bastardization of an incorrect word from the local language (a common habit among British colonizers). In the local language, the country is Myanmar (or Myanma). The adjective for people and things from Myanmar is Bamar. Burma sounds a lot like Bamar. So I will call the country Myanmar. Unfortunately, there is no English adjective that corresponds to Myamnar (like Myanmese or Myanman). Instead, people who normally speak very good English say things like “Myanmar language” and “Myanmar people”. Since I’m not comfortable speaking like a 4 year old, I just use Burmese as the adjective. So, with that cleared up, let’s continue.

Despite the similarities, calling Myanmar another North Korea would be a misleading exaggeration. While they share many of the same characteristics, the degree of closure, paranoia and brutality are on different scales. Big brother in Myanmar is certainly present, but he’s probably just like the middle brother or something. Tourists (even Americans) can get into Myanmar quite easily, Burmese are allowed to travel abroad freely (although when they come back, they may have a hard time getting government jobs), most people are more or less free to get on with their lives and scrape out a living, substantial international aid and access to affected areas was permitted after cyclone Nargis last May (albeit after a long delay).

So, compared to North Korea, the Burmese government is doing pretty well…congratulations. However, compared to the rest of the world, it’s pretty awful. For example, here’s a brief list of crazy and infuriating stuff that happens on a regular basis in Myanmar:

- The government built a new capital in the mountains in secret and then basically had the whole government administration sneak out of Yangon to move to the new capital in the middle of the night. Now most government officials live in a city that is off-limits to almost all foreigners. You can imagine what it’s like trying to get an appointment. The reasons aren’t entirely clear, but fear of an American invasion and astrology seem to be two of the potential motivating factors.

- The official exchange rate is six Burmese kyats to the dollar. On the black market, the rate is about 1,120 kyat per dollar. The UN agreed to convert its humanitarian relief money into local currency and in the process gave some $10 million to the generals since cyclone Nargis.

- The government takes 10% of all money transferred into Burmese bank accounts. Many unnamed aid organizations have to sneak money into the country to avoid losing 10% of all the money they bring into the country.

- It is illegal to possess US dollars. My colleague’s friend spent years in jail for possession of $100 USD.

- US dollars are used widely and often accepted in hotels, restaurants, shops, etc.

- The generals that rule the country personally review each application of an international NGO to work in the country.

- Foreigners need permission to travel to most places outside of the two main cities, and permission to most places will be denied. The generals even reportedly sometimes personally review these travel applications. No wonder they have no time to do anything useful for the country.

- The government frequently campaigns against the evils of drug use. Myanmar is the number two producer and exporter of heroin in the world and opium is openly mass-produced in the border areas.

- A cell phone SIM card costs $2,000.

- Internet connections and email have to be provided by the government controlled companies, so they can limit the information people have access to and they can read people’s emails.

- Possession of a satellite phone is illegal.

Despite the government’s lack of appreciation for free speech and a demonstrated willingness to beat, kill and imprison people who speak out, most people I encountered were surprisingly willing to voice their criticism. People from all strata of society seemed united in their frustration and hope that change will come soon. I even had random people approach me in the train station and go on and on about the evils of the junta as police officers walked by and glared suspiciously.

It’s really hard to predict when regime change will occur. Even among local people, I never found anyone who would give any confident opinion about the futures of the junta and the country. Considering the practically universal opposition to the regime, both at home and abroad, it seems clear that change will have to come eventually. On the other hand, they’ve managed to hang around for a long time and people seem fairly cowed after last year’s violent crackdown on protestors.

Unlike some other places I’ve been (Chad and the Congo come to mind), Myanmar’s potential to completely reverse their fortunes is enormous. The people are relatively highly educated, the land is fertile, the country is strategically situated between India, China, Thailand and the sea and enormous amounts of aid money would start pouring in as soon as Aung San Suu Kyi took office. If only we could get rid of that regime.

George, Dick…One last hurrah?

The Morning After

2008-11-10T14:20:00.001-05:00

"The Morning After" copyright Zina Saunders" Zina Saunders2008, from The Party's Over

Finally

2008-11-05T19:01:00.001-05:00

Finally...for so many things: the end of Bush/Cheney, a leader that inspires, never again hearing that this country will never vote for a black man as president, not having to be ashamed to be an American, getting to think again about what's great about our country instead of what's wrong with it.

On the day of the election, I decided to head out to Harlem to witness a little history. I wasn't the only one with the idea; 125th was positively crawling with amateur documentarians. There was a sense that Obama's victory was foregone conclusion and that this moment would redefine this country's relationship with its black minority.

It was a great day to be a part of.

Me in the FT

2008-10-09T05:03:00.004-04:00

My plane crash last year continues to pay big dividends. Not only did it significantly increase my popularity in Angola and abroad, get people to actually leave comments on my blog, give me a great line for picking up girls (especially on airplanes) and I guess give me some special perspective on life, but it's now gotten me published in the Financial Times!

So much for my peaceful new life in Myanmar

2008-10-01T20:21:00.000-04:00

Just when I thought I'd finally landed somewhere free of shootouts, bandits and all that...

Yangon bomb wounds 4 as protest anniversary looms

By Aung Hla Tun
Thu Sep 25, 3:39 AM ET

YANGON (Reuters) - A bomb exploded outside City Hall in Myanmar's main city Thursday, wounding four people the day before the anniversary of a bloody military crackdown on anti-government protests.

"It seems to have been a small bomb but we are still carrying out investigations," a policeman, who did not want to be identified, told Reuters at the scene of the blast near a busy bus terminal in the heart of Yangon.

Anybody from underground pro-democracy groups to ethnic minority guerrillas to the military government itself could be behind the blast, which left few signs of damage, according to a diplomat who arrived shortly afterwards.

"It could have been anyone on any side with any number of objectives," the diplomat said. "There wasn't some great big hole in the ground, but people were injured and it was right in the middle of downtown."

Small bombs are relatively common in Myanmar. The junta routinely blames them on dissidents in exile or the jungle militias that have been fighting the ethnic Burmese majority since shortly after independence from Britain in 1948.

Three women and a man were wounded, but the police officer said they were not thought to be seriously hurt.

Armed police and soldiers immediately sealed off the area, a focal point of the massive marches by Buddhist monks a year ago against army rule stretching back to 1962.

At least 31 people were killed in the ensuing crackdown, which drew worldwide condemnation when it was launched on September 26, 2007.

With the anniversary looming, security in the former capital has been unusually tight, with armed police and troops patrolling the streets and setting up vehicle checkpoints.

The area around City Hall and the Sule Pagoda, where the monk's marches ended, has been under particularly tight watch.

At least 3,000 people were arrested in the crackdown and its aftermath. Human rights groups say as many as 700 people remain behind bars, although the junta says all but a few dozen have been released.

Earlier this month, female activist Nilar Thein, a student leader in a brutally crushed democracy uprising in 1988 and an organizer of the 2007 protests, was detained after a year on the run.

She went into hiding, abandoning her four-month-old daughter, when her husband was arrested in August for helping stage the small fuel and food price protests that snowballed into the monk-led demonstrations a month later.

The detention of the still-influential 1988 uprising leaders -- the so-called "88 Generation Students" -- makes any demonstration to mark the anniversary inside Myanmar extremely unlikely. Events are planned for outside the country.

News websites run by exiled dissidents, most of them in neighboring Thailand and India, have come under cyber-attack in the past week in what they say is an attempt by the generals to prevent coverage of the demonstrations.

Angolan Democracy

2008-09-09T07:58:00.002-04:00

[Photo from the New York Times]

For the first time in a long time, Angolans get to vote. The last time they had the opportunity, things went very badly. The ruling MPLA party won, the opposition UNITA said it was fraud and refused to accept the results, and everybody got back to doing what they were good at - making war. The following period was one of the most deadly in the country's history.

But the country has come a long way since then. The two groups of former combatants have been getting along peacefully, if at times a bit testily, since the end of the war six years ago. The fact that these elections are happening at all is a testament to what the country has been able to do. If you think about it, six years is not that long to establish a stable, functioning society after over 40 years of basically continuous conflict that completely devastated much of the country. I heard a few people suggest that there might be violence following next year's presidential elections, but this is a minority view and an idea that completely contradicts what I witnessed there.

The Angolan people have shown an impressive ability to put the past behind them and get on with their lives. Maybe this is due to the fact that people realize that everybody was forced into this war. This wasn't a war of ideology or ethnicity (although those were sold as reasons). This was a war of forced conscription. Maybe the Angolans are just forgiving by nature. Certainly they are tired of war.

At least as I see it, the government has done a brilliant job - with the help of a ton of oil money - to establish itself as the only real contender. They killed many of the opposition leaders during the war, and have probably co-opted most of the rest with big payoffs (just speculation of course). The MPLA is omnipresent in the media, as the major outlets are state-run or supported. And I saw a whole lot of MPLA t-shirts and caps at voter registration sites, sporting events, carnival and, well, everywhere you look basically. In one of the craftier political tactics I know of, the MPLA designed their party's flag to be almost exactly like the national flag, leading many poorly educated or educated people to come to consider the party and the country as almost one.

Whether it's to the government's credit or not, things are changing at an unbelievable rate in Angola and progress and development are tangible, at least in the main population centers. It seems highly unlikely that people will want to rock the boat at this moment in time. In fact, after what Angolans have gone through for most or all of their lives until recent years, most people are just happy nobody is kidnapping their children or bombing their house, so they're not really a hard group to please.

In short, the MPLA has an iron grip on the country and I don't see any reason why they won't win these elections (perhaps with some minor irregularities) and continue to rule the country as they have for the last 34 years. So, although Americans like to think elections and democracy are synonyms, Angola is still a very long way from a true representative democracy in my mind. But, it is likely to continue developing and modernizing as fast as about any other country in the world in the coming years.

As long as some of that wealth passes down to the masses, which is not a given, then most people (including myself) will probably accept a quasi-democracy as good enough for now.

From Chad to Burma

2008-09-01T09:16:00.004-04:00

From one country where the government is virtually non-existant to another where everybody wishes it was non-existant.

In a rather sudden, but welcome, change, I moved in late July from Gore, Chad to Yangon, Myanmar (the country formerly and still known as Burma). My employer announced that it was opening an emergency program focusing on malaria and dengue control following cyclone Nargis, which rocked the country in early May. I had wanted experience in the acute phase of a large-scale emergency, and this seemed like a good opportunity. And the idea of eating Asian food every day for a few months was a plus. I immediately made a phone call to the director expressing my interest. After some weeks with no word, I figured it wasn’t going to happen. Then, all of a sudden, I was packing up my things, saying goodbye to my staff and friends in Chad, trying to do a decent handover to my replacement in a few days, and boarding a plane to Asia.

The transition from Chad to Myanmar – without so much as a day off in between – was a serious culture shock. It probably says more about the kind of life I’ve been living and the places I’ve been living in lately than about Myanmar, but the place feels like a bit of a paradise. I live in a big, nice house with hardwood floors, there is electricity almost all the time, I eat great meals three times a day, everybody is polite and helpful. I have national staff with master’s degrees! In Angola and Chad, you were lucky to get someone with a high school level education. There are no rebels (at least not in the capital), bandits, muggers, or drunken soldiers with rocket launchers.

As I've already been gone for a while and am now immersed in Myanmar, I’m going to keep my thoughts on Chad short. Plus I don't want to depress myself and everybody else. It’s hard to find reasons for optimism when talking about Chad. It’s about as poor as any country on Earth. It’s been run by corrupt warlords since independence. There were two attempted coups d’état in the last six months. Larger-scale war between Chad and neighboring Sudan may be looming. There is hardly any industry. Most of the country is dry, scorching hot, and largely unsuitable for agriculture. The Sahara desert is slowly creeping its way south, covering more and more of the country. Lake Chad is drying up. Education is minimal. Modern health care is a dream. And I see no sign that any of these things are improving. Ironically, the only places where some change can be seen – some resources for education, income generating activities, improved health care, advocacy for improved human rights – are in the refugee camps, where international organizations are working. It takes war and genocide to create the conditions for social improvement.

And now the country has oil. Great. If the warlords have been constantly fighting over the limited spoils Chad has traditionally had to offer, what's going to happen when they have oil revenues to fight over?

At least in Angola, you can see potential for improvement and even see tangible evidence of change. In Chad, I don’t see any of this. I hope I’m wrong. For the sake of my co-workers who search for any way to further their personal educations and careers; for all those refugees that we help for a short time and then tell to fend for themselves, despite the fact that the war going on in their homelands is only getting worse; for all those cute kids running around that don't yet know how hard their lives are going to be I really hope I'm wrong.

Humanitarian work is exciting and intense. And sometimes you have the luxury of seeing an instant impact from the work you're doing. But usually it's so frustrating not being able to see any light at the end of the tunnel.

No doubt the country and people of Chad deserve a more thoughtful analysis than the one I just wrote, but honestly I don't have the time. And in the end, the conclusions would be much the same.

Moving on to Myanmar, I’ve also been a little reluctant to write freely because the generals who run this country don’t seem all that appreciative of constructive criticism and they’ve learned how to use Google. So, in the interests of not bringing on an early exit from the country, I may exercise a little self-censorship for a while.

More on Myanmar later. In the meantime, take a look at this article from the New Yorker. So much for my self-censorship.

My Favorite Ethnic Group

2008-07-21T11:32:00.002-04:00

So, I know a humanitarian aid worker isn’t supposed to favor one group of refugees over another, but I just can’t help myself. I admit it; the Peulhs are my favorite ethnic group.

The Peulhs, also known as Fula, Fulani, Pulaar and Fulbe, are a nomadic people who are present all throughout west and central Africa, from Senegal to Cameroon to Sudan. Their origins are not totally clear. Many of them tend to resemble Ethiopians or Somalis, so there is speculation of origins in the Horn of Africa. However, linguistic and genetic evidence suggests West African origins.

The fist thing the Peulhs have going for them is that a very large percentage of them happen to be strikingly beautiful. The following pictures are of two of the most beautiful human beings I’ve ever seen.

The Peulhs are a photographer’s dream (and thus I'm going to show you a lot of pictures here). Not only are they physically attractive, but they go to some impressive lengths to enhance their beauty. They are always perfectly groomed, which I’m sure is not an easy task as either a nomad or a refugee. The women are particularly impressive, with homemade embroidered dresses and scarves bathed in bright colors, big golden hoops in their ears and noses and silver bracelets on their wrists. I would go so far as to say that they are stylish, and not just stylish for the Chadian refugee camps. They have a particular style that many a Lower East Side well-traveled, ethnically aware hipster girl would love to have. On top of all this – as if they knew I was going to be bringing my camera to the camp – some of them, including children, have tattoos, tribal scars (which unfortunately for the girls usually means they’ve been circumcised, but let’s save genital mutilation for another day) and heavy eye makeup or tattoos as permanent eye shadow. Finally – and this is truly one of the keys to winning my heart – I’ve never seen a single Peulh woman or girl with a wig, hairweave or extensions. If the Peulhs were Americans, they would definitely make up a disproportionate number of ultra-chic bulimic models and actresses.

There are different ethnicities among the Peulhs as well. Most of the pictures here are of one ethnicity, which make up almost 100% of one of the refugee camps I work in, so I get lots of pictures of them. Recently, different people have begun appearing in Gore. They look quite different from the people in the camp and are very interesting in their own right, and can easily be spotted by their ubiquitous facial tattoos. Here are a few pics of them.

Beyond aesthetics, as nomads who spend live their lives walking across Africa, they seem particularly interesting to us sedentary people. With their livelihoods largely dependent on cattle, the men are often seen walking out in the bush with their herds of cows, goats or sheep. Their demeanor is also very different from the other people here. They are quite separate from the other main ethnicities of southern Chad and don’t seem to have much interest in integration. While others groups tend to be more demonstrative and loud, the Peulhs always seem a bit reserved and aloof to what is going on around them. I’ve never seen anything that resembled hostility, but there does seem to be a sense of superiority. Of course, I have seen skits performed by Chadians of other ethnic groups where Peulhs are portrayed as backward country bumpkins with no knowledge of the modern world.

Culturally, they have some unique traditions and behaviors. Men and women basically never socialize together. You will almost never see the men and women together, except in their homes at night. Men will leave the home in the morning to work and return at night to sleep. When they visit town, they go in men or women-only groups or if they go together they walk separately.

