And Now for Something Completely Different... why I loathe airports

A malodorous pungent stink wafts up my nose and grabs it so hard I am forced to yank my whole head away searching desperately for a pocket of fresh air. Where, God, am I...help... I gasp for breath, hold what clean oxygen I can, and rather like a surprised bank robber shot in the back by his colleague I turn to find the perpetrator.. and look him dead in the eyes with what little breath I have left.

I find him. A wrinkled half-dead old aged pensioner with a yellowy grey complexion just sitting beside me. Through his cataract filmed watery blue eyes I see a faint sparkle of life as he cracks a feeble smile as if to proudly say “yeah I did it and so what...” and then with absolutely no shame he lets rip again.

The cherry on the cake comes in the form of a small creature from some unbeknown world, which I believe is sometimes referred to as a “baby”. It suddenly, and completely unexpectedly, begins to scream... uncontrollably... A health and safety violation, a terrorist weapon of mass destruction capable of exploding any ear drum that happens to be within a 10 metre radius and cause permanent damage to anyone else within earshot. Welcome to life in an airport lounge, a true assault upon the senses.

I took more than 40 flights in 2009. Yes I know, I am a true to the bone 100% Carbon Emitting Gangster on the run for a crime that is yet to be recognised let alone codified as a crime against humanity... For the moment I am offered a temporary reprieve from my prosecuting conscious with the option of paying a carbon offsetting fee which in reality probably ends up paying for war in Iraq/Afghanistan, paying for a politicians expenses, and of course lets not forget to contribute to some fat cat's private jet while we are at it. In all honesty, at this moment in given time I would most gladly pay quite a lot to be able offset the smell from that old man's raw arse.

Jokes aside, no really, I feel like shit, seriously. My mugshot is destined to appear in a rogues gallery of earth destroying murderers 50 years from now. Infamy awaits whereby my memory will be exiled into the vaults of the world's worst. My grandchildren's generation will be forced to change their surname in a desperate bid to remove any stigma that may be attached from being my descendant. Yet despite this, rather like a hitman en route to eliminate his next target, here I am here willing to commit a premeditated act armed with my virtual boarding card...just waiting for my delayed easyjet flight to hopefully take off.

I hate airports, particularly when I discovered last night that my flight had been overbooked. I arrived early this morning only to be confronted with a four hour delay... I HATE AIRPORTS! The more I spend in them the more I study them, with nothing else to do but wait...what do you expect? The European-US type amalgamate into one big stodgy hell-hole in my mind: Heathrow, Schiphol, Newark, Malpensa, JFK, Barajas, Frankfurt, the unfortunatley named MIA, and Gatwick.

People all walk on a sea of shiny black or grey tiles illuminated by bright spot lights that beam down from above like a west end musical, white pillow-like structures line the ceiling, orderlies wielding machine guns and dogs parade between isles guarding the consumer madness that actively encourages the dripping of gilded wares before ones eyes. Luscious posters dangle last minute tempting tidbits desperate to ensnare fashion victims and alcoholic smokers using Tax Free banners as bait. What is this circus of madness?

A modern day asylum where we voluntarily surrender our personal items to be inspected by dogs while we ourselves our pushed through a convey belt of selective apartheid where only some humans with the right papers or correct coloured passports get through metal detectors, body searches, explosive shoe tests, overhead body scans, and further ID checks. Those that are given select approval are set out into a structure that if one were to strip it of all its trappings would barely hold much more than the hard wiring mesh of cctvs, white padded rooms, two-way mirrors, and barbed wire set within a architectural design not so different to that of the Maze prison in northern Ireland with a omnipresent panopticon control tower that peers down from darkened windows.

On top of all this lies the distractions of overpriced restaurants offering gunk, flash flat panel systems promising to transform a shitty mundane existence into a life on golden sandy beaches, and of course how could one ever escape the sickeningly sweet stomach-wrenching amalgamation of a billion different aromas that are pumped out of tester vials drifting between racks of discount liquor bottles and boxes of Marlboro lights. A irritatingly calm Hal imitation voice glides across the PA system directing people like sheep to their supposed departure gates, occasionally some straying individuals get publicly shamed into line as they then proceed to desperately flee, as if their life depended on it, to their numbered exit. Babies wail, old people dribble and fart, while others lie in jet-lagged stupors on rows of chairs like drunken bums crashed out on a park benches.

