Caffeine High and Long Days

I'm relearning a lesson that I've learned a hundred times before; never drink a triple espresso drink in the afternoon, because you will never be able to fall to sleep.  But I just had to have it!!!!!  Jokes on me as I sit up writing, knowing that I should be sleeping as I'll have another hectic day tomorrow.

I've been in Afghanistan for nearly three months now.  Life has taken on a Groundhog's Day likeness that can be almost scary.  In a country as unpredictable as Afghanistan it is odd how everyday has become the same.  Nearly!! 

Every day here has been hot and dusty.  The dust works its way into just about everything.  There is no point cleaning your shoes, as dust coats them in seconds.  On days when the wind picks up a little the sky appears as if cloudy through the fine dust in the air.   On the dustier days the helicopters can't fly so my flights get canceled and there are more insurgent attacks.  The insurgents know very well when the weather weakens us, the coalition.

There hasn't been a day below 100 F for at least two months now.  The warmest days have been right around the 120 mark.  It is amazing how you get used to it. I know it is hot, but it doesn't really bother me, and since I've got air conditioning in my office and room, I'm fine.

The workload is incessant, but that is all right as there isn't much else to do.  So far, I haven't taken a day off in three months.  But that will change next week as I'll run off to Istanbul for a short break.  What I'm looking forward to most is the coffee, the freedom to roam, and the food.

The food on base has grown pretty monotonous.  There are seven dining facilities all slight different from each other, but serving somewhat similar food.  It is nourishment, but it gets pretty old pretty quickly.  However there are a few gems.  The cherry and pecan pies are delicious.  The pumpkin and potato curry is quite delicious over rice.  Even the occasional potpie is a nice surprise.  I still can't wait for some good food though.

Maybe it's good I'm not writing in my blog too often, all my posts would be about the same things: heat, dust, bad food, and monotony.  At least the work is challenging and I'm really pushing my comfort zones, really gaining a lot of experience.

Ultimate Sacrifice, Monotony, and Canadians

Last night the reality that I'm in Afghanistan, a place where we fight a war against an insurgency, set in.  I went to a ramp ceremony.  This is where the bodies of the fallen leave the battlefield.  Four soldiers, all from an engineer's battalion, died as the result of an IED.  The bodies were brought to Kandahar Air Field (KAF), where I'm at, to be placed on a C117 that will fly them to the States.  Officers from all nationalities at the base gathered on the tarmac to march out to the yawning backside of C117.  A chaplain led a solemn ceremony in a prayer and a reading of a psalm.   "Amazing Grace was played, and six soldiers carried each of the flag draped coffins into the cavernous interior of the military's largest cargo plane.  The coffins, small against the interior of the plane, were the sole cargo for the flight, as if the fallen soldiers were a cargo so large that nothing else was needed to fill the giant plane.  In fact, nothing else was needed, their sacrifice was enough.

 

Life in general has entered into monotony. The Taliban shoots rockets onto KAF somewhat regularly, but usually to no damage.  The DFACs (dining facility in Army speak), there are at least six on the base, are running together, as I quit caring where I'm getting my food.  The days are hot and it is difficult to tell the difference between 100 and 110.  The scenery alters between this concrete wall and that one.  The 24 hour air show doesn't turn my head away from the gravel I'm walking on.  And the different nationalities standout as I can differentiate between all the different camouflages.

 

One of the nationalities I work with most closely are the Canadians.  You can't help but love them.  I can always pick them out by all the "proooooo-jects" they are talking about, compared to our American "praaaa-jects."   The Canadians present one great difficulty for me, spelling my last name.  It is that "a" at the very end of my name that gets them every time. I will spell it for them "v" as in victor, "e" "v" "e" "r" "k" "a".  "a"…… "a"…..  No, I'm not saying "eh", I mean "a" as in my last name ends with the letter "a."  It usually takes a minute before they realize that my last name ends in an "a" and I'm not just giving them an agreeable Canadian "eh."  Oh, the challenges that come working with Canadians.  J

Living on the Air Field

I finally made it.  I'm working on Kandahar Air Field (KAF).  It has taken me months to get here and for what?  To work twelve hour days seven days a week.  To cook in 100 degree heat in May.  To not see any green vegetation at all, I mean none, big fat zero.  Actually life on the air field is not so bad.  It is a melting pot with armed forces, civilians, and other personnel from more than twenty countries.  I estimate there to be 30,000 people on the base.  There are enormous dining halls all catering to different tastes.  There's European, British, Canadian/American, and South Asian dining facilities.  There is a really nice gym, and one not so nice one.  There is a large store, a TGI Fridays (built out of containers I think), and other restaurants.  The thing that is most absent from the base is the Afghan people.

There are many quirks/oddities living here.  First, the few women that are here, maybe ten percent of the total, are treated like queens.  But they do so while tolerating a lot of stares.  So good for a one to one ratio.  A brightly colored reflective belt must be worn at night or you will get fined.  No alcohol is allowed.  A veritable air show is constantly going on overhead with several different fighter jets zipping around, the occasional predator drone humming lazily by, and fat cargo planes barely getting off the runway.  The loudspeakers for incoming or rocket attack are called either "the big voice" or "the giant voice"  and speak in a British lady's voice.

There is one stinking oddity about the airfield.  The "poo" pond was built upwind of the camps (the Russians seem to be to blame, or at least that is what I'm being told). The stink has been pretty bad some days, so I can imagine it will only get worse as it gets hotter.  And to think, the pond was designed for about half the population that is currently using it.  I think nose plugs might be more important than ear plugs here.

Rocket attacks are a fairly frequent event on the base, though I haven't experienced one yet.  The base is pretty easy to hit since it covers some thirty square miles or so.  Since I haven't experienced an attack yet, I don't know what they sound like.  I have been getting laughed at, because I keep ducking when I hear fighter jets hitting their brakes overtop of the base.  To me it sounds just like a rocket coming in should sound.  At least I haven't hit the deck yet for no reason.  

