mattsiller.com Blog

I arrived in New York for my first of three stops in this city over the break. I immediately dropped my stuff at my buddy’s apartment and made it out and about for that last minute Christmas hustle through the streets. I grabbed a deli sandwich and found the first hair cut place I could find. It happened to be a place called ‘Blow’.

Now normally I would head to the cheapest barber in the area or cut it myself with clippers, but over this last go around I went 5 months without a chop and thought I should probably get a pro to see what he/she could shape.

I walked in, made an appointment for later in the afternoon and refused to ask costs. I then wandered aimlessly around West Village and Soho for a bit, walking off the jetlag and taking in the city.

I returned later that afternoon, looking for the large sign, refusing to ask passerby’s, “Excuse me, I’m looking for Blow?” I found the shop and my ‘stylist’s assistant’ led me back to the fufu wash rooms for a rinse. The assistant wore a plain white shirt, tight fit, tattoos lining his arms, short styled hair, a smirk of discontent and a silent edgy New York attitude.

I definitely realized I shouldn’t be pampering myself so much when my thoughts turned to “damn, this guy washes a mean head of hair”.

The stylist, on the other hand, was a guy in a gleefully gabby mood, chatting all things social with a girl whose hair he was coloring.

Once my head wash and rewash and rewash was complete, I was escorted over to the stylist, where he said “Hello Mark, let’s get you ready. Why don’t you take off your shirt so you don’t get all that hair caught up in the collar, grab a robe a have a seat right here next to me.”

He was also thin and NY edgy, wore a Michael Jackson hat, had a groomed goatee, and claimed native ties to Mexico, but all I got from his accent was he must be from Queens.

So when he asked me to remove my shirt right then and there, its unexpectedness pretty much startled me beyond any sort of rational reason not to, so I did, put on his ‘styling robe’, and had a nearby seat.

The conversation started with, ‘I can give you something handsome and fabulous” and I was hoping he was talking about my haircut, but eventually shifted back and forth from must see current movies to “Oh my God, you’re totally like doing something remarkably profound and all I do is cut hair.”

Anyway, he used tools I had never seen before to cut hair and became offended when I asked him how long he had been doing this, but in the end, I would say it was a decent chop with a good conversationalist.

I walked up to pay the bill, appreciating the experience but noting that this would be the first and last $100 haircut I ever received.

Reverse culture shock, just a little.

My trip to Dubai was to meet with folks from our various offices around the world and all get back on the same page with regards to standardizing processes. The good thing about this is that there were fun people I’ve worked with from the past that came together in one spot. The bad thing was that I was only scheduled to be there 48 hours, working. So we did what we do best, work hard and play even harder, then sleep it off during the plane rides.

Dubai is a city that’s erupting as the New York of the Middle East. Its sprawl of cranes and half built sky scrapers is both an eye sore but curiosity of construction. The skyscrapers line the Persian Gulf’s beaches and marinas and are tattooed with architectural features, each uniquely distinguishing itself from the next, or in tandem as a series of buildings. They serve as both high end apartment/condo’s and business offices.

Dubai, a city which reaches 120F with humidity in the summer (and if the temperature surpasses this amount, the city officially calls holiday) is home to a man made indoor skiing facility in a gigantic mall, and three different man made ‘Palm Islands’, a residential oasis of astronomical cost made in the form of palm tree paradise.

The reason for the growth of the city is that Dubai has taken over the role of the gateway city that Istanbul once owned. Istanbul may still own the cultural title, but Dubai is now the commercial and industrial gateway champion, facilitating goods and services from Asia into the Middle East, Europe, and Africa, and from those places back to Asia. With the military intervention in Afghanistan, Iraq, oil wealth, and regional development in Africa in places like Khartoum (a thriving economy spurred by the Chinese), Dubai now affords itself as a major player in global cities.

You see expats from all over the world conglomerating there temporary and full time and it offers a strong night life to support them and their spending ways (everything from 5 star dining to the infamous Cyclone nightclub – an often busted front for prostitution (I’m told) – walk in and Asians on the left, Eastern Europeans down the hall on the right.

One of the disappointments with Dubai is that because it is a city of forced growth, a city built from the outside in, (as opposed to one like NY or Paris that has developed a character over time of which the city’s growth has supported that character) Dubai is simply industry and sky scrapers on a beach in the middle east. And it doesn’t really champion any from a cultural standpoint, rather serving as a boiling pot for catering to its outside business clientele in food and service.