On a more scandalous note, I’ve also heard some quite interesting rumors about goings on in the refugee camp. I can’t vouch for the veracity of the story, but reportedly it comes from a trusted source who works in the camps every day. The Peulhs, it seems, like a good party. Allegedly, on some evenings the young, unmarried folks gather together to chat and hang out. Then the music starts. People dance a bit. Then the party devolves into a big orgy as people pair off to have sex. The government official responsible for security in the camp has reportedly had to break up a number of these parties. I’m still skeptical, though. It’s hard for me to come to terms with this story and the fact that they appear to be an otherwise conservative Muslim community in which the men don’t like their women being alone with other men and girls are circumcised. Luckily I don’t have to uphold any standards of journalistic integrity on this site and can gossip away.

Deaf People Aren't Psychic Are They?

2008-07-12T13:40:00.001-04:00

So, I was walking around a refugee camp a couple weeks ago while waiting for some malaria education activities we were sponsoring to commence. A kid runs up to me and grabs my hand. I see that it's a kid I knew from past activities in the camp. He's a deaf kid, about 12 years old, who has an indention in the middle of his forehead that looks like somebody pushed their thumb into his skull really hard. He's quite a social guy and seems to know all the UN/NGO folks that visit the camps. He'd always been friendly with me, although I've seen him quickly get angry and threatening with other people.

He walks along with me for a while, sometimes holding my hand and giving me frequent thumbs ups, as I stroll through the camp. Then he explains to me (in gestures and grunts) that he doesn't have a soccer ball and he needs one. I respond by shrugging and showing him that I don't have a ball on me. He gestures back that I should go back to town and get one for him. I gesture that, "Sorry, but that's not going to happen." He then gestures something along the lines of, "Go fuck yourself." He keeps asking for the ball and then getting mad. I finally let him know that it's time to bugger off.

At this point he gets really mad and gestures, "I'm going to hurt you (or have someone hurt you) if you don't give me a ball." I'm trying to ignore him, but he grabs my arm to get my attention. I'm trying not to pay attention to him, but as I quickly glance at him, I notice he's pointing at me and then making a airplane with his hands.

He keeps pointing at me, not at the colleague who was with me, and then making a plane flying. Then he makes the plane crash into the ground. He points again, makes the plane and then crashes it into the ground.

Now I'm not a superstitious guy, but it's a bit odd that he would randomly say I was going to be in a plane crash (or was in a plane crash?). I mean, what does this refugee kid in the middle of nowhere know about plane crashes? And of course it's a bit weird that he chooses me, of all people, to decide to make plane crashing signs to.

Anyway, I'm not saying it means anything, but if it were a hollywood movie, it would totally be the deaf kid that would know things like that.

Good thing they dug that moat around the capital

2008-06-26T13:23:00.002-04:00

So, the rumored rebel invasion turned out to be quite real. A convoy of 200 plus trucks full of soldiers (some reportedly Sudanese military) and weapons crossed into Chad from the other side of the Sudanese border where the many Chadian rebel groups hang out. They proceeded to drive into a number of eastern towns, initially meeting little resistance from the Chadian armed forces. One of those towns, Goz Beida, happens to be where my employers have their eastern base. The rebels stopped by a number of NGO and UN bases and politely asked for their vehicles. At one NGO, the cars were there, but they were all out of gas and there was no fuel around to fill them up, so the rebels decided to set the cars on fire. At our base, the rebels were informed that all of our vehicles were unfortunately out in the field at the moment. They didn't burn anything this time.

They rebels eventually moved on and took other cities. It was looking as though they would make a serious attack on the capital, although people were still questioning their intentions, as an attack on N'djamena at this time of year is a risky endeavor. With the rains now here, if the rebels got too far from the border and if there were a big rain, the roads behind them, which they would need for retreat, would become impassable.

Eventually, as they moved closer to the capital, the Chadian army put up a serious fight, and managed to repel the rebels. The latest word I've received is that they had retreated back to Sudan. It's hard to know if that's really the end of it, but another attack even later in the rainy season would be pretty ballsy. For more background on the little undeclared war between Sudan and Chad, check out this BBC article.

Other than heightened security procedures and talks of evacuation plans in the event of a rebel takeover and chaos breaking out around the country, the recent events had little direct effect on my life. However, we may now be seeing some indirect backlash from the fighting. In the last couple weeks, the number of hijackings and robberies on the road between the two main southern cities has increased significantly. Reportedly, a couple of these attacks ended in the killing of the drivers of the hijacked cars. It's been suggested that this increase of criminality is the result of a power vacuum in the area due to the fact that most soldiers were called away to fight in the east, leaving bandits free to pillage away. I heard this news at a UN coordination meeting just one day before I was meant to be driving that road to visit one of our programs. I decided that was a bit too much of a risk to take, considering recent developments, and am now stuck here waiting for a UN flight to take me.

Living in a Bad Neighborhood

2008-06-13T13:07:00.001-04:00

It seems Chad's rebels are determined enough to brave the rain in order to take over the country. Or maybe it just doesn't rain that much in eastern Chad.

The news today is that a large column of rebels has entered the country and is now heading back towards the capital N'djamena. Considering that the rebels had practically taken the city, and probably the country, in February, this is something to take seriously.

There have been previous rumors of new rebel attacks previously and there's a serious lack of reliable information in the country, so it's hard to be totally sure what's going on. But this time seems to be more serious than before. Both the government and the rebels have confirmed the advance. And, we have offices in the east right on the way between Sudan and Ndjamena, and the latest communication is that the rebels are around, flights have been cancelled, phone service has been cut and movement is limited.

The rebels are widely assumed to be supported by the Sudanese government, who claims that the rebels in Darfur are supported by Chad. (Some details in this NY Times article). Ironically, the security situation has been deteriorating ever since the peace agreement signed by the Chadian and Sudanese governments in March. It only took only a couple months before Sudanese rebles, supported by Chad, reached the outskirts of Khartoum, before being repelled. Basically, it seems we have a war going on between the two countries, but neither wants to really commit to it.

On a smaller scale, the general security situation has also been deteriorating, especially in the east. Carjackings of humanitarian vehicles have become commonplace, and are increasingly accompanied by violence. According to Oxfam, 70 aid vehicles have been hijacked in the last two years. A number of national and international aid workers have also been injured and killed. The latest event was the shooting and killing of the country director of Save the Children UK. This event caused the UN to call for two days of stoppage of humanitarian work and has led to brief conversations about the viability of working in eastern Chad, but work goes on.

Needless to say, I'm pretty happy to be in my quiet little town in the south, far from big bad Sudan. Sure we have our share of rebels and bandits around here, but nothing on the scale of the east. In fact nothing like what's going on just across the border in Central African Republic either. Increasing violence and a general situation of chaos are causing new refugees to flow into southern Chad. My employers have recently opened a project in northern CAR, based only a three hour drive from where I am. I'm often entertained by their weekly reports in which they report on their weekly meeting with rebels and their problems of rebels trying to get them to hire family members.

So, it seems I'm living on a little island of calm surrounded by sharks. But how long before the rowdy neighbors make their way over?

Architect of Peace

2008-05-09T14:13:00.002-04:00

"José Eduardo dos Santos, Architect of Peace"

As news reports come out of increasing violence being carried out against the opposition to Zimbabwe's government, we may ask ourselves, "What ever happened to that shipment of arms that was headed to Zimbabwe that nobody would let dock because they didn't want it to be used to kill lots of Zimbabweans shouting for change?" The word from Angola is that our beloved "Architect of Peace" allowed the arms to be unloaded in Angola. The arms promptly proceeded to disappear. The article below has some thoughts on what may have happened to them.

May 06, 2008 (SW Radio Africa/All Africa Global Media via COMTEX) -- Deputy Information Minister Bright Matonga on Sunday claimed that the controversial shipment of arms from China, initially blocked by South Africa, Mozambique and Zambia, was now in Zimbabwe.

Responding to criticism of the shipment during a panel discussion on Iranian sponsored 'Press TV' Matonga is said to have derisively retorted, 'in any case that shipment is already in Zimbabwe.'

Press TV's 'Four Corners' programme hosted a debate between Matonga, Briggs Bomba from Africa Action, Zanu PF apologist George Shire and an unnamed journalist. Bomba spoke to Newsreel Tuesday and expressed his disappointment at how Angola, contrary to its official position, might have helped Mugabe's regime get their hands on the deadly cargo.

The Chinese ship 'An Yue Jiang' was carrying 3 million rounds of ammunition for AK-47's, 1500 rocket propelled grenades and 3000 mortar rounds and tubes. Pressure from trade unions and civil society groups in the SADC region ensured the ship spent weeks failing to get permission to offload. Emerson Mnangagwa, the man in charge of Zimbabwe's terror campaign through the Joint Operations Command, is said to have travelled to Angola and met President Eduardo dos Santos last week, in an effort to have the shipment allowed through.

Angola officially declined to authorise the offloading of the Zimbabwean arms shipment, but no one knows if they kept their word. The picture continues to get to murkier with other reports suggesting the Angolan President's jet, a Falcon 900, was sighted in Zimbabwe Tuesday evening. No further details were available. Malawi's Nyasa Times newspaper added to the speculation by claiming intelligence agents from Malawi had travelled to Angola to help clear the shipment on behalf of the Zimbabwean regime.

The Dead Heart of Africa

2008-04-29T10:06:00.002-04:00

I’ve been in Chad for two and a half months already. And yet I’ve written nothing about it. There are numerous reasons for this. Let’s just say I’ve been very busy and had a lot on my mind.

So, how is Chad? Well, according to Wikipedia, it’s sometimes referred to as “The Dead Heart of Africa.” I don’t think I’ll be using that name too often. Actually, it’s been better than I expected. Not that that’s saying much. After all, I had said one of my reasons for coming here was to see what the worst place in the world was like. Fortunately for me, and unfortunately for the world, I’m quite sure my little corner of southern Chad is not the worst the world has to offer. But it’s surely a lot closer to Mogadishu in the ranking of world places than it is to Bali.

As my plane descended into N’djamena, Chad’s capital, I noticed two things. The first was that from the air, the city looks like a big dust ball. It’s sort of like flying into Los Angeles’s blanket of brown-grey smog. Only here there aren’t all that many cars or factories. Just lots of dirt and wind. The other thing I noticed was that I’m still afraid of landing.

I arrived about two weeks after the attempted overthrow of President Idriss Deby’s government, which culminated in a couple days of heavy fighting in N’djamena before the rebels were pushed out. While there were the tell-tale pock-marked and burnt out buildings, all in all, the city seemed to have been largely spared. Of course, we should keep in mind that I was coming from Huambo, a city whose war wounds would impress just about anybody who didn’t grow up in Grozny. Still, I’m pretty sure N’djamena was just about as run down before the battles. The most notable remnant of the two-day war is the absurd amount of soldiers on the streets. It seemed to me that literally one in every five men was a soldier. Men with guns are everywhere. Trucks pass by with 30 rocket launchers tied to the sides. On the road to the south, we were stopped about 10 times by soldiers manning improvised roadblocks. I was ready for a hard time with them, but actually they all turned out to be friendly and respectful, and not a single one asked for money. One did say he was sick and asked for some malaria drugs. When I told him to go to a health center, he just shrugged and walked back to his chair under a tree.

I arrived with the country in a state of emergency. This meant a 7:00pm curfew and that soldiers and police officers have the right to enter private homes for any reason. Not a comforting thought. One of my inside sources (my driver) explained that the rebels had basically won. They had taken 90% of the capital, which is really all that matters as far as controlling the country. If it hadn’t been for the intervention of French soldiers, he said, we would now have a new Chadian government. The rebels complained on the radio that the French had bombed their soldiers and driven them out. Of course, the French deny any involvement. Whose word do we trust more, the French or the rebels? Tough call.

There is still discussion about whether the fighting could break out again, or at least there was until the rains began in earnest. There was a rumor that the rebels had reentered the country and were back on the road to N’djamena, but then nothing happened. Now that the rains have started, it seems that coup d’état season is over. Most people argue that it would be too hard to travel overland and attack the capital on roads that become nearly impassable in the wet season. So, it seems the government has won the championship this year. Deby’s boys had their backs against the wall, but they dug deep and pulled out the victory. The rebels will have to regroup, train hard, hope for a good draft, and take another shot at the trophy next year.

The UN peacekeepers also arrived in Chad shortly after the fighting ended. Sweet timing. Certainly their presence along the volatile border with Sudan will serve as an added deterrent to further incursions by the rebels. Although some hypothesized that this would instead lead the rebels to just change the entrance point, and come in through the south, passing right by my house.

And we can’t forget the fact that there is now a moat around the capital. I still can’t get over that one. This must be the first new moat since like 1529 AD. I don’t think they’re actually planning on filling it with water, but still, it’s pretty impressive.

Most of what one hears about Chad comes from the humanitarian workers and journalists in the East, in the refugee camps bordering the Sudanese region of Darfur. And not much of what’s said is positive. The area is brutally hot and dry; rebel incursions and banditry are commonplace; there’s not enough food to eat, even if you have money; the social atmosphere is oppressive for those who aren’t conservative Muslims. So, this is what I was expecting for my 6 months in Chad. Luckily, I was sent to southern Chad. It’s still brutally hot, but a little less so. There are still rebels and bandits around, but not as many. I get enough to eat, if not exactly what I want to eat. And, while I became spoiled by the Angolan atmosphere of girls walking around in hot pants and bras, southern Chad is certainly not what I would call oppressive.

I’m based in the small, dusty town of Gore, near the border with the Central African Republic (CAR). It’s a safe and pleasant enough place. People are friendly, you can walk around the dirt roads at night, there’s fresh produce. But it’s small. Sometimes carts pulled by a couple bulls block the road and cause a brief traffic jam before a kid running alongside pulls them to the side. The Muslim men who run the market sit on mats in front of their shops and drink tea and chat all day. At prayer time, half the market has its head to the ground. At night during the new moon, the town becomes black, save for the bases of a few international organizations with their generators running. Children sit under the lights of the UNHCR compound and do their homework in the evening.

There are four (soon to be five) refugee camps in the area housing refugees from CAR. These refugees are why I and the other 10 or so relief organizations are there. The current conflict in northern CAR has been forcing people from their homes and across the border into Chad for about 5-6 years now and continues unabated. With most press dedicated to the refugees on the eastern border and the atrocities in their home region of Darfur, the refugees from CAR and their country’s problems have been largely forgotten by the international community. In fact, I’m sure a number of you have never even heard of CAR before, let alone read stories of its war and displaced victims. More on this war will have to wait for a future post.

My job is to run two field bases carrying out malaria control programs in the refugee camps and the surrounding communities. There’s far too much to do. Over 50% of the illnesses in children are from malaria. Among the refugees – many of whom spent months living in the forest hiding from rebels, soldiers and bandits – malaria prevalence is significantly higher. Yet there is almost no access to effective diagnosis and treatment. Health centers only have one trained (at a junior high or high school level) nurse each. Sick children are often treated by “health workers” whose only qualification is that they can read. Government resources (financial and human) are nil. Even relief funds from the UN and donor governments are drying up as the refugee situation drags on year after year, with no solution in sight. Funds for the health centers and food aid to the refugees are being drastically cut. It’s a pretty dire situation.

Força Angola

2008-03-21T14:38:00.002-04:00

There’s plenty to tell about my first month in Chad, but first I need a little closure with Angola.

I still had lots of things to tell about Angola, but never got around to writing and posting the stories.

I wanted to write about a plane crash in Huambo in January. In the private plane, which crashed into a small mountain, was Valentim Amões, one of the richest men in Angola. He made his fortune during the war as a member of UNITA, reportedly through the exploitation of diamonds. After the war, he switched sides and became an esteemed member of the MPLA government. Having shined shoes as a boy, he had built up one of the biggest fortunes in Angola (maybe second only to the president) and has by far done more than any other person to develop Huambo, investing enormous amounts to rehabilitate buildings and factories, build hotels, and repair roads. As such a prominent figure, there were plenty stories about him. He was a notorious womanizer, which is nothing special in Angola. He had some 30-something kids. Allegedly, he took his daughter’s virginity and impregnated her and was later taken to court by her. At his funeral in Huambo, the cemetery was completely packed with many hundreds of people of all social classes. It was hard to tell if they were mourning or just taking advantage of a big event to get together and socialize.