Kabul

I'm safe and sound in Kabul.  In route, I stopped for a night in Dubai.  Though I didn't have much time to get out and see the city, I got a comfortable night in the five star Intercontinental Festival City.  I just wish I would have had more time to go and see the world's tallest building up close.

Flying into Kabul the next day, we flew directly over Kandahar, the area where I will be working.  The whole south of Afghanistan was a large sand patch with a vertical green swath of agricultural land surrounding the winding Helmand River.  The closer we got to Kabul the taller the mountains were and the more snow there was on the mountains.  On our final approach into Kabul we were on the edge of the Hindu Kush Mountains which were blanketed in solid snow.  The highest mountain in Afghanistan is well over 18,000 feet tall, though it is quite far from Kabul. 

We were picked up at the airport and deposited at our compound where I'm undergoing some more training.  Since housing is tight and there hasn't been time to build physical structures, I'm living in a shipping container.  It isn't as bad as it sounds.  It is quite similar to living in a mobile home.  The containers are prefabricated as homes with two rooms in each container.  I share my half of the container (a single room) with Doug, who I've been training with since February.  We have a bunk bed and a bathroom, as well as 2 chest-o-drawers, a desk, a tv, and other important stuff.  Put it this way.  My living conditions are much better here than when I was living in the dorms as an undergraduate.  Overall life is a little boring as we are restricted to the compound except if we are out on official business.  The excitement revolves around the dining halls, the lone bar (The Duck and Cover), the gyms, and trying to figure out who might be in the many helicopters landing on the sports field.

As you may have guessed, I haven't seen much of Kabul.  I've been out all of two times, though I do have to admit that I'm already forming some opinions.  The traffic may be the craziest I have ever seen.  Pedestrians are constantly running out in front of the vehicles without looking, cars are cutting you off. Everything from donkey carts to big trucks are using the roads.  Making the matters even worse there are many blocked roads and check points, though this is presumably good for safety.  Houses are almost universally made out of mud with walls around them.  There are very few structures of more than two stories that I have seen in the city.  The best part is the beautiful and cool mornings as I have dramatic views of snow capped mountains.  But my mid-morning the temperature is up over 90 and the view has smogged over with the smoke from dung fueled fires and automobiles.  

Going to Afghanistan

I will be leaving for Afghanistan soon.  I have taken a job with USAID as an infrastructure advisor.  I'm excited and a little scared for this opportunity. I'll be working in a combat zone, where I will travel by helicopter or military cargo plane from area to area.  On the ground I will be in a hot (ready to shoot) convoy of armored humvees and MRAPs (mine resistant vehicles).  The days will be long as most days I will work 12 hours or so.  I'm not sure how I will cope with all this.

Why am I going?  I'm not really sure.  For one part I see this as an opportunity for my future.  It will provide valuable experience for securing future jobs as well as making me financially secure in the present.  I partially see it as a challenge, something new to be tried.  There is also a part of curiosity, where I want to know firsthand what is going on in Afghanistan. 

Many people have expressed concern for my safety.  For certain, my safety is at greater risk in Afghanistan than in most other places, but I have looked into and feel fairly certain about the measures which are in place to keep me safe.

I will be writing in my blog regularly and will have good internet access. 

BANGKOK, ALWAYS INTERESTING

Bangkok is a city of chaotic contrasts.  It is both beautiful and wretched.  The rich cruise expressways in their Rolls Royces and the poor amputees choke in the gutter begging to maintain their existence.  The traffic of the city creates a hum and buzz found few other places, but around each corner are tree filled alleys without hardly a sound or movement.  The sweet aromas of food waft over large areas competing with the strong smell of raw sewage emanating from canals and sewer grates.  The beauty of new skyscrapers prick the sky, while decrepit shanties hide in their shadows.  The beauty of the temples and monuments leave you breathless, as well as does the choking air pollution.

Bangkok has changed a lot since I was last here six years ago.  There are many new skyscrapers, and many more are going up all over.  The pollution has lessened as many big vehicles have been switched over to liquefied natural gas but it is still the worse I have experienced (Lima gives Bangkok a run for its money).  I have even seen some tuk-tuks running on LNG. 

Tourism is more plentiful than ever.  It seems as if Bangkok captures the travels who are interested in partying and other pleasures of a new and exciting place, but at the same time accepting them for all the tattoos, piercings, and shocking clothes choices they may wear (there would have been a scandal in rural Honduras if I had the accessories that many tourists in Bangkok have).  Though I have to admit that I'm surprised again by the number of Caucasian white males with their rent-a-girlfriends.  Prostitution still holds a significant place in Bangkok's tourist industry, a hold over from it being the closest safe big city to South Vietnam during the Vietnam War.  Who knows, maybe it even goes  further back.

The openness of the city may bring about a lot of drugs and prostitution, but it also allows a mosque, catholic church, and a Buddhist temple all to be located with a block or two of each other.  I have been few places where I have seen so many people of different backgrounds.

International business is in full force in Bangkok.  The number of western businessmen (oddly, I haven't seen that many western businesswomen) is astounding, with major international business areas of the city seeming to be completely western. 

Shopping malls here in Bangkok are confusing.  There are many varieties, and they all look architecturally amazing from the outside.  What is odd is how different the insides are.  Of course there is the super high-end luxury mall with Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Rolex, and other stores that I can't even afford to enter.  There are other malls with their food court with McDonalds, KFC, Krispy Kreme (it had the longest line I've seen in Thailand) and others.  However, most malls here look more like the market of yesteryear.  The architectural skin will be beautiful and modern, while the inside is full of shops set up over a lettered and numbered square on the floor, much like the booths at a convention.  I went into one mall that was six stories tall and just had booths/stores selling electronics.  Most of the stores sold knock-offs, but there were legitimate ones as well.  I found these malls interesting as they didn't just replacing the average local tenant in the name of big international tenants, but actually accommodated them many times alongside a McDonalds or Starbucks.  It makes the mall experience a little less sterile than I would normally have expected.