I sat next to a study abroad student on the plane ride into NY, and he was disappointed that his original conception of gaining a true Middle Eastern experience by studying in Dubai last semester was a false sense of reality.

So I arrived in my sky rise hotel room the first night at 4am, exhausted and tired, knowing I had a 9am meeting. I jumped in the shower anticipating a nice a hot shower (mind you since the winter has arrived in Darfur, I have had no hot shower in the morning for the last month, cursing the night cold through my chattering teeth).

Aside from the food, a hot shower was the second most looked forward to amenity on my wish list.

I jumped into freezing water. Damn that 5 star status. I waited and tried again in the morning but to no avail. I called the front desk and asked for assistance, teeth chattering for effect, explaining my month long abstain from a hot shower and desperate need for one in this establishment. They said they would have someone up right away to look at the problem.

Later that night I made way to the hotel gym (one of the cooler gyms I’ve been to, on the top floor overlooking the region) and back to the shower, thinking, please be warm. No luck.

After my fourth cold shower and third call down to the front in a complaint, I decided I was going to demand a refund (or in this case future vouchers) for customer unsatisfaction. I was on the verge of heading to the concierge when one of my colleagues stopped by the room. Out of curiosity (and madness) I asked to see if he could magically make the water hot.

He turned it on, came out of the bathroom 30 seconds later and said Wallah!

I checked for myself, then slumped onto bed and cursed myself in every language I knew at my stupidity (over his laughter) when he explained to me I simply needed to turn the water faucet knob the other way.

I can’t sleep.  I can’t sleep because I get the heck out of dodge tomorrow!  I’m looking forward to my break.  I head over to Dubai for a couple of days for a meeting and then I’m back in the states, home free, diving head first into the holiday.

It’s good timing because the security situation out here, as noted in the previous post, is getting a little worse.  There have been more hijackings, or ambushes, of AMIS vehicles in the last week in Darfur which is concerning all of the players.  You still hear errant gunfire at night, but it’s sporadic and distant.  I’ve basically been confined to a large triangle for the last 4 months so it will be good to branch out of this place and get some fresh air.

So what do I want this year for Christmas, after missing it last year, celebrating Darfur Style.  On a personal level it’s hard for me to want anything now, living simply in desert (on rice and beans and peppers and goat).  So I guess what I really want is a good steak, a cold beer, a side of Sonic tater tots and a banana split on top of an apple pie on top of a beautiful woman for desert, all while watching unlimited amounts of football and HBO on a cush couch.

On a more serious level (and this comment is going to be about deep as the thought I’ve put into this post) I think this Christmas I just want our folks here to stay safe, to get the UN in (even though ‘a million soldiers couldn’t solve Darfur’s problems) and to work this situation so we can one day convert this nutty country to democracy and an ally on terrorism, I mean…save lives.

I hope you enjoy this post. It’s enlightening and it’s long. But it has caused me a lot of stress in the last 48 hours and it hits home to what is really occurring in Darfur. I’ve written often about our dailys and politics, but I haven’t ever written a post like this…

5-Dec 6:00pm

So I didn’t want to post this until after the fact because to those close, it has the possibility of being alarming. But it has been a year since I’ve been in Sudan, and up to this point, I really haven’t been exposed to much danger, despite the fact that I live in a so-called genocidal war zone.

As outsiders, we kind of take this for granted…’oh that village got attacked’…’wow…look at those pictures of the inhumanity’…’ouch…one of our camps had gunfire screaming nearby’….’ewww…that Sudanese chopper went down from an RPG and look at the pics of those charred bodies’.

We were removed from the violence and it meant about as much to us in headquarters El Fasher as it did to those reading the NY Times or watching the nightly news in the states.

Until now.

Yesterday afternoon the Janjaweed came into El Fasher and attacked our local market, looting the shops and claiming the “Capitol of Northern Darfur” theirs. This of course has upset many an outside rebel. As a background, El Fasher is home to primarily SLA members, or Tora Bora as they call them (those that come down to fight from the mountains…as named from the mountain ranges in Afghanistan). The GOS (Sudanese Army) protects the town in a strange symbiotic relationship by running the airport and government facilities…but the SLA owns the town.

The Janjaweed have decided El Fasher is a strategic point they want and a day ago decided to take matters into their own hand and attack the market and say, El Fasher is ours…ignoring all sorts of peace agreements (UN resolution 1706 and the DPA) that the SLA and GOS agreed upon.

In retaliation, the SLA has been generous, building up thousands of troops outside of El Fasher, saying…ok JJWeed, you have 24 hours to exit our town…otherwise we level it, you included.