I had long wanted to write about the time 50 Cent came to Angola for a concert and did a benefit for AIDS prevention. In attendance were kids and teenagers from a youth center. The rapper got up to the podium to deliver some inspiring words about preventing AIDS. “Have lots of sex!” was his advice to the youths. And then as an afterthought, “Safe sex!” Then he went into the small crowd of youths and started shaking hands. Imagine the conservative Republican US ambassador’s face when he proceeded to pull a fat wad of $100 bills out of his pocket and handed them out to the kids.

I had been compiling a list of great Angolan names to share. Among the favorites are (translated from Portuguese and local languages): Ugly (a fairly common girl’s name), I’m Going to Die Soon (born to a mother whose previous children had all died), Big Penis, Cured, War (my guard), Joseph Mary, Angolan Joe, Cockroach, It Hurts, Marvelous Ernie, and Celestial Misery. Definitely beats Michael and Jennifer.

I wanted to talk about the insanity that is Luanda. The city grew at ridiculous rates during the last few decades, as people fled the violence in the countryside to seek refuge in the relatively safe capital. What was by some accounts a quite nice, calm, seaside Portuguese city became the chaotic, dysfunctional conglomeration of people it is today. The traffic is out of control and gets worse by the day. Armed muggings are a daily occurrence. When it rains, the whole city becomes a flooded disaster zone. Sometimes cars randomly get sucked into the streets.

There are few places where the contrasts of inequality are more obvious. Rarely will one see such poverty and such wealth side by side. Shiny new SUVs kick up dust on people in rags sitting among heaps of trash. Luanda’s rich class is seriously rich. While Western NGO workers are relatively rich in most developing countries, they’re looked at as something like poor Peace Corps volunteers by the wealthy Luandans, who don’t think twice about dropping $300 to get into a party.

By some estimates, Luanda is the most expensive city in the world. It terms of real estate, I can’t imagine any place surpassing Angola’s capital. People pay $20,000 per MONTH for badly constructed houses. Imagine the palace you could get in Manhattan for $20,000 per month. Imported cars, after taxes, can be double the price one would pay in the US. Certainly it must be the place where you get the least value for your money. The table below from Bloomberg.com lists Luanda at the top of the list for most expensive cities for expats.

World's 10 Most Expensive Cities

City Country Previous Rank
Luanda Angola 2
Oslo Norway 3
Moscow Russia 4
Stavanger Norway 6
Copenhagen Denmark 7
Kinshasa Congo Democratic Rep. 5
Seoul Korea Republic 8
Libreville Gabon 9
Geneva Switzerland 11
London U.K. 17

There are plenty of war stories to tell. I’ve met a number of people named War in Angola. There are reportedly as many landmines as people in the country. Just from my work colleagues, there are stories of patients at hospitals being taken away and disappeared every night; stories of brutal, inhuman torture in the streets becoming common, everyday occurrences; stories of the guy sitting next to you suddenly getting his heads chopped off by shrapnel while having an evening drink. Everybody seems to have a story of walking barefoot for days across the country without practically anything to eat or drink in order to escape the killing. Most of these stories end with “and then I was grabbed again by some soldiers (from either side) and sent back to the frontlines.”

Hearing people’s stories really makes me look at everybody who grew up here with a sense of awe. Every one of them has seen and experienced things that I can’t even imagine. Suffering and brutality and fear were such normal parts of life that they now laugh about it lightly. Anybody who has reached old age in Angola has had a hell of a lot of luck and a hell of a lot of strength.

As my friend Carlos said, “War is for talking about, not for living.”

I wanted to talk about Angolan music. How many of you know that Brazilian samba (and capoeira) have their roots in Angola? I still want to post a video medley of Angolan dancing, from hip-grinding Kizomba and Tarrachinha to kids clowning to Kuduro.

I never wrote about my trip through southern Angola, to Lubango and Namibe over Christmas break. It would have been a tragedy to have left Angola without seeing some of its most stunningly beautiful places. Places that I really didn’t even know existed. Here are some pics from the trip.

I especially wanted to share how my feelings for the place have changed over my two years there. In my first year, it was hard to get past the negatives – so much death, so much incompetence, the attitudes of the government officials I had to work with who only seem to care about getting per diems and making sure people know what big men they are. Some of the things I saw in people really go against some of my most fundamental values as a human being. That was hard to get past.

But, as time went on, I started getting used to a lot of these things, for better or worse. More importantly, I also started seeing more clearly things in people that really impressed me and made me rethink a bit the way we human beings live our lives. Certain people in particular – friends and coworkers – impressed me in a profound way. I worked with Angolans who were head and shoulders above most people I’ve worked with in the US or other rich countries, despite having had their schools closed every year because of the war, despite not having any university to go to, despite having wasted years in the bush after being forcefully recruited into the army, and despite having had a long line of unprofessional, emotionally unstable expatriate bosses treating them like crap. Through all this, they managed to educate themselves, and develop a sense of pride in their work and a desire to improve themselves. These are the people that give me hope for Africa.

More generally, there are certain characteristics I’ve seen in Angolans, and Africans in general, that we westerners could learn from. Angolans seem to be free of much of the neurosis that plagues western society. When I see someone break out into spontaneous dance in the middle of the street when they hear a song they like, I can’t help but be impressed. Not only because they have a good sense of rhythm, but because they are so unselfconscious about it. Most Americans might let an almost imperceptible head nod or foot tap escape when they hear a good song, but will quickly stop and look around to see if anybody’s looking and laughing at them. The Angolan couldn’t care less. I don’t know how many times I was woken up in the early morning by my tone-deaf neighbor in M’banza Congo singing away at the top of her lungs. While I didn’t care much for the awakenings or her singing, I had to respect the fact that she was so confident in sharing her horrendous voice with the world.

Likewise, sexuality is accepted as a normal, necessary part of life, just like eating and drinking. While Americans tend to pretend that sex doesn’t exist and make noises of disgust and disapproval when they learn of somebody’s sexual behavior, Angolans wear their sexuality on their sleeves, as an integral part of who they are. Imagine Angolans getting all indignant and trying to impeach a president for having sex. Granted, maybe they take their sexual freedom just a bit too far. Sometimes it seemed that one of my friends had been with every young, attractive girl in Huambo. Another friend once took a young girlfriend to his son’s birthday party, to mingle and chat with his wife and the rest of the family. And of course there is the looming cloud of AIDS on the horizon, which most Angolans have not taken to heart. Maybe there’s a healthy balance somewhere in the middle.

Hillary Clinton once talked about how “it takes a village” to raise a child. Maybe she thought that up on a trip to Africa. For Hillary, and Americans, it’s just a catchy phrase. In Africa, it’s reality. There is a sense of community that was lost long ago in the US and Europe. Families stay together and a new child belongs to the whole family. People don’t think twice about helping out a neighbor. If a lady’s standing up in a bank line holding a baby, the lady sitting down next to her will lift up her arms and take the baby in her lap. In the US, if somebody asked you to let them hold your kid in their lap, you’d wonder if they were a pedophile. And then you’d wonder why a stranger was talking to you. Angolans talk to everyone. The guy next to you in the taxi becomes your best friend for the duration of your 20 minute ride.

I first came to Africa because of a desire for the personal and professional experience. I couldn’t legitimately consider myself a serious international public health professional or a serious world-wise traveler without spending some time in Africa. For a while, I appreciated what I was learning, but had short-term plans here and longed to get back to the good life in Latin America. But slowly, Africa has started to become part of me. It’s started to impact me on an emotional as well as intellectual level. So, while I still long to go back to Latin America and Asia, I think I will always come back to Africa as well. Plus, after what I’ve seen here, it’s hard to imagine continuing a career in global health without spending a lot of time in Africa.

Chad/Sudan Peace Deal?

2008-03-14T08:53:00.000-04:00

Today's news is reporting that the presidents of Chad and Sudan have agreed to a peace accord to stop supporting rebels in each other's countries. Sounds like good news.

Meanwhile, in Chad, the news is a bit less optimistic. Today I've received a couple emails like the one from the UN below.

13 March UNDSS resource

A column of rebels (number not clear but at least 70 vehicles) penetrated the Chadian territory and has been detected in MOUDEINA, 150 KM east of Goz Beida. Allegedly they are directed to Ndjamena.

The information has been officially confirmed by the Chadian Government by radio.

UNDSS analisys: in attempt to anticipate what can be the direction the column will take, the road passing by Adé or Daghessa has been excluded because of the high presence of Chadian army. The alternative direction are the road crossing Kokou or the road crossing Goz Beida. This last has a presence of EUFOR that can in some way discourage to pass by Goz Beida but considering their mandate, if the intention of the rebels is pacific as it has been demonstrate up to now, the presence of international soldier is not a guaranty itself.

The main risk of the current situation rest the possibility of cars hijack, therefore all the movements are restrict to the absolutely necessary.

Chad

2008-03-05T13:49:00.000-05:00

I live here...

Chad: A Moat Around the Capital

By REUTERS

The government is digging a 10-foot-deep trench around the capital, Ndjamena, to prevent a repeat of an attack last month, when rebels in pickup trucks rolled in and fought two days of heavy battles. The ditch will all but encircle the city, slicing through neighborhoods and forcing vehicles to pass through fortified gateways, a security official said. The remaining trees that line the avenues of central Ndjamena are being felled. Residents say the rebels used trees knocked down by rocket-propelled grenades and cannon fire to block roads during the fighting.

Huambo Carnival

2008-02-15T05:33:00.000-05:00

Another Perspective on M'banza Congo

2008-02-11T04:09:00.001-05:00

Back in September, I was replaced by a new coordinator, Rachel, in M'banza Congo. Her arrival freed me up to spend my time exclusively in Huambo. While I do miss some things about M'banza Congo, namely my coworkers and the neighbors' kids, it was a good move for me. M'banza is a really isolated place. Eight months was enough. Since her arrival, Rachel has had some trying experiences of her own there. She was kind enough to share some of her stories with me. I was moved by the stories and the writing, so decided to share them here. It's a long read, but well worth the time.

Life Lessons 101 – MBC Angola

Lesson 1: Laugh or Cry. It’s the only choice you actually have.
By Rachel Shaw

Since my arrival to Angola, it has been made abundantly clear to me that only thing I actually have control of is my bladder. While this in itself is quite fortunate and a cause for celebration, it’s not necessarily the most comforting of realities.

Context. I live in Mbanza Kongo (abbreviated as MBC or MBK depending on your mood), working as the provincial Program Coordinator for a small NGO that runs malaria control programs around the world.

MBC is less than 100 kilometers away from the border of the Democratic Republic of Congo. The town of has an estimated population of 20,000 people in a municipality of approximately 80,000. In truth, I believe there only to be (approximately) twenty people in this town. As I have failed to see any of the 19,980 and see with great regularity the same 20, I am convinced the 20,000 estimate is simply for show.

I am not complaining. Please understand that I accept my circumstances and am ultimately happy (enough) to be in this town. It must be said, however, that when I use the word town, I use the term very loosely. Our “town” consists of one road. It’s not a particularly long road. Perhaps 5 kilometers. It also consists of an open air market, where one can procure all kinds of local goods.

Now, you may be you asking yourselves, what constitutes “local goods.” Well, that, my friends, is a very important question. Local goods, to name a few, include:

Salt. Rock and the occasional bottle of iodized.

Sugar, two varieties: white and dyed brown white.

Veggies, a majority of which are unfamiliar.

Bread; white rolls. NOTE: can also be purchased at the local “bakery”- which only makes white rolls. Though, exactly when rolls can be purchased is anyone guess as the “bakery’s” hours of operation continue to mystify me.

Fish: “fresh” (we live near a small river – please don’t ask about environmental conditions, just know that we have not had rain for months and so, we shall call it well utilized), and “salted.” Proud to say that I have now learned how to prepare salted (a.k.a. preserved) fish. This is particularly important as my refrigerator doesn’t work, even when we have electricity which is less than 30% of the time.
Rat. Yes folks, it true. Rat is a local delicacy. I am visualizing, in this very instant, your level of envy. Please set aside your jealousy for a moment as I explain one crucial point (just in case you decide to experiment in your respective locations). There are two different kinds of rat (as it’s been explained to me). There is the kind that lives in your house. And there is the kind that lives in the field. The choice of which to consume is logical – the ones that live in the field. When asked if the rats that live in the house go into the fields as well, silly question, the response is naturally, “No.” They are two different types of rats (even if they look the same) that live in two different places, end of story.

Now, as for preparation. There is rat-on-a-stick. Slow grilled to perfection. DO NOT remove the hair or teeth as these parts add that certain something to the taste. There is rat-on-a-plate, also grilled, but clearly delivered using a different mode. Finally, there is deep fried rat – can be placed on a stick, on a plate, in a cup, or directly (if cool enough) into your hands – right up to your mouth for a delicious treat.

I know the question that you are asking yourselves. Did she or didn’t she? Well, I have only been here for two months. Desperate times have not yet led to desperate measures. However, the old adage of never say never always stands here in MBC. That being said, if that time comes, the time to eat that rat-on-a-whatever, trust me when I say that I will NEVER tell. I have only your condition in mind and wish to spare you any feelings of envy.

During my two months here, and with the above description of MBC in mind, it is clear that the universe has gone to great lengths to communicate Lesson 1: Laugh or cry, it’s the only choice you actually have, to me. While it is entirely possible that previous attempts to impart this knowledge have been made, for one reason or another, I have failed to hear it until now.

Indeed, a well executed series of events, let’s call them “challenges,” have served as a roadmap, facilitating my arrival to this critical conclusion. Here are two such examples.

Deportation. 9am in MBC. A stranger knocks on the front door of the office. He is short and round. He sweats excessively and introduces himself with a limp, moist handshake as “Carlos.” The poorly fashioned identity card hanging around his neck reads DEFA. Translation: Department of Foreign Affairs. Actual translation: Department of Strange Foreigner’s Affairs. I fit the profile. No sense in trying to hide it now.

“Papers please,” he belts out in rushed Portuguese. I produce a well worn copy of my passport, adding a smile and a coy bat of the lashes in hopes of improving the outcome of this most inconvenient encounter. “Where is your passport?” Silly question. No one carries a passport on them in fear of it being snatched. “Luanda” (Angolan capital). Smile and lashes again. “No work permit….My boss wants to see you.”

While I have made an honest effort to speak Portuguese, my language skills conveniently fail me. “Que?” Try lashes again. “My boss wants to see you NOW!” Shit. Perhaps stupidity will make a positive impression. I respond at snail speed, “N-a-o i-n-t-e-n-d-o.” He responds with equally slow speed, “MY BOSS… WANTS…TO…SEE YOU!” Now he is using hand gestures. Insulting. Shit. “Moment.” I reach into my back pocket to extract my company cell phone. Dial my boss in Luanda. “DEFA is here.” “Shit!” She speaks to Carlos on my behalf. “Work visa is in process.” It’s a bit of a lie. Ok, it’s a complete lie, but what Carlos doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Carlos doesn’t buy it. He shakes his bald head in dissatisfaction. “She goes to see my boss!” He hands me back my phone. On its journey up to my ear, I slyly wipe off his accumulated perspiration onto my shirt. “Yes boss?” “I lied to him and told him that your work visa is in process. Go to see his boss and explain it to him.”

Carlos and I exit my office. His aging motorcycle sits just beyond the front door. I hate motorcycles, ever since Zanzibar. “We can walk?” I can use hand gestures too. I am thinking of using one in particular. Wonder if it translates? “No, we ride.” We make a fine pair smooched together on his tiny bike. He presses my hands up to his waist. Hold on. We lurch forward and pick up speed. I say my prayers.

Moments later we come to a screeching halt in front of the DEFA office. Up a flight of creaky stairs, railing needs more support than it can provide. Door marked “Chief.” Carlos’s boss sits behind an unnecessarily large desk. He strikes me as vertically challenged. Through tiny spectacles he stares at me with beady eyes, giving me the distinct impression that he is simultaneously undressing me with them. He shifts uncomfortably in his squeaky chair. From a drawer he quickly produces the most recent copy of Angolan Immigration Laws. Its exterior is shiny and new. Looks like a brochure from a travel company - Adventures in Angolan Jail.