I have been taking Bangkok's local buses instead of taxis or tuk-tuks.  One reason is to save money, but a bigger reason is that I'm always interested in seeing how the average person gets about.  Bangkok's buses run the gamut of beautiful luxury to ancient diesel belching rattle traps.  I have been riding on the rattle traps as they run the shorter routes.  Initially, I had some difficulties with the buses as I couldn't read the destinations written in Thai.  The Thai alphabet looks more sanskrit than Roman, leaving my illiterate.  I started by having the woman at my hotel write the name of a major site near where I wanted to go in Thai on a piece of paper.  I would just show the name to other transit riders who would tell me when the bus I needed arrived.  It worked surprisingly well.  Now that I know the buses that run to the areas where I need to go (this is only two or three buses) so I need very little help.  It was also nice to get away from all the mean tourist-dependent Thais and around the wonderfully gratious and friendly average Thais.

I'll be in Bangkok for a day or two more before I head south towards Malaysia.  I'm excited!

 

COFFEE, WATER, TEMPLES, AND LAND MINES

As always, I got too into my travels and have forgotten to write.  I'm currently in Siem Reap, the city nearest to the ruins of Angkor Wat and the dozens of other temples from the Khmer Empire.  Tomorrow, I will dive into the temples, coming up for air in three days when I head to Bangkok.

 

I last wrote from Da Lat, Vietnam.  After enjoying days of coffee drinking in Da Lat, I went to Saigon.  I met up with a fellow traveler, Rhino from South Africa, on the bus.  I had met him initially on the bus to Nha Trang.  We spent a day hanging out in the chaos that is Saigon before heading off to the Mekong Delta.  Saigon is definitely a metropolis on the move, with only a slightly smaller ratio of motorbikes to cars than in Hanoi.  The city is much more westernized than much of the rest of Vietnam, with more skyscrapers and international commerce.  But that isn't surprising considering that it is a metropolis of nearly 8 million.  There was a surprising lack of international chain restaurants.  I only saw one KFC.  

 

The Mekong Delta is the watery southern end of Viet Nam.  As the Mekong River enters Viet Nam on its way from Tibet to the South China Sea, it splits into seven branches; it used to be nine but two have silted up over the years.  The area is the rice basket of the country harvesting three rice crops annually and growing an enormous assortment of other fruits and vegetables.  The area also supports a surprisingly large population, 20 million or equivalent to the population of Southern California, despite it nearly all being swampy land.  The area is impressive for many reasons: the enormous expanses of water, the houses built on stilts, the markets created within the rivers channels, the bridges built to span the river channels, among others.

 

From the Mekong Delta, I took a really slow boat up the river to the capital of Cambodia, Phnom Penh.  The contrast between Viet Nam and Cambodia is drastic.  The people have a different ethnic makeup looking much more similar to the Thai than the Vietnamese.  The Vietnamese seem to more resemble the Chinese.  The food became spicier and more Thai-like (I guess the fact that the Khmer Empire ruled all of Thailand may have produced these similarities).  However, the most drastic change was the increase in economic disparity.  In Viet Nam everyone seemed to be at a relatively equal economic level.  I noticed very few super-rich, and almost no destitute. All in all, Viet Nam was poor by western standards, but the country was definitely middle income and it felt like everyone was going in an upward direction.  Cambodia, on the other hand, had rich driving around in high-end Mercedes visiting fancy restaurants, while the poor and destitute begged and slept in the filth just a few blocks away.  

 

That being said, Phnom Penh is a city of temples and monuments.  There are gilded Wats throughout the city and plenty of monuments representing one regime or another.  There are also many sites representing the atrocities committed by the Khmer Rouge.  The two most notable are the prison S-21 and the Killing Fields of Choeng Ek.  S-21 was a school converted to a prison for all those the Khmer Rouge determined to not be pure.  The Killing Fields were where the prisoners had their impurities beat out of them and were thrown into mass graves.  Many of the mass graves have been dug up and now there is a memorial with the bones of the victims.  The bones are on display to the public as a reminder of the atrocities committed by the Khmer Rouge.  The most disturbing aspects of my visit to the Killing Fields were the teeth and bones on the trail brought to the service by the annual flooding and the victims clothes still littered around on the ground.  

 

After Phnom Penh, I spent a few days in Battambang.  Battambang Province is a large rice producing area of Cambodia.  It is also an area riddled with land mines from past wars.  While visiting one of the many temples in the surrounding country side, there were signs warning me to stay on the path, due to mines in the surrounding forest.  I didn't have to be told twice.  I rented a motorbike for a day and toured the countryside discovering temples and villages as I rode aimlessly.  I could tell once I had left areas where tourists frequent as I started to receive double-takes from the locals as I passed by.  The people also became nicer, not trying to hassle me, but curious on whom I was.  Amazing, I wasn't just a money symbol any longer.

 

That is all for the moment.  

Vietnam is a Great Place Because of the Vietnamese

I'm currently in Dalat in the Central Highlands of Vietnam.  Tomorrow, I head to Ho Chi Minh City (aka Saigon).  I have absolutely fallen for Dalat.  I really can't say why, but I think it encompasses many of the magical qualities that have made Vietnam such a tremendous experience for me.

I have been surprised be the Vietnamese.  Their kindness, their entrepreneurial spirit, their industriousness, and their discipline give me great hope for this country of 85 million people.