Oddly enough, the GOS (who according to most sources, sides with the JJWeed) has claimed neutrality and not chosen a side in this skirmish.

Even more oddly, the leader of the SLA, and the mayor (wadi) of El Fasher, has skipped town, saying they will not have this disorder, but they choose not to be involved.

So a deadline has been set of noon tomorrow (the 6^th) for a full withdrawal of JJWeed soldiers from the town. Otherwise…they come in droves and will not be selective in their targets.

The UN has pulled out of the city entirely, all AU woman soldiers are out, and all international org folks as well.

At 4pm today, we evacuated all non-essential personnel into southern regions, moving all our aircraft away from the airport (considered a prime battleground).

Unfortunately for me, I am considered key personnel. Let’s forget the irony – Key Personnel Stay in the Danger in the War Zone.

So I helped execute the evacuation of the majority of personnel from this city to a safe zone. A select group of us stayed at the airport, watching the airplane props spin up and helicopter rotors initiate emergency evacuations, on the sideline, one hand in our pocket and another waving goodbye, while distant empty thoughts run through our heads.

‘Stay safe guys. We’ll hold up the fort.’

Now most of the guys who stayed behind are former war vets and vigilantes, special ops, adrenaline junkies, smooth operators, the kind of guys who clap their hands together and rub, saying ‘lets bring it on’.

Then there are the guys like me…heart beating with bittersweet feelings of ‘so this is what it’s like…’

The work stops and we bid farewells at the airport and gather up back at our headquarters, standing outside, cracking loose jokes, some acting macho, some standing quiet.

Our curfews have been set and the night is said to unfold uneventfully, waiting for our noon deadline tomorrow. We retire to our housing compound, waving hello to our comforted local security guards. It’s impossible not to think..my safety is in the hands of these guys…who are probably tora bora or jjweed, depending on the price?

We head back to our rooms after mess and strangely conglomerate together. It’s a bonding experience, I tell you that. The feeling of huddling outside together, in mixed emotions of what is to come in the next 24 hours, is pretty intense.

Will they resort to fighting? Will they stay in their own boundaries? Will they loot the western amenities? It’s a lonely feeling, knowing the UN and US Embassy reps and Int’l Orgs have all flown out earlier in the day, taking absolute precaution.

There’s a sense of brotherhood forming with the group. Stick with me…we’ll keep you safe…keep your head down…

There’s a lot of speculation on whether or not the attacks will occur and to what extent. How do you think like an African? What do they have to gain? Are we a strategic target at all? Do they value life enough to respect us? Who is the GOS going to side with if at all? Perhaps the most troubling thing of the whole build up is that the GOS (who’s been flying in troops by the thousands over the last 2 months) is no where to be found? Will they side with their traditional unspoken partners, the JJWeed, or will they side with their peace signatories, the SLA? How will that impact us?

It’s a nerve racking and adrenaline filled thought, and I can’t say I don’t enjoy it because it’s a feeling of eternal destiny taking shape and to think a crossroads is so near, it’s powerful.

Now I’ve written about it as if attack on us is eminent, which in reality is a very low percentage. But when your in the zone, you think about this stuff. And understanding what it’s like is, truthfully, one of the reasons I’m here.

But we will not speculate any further. We’ll just keep our head down and stay secluded, aside from the wild video footage that may arise from my freshly charged camera.

I’m not a reporter, and I will be low key. But there’s more to this story to come….stay tuned….

6-Dec 9:00am

I spent the night in a restless sleep, every noise sounding like the pop pop AK47 gunfire, loud then faint. My guess is that’s probably what it was. As long as there were no explosions, I’m okay with distant gunfire – that’s nothing new to this area. Most of it is liquored or ‘gack’ed up troops firing into the air in the wee hours of the morning.

So I awoke and got dressed, checked the people outside my room to make sure I didn’t miss anything while asleep. The morning was eerily quiet, cliché to say the calm before the storm, but that’s what it felt like. I drove to work about 8am and saw a few children walking to school, herders moving their flocks to eat. I was scanning the panorama for any mass movement of people or vehicles and didn’t see much. I passed the GOS military compound and they had stocked up on vehicles and people, but there wasn’t much movement.

At the office, everyone was gathered outside for their morning smoke, shooting the shit about this and that in relation to what may or may not happen. Our locals came in to work and didn’t have much news. The GOS has flooded the markets and the JJWeed are gathering on the outskirts of town. They didn’t know about the SLA, but it was said mass vehicles were in tow last night from Millit, a town 1 hour north, gathering on the outside.