“Papers.” Again, pass antiquated copy of passport. “Not good.” Chief calls over a young colleague to share an important message, “This is no good.” He points at my Ordinary Visa. Licking small chubby fingers, he flips to a page in the middle of the immigration adventure guide. I catch a glimpse of the section he refers to. Blah blah, blah, “3,000,000 Kwanza” (50,000 USD). He chuckles and leans back. “You don’t have the right papers, you pay this.” Eyebrows lift. Room is silent. Out comes my cell phone. My boss. “Explain to him its in process.” Boss speaks on my behalf. Yes, its in process. Heated exchange. Heads shake with disapproval. “You pay this.” No, its in process. Click. Chief hangs up on my boss. Slamming my phone down on his desk, he makes his final decree, “You have two days to provide evidence of this.”

I delicately pick up my cell phone. It’s ringing. A co-worker calls to come my rescue. “I am at DEFA. You should come!”

I wait for his arrival. Meantime, sweaty Carlos decides to make his move. On a torn bit of yellowed paper, he scribbles down his phone number and slips it to me. His turn to bat lashes. Guess my earlier attempts to “improve” the situation worked in some perverse fashion. I thank him and shove it into my back pocket with final destination, trash can, in mind.

5 minuets later. Manuel, work colleague, enters the room. Polite, formal. “Problem?” Problem. He is calm. His calm calms me. Winks his eye. No problem. We leave together back to the office. Call my boss. “Two days to produce evidence of work visa in process that doesn’t exist, ehh?” How is the food in prison? Facing jail, deportation doesn’t really sound so bad.

2 hours later. Boss. “You are coming back to Luanda. I don’t want to take any risks.” She is coming to get me.

24 hours later. We are at the airstrip waiting for her. My bags are packed, all of them, just in case. Flight lands. She waves from her seat overlooking the left wing. I wave back. As she exits the plane, she nods at the DEFA officials evaluating documents of the newly imported. These are not the same DEFA officials from the office. These officials know her. From her pocket she pulls out my passport, fresh and nearly new. Seconds later, the flight reboards. DEFA smiles, we bat eye lashes, they stamp page 4. The plane whirls to a start and lifts off. To Luanda we go.

12 days later. Diplomatic Visa (a.k.a. last minute work permit). Translation: Diplomatic Immunity. Actual Translation: I will never see the inside of an Angola prison or know how the food tastes. “Obrigada a Dios!” Thank you God.

Moral – Work permits, can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em. Back to Mbanza Kongo I go singing MC Hammer’s “Can’t touch this!”

Gun-Point. I can honestly say that up until about 3 weeks ago, I have never had a gun pulled on me. The first and last time I handled one was in South Africa, shooting rusty tin cans off a fence—clearly a cliché for a reason.

It is important to know that, in the course of any expat’s life here in Angola, having a gun pointed in your face is not just an inconvenience; it’s a right of passage. Nearly all expats have one horror story or another on the topic. “One night, my friend and I were walking down the street and these two guys jumped us. Hopped right off their motorbikes and started to pound our faces in….” “I was getting into my car and this guy came up to the window and pointed a gun right at me….” These vignettes are too numerous to count, like war stories and scars—here, everyone has them.

My turn came sooner than expected. Although, it must be said that expecting is not the same as being prepared.

The story. My friend and I met up at her place with pizza in mind. Yes, pizza. It’s not bad here, not like in Georgia (Rep.) where some poorly cooked dough is served luke warm and swimming in mayonnaise. Different strokes for different folks and all that aside. Here, it’s a bit more like the pizza we are accustom to in the States.

We stroll out of her flat, down seven flights of stairs and exit out onto the street. 20 minutes later, we are guzzling down beer and eating our fill of a Hawaiian pizza.

We are not the only expats at the pizza joint. Throughout dinner, other expats have ample opportunity to size us up. Are we single, married, available? Sex is something on everyone’s mind, even if behavior, enjoying a slice for instance, seems to indicate otherwise. We laugh easy laughs. Maybe we are. More likely, we’re not. Especially for the types of expats attracted to this place.

Oil. The expats working for the oil companies very much mimic the product they push. Slimy, dirty, and crude. Sadly, in their case, they are all too renewable as resources, with new arrivals on a daily basis. Business is booming. It this industry (with players like Chevron, Exxon, and HalBurton) that make Luanda the most shockingly expensive city in Africa. New York City prices for the lowest quality goods.

Pizza. We are yucking up our surroundings. After 3 beers each, both of us are jovial and rosy cheeked. Sad but true, we joke frequently about being robbed, thrown into prison and being deported, and with good reason. Tonight is no exception and the conversation wanders back to topic. “We should go to Bingo tonight. That club just beyond the UN building.” “No, better skip it, we will probably just end up getting assaulted!” “Or how about Paulo’s? “It’s not that bad. Though I hear people get accosted as they step out of their cars. Even right in front of the entrance!” Hahahaha. “Ok, maybe not Paulo’s.” My friend is less concerned about being robbed. She insists it’s just a matter of time. I insist that we need to take preventative measures. She correctly identifies me as the more cautious of the two of us and announces her judgment, “Ah, Rach, your no fun!” We laugh.

Caution be damned. Shortly after dinner, we walk back in the dark of night, unescorted. It’s around 7pm. We pass loads of people on the street. Couples kissing, business men back from work and on their way to the bar. Lots of banks. Banks with guards.

We are about 50 meters away from my friends flat. Two young men approach. They must be all of about 20 years of age. They are very focused on us, too focused. It takes me all of 2 seconds to realize that they do not have friendly intentions. Up close to us now. One speaks. It’s so dark that it’s difficult to see. One of the two men has just pulled something out of his pocket. Click. Shit. What clicks? Guns click.

It took nothing but the sound to switch every cell in my body to ON. I found myself immediately on autopilot. My hands went up in the air and my mouth opened, “OH, HELL NO!” Loud enough for the city to hear. My head shook in disgust and disapproval and my body spun itself around and propelled me in back in the direction of the pizza joint.

I think it fair to say that everyone was astonished by my behavior. Both the robbers and my friend gaped in amazement at my rapid change of direction and outburst of anger. As for me, all I knew was that I was pissed off, freaked out and determined to find someone to help. My heart racing, mind at work: There were guards at that bank. They will help us. I am close to the street. Someone will stop their car. They will help us.

Moments later, I stand in front of two guards outside a bank. They stare stupidly at me. “What’s going on?” I reply in hurried English, “What the fuck do you think is going on?” Did they not see? Two white women walking down a dark street at night draws all kinds of attention. Hello? They totally knew.

In the same instant, two new men approach me. “Calma-te.” Relax yourself. “OH HELL NO!” My instincts tell me that they are robbers too, perhaps making a gang of four. They reach out to touch my arm, I cringe and pull away before they make contact. They walk on, towards my friend and her unwelcome companions.

There is a dim street light overhead. I can just barely see her, standing with the two robbers. The too new men are approaching fast. It’s slow now, like a dream but, in this case, a nightmare. She is speaking to them in a low tone, negotiating. I call out to her, “Hey, GET OVER HERE!” She stares at me for a brief moment and then continues her discussion. The two new men walk up to them and enter the negotiation. One pulls out a bill. 100 Kwanza. He hands it to the robbers. The robbers leave empty handed, except for the small bribe worth $2. The two new men stay by her side.

I approach. “Holy shit!” “You kept calling me over but, they had a gun. What was I going to do? Just walk away?” I did. We walk in silence with our new heroes. They accompany us to the entrance of her building. “Don’t worry ladies. Angola is just like this.” They wave goodbye and carry on.

And so it is. We finished the night drowning ourselves in wine at her flat and reminiscing about the time we got robbed. Or, as she likes to call it, the time she got robbed. Well, almost.

It’s funny. One never realizes the sort of person they are in such circumstances until they are faced with them. I’ve worked in Emergency Rooms as a nurse. I’ve done my fair share of world travel. I’ve been around the preverbal block. Ok, I admit that I can be panicky at times but, counted myself among those in the world that could be calm and level headed when situations demanded it. Not the case, at least, not this time. I RUN. I am a runner. Was I stupid? Brave? Was it the right thing to do? In another time and place, perhaps I would have been shot in the back. No matter, it is what it is. And it’s only when we are tested that we learn what is true about ourselves.

WARNING: If and when, at some point, you are in danger and I am in your presence, DO NOT count on me being any kind of assistance…. It’s not personal. Like Angola, “I am just like this.”

And so goes Lesson 1. We face challenging realities with one option – to laugh or to cry. Crying, though cleansing, seems counter productive and a waste of precious liquid in these parts. Instead, I choose to laugh. At least I get some good exercise out of it and, somehow, find the strength to keep going. After all, there is bound to be a Lesson 2….

Lesson 2: When things seem bad, remember that they could be worse.

Sometimes it’s hard to stay a glass half full kinda girl. Especially when standing in a 10 foot deep pit of human excrement and medical waste at 4 a.m. in the neighboring Municipal Hospital compound.

Such circumstances beg the question: How in the hell did I end up here? While clearly an existential question of the ages, when standing in a vat of human shit, it seems particularly poignant.

The Fall. Its 4:13 in the morning according to my cell phone clock. I have just woken out of a half dead sleep to the noise of a BLARING radio outside my house.

Normally at 4:13, our fair town of Mbanza Congo (MBC) is quiet and still. Cooking fires out. Crying babes asleep. Chattering neighbors tucked into bed, dreaming perhaps of better days. Or worse ones. Only 5 years post a 30 year civil war, there are bound to have been worse ones.

At 4:13 this particular morning, I awaken to this unusual interruption of my nocturnal reprieve feeling rather irritated. It doesn’t help that I had spent the evening downing wine with a friend in a pathetic effort to forget a dysfunctional relationship I have just ended by email. Head pounding, I fumble to dress and call to the guard outside.

He is Moses, a man in is early 60s. He is short, sweet and to the point. Always reliable. Always on time. Which is something to get up and shout for joy about in these parts.

In my half asleep Portuguese, I ask Moses to go and tell the radio people to give it a rest. São mal educado. Literally translated, mal educado means “poorly educated”, which, while generally true, is not the fault of the individual as much as it is of the broken system of education here. In practice, however, this phrase is commonly used as means to identify someone as rude, uncultured, and/or generally impolite. This description happens to fit the 4 a.m. radio people perfectly.

Moses agrees. In an act of solidarity, he nods his head, gives a brisk military salute, “Sim Madame!” and bolts out into the darkness to liberate us from our hostile radio nemesis. I return to bed.

Lying in wait for sweet silence, the minutes pass. Kizomba (local Angolan music) continues to blast. Then BBC. By the third beep of the program’s introduction, Moses is yelling “Hey, excuse me Mister, turn off your radio!” Someone responds. Words are exchanged. After minutes of negation between them and with no relief in sight, I reach my boiling point.

Pissed off, I decide that he needs back-up. I am going to go out there to tell this jerk, whoever he is, right where to put it. Up I get, my mission clear. Slap on a pair shorts, flip flops and a jacket. Unlock door one. Unlock door two. Hustle out the into the night and head for the voices. They are coming from the neighboring hospital compound.

The Pit of Despair. The MBC Municipal Hospital, for all intents and purposes, is a man made disaster. It’s perhaps what one would expect from a developing country hospital; poorly managed, poorly staffed and poorly resourced. It’s run by 5 nurses and two doctors; one North Korean and one Cuban, that seem to work only when convenient, which is almost never.

Despite a crumbling exterior, its clear that the hospital was once attractive. Today, its walls are thickly caked with dirt and weathered white paint peels away in large, uneven sheets. Inside, the hospital beds are simple frames fitted with filthy, uncovered mattresses. Patients are packed together 10 to 15 per room. The place smells of sick and of desperation.

Outside, the grounds are littered with waste. Women in the court yard wash cloths, cook, and pray silently that somehow their sick loved one will make it out alive without contracting 50 additional diseases. This hospital serves as Exhibit A in the case of People vs. the Angolan Public Health System. Final verdict: less than 30% of people in this country go to health facilities to seek medical care with very good reason.

Two days ago, the hospital administrator had the brilliant idea to dig a 10 foot deep waste pit in the middle of the hospital grounds. Why in the hell anyone would think this a wise decision is beyond me, especially as there are children playing in the compound all day long and the only source of water for the hospital is less than 7 feet away. Can you say cholera epidemic?

At 4 the morning, the hospital grounds look a bit more inviting. With the gentle light produced by the hospital’s small generator, one would never suspect it to be as filthy and uninviting as it actually is. Having given my head lamp to my friend so she would not trip and fall to her death in the middle of the night on her way to my bathroom, I fumble clumsily along in the dimly lit court yard. I push on towards Moses’ voice and then spot him. He is standing in front of the door to the last room in the hospital wing.

He sees me too. Just as I am about to call out to him, I step forward, feet first, into the giant hole. For a moment, I feel like Alice falling deep into the middle of the earth. Plunk, squish, splat. No white rabbit down here I am assured as the stench of excrement stings my nostrils. Oh Shit! Literally. Moses! Moosssseeesssss! I climb close to the right side of the pit and call out again, clinging to its walls. MOSES!!!

“Madame! Madame, where are you?” I want to reply IN HELL but I can only squeak out, DOWN HERE. He walks up to the side of the pit, panicked. Looking down, he shakes his head in disbelief. I feel like saying, “Yup, I am right there with you pal.” I refrain. He stretches down his tiny hands and tells me to grab hold. He wants to pull me up. Laughing slightly, I try to explain to him that there is no way that his 5’4, 95 pound frame can pull my significantly larger self up and out. “Ok, ok, Madame.” He gives up on the idea. “Just stay right there and I will be right back!” I contemplate where else I could possibly go. Ok, Ok, I am waiting.

Out of nowhere, a random woman arrives on the scene. Maybe she’s heard my calls of distress and is here to help. Not-so-much. She stares down at me, squinting, giving her eyes a minute to adjust. And, proceeds to do…absolutely nothing. Doesn’t make a move. Doesn’t speak a word. Ahh, she is clearly in a state of shock, I think to myself. After all, this kind of thing doesn’t happen everyday, some white girl stuck in a vat of human crap at 4 a.m. Umm. Sim? I speak up to her, staring back indignantly, hands on hips like she is intruding on my turf. She continues to do nothing. I finally get it. She is at the zoo and I am the creature of interest in the cage. Awesome.

5 minutes later. Moses appears with the outside waiting room bench. Ummm…Moses, its not tall enough. He is sliding the waiting room bench into the vat of crap with me. I don’t understand. Is it supposed to keep me company down here or…? “Wait Madam!” He lowers it a bit more and than, flips it over onto its back.

Its has three support beams as leg and is going to serve as my ladder out of this hell hole. You are brilliant Moses! We take a second to figure out the logistics. My legs and feet are naturally slippery given the circumstances, so getting a good hold of the bench proves difficult. Finally, after multiple tries, I make my ascent.

Shit covered and traumatized, I run home to inspect the damage. Moses follows. As I am about to enter the house, he stops me. He wants to debrief. “Madame, I didnt know that you didn’t know that that pit was there. I sure would have told you to stay in the house. I am sorry that you fell in there,” and so on. While I normally enjoy small talk with Moses, now was not the time. Lets talk more later about it, ok? Thank you so much for your help!

I hop into the shower and strip down. COVERD doesn’t quite describe it. From my waist down, I am embalmed in waste. There are some small superficial scratches on my upper thighs. I wash them well and think about my Universal Precautions trainings from years of nursing. I calculate the risk of contracting horrible diseases in my head as I scrub.

A bar of soap and several minutes later, I soak my small superficial wounds in iodine. Dear God, please don’t let me get sick from this. I beg. I have always been a bit of a hypochondriac but, this calls for a new level of negotiation with the higher powers.

Meanwhile, the radio CONTINUES to blare outside. Moses explains that it was left on by accident and now the room is locked and no one can get in to shut it off. SCORE: Angola 1, Rachel 0. God Damn this country.