I have been surprised by the lack of animosity that the Vietnamese have for Americans.  After the United States funding and fighting with the losing side in a series of wars lasting from 1945 through 1975 (the US provided much of the funding for a weakened post WWII France to fight from 1945 to 1954 (Indochina War).  The US then supported the South Vietnamese with training, arms, and funding from 1954 to 1965.  The US had troops on the ground from 1965 through 1973 (Vietnam War or the American War as the Vietnamese call it).  The South fell to the communist North, reuniting Vietnam again in 1975) I would have expected to have seen at least an inkling of dislike, blame, or hard feelings over the misery that those wars inflicted on the population.  Around ten percent of the population was killed in these wars.  I have seen no animosity.  In fact, I have felt uncomfortable several times for the extreme hospitality that I have received.

Vietnam is a communist country.  There is one political party, the communist party, that determines policy for the country.  My understanding is that the population generally is happy with their government (that says a lot since I can't remember the last time that the majority of the US liked their government).  Interestingly, from street level, you would think that the US was the country whose government heavily influences/regulates the local market.  However, I'm not suggesting that all the controls that the US has placed on its market economy are bad, many have had very positive effects like copyright infringement laws. Capitalistic commerce is alive and well in Vietnam, with shops everywhere.  There are hawkers everywhere selling their wares.  Every street has twenty different shops selling similar services/products all in competition with each other. 

The Vietnamese always seem to be working.  Family run shops are open from before I get up until after I go to bed.  For example, the same man is working at the internet café now, ten hours after I came this morning.  I wouldn't be surprised if he was here from opening, 8:00a.m., until closing, 10:00p.m.  It seems like every family with a little bit of money is opening up some sort of small business.  Sometimes there will be several different businesses in the front area of a families house.  Much to my annoyance, the Vietnamese are always trying to make another sale.  Being in Vietnam is like being in a store where all the employees work on commission. 

I have been surprised by the order and discipline I have seen in Vietnamese society.  I most notably witnessed this in Hanoi, where an enormous crowd of people was out for the celebrations in honor of the 1000 anniversary of the founding of the city.  I did not see any drunks in the streets, no one was causing problems, people were orderly, but still clearly having a good time.  The police presence was minimal and very soft (directing traffic and not cracking people over the head with batons).  Many skeptics may attribute this order to fear of the communistic regime, but I don't believe this.  I feel it probably has more to do with the Confucian principles with which the culture is based and the collective spirit forged to bring in the annual rice harvest century after century.  Whatever the reason, it creates for a nice atmosphere. I love traveling in a place where my greatest fear is that I will be overcharged.  This is a far cry from the violence of Central America that weighed so heavily upon my psyche.

I will only be in Vietnam for a few more days before I head to Cambodia to visit Phnom Penh and Angkor Wat. 

The Veins of Vietnam Are Full of Motorbikes

Motorbikes dominate the streets of Vietnam with a chaotic ballet.  The streets of any big city here are flooded with motorbikes.  Lanes and directional signs don't prevent them from making use of every inch of the pavement.  Intersections look more like the cross of figure-eight demolition derby races, but, somehow, without the accidents. 

Vietnam is commonly conjures images of bicyclists with conical reed hats pedaling through rice patties.  Though many examples of this slower life style still exist, the country has convincingly left the past to nostalgic recollections. 

Most certainly you have seen images of motorbikes completely overloaded with people and material.  These pictures were probably taken in Vietnam.  I have seen up to five people, 4 adults and a child, on a single motorbike.  I saw a motorbike with at least six cases of half liter beer bottles on the back.  It may seem ludicrous to transport so much on one motorbike while seated in the U.S., but here it feels right.  In fact, I would probably do the same if given the opportunity.

Having masses of motorbikes on the streets has a different feel than masses of automobiles.  Of course, I'm not considering that the cities here would never be able to support all those motorbikes becoming cars, the traffic jams would be unbearable.  But what I'm considering is how much more human a feel motorbikes have on the street.  A car is a steel cage that encircles us. It gives us a sense of security from bodily harm, but it acts as a barrier between us and the world.  On the other hand, a motorbike leaves the rider exposed, but open to all those around, like a pedestrian. Our terminology reflects this in that we see a car, an inanimate object, on the road but we see a motorcyclist, a person.  The motorbikes on the street create a warm sense of humanity, whereas the car emits a cold sterility.  

Though motorbikes may make Vietnam's streets feel more personal they certainly make it frightening to cross the street.  Even a simple two lane road is like crossing a six lane freeway when it is full of motorbikes.  On most main streets the flow of motorbikes is constant.  To cross you just have to go.  What do I mean by that?  Well, you don't look at the traffic.  You just step out into the traffic and walk across at a slow and steady space.  Kind of like how when you are high up on a ladder you shouldn't look down, when you are crossing the street, you shouldn't look at the traffic.  If you do, you'll get scared.  But no need to worry, the motorbikes swerve and miss you.  A blind man could cross the streets here without a problem.  He just has to walk slowly and deliberately and the traffic will avoid him.  Proof of this was an old women crossing an exceptional wide street in Hanoi.  She was stooped over hobbling along with her cane, moving at a snails pace.  I felt fear as I saw her disappear behind a bus to only see her on the other side surrounded by a dozen motorbikes all moving around her as she slowly made her way across mid-street.  I figure if she can survive this long with her no look, snailish crossing of busy streets, my odds must be pretty good that I'll make it too.

Heading South Through Vietnam

It has been awhile and a few miles since I last wrote.  I’m currently in Hoi An, Vietnam waiting to catch a bus to the beach town of Nha Trang.  I don’t think I will stay but will head to Dalat in the mountains.  It all depends on bus connections.

I left Timor-Leste nearly three weeks ago.  I spent a quick night in Singapore with a friend of a friend and left some stuff behind.  The next morning I had an early flight to Hanoi on Tiger Airways.  However, on my flight into Singapore I was reading an article in the Strait Times (the Singapore Newspaper) on how Tiger Airways was canceling many of its flights due to two aircraft that needed unexpected maintenance.  I was nervous.  We were only going to spend a few hours in Hanoi before catching a night train to Lao Cai on our way to Sapa.  Out of the Tiger Airways’ eight morning flights, only two weren’t canceled, the ones to Hong Kong and Hanoi.  We were in luck.