Three hours count down to the deadline and the butterflies are growing in the stomach. All of the employees are making final precautions getting ready for bunkering down and/or evacuation. We’ve packed Meals Ready to Eat (MRE’s) and boxes of water in our bunkers (at the office and at our residence). We’ve all made our to-go bags (of which you have a change of clothes, some water, a little food, flashlights, basic survival stuff if you have it. Mine’s basically my passport and all my per diem.) We’re adding sandbags to the exteriors of the bunkers. We’ve lined the perimeter of our compound with another layer of protection, our cargo trucks. We’re getting all of our ‘Go Vehicles’ gased and packed with water. Our comm’s team is installing portable internet to two of the vehicles (RBGAN, satellite internet service) and the vehicle maintenance team is changing filters and oil.

Mind you our last resort is to get into the vehicles and drive off into the desert, but it must be a secondary option. Our first resort is to get extracted by chopper at a specified rendezvous point, but if things are too hot, then this also works.

Two hours to countdown and we hear there are mass demonstrations taking place downtown by the locals. Then a hundred or so military vehicles drive in and locals throw rocks at them and scatter. Downtown’s now been abandoned, shops closed, people hiding.

11:30am

30 minutes to decision point. There hasn’t been much heard about any negotiations for the JJWeed pull out, and military strategy would think a daylight attack isn’t advantageous…so maybe if nothing occurs they’d wait until evening. But it’s hard to tell.

I’m at my desk, having been told to carry on as normal and follow up with various outstanding issues. I tell you now that’s not the easiest thing to do when all sorts of life saving preparations are taking place outside and I’m in working daily business….my stomach is in knots. So I write this instead and let it go.

1:00pm

The deadline has come and gone, nothing major on any movements or occurrences troop wise. There’s no smoke in town or flashes of lights or booms or anything relating to battles in our line of site. We still are standing by. There’s actually an excellent morale right now – and we’re all prepared. I think it’s more excitement than anything…and 90% says in historical context, nothing will happen and all this will be moot preparation.

1:15pm

A mass of protesting people have been moving toward our second camp in the area, Zam Zam, about 5km away from us. We’re getting radio updates from our manager there. “There is a large group of civilians heading toward the camp.” Security asks for more details of which follow. Finally, “They are out front, are carrying sticks, and have stones in their hands.” Security replies “Well don’t get hit with a rock, stay indoors!”

Our staff has bunkered down there and the AU protection force (Rwandan soldiers – the best soldiers here in theater) have lined up in their fighting positions inside the camp. The protestors have looted the store in front of the camp and it’s now burning. They haven’t tried to overtake the camp, but we’re fairly confident the Rwandans are the best we have to keep that from occurring. As opposed to other troops here, who when queried what they were doing this morning, we’re told, hiding under their mattresses.

2:00pm

In one of Sudan’s great many ironies, we hear a funny update over the radio from Zam Zam. The very protestors who were upset with the AU, threatening to overtake the camp, have done an amazing 180. Shortly after the mayhem began, GOS police came rolling up (who are notorious for having itchy trigger fingers in controlling protests). The crowd shifted from angry to scared and, if you can imagine the nerve, has asked the AU to protect them from the GOS with an escort back to Fasher.

3:00pm

Nothing seems to be occurring at this point. The staff is scheduled to have a War BBQ at our residence (conveniently enough, our social area also seconds as our security bunker) this afternoon so we’re all breaking early from work to cook, sit outside in the sun, and veg. Will there be a fireworks display tonight? At this point, it’s looking like the once tense environment is all bark and no bite, which is a good thing.

8:30pm

It’s the waiting that kills you, it’s the waiting and what-if’s that makes your heart beat. We’ve gotten through the day and nothing significant has occurred. Our BBQ fell through because we couldn’t go downtown to get any meat. The guys conglomerated around each other, having a drink and a smoke, watching something light, “Blue Collar Comedy Tour”, to detensify the situation.

There really are low odds any harm would come our way. But the uncertainty is what makes your heart beat. As dusk and darkness sets, the true tension rebuilds. If attacks are going to occur, it’s the night-time that they should be expected. Rumors are flying…thousands are troops are building outside the city limits…was that an explosion in town…I hear some gunfire nearby…

It really is the uncertainty, the anticipation, which drives the hammer into the nail of fear. It’s a full moon tonight in Darfur, not the best time to move troops and capture the element of surprise. But an ultimatum was set and no one knows if it was met with resistance or acceptance by the JJWeed.