With a dental surgery approach to travelling in the 21^st century we are anaesthetized into being voluntarily placed in large holding pens before being herded into metal pressurised tubes with wings filled with the worlds most flammable substances that are only ignited once we are firmly strapped down and sealed in. A reflection of life in the western so called civilised world. In what some may refer to as a living under a veil of ignorance we give up liberties in return for a sense of security that allows us to function in a hypnotising world of distractions while simultaneously parasites in a symbiotic relationship siphon off our life-earnings, rather like the Maasai who occasional ly drip blood from their live goats' carotid arteries to mix with milk.

Damaging the planet? forget about it, just shop shop shop. The fact that psychopathic multi-national companies exploit the resources needed to power your flight, car, ipod, mobile phone leaving a wake of conflict and destruction... Don't worry, it's not your problem just shop shop shop.... consume it's good for the economy we are told. Get a mortgage, max out your credit card, buy buy buy! And if you feel guilty just cough up a small donation to your local charity, NGO, or carbon offsetting scam.

Back to the terminal situation, isn't it ironic that in the one place where you voluntarily risk dying in the most brutal form ever, you are offered potentially suicidal and addictive drugs (that kill millions) in the form of alcohol and tobacco, and all at a government special discount!! The imitation Hal voice calls me to board, my phone beeps and an immitation Hal voice tells me I have voicemail. Shuffling in line I wait to be prodded along the gangplank of a bridge into the soon to be pressurised tube. Once inside, there's a desperate rush by the crowd to find a half decent seat... I scramble on board.. it's full... overhead bins bursting to the brim with extra-heavy hand luggage and recently bought consumables.

I cram my bag into whatever random vacant spot I can find and try to remember the seat number to which it sits above. A few rows back an imaginary golden finger flickers indicating that I should sit here... yes finally an isle seat Thank GOD. I slump down and buckle up, as indicated in the ritual performed by the overweight attendant that goes by the name Baldrick. Now I can finally relax as the rocket fuel is about to be fired up and the roar of engines readies itself to shoot us down a runaway at ridiculous speed. I turn round to see who is sitting next to me... please god give me some outrageously beautiful woman who has just broken up with her boyfriend and who needs a shoulder to cry on.

Come on, I'll go to church, mosque, temple or whatever else if you just grant me this as a sign of your true existence, hell, I 'll even go to all your places of worship... alas I turn around to see none other than the cataracts-eyed old man who is already staring at me vacantly until a slight sparkle shines through and yet another terrible stench trickles up to rather efficiently clear my sinus. Oh the joy of flying!

JOB ALERT: Project Officer, Federation for Unnecessary Care in Kinky Emergency Deployments, Salary:11,145,000₮ MNT, Closing Date: 20th March 2010

Several months later and here, finally, is an update. Yup that's right folks I am back in blighty about to hold down a 'temporary' job which I sure as hell hope does not become permanent. Several months of so called job hunting and no real opportunities are even on the horizon let alone in sight.

I have several academic qualifications, can more or less speak English and a couple of other languages to boot, not to mention more than just a couple of years work experience. So what is it that makes me unable to find humanitarian jobs other than those that offer Micky D minimum wage salaries (or less) with no health insurance posted in some Yak milk producing village fused into the the Ural mountains, running projects for frustrated alcoholic (male) shepherds without an interpreter.

Oh and for the luxury I am meant to be grateful? What am I some kinda priest? Oh let me just sacrifice the best years of my youth in the Kazak equivalent of Sloatsburg NY because “I wanna help people”. And maybe, just maybe, after several years of dutiful service might his lordship grant me a promotion by giving me a job organising 'round tables' to unemployed, depressed Siberian homosexual coal miners on a project sponsored by Pfizer.

I mean is it really possible that some zit plagued adolescent fiend seeping gallons of unbalanced hormones into burgers through the pores in his greasy unwashed hands can really get paid better than I? Are there really hordes of qualified up-to-the-eye-balls, multi-lingual speakers just waiting for a job ad so they can beat down the door and break into the wonderful world of major human suffering, death, and wanton destruction?