The immense development of Singapore was a sharp shock to the senses after rough and tumble Timor.  The streets were pristinely paved; I narily felt a bump as cruised along a freeway with well manicured landscaping. Lights climbed into the sky, emitted from the offices of high-rise towers.  The port, the world’s busiest, hummed along on the left of the freeway for what seemed most of the 45 minute taxi ride.  It doesn’t need to be said that it was a shock to the senses, but it was nice to shake off the dust from Timor.

I was going to Hanoi to visit Nancy, a friend from UCLA, who has family in the city, and to celebrate the 1000^thanniversary of its founding.  Hanoi was founded on October 10, 1010.  Its not very often that you get to go to a 1000^th birthday party.  The party was to last from October 1 to the 10.  We were leaving Hanoi immediately so we could go to Sapa and make it back for the important last three days. 

Sapa is a mountain town by the Chinese border.  Mt. Fanispan (aka Fancy pants), Vietnam’s highest mountain, stands out as a bump in a long ridge of mountains.  Our goal for Sapa was to climb the 3143 meter mountain.  We were blessed with amazing weather and completed the climb over two days. 

Sapa is known for more than its mountains and cool weather.  There also is a large number of ethnic groups. Familiar to many Americans are the Hmong, which live in the mountains of Vietnam, Laos, and Thailand. There are four different Hmong groups differentiated by their dress:  Black Hmong, White Hmong, Flower Hmong, and Green Hmong.  There are also a couple other groups like the Red Dao. 

Hanoi was a crazy place.  Being a large SE Asian city, it has only been limitedly affected by the rapid westernization and high-rise building boom of places like Saigon, Bangkok, and Kuala Lumpur.  It’s old merchants quarter is still intact, though today it is would better be called the tourist’s quarter.  The streets are dominated by motorbikes cris-crossing paths in a chaotic ballet, more resembling a school of fish chasing chum than traffic as we American’s know it.  Hoam Kiem Lake is Hanoi’s central park.  Much of the people looking to get involved in the festivities went there.  The busiest night was Saturday, October 9^th, with what seemed a mass of a million people doing circles around the lake.  Stages were set up on several corners, but many of the acts were bad.  This didn’t affect the mood; most people were out to revel in the masses of people and spend time with family and friends. 

I made a quick stop at Halong Bay, which was beautiful, but touristy beyond belief. 

Next I stopped in one of Vietnam’s historic capitals, Hue.  Until the August Revolution of 1945 that put the communists in power this is where the emperor’s ruled from.  An enormous and spectacular citadel dominates the northern bank of the Pearl River.  The citadel is slowly being restored after being heavily damaged in the wars of 1945 and 1968 and a couple natural disasters.  It was here where I finally rented a motorbike and hit the streets on my own.  I’m proud of myself!  Only one person cursed me.

I’m currently in Hoi An, and old trading town that has slickly maneuvered into becoming a mega tourist trap. I’m not impressed.  The old parts of town don’t look that different than many other areas I’ve been.  I would like it more if I was looking to buy a tailored suit or some other handicraft good.  But, I’m traveling on a budget and don’t have room in my bag for too many souvenirs, especially this early in the trip.

You are now up to date with my travels.  In the coming days I will write more on other aspects of Vietnam.

COCA-COLA, THE NEW WORLD CURRENCY

Every time I travel, I always end up writing about Coca-Cola.  It is far and away the world’s most globalized and ubiquitous product.  It is everywhere I have ever gone, no matter how remote, no matter how snobbish towards American cultural influence, no matter the poverty that inundates a place.  I have written about being offered Coca-Cola in a village a six hour walk from the nearest road; the Coke came in on the back of a mule.  I have written how in Guatemala, when you ask for “agua” you get a Coke; you have to ask for an “agua pura” if you want regular water.  I have tasted Coke in big cans, small cans, plastic bottles, glass bottles in 8 oz, 12 oz and half liter sizes, and the mostly in America, Coke from a soda fountain.  I have tasted the differences in sweetness depending on the local community’s preferences.  In short, I have been around a lot of Coke ......... Coca-Cola!

After all this, I was surprised to have a new Coca-Cola experience yesterday that yet again defined the drink’s worldly ubiquitousness.  I was given coke as money.  After buying my lunch yesterday, the woman didn’t have enough change to give me bills, so she gave some bills, some coins, and a Coca-Cola.  Move over, the dollar, the euro, gold, Coca-Cola is the new world currency. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating this one instance’s importance, but it is an interesting insight into a global product which we almost don’t even notice any longer, it has become part of the background of our lives.

WATER AS A RIGHT AND THE PROBLEMS IT CREATES

Working in and around water, especially water politics is a messy affair.   People, rightly so, have a lot tied up in water.  It is essential for life, obviously.  We need to consume a couple liters a day in one form or another to stay living.  It needn’t be said that if a society has any civility and humanity at all, water should be a right regarded to everyone, .............Right?  It seems pretty straight forward, but the longer I’m around water talk the more complicated it gets.

The determination that water is a right has many complications.  If water is a right, it should be free, or at least very cheap, seems to be a common mindset around the world (why are we so adamant about cheap water in the US?).  While in Honduras, I dealt with this issue on a daily basis.  The Honduran Constitution clearly states that the water in a river or stream is owned by no one and so can’t be charged for, though the landowner can raise a stink about water conveyance infrastructure crossing his land.  As a part of the water projects I was implementing, there was a finance component.  Connected households were to be charged a minimal fee, about $1 to $1.50, so as to fund system maintenance and minor repairs.  But the local people, due to the Honduran Constitution and local beliefs about water being a right, felt that their water should be free.  I commonly had to use the counter argument that the water is free, so feel free to walk to the water source fill a bucket with water and carry it back to your home.  The point being that the water is free, but it is the infrastructure that brings it clean and conveniently to your home that costs money and should be financed by the local community.  This is where the problem lies; to provide free water is expensive.  