Folks here are under the impression that between midnight and eight am we’ll know whether or not the rebels mean business. How can you sleep when this thought process overwhelms you? Do you turn your comms radio up loud? Do you sit on the rooftops and watch?

Everything about this situation leaves the senses heightened. Adrenaline is surely a non-stabilizer.

7-Dec 8:00am

Well after a little small arms fire, a few far away mortars, and an aircraft bomber circling briefly, nothing to report. All seems quiet on the Eastern front. Our security status is still red, but it looks like this whole exercise was just that…good practice.

Part of me wanted the story to end in dramatic movie like fashion, being whisked away in a helicopter while being chased by rebel filled pickup trucks, flicking them off as we fly into the sunset. But I’ll accept the fact that in this situation less is much, much more, and the ending to a hard story doesn’t have to be dramatic.

The groups that are fighting are fickle in their wants and I believe in this place there will be big threats and small battles until major intervention force peace agreements that concede some sort of regional/government power to them.

There’s an accepted risk we take by living in this place and I finally know what that risk feels like when the fire heats up. It’s not so much being scared, it’s more the intensity of uncertainty. There are people who live for this kind of feeling, professional soldiers, police officers, etc. I suppose you learn to control it to a point that it’s almost a normal feeling. I don’t think I want to get to that point.

Some of you may have said, why haven’t all of you been evacuated? If the UN and other aid agencies jump ship at the possibility of danger, why not you guys as well? The fact is we’re a private company with an obligation to support the AU mission and if we all leave it shuts down. So we will keep a minimum staff around until things really get hot. My company’s been working in African hot zones for a long time and they’re very good at ensuring the safety of their personnel. So I stand by that comfort, accept my decision to continue working here, and at the end of the day can say, “well, today I earned my hazard pay!”

I’ve spent the last five days in Khartoum on a nice break from the pace taking care of a few things for the job. I stayed in our secondary house, which is more like a villa, a large four story house with covered porches and balconies that sweep around three facades, giving view to the other high priced villas in the area, occupied by embassies and NGO field offices and companies of the sort. The weather in Khartoum is perfect during the winter months, 60-70’s in the evening, 75-80 in the daytime, with a cooling breeze throughout. I spent as much time working outside on the balconies as I could, taking advantage of the weather, interrupted only by the afternoon mosque prayer calls resonating through the dusty air of the city.

The crowd in Khartoum is a good one. The expat community is growing, but still small enough to know most everyone. It’s made up of a mix of diplomats, aid workers, int’l org people, pilots, journalists, and government workers, all mostly young. We had a party on Friday at the house, a big BBQ/Braai, where many of these folks stopped by. The primary social difference here is that in the desert/Hell Fasher the social circle is mostly inbred within my company which can get old, especially when chatting is often shop talk. Due to curfew restrictions and safety, social interaction outside this circle is rarely of substance (get to a party at 8 when it starts, be home by 9…).

In Khartoum, there are no curfews and you have different industries mixing, mind you most are here for similar causes, but they represent different backgrounds. So this group was a welcomed difference for me.

I was put on the list for a party at the US Embassy later that night and intended to go, but being that half the members of who were going to be there were at our place and not leaving, I stuck around. The real reason is that I was playing DJ and once I got the initial request to ‘play me something I can sing to’, it went downhill from there dancing to the wee hours of the morn.

I was curious what songs were going to work with this crowd because it was so diversified, but I soon realized it’s the music that brings the people together (wasn’t that Madonna) and I stuck with the rule of thumb that if you can keep the girls dancing, you’ll have a crowded floor.

I was actually surprised that most of what was being requested was older stuff that you can sing and dance to. I’ve found that the easiest song to kick things off is Madonna’s Like a Prayer. It’s always the follow up songs that bring the pressure to keep people moving but with a little help from Jamiroquai, Franz Ferdinand, the Stones, and Billy Idol, things worked out fine. I took a chance to see if Kelly Clarkson’s now ancient “Since you’ve been gone” would get the reaction it used to in the states and was surprised, finding my vocals joining the mix with the jubilant crowd.

Actually, there’s probably a reason all the music sounded good and kept the crowd dancing and that was all the booze we rounded up from the underground warehouse on the outskirts of the city for this party, but that’s for another story.

One of the other nice things about going back to Khartoum is the change in food. I found imported Velveta Mac N Cheese in the box at a market store which blew me and my wallet away after I stocked up. You miss things in the desert like block cheese and strawberries and one of our guys brought back bacon from the states and I had my first taste of pork in eight months, eating a fat BLT sandwich, which we all agreed the taste rivaled most pleasures in life.