Wrapping myself in a clean towel, I creep up to the door to my friends room. She is sound asleep. I, however, have deemed it the appropriate time to share my horror story. I knock loudly, Hey, wake up. Are you awake? She groggily opens her door and rubs the sleep from her eyes. “What the hell happened to you?” Well, I go on to explain, it goes like this: Imagine, if you will, hell on earth…. I recall the nightmare. She draws in a deep breath. She seems to be on verge of saying something comforting but, instead, cracks up into hysterical laughter. “I don’t mean to laugh but, holy shit. I mean, literally. I mean, OH MY GOD, DISGUSTING!” Not comforting. Not at all. You are such a bitch. Go back to bed. I start to walk away, throwing up my hands, half playing, half serious. “No, no, I am sorry. Its really awful! Are you ok?” Yes, I say with a sulky voice and a frown. And then I start to laugh with her. Its just too ridiculous of an event not too.

We both go back to bed. I lie awake, thinking of my wounds, both physical and mental and then come to a sad but sobering realization. Because of this expereince, I am going to suffer from PTSD for the rest of my life. That’s P-T-S-D, short for Post Traumatic Shitpit Disorder. Long term impact? Things like Port-O-Potties and pit latrines are, from now on, permanently out of the question.

Castro and Me, So Perfect Together?
A few days after the shitpit incident and after numerous consultations with friends regarding my risk of infection, I decide to visit the Cubans.

At present, there are a number of Cuban doctors living in Zaire Province (of which MBC is the capital) for the sole purpose of making money to send back home to their families. They are the best outfit in town as far as medical practice is concerened and we have a good relationship.

One of the Cuban doctors, Ricardo (please note names have been changed to protect privacy) and I are particularly good friends. He comes over for visits sometimes. He is 58, handsome for his age and thoughtful. He tells me about his family and life at home. He has 3 children. The oldest is 26. His daughter, the youngest, has blue eyes and blonde hair “like you” he says because, “my grandfather was an American!” Arriving from the States to Cuba during the Spanish-American War, his grandfather fell in love and settled down in Havana. “He got it right,” he says, with great national pride. Ricardo has countless conspiracy theories as well, generally regarding the Bush administration. They are elaborate and well reasoned. “Just wait. Someday, you will see that I am right!”

We laugh regularly about how miserable our lives are here. We drink beer, sit on my small porch and watch the sun sink into the horizon. He is always weary and cautious, “Don’t tell my colleagues that I come to visit you sometimes.” Why, I ask? It’s not as if we are doing anything wrong, and anyway, its not their business. He reminds me of just how small this town is. “Everyone sees everything!” I roll my eyes and poke at him. That is just silly. You are so paranoid. Though, I suspect that he is right.

Its been a several days since his last visit. In fact, the last time he was here was with his work colleagues. We had a wine and cheese party, care of my friend up from Luanda. We were jovial that night, listening to music, dancing and discussing which of the two bakeries in town make the best white rolls. We all seemed to have a good time.

Following my swim in the pit, Ricardo is person I want to see for a quick consult. It’s a Sunday so, I know that he’s off duty. I call him before I set off. Is it ok if I come for a visit? “No problem.”

The Cubans live in a compound outside the Provincial Hospital. It’s really quite nice. They have TVs, nice rooms, lounges with kitchens, microwaves and refrigerators that work. Its like a little slice of heaven . They live all together, eat together and work together. I am jealous. Living on my own on the outskirts of town in front of a noisy airstrip is isolating to say the least.
I arrive to their place in less than 15. The guard is sleeping soundly. No point in waking him. I know where Ricardo is and walk up to his house. He is sitting on the front porch with another colleague.

Hi guys! They respond with big smiles. Its only 12 in the afternoon but its clear that they have been downing a few. “You want a beer or whisky?” No beating around the bush. Whisky, I reply.

I plop down next to Ricardo and take a deep swig of the full glass I have just been handed. Jesus! The strength of it takes my breath away. Ricardo is relaxed and in a good mood. Hey, I want some medical advice. I go on to tell him about my little fall just the other day. He sympathizes and then proceeds to tell me that I am most likely going to die from something in that pit, as “virues can live for years and years.” I know that he is joking, but its not exactly helping my mental state. He sees my distress. “Ok, ok, maybe you wont die but, its true, there is a risk.” Shit. I drink more whisky. Then some more. Before I know it, we are both buzzed.

Time floats freely by and the conversation drifts in and out with small talk. Then it reaches a critical mass. “Rachel, what are you doing here?” I am not shocked by this question. He likes to remind me frequently that this place sucks and that I am 30 and don’t have a life partner or children and need to go and get some. I don’t know. I reply honestly. At this point, I am low. Very, very low. Not just because of the shit pit but also the distance from friends, family, things familiar. I just wanted…want…to make some kind of difference! Spoken like a truly spoiled idealist, I self criticize. He pats me on the back. “That’s nice but, you don’t have to be here. I have family obligations and responsibilities. You don’t!” He pauses. And then, he says it. The worst possible thing he could say, “Go home!” He takes my hand and strokes it gently. “Go home Rachel. Go and live your life and be with your family and find your love and be happy!” Sadness suddenly catches me and knocks me down. I begin to weep. We sit in silence for a long time. I stare at the floor and contemplate how unhappy I really am. Rain begins to pour outside.

By the time I leave, its 7pm. Time has slipped away quickly and I am exhausted. As I walk out the door, I ask for the second or third time that evening if my having been there was going to create problems for him. He gives me an final emphatic “No.” Thanking him for being a supportive listener, I give him a big hug and step out into the rain. I spend the remainder of the night in my bed, re-evaluating my presence in this soggy, downtrodden hell.

Change of Scene. The next day, I wake early and dress, preparing for a two day excursion out of town. Its the first time I have left MBC to work in other parts of the province since my arrival in September (possible deportation Luanda trip excluded). Still feeling blue from last night’s discussion, I put one foot in front of the other, out the front door and into the vehicle that is waiting to take me away for MBC, even if just for a little while.

As we drive, I begin to soak in the sights around us. Scattered mountains, green and lush. Strange flowers with exotic and intoxicating fragrances. Thick groves of trees with wide trunks and magestic branches. The natural beauty of this place is reminiscent of prehistoric times. Of a land untouched. A virtual Jurassic Park minus T-Rex and his friends.

I travel with two collogues. We discuss their lives, their experiences, their dreams. We eat together, sleep in the same room together, and begin to know one another. They make it a point to show me why I am here. In our visits hospitals and clinics, we speak with administrators, nurses, and doctors, each struggling to make it. Their work is hard and made even harder by a grossly dysfunctional system. My eyes and ears are opened.

On the ride back to MBC 2 days later, I feel energized. Like a weight has been lifted from my heart. I see, I think to myself for the first time, that I am in this place to learn lessons that I cant yet understand. Somehow it will make sense and the way will open. I am optimistic.

As we approached town, I think of my Cuban friends. I contemplate the divide that we have successfully crossed. Incredible that we are able to move beyond the borders of our national identities and find that, in the end, we are all just people. Good and kind and loving.

Mere moments later, my cell phone comes back into network. There is a message waiting for me. Its Ricardo. He tells me that my visit caused him a great deal of trouble and that I should wait a while before coming around again. He says that one of his colleagues thinks me to be a “political character.” But that he hopes that I am feeling alright and that the scratches on my legs are not still bothering me. He finishes by asking me not to tell anyone.

I am stunned. Did not see this one coming. I take a minute to process what on earth he could mean. A Political character? Wait a minute. Does he mean a spy? I burst into a fit laughter so strong that tears start to run down my face. I mean, really. Unbelievable. First of all, ridicuious. Second of all, why in the hell would anyone send someone here to spy, unless it was some kind of punishment. “Er, um, Rachel, you didn’t do so well in Afghanistan (or whereever) so, umm..,er, we are going to send you to Mbanza Congo to carry out activities there.” And spy on what exactly, the misery of life? Learn the secrets of the 101 ways to go crazy in the middle of nowhere Africa?

Or was I perhaps sent to spy on the Cuban doctoring practices? I imagine myself hiding in the bushes outside the hospital compound furiously scribbling down notes, Entry 989: Note to self, Cuban doctor did not wash hands before giving injection. PLEASE!

My colleagues in the car with me stare curiously. They think I have gone insane. And perhaps I have. The thought that my only friends in this hell hole have now made me an outcast weighs in heavily. I stop laughing. Now, I am absolutely alone. I take a moment and breathe deeply, mentally pushing back the anger and the fear I am feeling to prevent myself from crying.

And then it happens.
Right then and there….
In that very moment, as I feel like the world is caving in on me, I make my
decision.
I decide to give up.

I look around at my colleagues in the car. They are calm and smiling at me. And I know that my choice is the right one. I give up --- I give up on the sadness, the desperation, the despondency. Give up on the idea that I am alone, that I cant make it, that its too hard.

I make a pact with myself. I am going stay and fight. Forget the “go home” advice. Forget the fact that this place is horribly corrupt and that trying to improve the system is just a giant exercise in futility. Forget that I am officially alone, with my new position at the top of the Cuban axis of evil list! Forget all of that because, if I let this place beat me then its all been for nothing. And it cant all be for nothing. I nearly think out loud: I am here for a purpose GOD DAMN IT and I am going to make something good come of it.

Nodding my head with deep resolution and in acknowledgement of my internal dialogue, I smile. My colleagues, observing my mood swings speak out, “You have lost it Raquel,” they say giving me a nudge. I answer them honestly and tell them that its just hard for me sometimes, you know, to be here without family.

“Raquel”, one replies gently, tapping my shoulder. “You are not alone here…. We are your family.”

I grab her hand and give it a quick squeeze. How did she know that was exactly what I needed to hear? We return home in silence. And I know that somehow, we are going to make this work.

Lesson 2. When things seem bad, remember that they could be worse. Remember this, when you are feeling low: it really could be worse. You could be, for instance, waist deep in a vat of human crap right now.

And, while vats of human crap are undoubtedly bad, there is something infinitely worse. Hopelessness.

Hopelessness is giving in. To doubt, to fear, to depression, to loneliness. Its when you say to yourself, they were right, I should go home. I am all alone. I have nothing here.

In the end, the real question we are left to face isn’t ALWAYS how the hell do you get out of this shit hole. Rather, sometimes, its how do you find a way to make it better? How do you learn from it, grow from it? How do you find the courage to go into battle knowing that it isn’t going to be easy or even winning, but somehow worthy? And, at what point to you say to yourself, I have given it all I can but I can’t do this anymore?

I think back to a Monty Python skit from Monty Python and the Search for Holy Grail. The one with the guy that keeps saying, “I’m not dead yet!” Though not being carted around in a wheel barrel by some guy that wants to bury me alive, I can relate. And, I can say, with equal enthusiasm my dear friends, that I’m not done yet. MBC and I have a few more rounds to go.

Chad?

2008-02-07T05:12:00.000-05:00

So, I'm moving to Chad. I think. I was originally supposed to go on January 30th, but didn't get my visa in time. This proved to be quite the fortuitous delay. A couple days later, rebels launched a full-out attack on N'djamena, Chad's capital. I just missed flying into a warzone. When I relayed this to one of my colleagues here in Huambo, he insisted that with this and my plane crash survival, it really was time for me to go to church and give due props to God for looking out for me.

According to reports, the rebels, who are reportedly backed by Sudan (who's mad at Chad for backing rebels in Darfur), had taken much of the city in the first days. Explosions and shooting was widespread, tanks were burning in the streets, the presidential palace was under siege and the expats in the city were being evacuated. In the last couple days, the government (perhaps with help from France) has regained control and fighting has subsided. For the latest, see this NY Times article. The situation now seems to have calmed down a bit, but it's unclear whether this latest in a long series of mini-wars is really over or if the rebels or just recuperating to launch their next attack.

As for me, I'm still planning about going, but travel is postponed for now. I could be going as soon as next week or waiting longer, depending on how things play out. Again, I'm forced to analyze the tradeoff between experience (life and work) and insecurity. People always ask why I want to move there, as it seems to be the general consensus that it's high on the list of the worst places in the world. But frankly, that's kind of why I want to go. I want to see what the worst place in the world is like...and know that I was able get by there. Besides, what better place than a warzone to work on my French.

More on Accountability

2008-01-13T12:55:00.001-05:00

I’ve previously written criticisms of the lack of accountability in Angola that allows corrupt politicians, civil servants, and many others to continue carrying out their jobs badly and wasting and diverting resources that should be going to improve the lives of the Angolan people. Clearly, as evidenced by my own country, this is not an exclusively Angolan or African issue. I think this article by George McGovern in the Washington Post lays out the case quite well. I might just add criminal prosecution on top of impeachment.

Why I Believe Bush Must Go
Nixon Was Bad. These Guys Are Worse.
By George McGovern
Sunday, January 6, 2008; B01

As we enter the eighth year of the Bush-Cheney administration, I have belatedly and painfully concluded that the only honorable course for me is to urge the impeachment of the president and the vice president.

After the 1972 presidential election, I stood clear of calls to impeach President Richard M. Nixon for his misconduct during the campaign. I thought that my joining the impeachment effort would be seen as an expression of personal vengeance toward the president who had defeated me.

Today I have made a different choice.

Of course, there seems to be little bipartisan support for impeachment. The political scene is marked by narrow and sometimes superficial partisanship, especially among Republicans, and a lack of courage and statesmanship on the part of too many Democratic politicians. So the chances of a bipartisan impeachment and conviction are not promising.

But what are the facts?

Bush and Cheney are clearly guilty of numerous impeachable offenses. They have repeatedly violated the Constitution. They have transgressed national and international law. They have lied to the American people time after time. Their conduct and their barbaric policies have reduced our beloved country to a historic low in the eyes of people around the world. These are truly "high crimes and misdemeanors," to use the constitutional standard.

From the beginning, the Bush-Cheney team's assumption of power was the product of questionable elections that probably should have been officially challenged -- perhaps even by a congressional investigation.

In a more fundamental sense, American democracy has been derailed throughout the Bush-Cheney regime. The dominant commitment of the administration has been a murderous, illegal, nonsensical war against Iraq. That irresponsible venture has killed almost 4,000 Americans, left many times that number mentally or physically crippled, claimed the lives of an estimated 600,000 Iraqis (according to a careful October 2006 study from the Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health) and laid waste their country. The financial cost to the United States is now $250 million a day and is expected to exceed a total of $1 trillion, most of which we have borrowed from the Chinese and others as our national debt has now climbed above $9 trillion -- by far the highest in our national history.

All of this has been done without the declaration of war from Congress that the Constitution clearly requires, in defiance of the U.N. Charter and in violation of international law. This reckless disregard for life and property, as well as constitutional law, has been accompanied by the abuse of prisoners, including systematic torture, in direct violation of the Geneva Conventions of 1949.

I have not been heavily involved in singing the praises of the Nixon administration. But the case for impeaching Bush and Cheney is far stronger than was the case against Nixon and Vice President Spiro T. Agnew after the 1972 election. The nation would be much more secure and productive under a Nixon presidency than with Bush. Indeed, has any administration in our national history been so damaging as the Bush-Cheney era?

How could a once-admired, great nation fall into such a quagmire of killing, immorality and lawlessness?

It happened in part because the Bush-Cheney team repeatedly deceived Congress, the press and the public into believing that Saddam Hussein had nuclear arms and other horrifying banned weapons that were an "imminent threat" to the United States. The administration also led the public to believe that Iraq was involved in the 9/11 attacks -- another blatant falsehood. Many times in recent years, I have recalled Jefferson's observation: "Indeed I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just."

The basic strategy of the administration has been to encourage a climate of fear, letting it exploit the 2001 al-Qaeda attacks not only to justify the invasion of Iraq but also to excuse such dangerous misbehavior as the illegal tapping of our telephones by government agents. The same fear-mongering has led government spokesmen and cooperative members of the press to imply that we are at war with the entire Arab and Muslim world -- more than a billion people.

Another shocking perversion has been the shipping of prisoners scooped off the streets of Afghanistan to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, and other countries without benefit of our time-tested laws of habeas corpus.

Although the president was advised by the intelligence agencies last August that Iran had no program to develop nuclear weapons, he continued to lie to the country and the world. This is the same strategy of deception that brought us into war in the Arabian Desert and could lead us into an unjustified invasion of Iran. I can say with some professional knowledge and experience that if Bush invades yet another Muslim oil state, it would mark the end of U.S. influence in the crucial Middle East for decades.