Interesting, the very notion that water is a right and should be free makes the poorest pay more than the rich for clean water in much of the developing world.   Having good water access is generally confined to well established, wealthy areas of developing world cities.  Reasons for this are that having access to an amenity such as a high quality water system raises land prices making it unaffordable to the poor and the systems were generally built by the old colonial power to serve the colonizers’ homes in the city center, exclusive of the poor masses.  The poor masses live in the surrounding slums and low income housing areas.  A policy of cheap or free water means that by providing water infrastructure to the poor areas does not payback the costs of implementation.  More so, if existing water sources are limited, new areas added to the network are usually not provided water at the same service level as the old, but politically influential, colonial center;  any reduction in the quality of the center’s service delivery to provide more homes water is vehemently opposed.  But new water sources are progressively more expensive to develop as the cheapest sources are developed first meaning that new water for the poorer outlying areas has a higher marginal cost than the water currently provided to the central city.  This may mean that the new areas are charged more, subsidized so the cost is the same as the central city’s, or a rise on average between the cost of providing water to the center and to the new area ,raising the center’s price slightly.  The poor slums that don’t receive piped water are many times supplied by private services which spring up in a piped system’s absence.  These sources may be a truck that comes around, a neighbor who sells water from a local well, or any assortment of other means.  What is certain is that this water is usually many times the cost of the highly subsidized water in the piped system.  The point I’m trying to get across from this is that, in developing countries government subsidized piped water systems encouraged by the idea that water is a right, disproportionately serves the wealthier citizens, while the poor pay a significantly higher price to obtain water by other means. 

A second major problem with water as a right is that, how much water should be rightfully delivered to each person.  A person may only need a few dozen liters of water to maintain proper hygiene and living standards in day to day life, but this discounts the many other ways that water ensures economic livelihood.  For example, a poor Indian farmer may depend on water to irrigate his crops, providing him with much needed food.  If the water needed for him to economically maintain his limited lifestyle is not allowed him or goes up substantially in price, he will economically falter.  Thus, he needs many more than a few dozen liters daily.  Agriculture around the world is by far the largest consumer of water.  In California, something like 85% of all water in the state is used to grow our fresh produce.  Farmers rightfully argue that if you take away their water you are also taking away their economic livelihood, though it should be noted that they could use the water much more efficiently.  If the farmers’ economic livelihood depends on the water, then do they have a right to it?

I’m not arguing that water is not a human right, as it is clearly a human necessity and I feel that as people, we should at least try to assure that water is fairly distributed.  The problem is, what is fair? Currently, the very terminology of water as a right is not very well defined in the societal consciousness.  The idea that water is a right often prevents many of the neediest from getting it.    The day a consensus is reached on how we should manage our water resources will be an important day.

THE POWER OF MONEY

Money, we desire it, but we despise the greed it induces.  We wish the world could operate without it, but we pragmatically realize that it is how we value goods and services.  Others will claim that the coldness that money inspires (i.e., business economics) is proof that money drives us humans away from the very nature that defines us as human, are warm caring emotions.  Well!  I really would like to have the cold, heartless power of money on my side right now.

The water systems that I am implementing are done so by the community which will benefit from it.  The community is not paid for their labor, as it is seen as their contribution to the cost of the system, since they are unable to provide any significant funding.  I find this method both fair, and it allows them to receive a water system even though their local and/or national governments can’t afford to provide the funding.  Not all agree with me on this, I have heard that it is not fair that the poor should have to work for free to get water while the rich in the big cities get their water system (in the wealthier parts of the bigger cities) through paid labor.  

Having the community build the system limits the speed of construction, complicates logistics, and makes for an unreliable construction crew.  The community only can work so many days a week on the system.  They have fields to tend and, maybe even, money to earn (though there aren’t many sources of paid labor in Passabe).  Sure, water is a monetary benefit, but they already obtain it free of monetary cost; they pay in the labor of carrying it, which is not from too great a distance.  Since the project is rushed, I have to complete the eleven systems that I have quickly.  Being that I am limited on the speed with which I can work in any given community that means to finish quickly I must work in all or most of the communities simultaneously, making for a logistics nightmare.  I would much prefer to work in two or three systems at a time and I as I finish one move on to a new one.  The third is that the work force that I might have in a community is highly unreliable. Some days we will have sixty or more community members, but not enough work for them.  The next we won’t have any, but a lot of work.  If it is market day, people won’t work.  If the morning starts out rainy (like today) it is difficult to get the community to work.  Sometimes the community will decide the night before that they want to work and won’t tell us, while another community will decide at the last minute that they don’t want to work after having stated that they would.  This leaves us with technicians and materials in the wrong communities.  Furthermore, many of the communities are experiencing system construction fatigue.  My projects take months to build. In the beginning the communities are excited and motivated making them eager to work, but after months of construction and no water their motivation has faded until work is a chore. 

Even though I agree with the projects policy to not pay the local communities to build their own water system, I wish I could pay them as it would really speed up the construction time and decrease logistics issues.  A good example on how money speeds up the construction process is are method of obtaining gravel.  To build concrete tanks and water catchments, we need gravel.  However, as I’ve written before, there is no easy way to get gravel as there is no quarry.  So, in Passabe, we decided to start a local operation to make our gravel.  We pay them $1 for a box of gravel which is around 40 centimeters cubed (I should know this but I can’t recall at the moment).  The community on their own motivation will break big river rocks into gravel of the size we need for 8 or 10 hours a day.  When we need a lot of gravel, the rock breakers will be hammering away until while after midnight and start again at 8:00 in the morning.   It is needless to say that we have never run short of gravel.