If so where the hell do all these people come from? In (one of) the country(ies) I am from only one in ten people have a high school qualification in a foreign language, and most are not even familiar with the basics of their own English language. You don't believe me? Ask any British born person, schooled in the 80s, the meaning and form of the Present Perfect... I assure you will encounter a very long coma inducing vacant stare.

Seriously, most people of my generation need at least a couple of minutes to be able to give an example of a verb, noun, adverb, and adjective. So where the fuck do all these qualified super experienced cretins come from? And to think there would even be a surplus.... legions of unemployed but qualified and experienced multilingual zombies sitting up all day and night just waiting for some obscure job ad to hit their in-box and for them to finally wake from their slumber, jump up enthusiastically, shout Eureka, and apply. Sad ... Sour Grapes? Yeah too damn right, I just don't get it...

Allow me to further illustrate an example of just such ridiculousness. A recent ad I saw posted on a UN jobs site that required an MA/MSc, in addition to a BA/BSc, two international languages, and ten years 'relevant' work experience, (oh and a ph-fucking-D as a desirable) to work as a mere project officer (12,000$ I guess cos the salary wasn't even posted) for a supposed 'international' NGO which goes by the name of Surf@id International with a mission to “ improve the health, wellbeing, and self-reliance of people living in isolated communities connected to us through surfing".Yes that's right... through surfing..

I mean how in God's name does an NGO like that get funding? What the fuck? I mean I can just imagine, there you are a survivor of the latest CNN or BBC newsbreaking earthquake, tsunami, volcanic eruption, war zone or whatever. You're starving, thirsty, all your family is dead or dying, you have no home... you're a refugee in a land that does not speak your language... you're crawling through the desert, jungle, wartorn ravaged land. Mirages plague your mind... and just when you think you're not gonna make it along comes a big shiny white jeep with a crew of suntanned blond surfers who stumble out and ask in a stoned california accent"hey duuuude, wanna learn how to surrrrf?" while toking on a fat joint.

Perhaps that is not so bad as it sounds. I mean at least you know you are well and truly up shits ally with no false sense of hope or security. It would be the equivalent to the despair felt among soviet pilots shot down behind enemy lines staring down at their escape in the form of a suicide pill melting in the sweaty palm of their hands

Perhaps in a way it would be far more humane, and alleviate the further suffering experienced when initially engaging a UN agency or some other serious NGO. Any notion of saviour usually rapidly disappears when one discovers that rather than having your personal welfare at heart many relief workers are incompetent pen pushing procrastinators more interested in their prospect of promotion obtained on the back of fancy reports and powerpoint presentations containing photos of you and your dying (or now dead) family.

Perhaps we need to herald a new era of useless agencies who don't pretend to be anything other than just that...useless. It would be nothing more than a no frills service which provides guaranteed endless disappointment and crap customer service. Hurrah, honesty at last with the arrival of the ryanair solution to humanitarian response with no free meals, no assigned seating, but with imposed severe luggage restrictions and draconian security measures (no fluids over 100ml).

That way if they did actually get anything right, people would be pleasantly surprised. With an active DO MORE HARM policy new NGOS and agencies could spring up with names like Quick Relief operated for example by Exit International or Dignitas and overseen by the International Committee for Redundant Cunning-linguists or the Organization for Slapstick Comedy in Europe. Watch out the death knell is tolling, the end is nigh for the cluster managed UNHCR/IOM camps where people squat in their Oxfam branded tents, eating WFP labeled rations, drinking water pumped from MSF engraved wells and whose children go to UNICEF plaqued schools. On that note I think I have found the solution to my current state of mal-employment... Hell, if agencies like Surf@id can exist I may as well set up my own useless NGO. I think I'll call it the Federation for Unnecessary Care in Kinky Emergency Deployments. Whatta you think?

Zapped Ego... With a Pilar of Hope...

The air exploded instead of waiting to squeeze itself through the small release valve that I had so diligently installed. Literally within seconds of hitting ENTER, I was just waiting for my letter to get the fuck out of my mailbox and for the magical golden words “message sent” to appear before me...(Cue:Balloon pops).

Everything had changed... it was over... all over... a weight off my chest (and all that crap); for the stroke victims among us it may as well be accompanied by a string of other mind numbingly dull cliches... which I'll do my best to refrain from use.