Ironically, while Bush and Cheney made counterterrorism the battle cry of their administration, their policies -- especially the war in Iraq -- have increased the terrorist threat and reduced the security of the United States. Consider the difference between the policies of the first President Bush and those of his son. When the Iraqi army marched into Kuwait in August 1990, President George H.W. Bush gathered the support of the entire world, including the United Nations, the European Union and most of the Arab League, to quickly expel Iraqi forces from Kuwait. The Saudis and Japanese paid most of the cost. Instead of getting bogged down in a costly occupation, the administration established a policy of containing the Baathist regime with international arms inspectors, no-fly zones and economic sanctions. Iraq was left as a stable country with little or no capacity to threaten others.

Today, after five years of clumsy, mistaken policies and U.S. military occupation, Iraq has become a breeding ground of terrorism and bloody civil strife. It is no secret that former president Bush, his secretary of state, James A. Baker III, and his national security adviser, Gen. Brent Scowcroft, all opposed the 2003 invasion and occupation of Iraq.

In addition to the shocking breakdown of presidential legal and moral responsibility, there is the scandalous neglect and mishandling of the Hurricane Katrina catastrophe. The veteran CNN commentator Jack Cafferty condenses it to a sentence: "I have never ever seen anything as badly bungled and poorly handled as this situation in New Orleans." Any impeachment proceeding must include a careful and critical look at the collapse of presidential leadership in response to perhaps the worst natural disaster in U.S. history.

Impeachment is unlikely, of course. But we must still urge Congress to act. Impeachment, quite simply, is the procedure written into the Constitution to deal with presidents who violate the Constitution and the laws of the land. It is also a way to signal to the American people and the world that some of us feel strongly enough about the present drift of our country to support the impeachment of the false prophets who have led us astray. This, I believe, is the rightful course for an American patriot.

As former representative Elizabeth Holtzman, who played a key role in the Nixon impeachment proceedings, wrote two years ago, "it wasn't until the most recent revelations that President Bush directed the wiretapping of hundreds, possibly thousands, of Americans, in violation of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act (FISA) -- and argued that, as Commander in Chief, he had the right in the interests of national security to override our country's laws -- that I felt the same sinking feeling in my stomach as I did during Watergate. . . . A President, any President, who maintains that he is above the law -- and repeatedly violates the law -- thereby commits high crimes and misdemeanors."

I believe we have a chance to heal the wounds the nation has suffered in the opening decade of the 21st century. This recovery may take a generation and will depend on the election of a series of rational presidents and Congresses. At age 85, I won't be around to witness the completion of the difficult rebuilding of our sorely damaged country, but I'd like to hold on long enough to see the healing begin.

There has never been a day in my adult life when I would not have sacrificed that life to save the United States from genuine danger, such as the ones we faced when I served as a bomber pilot in World War II. We must be a great nation because from time to time, we make gigantic blunders, but so far, we have survived and recovered.

Police Protection

2008-01-08T05:03:00.001-05:00

The Angolan police continue to abuse their guns. The latest story is almost too ridiculous to be true, and would be laughable if people hadn't been killed. See the BBC story below.

Outrage at Angola actor shooting

Angola's interior minister has expressed "indignation" after police shot dead two actors after mistaking them for real armed robbers.

They were carrying unloaded firearms as they filmed a scene in a rough suburb of the capital, Luanda.

Minister Roberto Leal Monteiro said a change of mentality was needed to stop such "undue use of firearms".

"We won't rest until police at all levels realise they are public servants," he told the Angolan media.

There has been a recent spate of police shootings.

Last week, a street vendor, who turned out to be a policeman's wife, was killed.

On Tuesday, agents from the Economic Police shot and killed two traders at point-blank range in the sprawling Roque Santeiro market that overlooks Luanda's port.

Shoot to kill

Film director Radical Ribeiro said he was filming in the crime-ridden Sambizanga area of the capital when an elite unit roared up in a pick-up truck and opened fire without warning.

Mr Ribeiro said he thought the police might have mistaken the actors, who were carrying unloaded firearms, for real armed robbers.

"They went on shooting until I shouted out: 'Please don't shoot, this is a movie,'" he told the BBC's Portuguese Service.

He said the officers then stopped firing and raced off, without attending to the fatally wounded actors.

The incident happened as the interior minister was chairing an extended committee to discuss the escalating crime-rate in Luanda.

Correspondents say Angola's disparate police forces are perceived as a law unto themselves.

Wild West

2007-12-10T03:45:00.001-05:00

Huambo is normally a quite calm, quiet city. I feel perfectly comfortable walking around the city by myself in the middle of the night. The biggest reason to worry is the packs of dogs (and the high rates of rabies here) that wander the streets at night making noise and getting into trouble. Things have livened up a bit in recent weeks.

The main job of the traffic police here is usually stand on the side of the road, since they don’t have vehicles, and stop cars at random to check if their documents are in order. If a driver doesn’t have the proper documents, either the car will be taken to the police station and be kept their until the person pays a fine or the driver can offer a gasosa (bribe) to the officer and go on his way. The drivers especially targeted are the minibus taxi drivers, who have only begun to appear in large numbers in Huambo in the last year and who often don’t have the documents required to operate a taxi.

A few weeks ago, a traffic police officer pulled over a taxi driver. They already knew each other from past encounters on the street, and both knew that the driver didn’t have his documents. The cop let the driver go on the agreement that he would pay a gasosa on the way back after he had dropped off his passengers. When the taxi driver returned, he paid the bribe and left. Later in the day, the same driver passed by the same cop with a car full of passengers. The cop pulled him over again. The driver was upset, as he had already been stopped and paid that same day. How was the cop going to stop him again in the same day? The cop forcefully pulled the driver out of the car and in response, the driver hit him. Seeing this, another cop came over and drew his gun on the driver. He told driver to turn over the keys to the car. When the driver refused and turned around to get in the car and leave, the second cop pulled the trigger and shot him in the back. He only managed a couple steps and fell and died there. The passengers then got out of the taxi and rushed the cop that had shot the driver. They proceeded to beat him until he was nearly dead.

After that, when other taxi drivers found out about the shooting, they decided to take revenge. A group of them gathered together some weapons, including automatic weapons that not even the police have, and went to a couple police stations. They arrived outside the police stations and opened fire. One of these stations just happens to be across the street from my house. I was sitting in the office behind my house with my colleague Nil. We heard the shots, and looked at each other. I said, “Firecrackers?”

“No, those are bullets.”

I thought, or hoped, that maybe it was some kind of celebration and people were shooting in the air. The shooting increased and kept going at a steady pace for a couple minutes. Our guard came running behind the house. After the shooting stopped and we waited a while to make sure it wouldn’t start again, we went to find out what had happened. Nil just shook his head and said, “I haven’t heard that sound in a few years.”

After this, there were protests and attacks on police throughout the city. An air of tenseness stayed over the city for a couple weeks, with heavily armed police and armored cars all over the city and reports of various attacks and killings, many of which turned out not to be true. Apparently another officer shot and killed a second taxi driver. Eventually, about 12 taxi drivers were arrested and sentenced to 60 days in jail and a fine of about $600. The cop who shot the taxi driver remains in critical condition in the hospital. Traffic police now work in groups of officers from different departments.

This experience, along with the time when some guerrillas were killed trying to set off a car bomb at a police station around the corner from my house in Medellín, make me think that maybe it’s best to keep a little distance from police stations when choosing a house.

Angola: Basketball Dynasty

2007-11-18T16:11:00.000-05:00

On August 25th, I watched the Angolan national basketball team defeat Cameroon to win the 2007 African Basketball Championship. I also happened to be in Luanda in 2005 when Angola won the last championship (it’s every two years). In fact, Angola has won every major African basketball tournament except one since 1989. One would be hard-pressed to find a more dominant dynasty in any sport in any country. And yet, the only thing I had ever remembered about Angola basketball was Charles Barkley, as part of the original Dream Team, elbowing some poor Angolan player in the 1992 Olympics. I’m not really sure what the reasons are for Angola’s overwhelming dominance in Africa. Government support has been the most common explanation I’ve received.

The tournament was hosted by Angola this year, and games were played in 5 cities throughout the country, including Huambo. The games proved to be a blessing for the cities. In addition to the building of new stadiums (by the Chinese, in about two months), the tournament provided an impetus for some significant urban development. In Huambo, a number of roads were paved and an old run-down and shot-up hotel was rehabilitated and has become by far the nicest hotel in the city. I can’t imagine that more than a few hundred foreigners came to Huambo for the games, which makes me wonder if the tens of thousands of dollars spent to impress the international basketball community were really a good investment. But hey, whatever it takes to get the work done. And credit must be given to the Angolan organizers. Despite understandable worries that the tournament would fall into disorganization and chaos, representatives of the visiting teams have reportedly said this was the best organized African Championship they have ever been to. My only complaint was that they built the stadium right on top of the outdoor basketball court I used to play on.

The African Handball Championships will soon be coming to town, so people are now hoping for another spurt of development.

Kuito

2007-11-06T03:54:00.000-05:00

I went to Kuito – the capital of the neighboring province of Bié – last month to get some data and investigate the possibility of opening up a program there. Kuito, along with Huambo, was hit hard during the war. This area is the heart of Ovimbundu territory, and formed the base of support for Jonas Savimbi and UNITA. UNITA wanted to make its capital here, and the government was loathe to give up the area, so intense fighting over the control of cities flared up occasionally, devastating the cities and killing lots of people. At times, each side would control half of the city, and just shoot missiles and drop bombs haphazardly at the other side. In 1994, a UNITA siege on Kuito lasted 9 months, during which nobody was allowed to enter or leave the city. An estimated 30,000 people died from war and starvation.

Kuito was – and maybe still is – the most destroyed city in the country. These days, it’s a fairly pleasant – if still run-down – place. Rehabilitation is underway, which makes for some interesting scenes of bombed out and shot up buildings next to nice new pink Portuguese style buildings.

Back in M'banza

2007-10-11T12:43:00.001-04:00

After just about three months since my plane crash in my front yard in M’banza Congo, I was on my way back…by plane. I have to admit, I’ve developed a nice little fear of flying since that day. There haven’t been any flashbacks or nightmares or anything like that. But when I’m in a plane, especially when it’s landing, and really especially when it’s in Angola, my heart starts beating pretty hard. So, I obviously wasn’t looking forward to the return flight to M’banza Congo, which I knew was coming soon enough. Like the last time, lots of flights were cancelled or full, and I was having a hard time getting a seat. I thought I was going to have to go back with TAAG (the airline that crashed), but ended up going with a small company called AirJet. Maybe TAAG would have been preferable. Not that anything went wrong during this flight, but the plane, which looked like it must have been from the 1960s, didn’t do much to inspire confidence. And then the landing. I need to talk to a pilot here to find out why planes here land so damn fast. Especially in MBC. I think it must have to do with the short landing strip. Anyway, we came down pretty fast and it brought back some unpleasant memories. When I was buying my ticket back to Luanda with the same airline, standing in front of the tiny wooden shed with a hand-painted AirJet on the front that passes for their office, I seriously had to question what the hell I was doing. I really like my work and all the experiences I have here, but is it really worth these risks? Then I bought the ticket.

Once on the ground, I was happy to be back. I love coming back to MBC after being away for a while. All the staff and neighbors come out to greet me, the little kids run up and jump into my arms. Because it’s so small here, there’s really a feeling of family and community that I don’t get in Huambo and certainly not in Luanda. And of course, the wreckage of my plane still sitting in my front yard. The seats were taken out; the neighbors were using one row as lounge chairs in the front yard. Kids climb in and play in the cockpit. And TAAG came by to paint over the TAAG name and symbol on the plane, as if everybody in the country doesn’t know it was a TAAG plane that crashed. The neighbors are still living in a house that is half destroyed and looks like it’s going to fall down any second. The other neighbors informed me that they had been thinking about constructing another house in the yard. To make room for the new house, they were planning on cutting down the tree in front of my house the very day of the crash, but didn’t get around to it. That tree, of course, is what stopped the plane (and me) from going directly into my house. I wonder if anybody has ever crashed into their own house before…

The word from the black box is that the crash was the result of pilot error. In reality, there’s no way to know. Personally, I think it’s entirely possible, even probable, that the government would choose to blame it on one pilot who’s now dead, rather than admit that there was a problem with one of the planes from their national airline. I suppose we’ll never know for sure.

The day I left, a big international commission arrived in M’banza Congo. Word is it’s being considered as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. While not all that much to see these days, MBC has a storied history as the capital of the former Kongo Kingdom (see previous posts for details). And the local government is hoping the old church will bring the tourists in. They also inaugurated a new museum of the Kongo Kingdom. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get in to see it before I left, but from what I saw from the window, it looked pretty legit. The weekend before the arrival of the important visitors, efforts began to make the plane in my yard disappear. On Saturday morning we were advised to leave the house in case the plane exploded while they were cutting it up. First people started banging on it with axes to little effect. Then some big saws were brought in and they began cutting the plane up. The tail of the plane was lifted by a crane into the back of a truck, but when the truck looked like it was going to fall over, they pulled the tail out and cut it into more manageable pieces. By the end of the weekend, one could hardly tell that there had once been a plane there. Strangely, it was kind of sad seeing the plane disappear.

My departure this time was a little bit ambiguous. We finally hired somebody to take my place in MBC, so I can concentrate on the program in Huambo. So, there’s no guarantee that I’ll be back, but I also don’t know that I won’t be back. My farewell party was good fun, with all the staff, neighbors, friends from UNHCR, and the Cuban doctors. Funny how you really realize how much you’ll miss people when you’re about to leave. I hope I’ll be back, but it would be nice if the trip could be by teleportation.

Security

2007-10-02T16:20:00.000-04:00

Ever since the dog I grew up with died when I was in college, I’ve resisted getting another dog. Despite the fact that I feel that life is just a little bit incomplete without a dog, my lifestyle since I left for school hasn’t really permitted it – moving all the time, traveling, living in tiny places in big cities. But one day one of the guards at my house, Castro, showed up with a cute little puppy and asked if he could stay with me. Of course I couldn’t resist. It seemed like the perfect compromise. I would have a puppy around all the time, but the responsibility for the dog would be with Castro. Of course within a couple weeks I was completely attached to Segurança (Security) and he was clearly my dog. I quickly got used to having him waiting for me when I got home, sleeping next to my bed, and struggling to climb up onto the couch to sit next to me.

When I got an email from my roommate in Huambo while I was in the US with the subject: sad news, I automatically knew what the news was. Apparently, one day he just starting acting sluggish and refused to eat. By the next day he was vomiting violently and died that night. They called a vet, who gave some antibiotics, but it didn’t do any good. The best guess is that he ingested poison, maybe digging around in the trash near the house. A few months was more than enough time to get attached. Sometimes I get up in the morning and for a split second expect to see him sitting there.

Home

2007-09-11T13:21:00.001-04:00

Just in case people think I've given up my passport, here's a quick shout-out to the three places that have a claim at the name home: New Mexico, Colorado, and New York City. It was great being back, if briefly.

Haiti

2007-09-02T12:58:00.001-04:00

I’m back in Angola after a 5 week absence. Before taking a much-needed vacation, I spent two weeks doing a consulting gig for the UN in Haiti. We (Coincidentally, I worked on the project with my friend Lindsay.) spent the two weeks traveling to various cities around the country speaking to community members about their relations with the UN peacekeepers (the mission is called MINUSTAH) and about their knowledge and perceptions of HIV/AIDS in their communities.

Ever since watching the scenes of voodoo in the movie Angel Heart, I’ve been fascinated with Haiti and have followed the few ups and many downs reported about the country in the news. This UN peacekeeping mission has been in the country since the latest round of violent political maneuvering and the subsequent chaos which followed the removal of President Jean-Bertrand Aristide. The former Catholic priest was hugely popular among Haiti’s poor and was probably the country’s first leader that could claim to legitimately represent the will of the people. This was the second time he has been deposed. The fist time, in 1991, he was eventually reinstated in 1994 with the help of American troops deployed in the country. This time, ironically, it seems he may have been deposed with not only the approval of the American government, but with their actual direct participation in the coup d’etat. Aristide claims that the 2004 rebellion against him was supported by the U.S. and that he was kidnapped by the Americans and sent into exile in the Central African Republic. By the way, was I the only one who was a little shocked and suspicious when news of a possible American-sponsored coup fell off the headlines after two days?