I went to a favorite Chinese food restaurant of true authenticity (remember the Chinese are the biggest investors in Sudan) which served excellent food and since my hosts were regulars, we were offered a table in a back private room where they served bootlegged cold beer by the pitcher, defying government rules (for a price) because we were valued customers.

I actually had laundry lists from people in the field asking me to bring back the goodies, and my bags are packed tight with things like sliced bread, tomato juice, cheese, yogurt, granola bars, and pizza.

The other nice thing about being in Khartoum is having TV and couches. You forget how nice it is to be lazy, lounging legs out on a couch with a TV to yourself. We get the South African DSTV system which picks up various channels around the world, among the more entertaining are American Reality and Nigerian Soap Opera networks. You’d never think you’d be watching ‘So You Think You Can Dance’ and ‘The Bachelor’ (chases caddy women) episodes in Sudan. And the chauncy (my word for bad/poor/cheesy – usually used in context with poorly written songs/tv shows) soap operas of Nigeria are really too much to handle. If you can imagine terrible acting from thickly accented African English wannabe actors about tribal conflicts involving love triangles in typical staged dramatic fashion on low budget cameras and background music, then you can get an idea of how absurd these shows are.

But they kill the time when you’re having one of those remote moments where you want to change the channel but you can’t, because the show is so bad it can’t get anything but better. You wait on in mild amusement but it never does.

I officially passed my one year date while in Khartoum…mixed feelings…Overall, this little break was a good change in pace, and a preface for what’s to come in two weeks.

Sometimes I think that the more time I spend outside of the US, the more unmeaningful holidays will become as they can be skipped to easily and you can forget to recogize its historical and/or personal importance. I enjoy holidays so was grateful when the company agreed to offer a formal celebration.

This one lived up to domestic standards with an international flair. I had to work most of the day but took the latter part of the afternoon off. We played the UN in cricket, the game seemingly similar but utterly different than baseball, where matches can last six hours a day for up to five days, and high tea is commonplace (our spectators substituted a darker liquid). Our team was made mostly of a South African burly crew who looked more appropriate for a rugby match meant for over-the-hill has-been’ers, compared to our opponents who were mostly Indian and very seasoned in their cricket skills.

I found myself umpiring (in our rules the batting team umpires their own at bats) during the first inning, where I asked more questions than made calls. And when it was my turn to bat I really wanted to take a cut like in baseball, but found, like in golf, that was a big mistake. When I pitched (bowled, as shown in the pic above) the ball (a leather bound cork centered hard ball), it was done by throwing strait overhand in an awkward manner which makes your shoulder joints hyperextend in abnormal directions strait above your head. I couldn’t aim very well, and if it wasn’t for the damn good batter (who managed to knock my bowls into oblivion), I would have hit him 4 or 5 times. Anyway, they killed us. No rematch planned yet. But it was fun.

In the early evening the company offered up a big BBQ/Braai to officially celebrate. Excellent food was cooked and we ate like kings, which is a rarity. No turkeys on this day, those are hard to find, instead opting for the Sudanese turkey, roasted sheep. We ‘halal’ed the sheep, (killed by cutting the throat) and spit spun two on an open fire which led to surprisingly good eats.

In an awkwardly appropriate moment of the evening, one of our Ghanian employees stood up and gave his thanks, expressing his appreciation with a native tongued accent so strong we just nodded and toasted and drank, knowing what came out was probably heartfelt. He then led his brethren into local dances and a circle formed that pulsed with the beat of the Zimbabwean tribal music playing in the background. It would have been fun to join but it was all large African men and I thought it best to remain a witness and BS with the new Swedish medical team, among others, in country.

Good day all around.

Sudan was recently voted the number five most corrupt country in the world. When you live and do business in a really corrupt country, you get a sense it exists and occasionally witness an encounter, but overall, from a common citizen’s perch the tangible depths of corruption levels for both institutions and individuals are hard to pinpoint.

When you think of what corruption encompasses, it can range from kickbacks, illegal payments, collusion, laundering, and unjustly acquiring wealth. Sometimes the act falls into one of these categories, sometimes it crosses over into many, and other times it’s more subtle and grey. Corruption and poverty levels are often hand in hand and it’s no exception in Sudan. The government keeping money for itself and neglecting the south and west is one of the primary reasons we are here today.