I bid farewell to the whining mosquito-pitched voice which used to buzz and buzz around my head before it would statically bite down onto my ear and shrill out the corner of its mouth in a Uri Geller trance-like fashion: “Leeeeave...leeeeeave...leeeeeeave”

Yes, just 6 weeks before the end of what was my dream job contract I had eventually succumbed to the origins of the telepathic "leeeave" message that had been transmitting, on loop, 24/7 directly from my boss's wreaking Orifice since the first day I entered the office. I was fully conscious of the fact that my resignation would go hand in hand with the practical disappearance of any possibility of future employment with The Institution, but I had gone beyond caring. I had had enough!

It is a defeat which I am not particularly proud of...it swept my childhood aspirations away and quite literally gave them a good spin round, ripped them inside out and then pulled them around again only to be regurgitated into a flushing toilet bowl... the only comfort came from the sobering sprinkles of cold water that splashed against my face as I watched it all disappear in a dizzying whirl down the tube (Cue: time to grow up).

Sob sob sob boo hoo...my confidence had been hit by a freight train, oh dear (cue: dog howls), what now? Having spent seven years around the world I had decided to move straight out the jungle and back to home sweet home where I could lick my wounds in peace (Cue: sob, sob, boo hoo... again); recharge my batteries; and fortify my confidence (not too much). All in a society I kinda more-or-less understand, in a language which I tend from time-to-time to use... but at risk of becoming a lay-about loser in his thirties living back at his Mother's house (cue: supercalifaralistiexpdalidocious).

I am not sure where I will go from here... I am not sure whether I will venture back into the humiliatarian or (arrested) development professions .... I am not sure whether I have the strength nor the will to see it through...(Cue: violins screech in the background) For I found myself beginning not to care anymore about anything...(Cue: a drunken bum falls off a park bench).

That was probably the exact purpose of The Orifice's words; to extract any trace of caring... and to leave behind nothing but a foul stench emitted from a hollowed out husk... an emotionally void vessel, where mental capacity is strictly limited to the confines of reports, reports, reports, and the processing of outputs which ultimately justify egg-white glazed job positions, and serve to polish those of others.

Be it true or be it not, does not really matter. What is important to me at this moment in time is the present situation... I am back home... in one piece physically and mentally... and will now pick myself up, shake it all off, take a break (cue: interlude)...and carry on :-)

None of the Above

Peering through the pixelated looking glass of my laptop I watch a movie on the big apple. It feels surreal to be transported to a world far more familiar than the one I am in now. As much as I will myself to be there, there is a part of me that still knows that I am actually lying on my hotel room bed far away from the images on the screen.

It's a contradiction in terms, for so long I yearned to get away from the tacky existence of the norm, the regular, and the respectable. A fear I should never have felt coming from parents of the peace and love generation.

Yet still I have felt the structure that demands everyone yield into place to play out the role that is expected of them or forever be cast into nothingness.

Childhood dreams are replaced with the enticing illusion of chained debt. The cartoon like aspirations? Cast away, they lie in locked trunks amongst junk left under the stairs. In my case that is simply not true;I am living out my child hood
wishes.

A dream, however, that at times could and does transform itself into a horrormare… slowly it drifts between realms of the real and the unreal... Extremes meet up to become one, highly charged emotions explode all around. Happiness and sadness, joy and suffering, strangely fused on to the faces of others.

Why did I feel that need to escape to such places from an early age? What drove me to consider doing such work before I could even begin to understand the concepts and social constructs that define it? Is this nothing more than a desire to live out a childhood dream?

And if so, is there anything wrong in doing it? That is if you assume that there is right and wrong in the first place, which is a whole different topic onto itself when writing from a place where such philosophies are fickle. Is this a new tourism, a new therapy for the sick minded to visit the blighted in an attempt to feel better?

I hope not. I pray to fuck not. Swear__ why swear? Why quibble over such language when far fouler things are at play. Strange I am not high yet feel so, a complete clarity of mind which has opened myself to write what I feel... at this moment in time. A period of complete self indulgence? perhaps or maybe just reflection. .. what was that…loud bangs… outside... too loud, too metalic, too close to be firecrackers.