After Aristide’s departure, peacekeepers entered the country and continue there today. MINUSTAH has managed to bring a large degree of stability to the chronically instable country. Violence and insecurity continue in many of the country’s more dangerous areas, especially the huge shanty towns surrounding Port au Prince and other cities. For three years, the Haitian police were unable to enter Cité Soleil, the largest and possibly most dangerous of the country’s slums. But overall, things have quieted down significantly, at least for the time being.

I’m not really at liberty to discuss our findings in any depth, but the overall impression from the communities was mixed. Many people recognized and appreciated MINUSTAH’s contribution to safety and security in their neighborhoods. Many others criticized the peacekeepers for doing nothing or for actually being a significant negative presence in their communities. A common impression is that the soldiers spend most of their time at the beach and do little actual work. This has earned the UN force the nickname “MINUSTAH Tourista.” Judging from our trip to the beach (see below), I can’t imagine where people get this idea. In the peacekeepers’ defense, they can’t work all the time, and Haiti has nice beaches, so why shouldn’t they go for a swim?

[MINUSTAH Tourista]

[Lindsay Tourista]

Dying for something to eat that wasn’t chicken in Creole sauce, and having a South Asian among our team, we sought out a little hospitality from the Nepali peacekeeping contingent in Saint Marc. The Nepalis more than lived up to their reputation for hospitality. As soon as we sat down, we were besieged by food, drinks, and polite conversation. Being American, they were sure that I would want to drink copious amounts of beer, and the cans of Colt 45 began piling up in front of me. I haven’t felt that much pressure to slam beers since college. If it weren’t for the South Asian accents, I could have sworn I was back at the frat. Meanwhile Lindsay was under a siege of her own. The camera and video camera were pulled out and the flashes were glowing as if Princess Diana had just shown up. An inspection of the pictures showed some shots that strangely seemed to have a lot more breast than smile in them. The second night was even more intense. Unfortunately I had not managed to finish their stock of Colt 45s the night before. Along with the food, beer, and photo shoot, we were presented with – or subjected to, depending on your point of view – a very, very long cultural presentation consisting of videos of Nepali dancing (including at one point Nepali midgets spanking each other) and a power point of everything you would ever want to know about Nepal. But it was all worth it when the delicious food was served. And they truly were extremely kind, sweet, hospitable people, who were a pleasure to be around. Who knows, maybe I’ll be visiting some of them in Nepal in the near future.

Unfortunately, our exposure to the voodoo side of Haiti was limited to a tourist doll that Lindsay bought. Voodoo kitsch tourist gimmick or not, the thing is pretty freaky. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence, but the day after getting him (he’s representative of the Baron Samedi, apparently the God of the dead and evil stuff), the TV in the hotel room was mysteriously turned on while we were away, and once I heard a knock at the door and went to answer it. Nobody was there, but Lindsay was just then coming down the stairs. Hmmm…A cross covered in silver cloth and sequins, with a snake wrapped around it and a doll’s head on top with some weird shit painted on it, the Baron made for quite a spectacle on our arrival at JFK airport.

Lost

2007-07-09T09:33:00.000-04:00

Last Thursday, June 28th, a TAAG Angolan Airlines flight crashed in M’banza Congo. I had been trying to get to M’banza Congo all week on various airlines, but flights were either cancelled or full. I generally preferred not to fly on TAAG, partly because it was not considered to be completely safe (UN staff are prohibited from flying TAAG), but mostly because they are unreliable, with cancelled and delayed flights extremely common. But I needed to get to M’banza Congo as soon as possible, so we bought a ticket. I was in the snack bar getting a sandwich when they called the passengers to board, so I took my place at the end of the line. With about 10 of us left to get on the shuttle bus, they decided the bus was full, so they closed the doors and we waited, assuming the bus would be right back to get us. After about 15 minutes they started boarding another flight at the same gate. I figured there was about a 50/50 chance that either they had either forgotten about us or overbooked the flight and solved the problem by leaving the last people in line. Eventually, the bus came back, sat there a minute, and then started to take off empty, until one woman working for TAAG ran out after him and we got on. The guy who boarded right after me was an Italian priest. He died in the crash. Entering the plane, I passed by the municipal administrator (like the mayor) of M’banza Congo, who was a friend of mine. I greeted him, asked about the family, and said I would talk to him when we landed. He also died.

The problems started shortly after the pilot announced our descent into M’banza Congo. To land in M’banza Congo, you must make a half turn in the air before landing on the runway. I felt a bit of turbulence, but didn’t think much of it. The half-turn was especially sharp, with the wings nearly straight up and down. Then, all of a sudden, we turned in the opposite direction and then back again in the original direction. I knew that this wasn’t quite normal, but still felt that things were under control. After all, just about every plane landing in Angola is a nerve-racking experience. I’ve been flying all my life and it has never made me the least bit nervous – until I came to Angola. Now I get a little scared during every landing. Instead of the nice, smooth settling down on the runway I had been used to, here it’s like a race to the runway. The planes descend far too quickly and hit the tarmac going far too fast, sometimes bouncing and shaking a bit before slowing down. But until now, we’ve always made it in one piece. So, I told myself it’s just another bad landing that will be fine. After turning back in the right direction, we made a sudden steep descent to the runway. The ground was rushing towards us through the window. At this point I knew we were going too fast for how close we were to the ground. I knew it would be a rough landing, but still thought it would be ok. I felt my ears pop just before we hit the ground. I looked at the ceiling of the plane so as not to see how fast the ground was coming at us and waited for us to be on the ground.

Then we hit. All hope for a normal landing was out the door in a split second. We hit hard. The whole plane shook and the oxygen masks fell down. People started screaming. The landing gear must have broken at this point and we shot off down the runway with no brakes and out of control. Then I heard something hit the plane. I put my head down and covered it with my hands, with a vague feeling of waiting for something to hit me. I don’t remember anything after that until I felt the plane stop. I breathed a huge sigh of relief and looked up. The front of the plane was gone. I looked to my right and saw part of the plane blocking the aisle and the people on the other side unconscious with blood running down their faces. I paused for a second wondering what to do. Should I try to get these people out or just get out as soon as possible? I decided on the latter. Everybody else around me was climbing the seats to get to the emergency exit. One guy was standing on a seat trying to get his luggage out of the overhead bin. I told him to forget the luggage and get the hell out and made my way to the exit, wondering what the chances of a sudden explosion were.

After jumping off the wing and getting some distance between me and the plane, I looked around. It was chaos. People were running away from the plane, passing people from town who running to the plane. People were screaming and crying. People dropped to their knees praising God. Many just stood their in a daze. Relatives of passengers were running around wailing. The first cars showed up quickly and started taking the injured away. The crowd kept moving closer and closer to the plane. A heavy stream of gas was pouring out under the wing. I pictured someone dropping a cigarette and an explosion taking out 100 spectators. The police made occasional unorganized attempts at crowd control, but the onlookers were back within 30 seconds. I had somebody call one of my staff to bring our car to take the injured to the hospital and went to where the front of the plane was. It had taken out about a third of a house. Then I realized, “Wait, that’s my neighbor’s house!” I hadn’t had any idea where we were. Then I looked on the other side of the front of the plane and saw my house with my guard standing on the roof. The front of the plane was in my front yard and the back was where another neighbor’s house used to be. I walked around the wreckage to my house, where I was greeted with big hugs and declarations of how God is with me.

The scene outside my house was frightening, laughable, and pathetic at the same time. About 150 people had gathered around in the driveway between my house and the neighbor’s house that had been hit. They kept inching closer and closer to the plane. The police didn’t pay much attention most of the time, and then all of a sudden would rush at the crowd waving their batons. The spectators would disperse, only to creep back next to the plane a minute later. This was repeated numerous times. A few kids slowly approached the plane, and when they were close enough, ran up to the plane and started grabbing things and running away. When they scurried away, I realized they had risked a beating from the police to grab a few pages from the newspapers that were spread out on the ground. Eventually the police became more frustrated with the persistence of the crowd, and started hitting people with sticks. Again the crowd ran away and was back a couple minutes later. After a couple more beatings from the police, the crowd got angry and started picking up the scattered pieces of brick from the destroyed house and launching them at the police, as well as other spectators and people working around the plane. The police responded by yelling the crowd on and pointing their AK47s at them. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. As if a plane crash weren’t enough, now we were going to have a massacre. I yelled at the guard to put his gun down and stop instigating the crowd. He slowly turned and walked away with a shrug. I suggested to the police that they put up a barrier between the two houses with a couple guards to keep the crowd away. They said they were going to do that, and then did nothing.

After surveying the scene, I think I figured out what had happened after we hit the ground. While skidding along out of control, we veered off the runway. Since the airport in M’banza Congo is located right in the center of the city, with the runway surrounded by houses on both sides, we were bound to hit something. We happened to hit my neighbor’s house. The impact turned the plane so that it was now going sideways. Then it hit the big tree in my front yard. The tree was pulled out of the ground, but only after cutting the plane in half between first class and economy class. The front rested there, while the back turned and ran through another house. The old man who lives there died while taking a nap. And that’s where the plane came to a stop.

Luckily, most of the children in the first house were at school. One child had to be dug out of the rubble of the house, but wasn’t seriously hurt. Another child was missing, and his 15-year old mother was on my veranda crying. Eventually the child was found. Another of my neighbors was in the yard when she saw the plane racing towards her. She ran to her house, but was hit by flying pieces of debris launched from the other house and one of the plane’s tires. She finally found shelter behind a concrete water container.

There are some conflicting reports of what happened and how many people were killed and injured. At this point, it seems 6 or 7 people out of 78 on the plane have died. I’ve heard that only 7 people didn’t have to go to the hospital. I was one of those 7, with only a small bump on my head and a couple scrapes and bruises on my leg. The cause of the accident is still unknown. The international press has said that it appeared that the landing gear broke upon landing. This is true, but the landing gear broke because we landed at such a high speed, so this is not a very helpful explanation. The problems definitely started before landing. I heard various tales from people on the plane and on the ground of gas pouring out from the plane while it was in the air, of people walking across the runway when we were landing, and that we landed slightly off of the runway. To me, it seems that either the pilot screwed up on the descent and lost control, or their was a mechanical failure in the air, in which case the pilot did a great job of getting us to the runway and preventing us all from dying.

Ironically, the very same day, before the crash, the European Union announced that they were taking steps to ban TAAG flights from EU airspace due to safety concerns. Instead of recognizing the problem and vowing to improve the situation, the Angolan government responded by saying they would ban European flights from Angolan airspace in retaliation. They must have felt just a bit silly when they heard about the crash in M’banza Congo a couple hours later. I felt a rush of rage and disgust when I heard that not only had I almost been killed by what was in all probability due to the pervasive incompetence and corruption here, but now they were also going to screw up my upcoming trip home for vacation. Also the same day, a new agency for regulating airlines in Africa was announced.

So, I spent the next two days in M’banza Congo staring at the wreckage of the plane in my front yard, with curious spectators coming by in a steady stream. I asked a policeman how they were going to get rid of the plane. He responded, “Oh, that’s easy. The government will give permission to the public to attack the plane and it will all be gone within a week.” I was slightly amused at the thought of all the families with nice soft blue seats in their mud brick houses.

On Saturday, I was scheduled to return to Luanda. My Country Director insisted that I go back by car. I certainly was not looking forward to the idea of getting on another plane, but I thought unless I’m planning on drastically changing my lifestyle, I’m going to have to get used to flying again, and there’s no point in putting it off. At the airport (which is just a runway), another guy who was on the TAAG flight recognized me and came to talk to me. We talked about the crash and agreed that the back of the plane, where we were, was definitely the place to be and that we would head straight for the back when we got on. We were both nervous, but laughing and in fairly good spirits. I saw the woman who had been sitting just across the aisle from me on the flight. She sat in a car as long as she could before we had to board. Half of her face was swollen and she looked quite traumatized. I wanted to say something to her, but she just stared at the ground and walked to the plane. I went to get on the plane, but had a problem with immigration and had to return to the immigration table to get a stamp. I rushed back to the plane and was one of the last people to board. As I walked on, the flight attendant told me to sit in the very first row of first class. I said, “No thanks. I’ll go to the back.” She insisted I sit in the front because the passengers had to be evenly spaced out on the plane for safety purposes. I was going to argue more, but saw the woman sitting in the second row and thought if she was willing to sit there, I guess I shouldn’t make a fuss. I thought it was a bit ironic that the first time I’ve been offered a seat in first class is the one time I really didn’t want it.

My nervousness dissipated as the flight went on, especially when I realized that the food in first class was considerably better than in economy. Then we started making our descent into Luanda. The sharp turn and descent felt a lot like the last time, and my heart started pounding. I heard the woman behind me let out muffled screams and start to cry. I took a deep breath and gave a smile to the woman when came to a stop. She managed a half smile back.

In a Minefield

2007-06-21T14:10:00.000-04:00

So, I walking into my first minefield recently...on purpose...with the US Assistant Secretary of State.

Huambo was honored a couple weeks ago by a visit from Jendayi Frazer, US Asst. Secretary of State for African Affairs. She came out to see various projects funded by the US government, including ours. So, what was she like?, you ask. Very sleepy. She had clearly been working much, much too hard. I'm pretty sure she didn't hear a word that was said to her during the day. It's a little unnerving giving a speech to someone when they're eyes are closed. The sleepiness really started to worry me as we were entering the minefield. Could it possibly be a good idea for someone half asleep to go into a minefield? Actually, now that I mention it, could it possibly be a good idea for anyone, sleepy or not, to go into a minefield? Anyway, she did blow up a mine, but it was on purpose. After feeling my chest shake from the explosion a few hundred feet away, it's hard to believe that people get out of landmine encounters only having lost a leg (sometimes).

So, why on Earth did I go into a minefield? Umm...hard to say really...because they offered I suppose. It was a live minefield that is currently being cleared. They assured us that the cleared areas are really cleared, but it still made me a little nervous to see people, or find myself, walking in the middle of a row of white sticks that indicate where a mine had been found or seeing people leaning over to get next to a live mine to take a picture. They must miss one once in a while, no? The wiser members of our delegation, mostly the Africans as it turns out, declined the kind offer of walking around a minefield. Maybe there's something to those Chris Rock jokes about how only white people are crazy enough to go sky diving and stupid shit like that. But, hey, if Princess Di did it...?

[Princess Diana in a Huambo minefield]

When Frazer was gearing up to go in the field, I asked her if she knew when she agreed to come to Angola that she'd be sent into a minefield. She laughed a bit and said no. Then I made some smart-ass remark about somebody wanting to get rid of her, but I think she was too sleepy to get it.

[The Sleepy Secretary getting ready for the minefield]

Jealousy

2007-06-04T12:00:00.000-04:00

On Thursday, a friend of mine told me there was going to be a good party on Friday night and that he would give me a call so we could go. I never got a call. On Monday my friend informed me why. The party had turned into a funeral. The wife of the guy who was throwing the party found out that he had invited two of his ex-girlfriends to the party. In a jealous rage, she then allegedly put rat poison in her husband's juice and killed him. She's now in jail and their five children are without parents.

Dating in Angola

2007-05-29T12:46:00.001-04:00

An acquantance of mine who was working with an NGO in Huambo had an Angolan girlfriend. After some time, they broke up. Around the same time, she found out she was pregnant. I’m not sure which came first. He accepted that the baby was his and that he would help pay to take care of the kid, but apparently the amount he offered was unacceptable to the girl’s family. They began pushing him to shell out some real money, with demands to buy them land and a house and other things. He refused and the discussion began to get uglier. He went home to Portugal on vacation for a while and was back only a week before he was gone again. Apparently when he got back, the girl’s family told him that if he didn’t pay up, they were going to kill him or have him thrown in jail. He decided he didn’t want to pay or call their bluff and abandoned his job and life here and fled back to Portugal.

Last week, another friend arrived home to find a note on his door reading "Stop chasing after my girlfriend or you'll leave Angola dead."