From an individual standpoint, I’ve noticed an interesting form taking place that’s not so clear cut and dry. There are small groups or cells created under the pretext of religion but have a secondary and lucrative objective. Actually some of these groups aren’t small at all, they are rather large, into the hundreds of thousands whose members span all aspects of society.

The groups starts when an individual, an entrepreneur, with particularly strong religious ideals decides to build a network. The call him the Religious Leader and he acts as the figurehead, godfather, preacher, and also as the ‘caretaker’ of the wealth generated. His network is created by recruiting a mix of people employed across various strategic businesses and government entities. The recruiting is religious based, and they gather with this pretext in mind. The leader believes strongly in his interpretation of Islam and the Koran and recruits those who share similar beliefs or who can be shaped.

The secondary agenda is based on making money. By having members employed in a cross section of ‘make it happen’ places, business transactions happen at accelerated and/or discounted rates. Subtle partnerships, collusion, information sharing, and discounts give an added and select advantage in doing business in these areas. The religious aspect makes fiercely loyal members, who then use this context for commercial gain.

Often these groups, which have various religious minded names, will have distinguishing characteristics of the members in style of facial hair, clothing, or symbols. Sometimes, you will only be able to tell by seeing a picture of the leader on someone’s desk or in their home. The interesting hypocrisy about the group is that they are often strict Muslims – no drink, no smoke, no promiscuity, etc. They pretend to be moral and are often judgmental on the religious front, then throw all these morals aside commercially to conduct selective and shady business, filtering money back into their organization.

Consider walking into a government office in a room full of people all needing a permit. Having someone in your ‘religious based cell’ trafficking the crowd immediately propels you to the front and into see the authorizor. What would take two days for this department may take 10 minutes. When permits often take 4-6 departments for approval, what could take 2-4 weeks now takes 1 day. Government fee’s may be waived and importing licenses overlooked or falsely allowed. This example is minor, but together they add up. We see this, select business partnerships, and price gouging here on a regular basis.

I guess organizations like this exist all over the world, networking organizations meant to build relationships and bridge connections which can then correlate into the business world. It just seems that these groups in Sudan are hypocritical because the religious leader builds an organization in the name of Islam but uses that as a front to make money. And the sad thing is that this is an accepted aspect of society. Maybe this is one of those cultural misunderstandings where I can’t grasp the real intention of the organization or interworkings of their societal norms. With my western ideals, it just seems like it falls into the corruption category, adding another layer of dysfunction in this region.

I’ve been away from the blog for awhile. A few stories have popped up here and there that may have proven worthy public postings, but I held back for this reason or that.

I was invited to the new African Union Force Commanders house for an ‘end of Ramadan’ party, which brought quite the eclectic group of people together, including the Nigerian Force Commander, who is a character himself. For a dry country, he sure knows the intricacies of off-limits importing and the party was an overall success after finding myself caught up in the middle of multi-tribal African dance floor.

Several weeks ago, we had a large commercial plane land down here in El Fasher to pick up some of the troops at their end of mission. In typical Darfur fashion it broke down at the airport. The flight crew happened to be from Jordan and Syria (were all young lookers) and my company promptly offered them housing at our compound. After four days their plane still wasn’t fixed (even though we have multiple plane mechanics here in theater oddly enough) and in turn they provided an ‘oasis’ for us for half a week in the middle of the desert. You see clips in movies that resemble what I’m speaking of, like at the end of ‘Dumb and Dumber’, and things like this aren’t supposed to happen, but fortunately for us our compound was unsurprisingly livelier for those four days!

The desert winter is coming on, where the mornings are much colder and as my contract is officially expiring in two weeks, my mind seems elsewhere, which makes waking up harder in the mornings and the nights slower.

To compensate, I’ve been hanging out more with some of the guys and they can be a trip. Sometimes I think as I get older I’ll grow out of certain phases. One of the phases I’m scared to grow out of is music. After hanging out with these guys, I know that either music is apart of your life or it isn’t. The guys here jam…listening, reliving their old days with Jimi Hindrix, Pink Floyd, and Foghat, blaring it over their speakers while playing air guitar and drums. I try to sit back and suppress a smile as they relive their youth (or maybe never outgrow it) while acting utterly single and independent. I’ve heard more crass jokes and absurd stories than I can remember, but they do pass the time in the evenings.

The politics in the place hasn’t improved and it seems the momentum coming off the big international charge to ‘stop genocide’ is fading. New local houses are going up though and more outside folks are coming and going and I’m beginning to think it’s one big interlaced conspiracy among the Sudanese Darfians. The more they fight, the more the westerners come in and bring money to spend, which consequently, helps the community. They can’t fight too much or attack the westerners or we’ll pull out and they won’t be able to continue their new-found prosperity.