Only a short burst no more than three; from the octave definitely from a rifle and from the succesion definitely automatic. No screams... no shouting... all good signs... the rumble of voices has gone quiet... and the sound systems that were spewing out a cacophony of raggaton and salsa have been not so gracefully silenced.

My room is slap bang in the middle of the hotel so there's little chance of any bullets passing passing through so many walls, yetI could always crawl to the tiled bathroom if it gets worse.

No more shots... thank god... probably a warning to someone god knows why or by who to whom. Do I care? Do I really want to know more? I have got to that stage where no, I really don’t wish to see any horror. I just want to write and then go back to sleep.

Still I better check the time in case it turns out to be something more serious, it’s 1.23am. Now … concentrate… come on… okay I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted...

This world, this sphere of an alternate reality why? Schadenfreude? Here people, or rather some people I should say, come to ”work” to “make the world a better place” supposedly… THey return triumphant to the west greeted with hallelujahs... trumpeted heroic work.

I feel soooooooooooo far away from that. I'm in a village 4 hours upriver from the nearest town in the middle of dense jungle. I am here to deliver workshops on displacement... displacement.. forced displacement…. Conflict induced forced displacement.

Today, children recounted their experiences of how they ran and sought sanctuary in a church that got blown to pieces, 189 people died. The church lies a couple of hundred metres from where I am lying… secondary trauma I here you say no... fuck that… in this case, in the here now, there is no secondary trauma. Anyway that is not my point as I would prefer rather to look at or analyse my work.

Is it even remotely possible that a “workshop” that lasts two and a half hours could actually be of benefit to these kids? They seemed content with the activities… an 11 year old girl proudly presented the procedure of how to get assistance if displaced…(again).

Fair enough she didn’t have a clue how to do so before, but should I really be teaching this to kids who I believe, I naively state, should be enjoying their childhoods instead of worrying about what government institution they need to report to if fighting breaks out …

Am I installing false expectations pumping law into the minds of young people who have been repeatedly let down by local, national, regional, and international systems. Sure, I am just doing what I have been instructed to do, following orders… as did the Nazi officers.

The elites that failed them are getting paid to tell kids what to do in case we fail again … I wonder I wonder… is this why I am here... is this what gives meaning to my life… to make my existence? To feel “worthwhile””? Is this really how to help? …. is this really such an admirable cause?

At times it feels akin to a Victorian brain surgeon poking inside peoples heads with steel rods whilst attaching leaches to arms! We do not know what we are doing but are the first to shout out what a worthwhile profession we have.

We gallivant on white steeds of machinery, prancing around… flaunting our special status and privileges. And when the going gets tough… when shit reallllllly hits the fucking fan we are packed up into aircraft and whispered away up from the very sky we were initially dropped from. In the worst cases WE receive psychotherapy for the trauma WE experienced... or perhaps caused.

Disillusioned you say? A pessimist? A nihilist, perhaps even a narcissist? No, I think not. It may seem strange to you but I believe in what I am doing but at the same time am deeply critical and yes somewhat frustrated at the baby steps that are being made when what is required is a far deeper will to commit to change.

But to give up now means to give up on the chance to hopefully contribute to some kind of progress in my own small way. And where would I be wIthout my childhood dream? SO why criticise? It makes me, it fuels me, and helps me assess what I have done and consciously examine what I am doing.

The motivations and morals of others? Damn, they certainly do have an effect. In this is a bizarre almost pioneering profession in which a dedicated MA as a recognized qualification has only been in existence since 1993; and is by no means a requirement.

Anyone can do it; and everyone does. It often attracts the craziest collection of people who should not be let near a box of matches let alone war zones.

In all shapes and sizes they come, some uncategorisable. There are those who are bored by LIFE wherever they are. In constant need of changing environments, always with an eye on the next location… consistently failing to absorb the here and now.

Over saturated snaps litter their face… book A temple to the me, myself, and I. Experiences revealed in constantly changing locations…with fresh ensembles of people arranged to create bouquets of new entourages.

An array of stage sets with exotic backdrops containing local extras possessing varying roles of interaction. The protagonist never really stays around long enough to understand what is going on. Like a lemming jumping off a cliff the drive to keep on remains... and when resurrected from the grave... does no more than exactly the same again and again.