Lions, Snakes and Shrunken Men

2007-05-01T06:37:00.000-04:00

At work a couple days ago, the topic of witchcraft came up. I mentioned that I wanted to meet a feitiçeiro to learn about what they do and maybe even have them demonstrate something for me. They thought the idea of me going to visit a feitiçeiro was pretty funny. “So you don’t believe in magic, boss?”
“Well, I can’t say that it doesn’t exist, but I’m not going to believe it until I see it. Have you actually seen things?”
“Oh, I’ve seen lots of things.”

Then my staff members, who are not people that I would think of as superstitious, uneducated, or overly traditional people, started telling me about the magic they have witnessed. “I saw a guy take off his belt, through it on the ground, and it turned into a snake.”
“My friend can write down the names of people who are standing outside the building without ever seeing them.”
“I’ve seen a man who had been shrunken down sitting inside a soda bottle. That’s very common.”
“I saw a man turned into a lion in front of my eyes.”

Bear in mind, these are young, modern, educated, intelligent, and by all prior evidence, reasonable and rational people. “Well, if they can do these things, I want to see it.”

They said it would be difficult because the feitiçeiro would be reluctant and would ask for a lot of money. My response was that if he will turn a guy into a lion or put him into a bottle for me, that’s worth a nice sum of money to me. They said they would see what they could do. After the last trip to the field, they informed me that that talked to a feitiçeiro on my behalf, and he accepted to show me what he could do – including making a snake appear in his hand out of thin air and possibly making some kind of strange little people. The next trip there I hope to pay him a visit. Hopefully, one of these days I’ll be posting a video of a guy turning into a lion.

The Oldest Church in Africa

2007-04-05T13:24:00.000-04:00

Maybe. This church, called nkulumbimbi, in downtown M’banza Congo, is said by local officials to be the oldest church in Africa. Constructed in 1549, the legend is that it was built overnight by angels. In 1992 Pope John Paul II even paid a visit. That’s right, the Pope was in M’banza Congo. Somehow I have a hard time bringing that image to my head.

More News

2007-04-03T07:05:00.000-04:00

Following on the last post, I thought a few more articles from the same newspaper were worthy of mention. Here are a few headlines and choice bits of text.

Chinese Didn’t Come To Stay
The Angolan government, through the Prime Minister Fernando da Piedade dos Santos, guaranteed to the Angolans that there is no intention to repopulate Angola with the Chinese who come to our country through the cooperation between our two countries.

Staff Member of the Angolan Embassy Detained in South Africa
A staff member of the Angolan Embassy in Pretoria has been detained, and went before a South African tribunal, after having been fingered as one of the principal actors in an armed assault carried out against an Angolan diplomat in the country.

A Governor Strangely Attracted to Political Hate
The governor of Huambo, of the MPLA party, has been an instigator of political hate among the population. In a radio broadcast, the governor launched fierce criticisms at UNITA that, while not having been denied by the local UNITA officials, caused a row among the population of Huambo.

Savimbi: Lover and Defender of Democracy

2007-03-23T06:40:00.000-04:00

In the office one day, I noticed one of my co-workers had a few issues of a newspaper called Terra Angolana on his desk. One of the headlines, in particular, grabbed my attention. “Democracy According to Savimbi,” it read. I thought, “This has got to be good.”

For those who know who Savimbi is, you understand why I found this headline amusing. For those who don’t, Savimbi is Jonas Savimbi, the former leader of UNITA, one of the main rebel groups that fought for independence from the Portuguese, and following independence went to war against the government for 30 years. This war was largely fueled by money and arms flowing freely in from American administrations from Nixon to Reagan, who saw the warlord Savimbi as a preferred alternative to a socialist MPLA government. The other esteemed supporters of Savimbi were apartheid South Africa and Zaire’s dictator Mobutu Sese Seko.

When UN-sponsored elections were finally held in 1992. Savimbi refused to accept the MPLA victory and took the country back to war.

It’s actually difficult for me to believe and understand just how important Savimbi - one man – seems to have been in keeping the war going year after year. But after 27 years of civil war, Savimbi was killed in 2002. Only six weeks later, a ceasefire was signed that would lead to an end of the war.

Going back to the newspaper, which is clearly UNITA-sponsored, I decided I wanted to know what Savimbi – the man who preferred taking the country back to war for another 10 years rather than accepting defeat in UN-organized elections in 1992 – had to say about democracy. Turns out that Savimbi believed that democracy in Africa could and would succeed, but only with a model of democracy adapted to African customs and traditions. The paper quotes Savimbi, who apparently “fought for democracy” as saying, “We’re supporters of democracy through dialogue, through debate. Through dialogue and debate at all levels.” The article goes on to explain that, for Savimbi, power in democracy is gained through compromise. The Old Man, as Savimbi was known, believed that leaders only thinking of themselves and ignoring consensus without representing the will of the people are the “principal causes of African wars and impediments to development.”

Well, he should know.

The article goes on. “In his dream, Savimbi defended the idea that politicians should be the guardians of democratic ideas.”

Good stuff. This is like the Angolan version of The Onion.

The Cure for AIDS? Bananas

2007-03-12T06:43:00.001-04:00

The following article comes from the German newspaper Der Spiegel. Yet another case of a story that would be funny if it weren't costing people's lives.

THE QUACK IN GAMBIA
African Despot 'Cures' AIDS
By Marco Evers

The president of Gambia is causing a stir with his claim to be able to cure AIDS. Hardly anyone in the country dares challenge him and, unfortunately, many actually believe him.

It's hard to make a name for yourself as a tyrant in Africa; the standards are pretty high. Jean Bédel Bokassa of the Central African Republic, believing himself to be the thirteenth apostle, had himself crowned emperor and is said to have enjoyed the occasional meal of human flesh. In Congo, the kleptocrat Mobutu Sese Seko built an airstrip for his chartered Concorde jets in the middle of the rain forest. Now, the president of the West African state of Gambia is doing his best to add his name to the list.

Yahya Jammeh, 41 years old, has been the president of bitterly poor Gambia since seizing power in a putsch in 1994. In the three so-called elections since then, he has not relinquished his seat. Among his achievements to date have been giving Gambia's 1.6 million citizens an impressive triumphal arch -- just like Napoleon gave the French -- as well as founding Gambia's first and only university.

Now he has gone a step further. A few weeks ago, Jammeh summoned his followers and a few ambassadors, dignitaries and TV reporters to announce in a garbled address that, having made some fantastic discoveries, he is now capable of curing AIDS (as well as asthma). The president admitted to his astonished audience that the therapies still had a few limitations -- he could only cure AIDS on Thursdays. Asthma, on the other hand, could be treated only on Fridays and Saturdays.

An estimated 20,000 Gambians -- about 1.2 percent of the population -- are infected with HIV. Jammeh claims to have successfully treated nine of them in January, and 27 more in February. He takes equal pride in the 500 asthma victims that he's cured. And he promises to take action soon to eliminate other diseases, since he claims to have a "mandate" -- apparently from none other than God himself.

International aid organizations are horrified to find that thousands of infected Gambians are hoping to be treated by the president. Jammeh says he'll heal anyone, young or old. He won't take payment, but he does make one stipulation: those who are taking anti-viral medication must stop doing so immediately. Two respected HIV/AIDS experts promptly handed in their resignation in protest.

Dressed in white from head to toe, the head of state stands before his patients, mumbling prayers and waving the Koran. Then Jammeh rubs green glop on their skin, sprinkles them with gray liquid from an old Evian bottle and gives them something yellow to drink. Bananas -- administered orally -- round off the treatment. After repeating the procedure for several weeks, he proclaims the patients healed. All of them. Without exception.

The trouble with despots

Jammeh explains that the method, based on the healing properties of seven herbs and Koranic prayers, is "foolproof." While he prefers to perform the healing sessions in public in front of TV cameras, he's willing to grant religious and social dignitaries private audiences.

Critical questions, on the other hand, are not welcome. A British correspondent from the Sky News network suggested Jammeh ought to have his method tested by independent experts. The president snapped back at her: "I don't have to convince anyone. I can heal AIDS and don't have to explain anything." He was visibly flustered by her request to analyze a sample of his herbal mixture. "Not in a million years," was his reply.

Gambia's dictator thinks he knows the secret to curing AIDS.
The trouble with despots is that no one dares disagree. The Daily Observer, a Gambian daily, commented without the slightest hint of irony that the president's "invention" was "the greatest ever witnessed in our modern world." Soon, the paper wrote, millions of people would be coming to the country to be healed. Gambians can look forward to an economic boom that could put them light years ahead of countries whose wealth is based on mere diamonds, gold or oil.

The country's health minister is a gynaecology graduate, trained in Ukraine and Ireland. Forty-three-year-old Tamsir Mbowe is always present when the statesman tries out his healing skills -- and even though he really ought to know better, he too praises what he calls the "president's intervention in the health sector." Mbowe even claims that Jammeh's ability to heal any patient has been "medically proven."

Far from it: The health ministry collected blood samples to prove Jammeh's wondrous healing powers and sent them to a laboratory in neighboring Senegal. While the ministry insists that the results offer clear proof of the president's healing powers, the Senegalese scientist who carried out the tests disagrees emphatically. He says no conclusions can be drawn because the Gambians didn't test the blood prior to the president's pseudo-medical intervention.

A United Nations representative in Gambia dared to assert that there was no proof of successful healings. She also cautioned the supposedly cured patients not to believe that they're no longer capable of spreading HIV.

President Jammeh responded promptly to these remarks: having branded the UN representative persona non grata, he gave her 48 hours to leave his country -- which she did. In the view of the Daily Observer, her comments had been "irresponsible".

No continent is as badly ravaged by AIDS as Africa. Roughly 25 million people have been infected, and 12 million children are AIDS orphans. The epidemic has been spreading for decades. In many places, traditional healers are paid more heed than university-trained doctors. Millions of men believe sex with a virgin will cure them of AIDS. South African president Thabo Mbeki has openly questioned whether the HIV virus in fact causes AIDS. His former vice president Jacob Zuma had unprotected sex with an infected woman in 2005 and later told a court that, having showered after the act, no risk was involved.

Some members of Gambia's parliament are cautiously voicing concern that the president may be insane. Doing all he can to confirm this impression, the self-styled AIDS healer is now claiming to have discovered his fortune-telling skills. He claims to be able to predict a person's moment of death, after a single look in their eyes.

Tony

2007-02-26T14:10:00.000-05:00

I’m now spending most of my time in Huambo, Angola’s second city and the place where I lived for a few months in 2005. I still work in M’banza Congo, and I’m starting to dread my returns. The last three times I’ve come back, I’ve received news that one of the neighbors' children has died. First it was a baby girl that I didn’t really know well because she was usually inside the house. Then came a 2 year old girl who used to hang out outside my house and peek in while I was working. Sometimes she would get up the courage to wander inside the house. That one hit a little harder. But this last one is the kicker. Tony was somewhere between 3 and 4 years old, and was possibly the cutest kid in the world. He was my favorite kid here. Every time I would arrive home he would run out shouting Natani! Natani! Then when I would go up to him to say hi he would hug my leg and shyly respond to my questions of how his day was going.

He hadn’t been really healthy for some time. His parents had sent him to the DRC for treatment and I was worried, but he came back. He seemed relatively ok, except for always having a swollen, hard belly. The last time I was here he also seemed very lethargic and wasn’t his usual happy self. The thought occurred to me that one day I would arrive to the news that he had died, but I tried to push the thought out of my mind. After all, he never seemed severely ill. He was never bed-ridden or in obvious discomfort. Now I think about what I could have done for him. Maybe I could have taken him to the Cuban doctors, paid for treatment...but nobody ever said he might die. Sometimes this place really sucks.

Church in M'banza Congo

2007-02-22T08:18:00.002-05:00

I never knew church could be so much fun. If it had been like this where I grew up, I might have been religious.

Commentary on Iraq

2007-02-18T05:42:00.000-05:00

Below is a commentary by my former professor in the British paper The Independent on the reporting of deaths in Iraq. His studies were linked in a previous post about Iraq.

Les Roberts: Iraq's death toll is far worse than our leaders admit

The US and Britain have triggered an episode more deadly than the Rwandan genocide

Published: 14 February 2007

On both sides of the Atlantic, a process of spinning science is preventing a serious discussion about the state of affairs in Iraq.

The government in Iraq claimed last month that since the 2003 invasion between 40,000 and 50,000 violent deaths have occurred. Few have pointed out the absurdity of this statement.

There are three ways we know it is a gross underestimate. First, if it were true, including suicides, South Africa, Colombia, Estonia, Kazakhstan, Latvia, Lithuania and Russia have experienced higher violent death rates than Iraq over the past four years. If true, many North and South American cities and Sub-Saharan Africa have had a similar murder rate to that claimed in Iraq. For those of us who have been in Iraq, the suggestion that New Orleans is more violent seems simply ridiculous.

Secondly, there have to be at least 120,000 and probably 140,000 deaths per year from natural causes in a country with the population of Iraq. The numerous stories we hear about overflowing morgues, the need for new cemeteries and new body collection brigades are not consistent with a 10 per cent rise in death rate above the baseline.

And finally, there was a study, peer-reviewed and published in The Lancet, Europe's most prestigious medical journal, which put the death toll at 650,000 as of last July. The study, which I co-authored, was done by the standard cluster approach used by the UN to estimate mortality in dozens of countries each year. While the findings are imprecise, the lower range of possibilities suggested that the Iraq government was at least downplaying the number of dead by a factor of 10.

There are several reasons why the governments involved in this conflict have been able to confuse the issue of Iraqi deaths. Our Lancet report involved sampling and statistical analysis, which is rather dry reading. Media reports always miss most deaths in times of war, so the estimate by the media-based monitoring system, Iraqbodycount.org (IBC) roughly corresponds with the Iraq government's figures. Repeated evaluations of deaths identified from sources independent of the press and the Ministry of Health show the IBC listing to be less than 10 per cent complete, but because it matches the reports of the governments involved, it is easily referenced.

Several other estimates have placed the death toll far higher than the Iraqi government estimates, but those have received less press attention. When in 2005, a UN survey reported that 90 per cent of violent attacks in Scotland were not recorded by the police, no one, not even the police, disputed this finding. Representative surveys are the next best thing to a census for counting deaths, and nowhere but Iraq have partial tallies from morgues and hospitals been given such credence when representative survey results are available.

The Pentagon will not release information about deaths induced or amounts of weaponry used in Iraq. On 9 January of this year, the embedded Fox News reporter Brit Hume went along for an air attack, and we learned that at least 25 targets were bombed that day with almost no reports of the damage appearing in the press.

Saddam Hussein's surveillance network, which only captured one third of all deaths before the invasion, has certainly deteriorated even further. During last July, there were numerous televised clashes in Anbar, yet the system recorded exactly zero violent deaths from the province. The last Minister of Health to honestly assess the surveillance network, Dr Ala'din Alwan, admitted that it was not reporting from most of the country by August 2004. He was sacked months later after, among other things, reports appeared based on the limited government data suggesting that most violent deaths were associated with coalition forces.

The consequences of downplaying the number of deaths in Iraq are profound for both the UK and the US. How can the Americans have a surge of troops to secure the population and promise success when the coalition cannot measure the level of security to within a factor of 10? How can the US and Britain pretend they understand the level of resentment in Iraq if they are not sure if, on average, one in 80 families have lost a household member, or one in seven, as our study suggests?

If these two countries have triggered an episode more deadly than the Rwandan genocide, and have actively worked to mask this fact, how will they credibly be able to criticise Sudan or Zimbabwe or the next government that kills thousands of its own people?

For longer than the US has been a nation, Britain has pushed us at our worst of moments to do the right thing. That time has come again with regard to Iraq. It is wrong to be the junior partner in an endeavour rigged to deny the next death induced, and to have spokespeople effectively respond to that death with disinterest and denial.

Our nations' leaders are collectively expressing belligerence at a time when the populace knows they should be expressing contrition. If that cannot be corrected, Britain should end its role in this deteriorating misadventure. It is unlikely that any historians will record the occupation of Iraq in a favourable light. Britain followed the Americans into this débâcle. Wouldn't it be better to let history record that Britain led them out?

The writer is an Associate Professor at Columbia University's Mailman School of Public Health