If I could pay the communities, I am certain that I would always have plentiful labor.  I could get my work done in a timely matter.  And I could be done with this frustration of changing my weekly work plans and priorities on a daily basis.  Oh, that would be nice!

Reflections on my nearly finished time in Timor-Leste

In under two weeks I will be flying to Vietnam.  I will have finished my work in Timor-Leste and be doing some travelling before I need to decide what is my next step.  With so little time left, it is not surprising that I’m beginning to reflect on my time in Timor-Leste, whether I should continue doing international development, and how my view has been altered of the world.

Timor-Leste has had its challenges, not the least among them, the seclusion I have felt in my work site.  I work in the department of Oecussi, which is cut off from the rest of Timor-Leste by Indonesia. I have been in one of the more distant reaches of Oecussi, the town of Passabe.  My only relief is when I’m in Oecussi town on the weekends where I have internet at night, though that means that it is very early the previous morning in the US.  Life without daily phone or internet is hard.  I know many of you will laugh about the absurdity of needing to be connected and you wouldn’t be wrong to point out that just 10 years ago, where I’m at, there was no phone and internet at all.  I wouldn’t have been able to have any contact with the outside world, except when I would go into the capital, Dili. 

I both love and hate international work at the same time.  I love being in new places, places that are exotic to my norm of American-ness.  The immense stimulation of daily life in a new place is extremely exhilarating.  The constant riddle of the local culture and daily life leaves my mind a whirring and my senses heightened.  But the sensory highs mean that there are lows, where the longing for the normalcy and comfortableness of home creates a nearly debilitating homesickness.  All in all there is a cycle, where I want the stimulation of being overseas when I’m in the US and I want the comfortableness of home when I’m away. 

Also, the very purpose of international development work as a whole leaves me conflicted.  On the one hand I want to help develop a country like Timor-Leste, but on the other hand I feel like the family supporting the drunk uncle by giving him a place to stay and food to eat.  The support in a way supports the uncle’s drunkenness furthering the very problem that I would like to wean him from.  Sure, you can try to give him help to break his pattern of drunkenness, but in the end it depends on the uncle whether he dries up or not, and not you.  In other words, no matter how much support you give, it is still the uncle that needs to make the effort to come dry, the support you give only facilitates, but doesn’t guarantee the final result.  International development work is similar in that you are trying your best to help the country develop, but no matter the support you give, it is the local culture, and governing bodies that often determine how successful a program is.  Some places, you can give them a few rocks and they will build a bridge, others you will give them abundant rocks to build a hundred bridges and they will just throw them at their neighbours.

In the end, local cultures are difficult to change.  Often the very reasons that keep a country undeveloped are the result of local culture.  This does not mean that the local culture is solely to blame, as it is a response to local conditions, geographic placement, past history, which may have been influenced strongly by outside forces (think colonization), or any assortment of reasons.  What I’m saying is that the culture that develops is not directly the fault of those who are dealing with its consequences in the present.  Would we blame Henry Ford for the unwalkable, car oriented, suburban culture that the automobile affordable for the masses brought upon the United States and its urban form?  Though it is obvious that American society and culture is heavily influenced by widespread access to automobiles today, we wouldn’t go so far as holding Ford solely accountable, as many other factors, like government policy, personal choice, land market rates, and technological innovations also contributed to the car culture we currently have.  All I can wonder is what will be the impetus that pushes Timor-Leste from its stagnation into a virtuous cycle of development and when will it occur.  Will it be the result of a powerful but somewhat benevolent dictator like in Singapore in the 1960s?  Will it be the result of an outside force imposing its will upon the country, like General Perry’s fleet forcing Japan to open its doors in the late 1800s?  Or will it be a combination of subtle factors?  Who knows?

An observation that always surprises me is how similar societies are throughout the world.  I am always surprised by how similar I find people to be throughout the world.  The biggest differences I find seem to fall upon economic and educational lines.  I find that there are great similarities between class tiers in different countries, a greater similarity than among different classes within the same country.  For example, I find the wealthy and educated classes in Timor Leste to be more similar to the wealthy and educated classes of the US than with the poor classes within their own country.  I know, that I just made an enormous generalization, and I’m certain that if you want to look at the details in each individual country you can prove my point wrong in some instances.  What I’m trying to state is that I feel from personal experience that the divisions between class and education levels are greater than the divisions between cultures.

I think that is enough for now.  I’m ruminating as I write, and probably now as I finish my views may have changed on what I said at the beginning.  Your comments and insights are most welcome if you so desire to offer them.

BIGFOOT!

Yeah, I have big feet!  I know that.  I’ve accepted that.  I wear a size 13 in the US and a size 48 in most of the rest of the world.  The problem is that there isn’t a place in all of Timor Leste that sells footwear of this size.  I actually had a couple friends look in Bali when they were on vacation, and they couldn’t find any in my size there either. 

Last Friday, I broke my flip-flops.  They are unrepairable.  But, flip-flops are the day-to-day attire for all locals.  Actually, I can’t imagine wearing anything different around the house.  But what was I to do?  I went flip-flop shopping and couldn’t find anything larger than a 45.  The 45 fit more like a much smaller shoe.  Finally I bought a pair of size 42 Adibas for $2.50.  Look closely at the spelling of that brand. “Adibas.”  They are small but better than nothing.  

SOCCER WITHOUT SHOES

I was invited to play soccer after work. I’m bad at soccer but I always have a good time playing. It was convenient since the field is directly in front of the house I stay in, in Passabe. The field isn’t in very good condition. It is full of gravel and small rocks. But it suits the community as it is quite a large open space. I keep telling those who play soccer that they should spend ten minutes before they play each day to pick up rocks. After a week there would hardly be any rocks left, I’m sure. But I guess they don’t mind the rocks as much as I do.