The bungee jumper terrifies me the most. They are DANGEROUS… they’re junkies needing a hit; a sporadic high; harder stronger and longer than the last. Seeking the thrill, the buzz, that tingly feeling when your body knows it is alive but not sure for how long….

It gives their otherwise tedious existence…meaning, or so they have told me. But as the hit wears off and conflicts simmer they reach for the reset button and start over again. Desperate to once again feel the heat blast from an explosion on their cheeks, the sound of whizzing projectiles impacting on walls, the lighting up of night skies becomes their firework display. Death... the extreme emotions… the suffering... the confusion …and the wrenching of bile experienced when seeing twisted bodies writhe like poisoned albino rats in a lab cage.

I don’t know what they do with such experiences. It becomes their life transformed… an alternate banality is instead a fireside story of bravery and survival. A romantic gloss coats a heavily edited adventure fairy tale.

Why do people lead such lives when it is so much easier to live an existence shut up in a safer world where this only exists in the form of action movies spun out to the accompaniment of the on-mass rhythmic crunching of popcorn.

Strange how some voluntarily choose to leap out of their cushioned pastures to seek the experience of human atrocities at a safe or not so safe (yet almost always escapable) distance. Thrill seeking tourists dressed up as humanitarian workers book passages on flights that fly above the heads of people dying to enter Europe and the US.

Then there are those others who regularly tender out their mind, body, and soul to bids in an attempt to guarantee another term of humanitarian existence. Jacks (& Jills) of all trades offer a range of services from the free love gobbledygook of the psychosocial, to the babblers of round-table discussions, and as straight jacketed anal monitors of European Union/Commission projects.

These specialist humanitarian / development / resolutionist mercenaries circle above their next disaster sniffing contracts like sharks searching out blood stemming from their prey. The complete dependency on making a living out of the suffering of others is uncomfortable to say the least.

Not to mention the plying of democracy as the remedy to all social ills packaged alongside truth & reconciliation as the antidote to all known conflictive ailments. Then there's the ever evolving jargon that sprouts out of nowhere like new menu meals in a fast food chain.

The lexicon of a quarter pound of Truth and crispy Justice with slices of succulent Transparency emerge from tongues like rows of beef burgers rolled out from under a McDonalds grill. A portion of freedom fries and a dollop of ketchup make quite the happy meal.

What am I doing in my hotel room at 2am, exhausted, analysing and critiquing others who may actually be no one other than myself? As tired as I maybe I must admit I certainly do identify with elements of the above characters… yet I wish, I sincerely hope, that I am not nor will I ever fully become any of the above. Sleep beckons, I must dream on...Good night!

Criminal Minded? (1st draft)

I received news that a bomb just exploded a few minutes ago in a bar on my street, leaving eleven injured. Unfortunately this is becoming a common affair, explosions have been rocking Jungle Town frequently over the past 8 weeks with little explanation. Rumors are plentiful: Guerrillas? Paras? Both perhaps in some kind of turf war to exert control over drug transport routes or protection racketeering?

Luckily at the moment I am not in Jungle town, I escaped yesterday to the capital in preparation for week of meetings and training sessions. The contrast is staggering, like many other large capital cites it boasts shopping malls, tall buildings, and an ever flowing spew of traffic. In contrast Jungle Town has no malls, no water sewage system, no asphalt roads, no traffic lights, and simmers at a constant 40 degrees in 80% humidity.

News of the bomb has not reached, and will most probably never reach, the slick television screens pinned to peoples living room walls in the capital. Jungle Town is a forgotten place, a reminder of a conflict that the government does not want to admit exists.

In true Orwellian style the Presidential office prefers to trumpet the protective shield of “Democratic Security”. Sure enough the capital city along with other urban areas are far safer than 5 years ago. But just a quick venture a little further afield, hop on a 45 minute flight to Jungle town, and you'll be confronted with a very different perspective. A dubious democratic state of affairs of a somewhat insecure demeanor.

The main industry produces thick corroding tentacles of corruption wielding a strangling grip of poverty on its subjects . The accompanying distinct sulphuric whiff from the fumes emitted out from the still smoldering remnants of the bombed out bar on my street, only further demonstrates the fragile state of security In spite of this the President and his entourage continue to ply the package that the nation is no longer in conflict.

Since 2005 all paramilitary units have supposedly demobilized; and the Guerrillas have been beaten back to a pulp. These bombs and bullets are nothing more than a pesky nuisance that stem apparently from “new” emerging gangs that are nothing more than criminal minded drug fueled insane kidnappers.

Until now I was not aware that criminal “gangs” and beaten up guerrillas were able to control large swathes of a land, posses heavy weaponry, displace thousands of civilians at a time, and massacre the indigenous inhabitants of small rural villages on a regular basis.

Granted, the conflict is not what it was, the government has made some inroads in hitting back yet it appears quite evident that the conflict is evolving. New strains are emerging which are proving to be far more resistant.

Paramilitary groups now number more than a dozen and persist in a brutal campaign of fighting everyone and anyone for control of territory. Although weakened, the guerrillas continue to impose a sickening regime of violence and intimidation particularly in rural areas. The ranks and file in this ghastly conflict are made up of mostly poorly educated peasants living in inhumane conditions of otherwise extreme poverty.

Their victims too often come from very the same squalor, there deaths not counted. According to government's own statistics over 370,000 people were forcibily displaced in 2008 due to violent conflict, the highest amount in over 5 years. Meanwhile, The Presidents Democratic security is beginning to crack under the recent revelation that army death squads have been killing civilians and dressing them up in guerrillas costumes.

As much as two plus two does not equal five, it does not take much to see that unless this beautiful country finds the long term will to tackle the gigantic social ills that afflict it, this conflict unfortunately will continue to wreak havoc upon its inhabitants for a very very long time to come.

Escape to New York (Rough draft)

It was an unbearably hot May day in jungle town (the place where I am posted). The liquid humidity of the day demanded the involuntarily payment of copious amounts of sweat to be squeezed through the pores of ones skin, as I limped pathetically through the day. But I was safe in the knowledge that I was about to cash in my 'get out of jail' (actually more like parole) card knowing that soon I would escape. Not before long, to my much awaited relief, I felt a slight tugging on my collar as if it was being tested for strength of the grip, and then...I was violently yanked up into the air like a puppy grabbed by folds on the back his neck. The jarred dusty streets clogged with motorcycles, clouds of car fumes, sizzling food and people began to evaporate from under my feet as I felt myself being slung out into the stratosphere. Before I could even get a good glimpse of the world below I felt myself hurtling towards the ground with a blur as I was pulled in by an invisible tug line winding me in from an anchor snagged deep below among a grey mass of tall buildings. Spinning Red and white lights dizzily illuminated the area below me easing whooshing effect in my stomach. Just 10 feet off the ground I felt my self dangle in midair for a split second before being dropped through a sea of people and onto the concrete surface that blankets Times Square.

Finally, I had escaped straight out the jungle. And sure enough I am writing this entry while sitting beside the fabulous reservoir located slap bang in the middle of Central Park. The gravel dirt track surrounding it is being churned up by the rhythmic trot of joggers, the sun is beginning to lower around the staggered mountain range of buildings framing the park like a modern art picture frame. But what the hell am I doing here, might you ask? Nope I'm not dreaming. No I haven't quit my job. I'm on what's called R&R, (rest and recuperation) a bizarre term used in the humanitarian industry to describe a weeks vacation for those who are posted in what are considered to be difficult and strenuous locations. Whereas most of my colleagues may choose beach locations I instead yearned for the hustle and bustle of the city and so jumped on the 1st flight to New York. City. Being a Londoner I actually find sanctuary in the chaos and noise of the big city, the roar of the traffic, sirens wailing and the rumble of trains flowing far below my feet, I love it.