Another problem presented itself. I didn’t have any shoes. I had a pair of hiking/work boots and flip-flops, not quite the ideal attire for soccer. So, I went native and played barefoot (probably half of the players play barefoot. This would have been fine if I didn’t have wussy, privileged American feet. My feet were so bruised from stepping on rocks after the game that I could hardly walk the next day. It was worth it.

THE COLOR GREEN

There are those moments when you see a color in the natural world around us and you say to yourself, “Oh, when they assigned the name blue to the color, that is what the person was looking at,” for example, the deep blue of a clear sky on a day with low humidity.  I remember many times as a child lying in the grass in my backyard looking into the blue expanse of a cloudless, deep blue fall sky, trying hard to see through the blue.  My eyes were always getting lost in the infinite blue with no object to focus my eyes upon.

This week, I saw the sight that green was named for.  As I was passing a recently planted rice paddy on my way back from Passabe, I looked over and was overwhelmed by the deep brilliance of the green.  All I could think was, “Now, that is green.”  It was not a light green, an aqua green, but green GREEN!  And it was beautiful!

THEY ROBBED MY RICE

Do you remember those stories you hear as a kid, or maybe you still hear them now, about the bank robbery in the small western town?  The bandits rob the bank, making off with all the gold and cash.  The fearless lone sheriff hunts down the outlaws and all ends happy.  Up until today, I had never thought about what happens when there is no cash left in town, especially in the days before electronic purchases.

The state of Oecussi is isolated from the rest of Timor-Leste, as it is surrounded on three sides by Indonesia.  The fourth side is the ocean.  There is only one bank in the entire state to serve its population of 70,000 or so.  Cash is the only way to make purchases.  If you don’t have any Washingtons, they use the American Dollar as the currency here, you won’t get anything.  Of course some businesses will allow a credit line to regular customers, for example, we don’t pay the gravel breakers for each truck we carry, we pay them weekly, but they are few and far between. 

The project I’m working is funded by USAID money.  The USAID program wants the community to contribute their labor since they aren’t paying for the material costs of the system.  Thus, the community to build the water system.  But since it is difficult to get a community to work for nothing, the project supplies the community with food when they are working.  Here, that means rice, lots of rice.  Today, I ran out of rice.  I called the warehouse wondering where the rest of my rice was.  There was no rice.  Why? There is no money to buy rice with because the project couldn’t withdraw cash from the bank since it was all stolen. Now, I’m facing a halt in most work, because we can’t get the communities to work if we have no rice.  So goes my hope that September would go smoother than July and August went.  Now, did this happen in the old West after the bank was robbed?

NIGHT TIME MAGIC

Today is Tuesday, though it feels like Monday since yesterday was a Timorese National Holiday.  That first day of the week often sets the mood for the rest of the week.  I just hope for a good Monday to keep me motivated until the week.  Sadly, this hardly ever happens.  Having a Tuesday as a Monday didn’t change the pattern.

I was tired of the day as soon as I got out of bed.  I don’t know if I was lethargic from a long weekend, or whether I hit my limit of bull s**t last week for this week.  All I know, was that I was dreading coming here.  The morning started off with one of the big supply trucks, crashing into one of our small pickups (of course one of the two coming to Passabe).  It didn’t have any brakes. Who would need brakes on a truck going up and down mountains roads?  I guess it was good that we found out the brakes were a problem early on.   A series of other mishaps and bull s**t put me in a foul mood and I chewed out the coordinator of the local NGO who employs the technicians I work with.  I finally got back to the house at 8:00 to eat some supper, do some maintenance on the motorbike and get in some reading.  I needed something to relieve me of my foul mood.

The town of Passabe has a generator that it uses most nights so that homes have light.  But often the community runs out of fuel and the community stays dark.  Tonight, I didn’t mind.  I walked out under the night sky and, Wow!  It looks like someone spilled sugar across a black countertop.  There isn’t a cloud in the sky, though the Milky Way stretching from the Southwest to the Northeast looks like it could be clouds.  The moon won’t rise until well after midnight so the sky is exceptionally black.  Venus, bright when compared with the surrounding stars, is setting in the west with Jupiter (or it could be Mars) rising in the east.  There is no light pollution only starry perfection.  The stars are so numerous that it is almost difficult to make out any constellations, as the brighter stars are lost among the masses.  Since I’m in the Southern Hemisphere, the Southern Cross makes its way across the southern sky pointing due south as it has for seafarers for eons.  All in all, just a few minutes of star gazing relaxed me, put me in a happy mood, and reminded me why I come to places like Timor-Leste.

BE WARY OF THE MEAT

Generally, I’m a meat loving guy. I’m not a carnivore to the extreme, but I do enjoy my meat. In Timor-Leste, I’m hoping more and more that I get a pass on eating the meat. No, this is not a feeble attempt to make sure that I don’t eat dog again, but recognition that meat and the way it is prepared traditionally in Timor-Leste is bad.

I have received beef, pork, chicken, dog, and some other unknowns (maybe goat) while working in the communities, and can’t recall a single good one. The quality of the meat is preposterous. Beef is grisly, full of arteries and veins, and impossible to eat with all the shattered bone pieces after they hacked (or more properly, bludgeoned) a leg to smithereens with a dull butcher’s knife. The chicken is always meatless, hacked to pieces and seasoned with something awful. Pork only seems to consist of the chicharron (the skin, the fatty layer directly underneath the skin, and a little of the adjacent meat) but when I get only that i get sick and end up puking my guts under the bridge down by the river. Not pleasant! My body just can’t handle that much fat. I have the same problems when I eat pig’s feet.

So, though meat is a rare occasion, once a week at most, I would prefer it even less. I can easily survive eating the many types of unique vegetables I find in my food here. Oh yeah, and those amazing lettuce, tomato, onion salads with salt, vinegar, and oil poured over top. There is something about a fresh, vine-ripened tomato that is delicious.