With its international feel and of course English speaking it is about as close to London as I can get in the Americas. The illusion of the seriousness of a challenging work environment has completely melted away, completely distracted by the dazzling lights, tall buildings matched with all the bells and whistles of a mega city. Reflecting over the past few months I wonder if I secretly want to return to a more stable life away from the craziness of a environment marred by social and physical conflict. Do I really seek a return to what would be a perceived normality. New York feels soooo peaceful, so clean, so organized, and creative as a city. Strange, when I was last here some ten odd years ago I thought it was smelly, dirty, dangerous, and crime ridden place. Yet now I find sanctuary viewed from a very different life perspective. Of course I am here on holiday and so can afford to marvel at its wonders, I know for certain that day to day living here is no picnic. A few months here and I would probably be longing to go back out into the field, or would I? What direction am I going? I feel a little lost? I feel I have an overwhelming amount of opportunities and none at the same time.
I sit and wonder some more in the surreal landscape of central park watching the sun set over the west side of the reservoir, slowly fragmenting behind the towers. I ponder, deliberate, chew and spit out the conclusion that so far I am actually quite a lucky cookie. I am quite excited about where life may lead me, whereas just a couple of years ago I was bored by the mundane routine of a job and lifestyle which I found repetitive and unfulfilling. With another year soon to be etched into me I feel I should be less concerned about what and where I might end up and instead try to trust life a little more and roll with it, go with the flow instead of always fighting to achieve to strive forwards. I just need to find a little more faith that somehow everything may just perhaps work out :D in this wonderful thing called life.

Your disaster, my career?

A razor sharp clinical and sanitized approach to humanitarian work deploying a barbed corporate work ethic is proving a difficult mould for me to fit into. I am conscious of the fact that this particular experience is not indicative of the humanitarian system but it rings some pretty loud alarm bells in my head that an institution can be permissive of such an approach. Solutions are presented in nice and neat little boxes with flow charts and tables. Human contact is reduced to a bare minimum; communication takes form as list of orders that jump barking out of your electronic mailbox demanding Results.

I am not for a second suggesting that accountability should be scrapped, but should it come at the full expense of removing motivations and aspirations for change? Has it really come to the point where some people have decided that the response to human disaster and tragedy should be delivered through managerial outputs? And if so then how is human suffering measured in a manner to quantify the effectiveness of its reduction? As one colleague recently mentioned, will it one day come to the ridiculousness of counting the amount of tear-drops dripping from a child's face? Or will it just continue to be processed through the amount of people attending community round tables? How, in God's name may I ask, are we really "making a difference”? Thousands of men, women and children are running for their lives here. There is a war, people are being killed, and without wishing to sound too pathetic the response by some is to digitally synthesize such information and make a career out of it.


It feels at times that this particular humanitarian machine is doing little more than spewing out little packets of saccharine aimed at sweetening the bitter taste of brutal hardship that so many are forced to swallow. Report deadlines, directives, committee meetings, minutes, budgets, are the grease that oils the apparatus of the humanitarian/development industry. The biting paradox; the bread and butter existence of the workers involved in the duties of maintaining this colossus is dependent upon the very same human suffering which they are mandated with alleviating. Yet without humanitarian/development agencies thousands of people's lives would be at risk, and local economies in vulnerable post conflict societies would crumble.

The 1960s and 1970s may have well produced hordes of dope smoking hippies who wanted to “make love not war” but who never realized anything remotely close to “world peace”. Quite understandably a number of people have called it reckless for unskilled do-gooders to arrive in complex emergencies, throw money around, sing Kumbaya, and talk about change from a privileged position. However, that essence, that desire "to do something” should not be discarded and compromised in the continuing effort to professionalize this industry. Without that force for change where would the ICRC or MSF be, or for that matter the civil rights movement in the US, or Ghandi's liberation from the British? Many fine qualities may inadvertently be scrubbed out leaving a mechanism without gall, bravado, will, spirit, or the humane solidarity needed to create, sustain, and motivate change. Appearing on the horizon (some would say that they have looong been here) are a percentage of bloated fat cats feeding on disasters, justifying their positions through the execution of x number of transparent and efficient projects assisting y number of individuals on a budget of z. Is this really what Dunant's humanitarianism has been reduced to? Perhaps somewhat idyllic I would rather prefer to think that there is a global responsibility and duty to protect those who are most vulnerable. To do that we really need to find the will to place significant resources to challenge the malignant causes of human suffering. In an effort to avoid models of dependency the fundamental dynamics need to change, people not only have a right to receive assistance but should be empowered wherever possible to have a say as to how that assistance is delivered to them. To do that, I believe, the human has to be put back into the humanitarian. This difference in approach is wherein my challenge lies.