It’s a weak theory as to the origins of the conflict, but I do think this thought makes it through the minds of every one of the local entrepreneurs. Maybe something good can come from this conflict in that the western capitalism force can help kick-start this economy.

I still freeze in my tracks every now and then. Lately in my drives to work, I happen to find myself wedged between two rebel pick up trucks full of young locked and loaded warriors making their early rounds. Other times they’re headed in my direction in a convoy, down the one lane dirt road, off on their ‘game hunts’. I pull off to the side as they pass and follow only with my wide eyes. I’ve never felt threatened from that standpoint, as they really have no motive of attacking westerners (unless it’s for our resources, the vehicles, comms, etc), but it still will never sit easy, knowing one curious rider’s itchy trigger finger could stain my pants. The obvious choice in living safely out here is to simply steer clear.

My next leave will be back to the states before Christmas, 36 days from now, so I’m looking forward to the return. I’m planning on extending my time out here for a few months into the new year, as this new position has given me the opportunity to get some valuable experience and it’s going to help pay for grad school. But I do have the thought at least once a day…’Matt it’s time to just move on.’ Soon, very soon.

Jan Pronk is the UN envoy to Sudan, a high ranking official here to tackle the countries issues. I was suprised to find out he had a personal blog, mainly because folks in those positions, especially diplomatic ones, walk a thin line with publishing personal thoughts and those which reflect their organization. Most USG folks are not allowed to blog. None-the-less, it was this posting which upset the Sudanese gov, so much so that they’re booting him out of the country.

Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to arrive at the same fate!!!

Line. We stand in rows on the sand, bending over, hands on our knees, the days descending sunrays still impact as beaded sweat builds on our foreheads. A slight breeze doesn’t smell right, but it cools the skin none-the-less. I watch what’s taking place in front of me, guys yelling Russian commands back and forth. I’m squinting, impatient, trying to stay focused in anticipation for my turn. On this one, I’m contemplating going for the kill.

I’ve stumbled lately into a habit of playing volleyball in the evening with the Russian pilots. At our compound, we gather outside of our parking lot where a net has been put up. Apparently volleyball is a hot thing in the former land of the Bolsheviks. They’re all pretty good and some are serious about the play. The score is kept in Russian so I never really know who’s winning. The rules are a bit international (ball which hits the net on a serve is good, net interference during play is ok, and a point is tallied regardless of which side serves). It’s a good after work release where the healthy ways are few and far inbetween. Some of our Indian folks come out and play but they are a little short and have a hard time mimicking a spike. The African guys will join in occasionally and if we’re all there, it becomes a microcosm of the Goodwill Games.

We have razor wire perimeter fences surrounding the court which have led to several ball casualties so we combat this by making a inner perimeter of land cruiser trucks up against the fence. Occasionally, it becomes quite a spectacle. Sometimes US Consulate folks or joggers from other expat NGO’s will stop their run and play. On a rare and lucky day, a woman or two will join in. All of the stray dogs like to come and rest under the land cruiser shade and watch, shaking off flies and/or licking the wounds of the day’s many survival battles.

On the outside of the fence, the local women will walk by, heading back to the ‘Abo Shook’ IDP camp 5km down the bumpy dirt road, carrying long grass reeds or firewood on their head, sometimes giving us a smile showing off the stark contrast in teeth to skin color. Little boys will walk by and toss rocks at the dogs, who will bark a couple of times in response. Occasionally we’ll get a military blue or beige camouflaged pick up truck packed bed tight with GOS or SLA soldiers, depending on the day. They’ll raise their guns in salute and hoop at us a little bit and we’ll wave back and get smiles.

A herd of cattle, emaciated despite their daily grazing, whose pelvic bones distend out towards the sky, will kick up unwarranted dust clouds that blow into us as they follow-the-leader back to their pins.

Just recently, the city opened up a suspiciously placed trash dump diagonally across from our compound, making us down wind. We’ll see local trucks dump their rubbish and then smell the aftermath as constant clouds of smoke waft our way due to non-stop burning, leaving that pungent campfire/trash burn smell lining our nostrils. Some days it’s so bad we can’t play.

I’ve come to enjoy it as apart of my routine though.

Wow, this post is full of tone setting detail which normally should lead into an interesting or humorous anecdote or story, bringing it home and ending with a punch to remember and make it worth your read. Unfortunately, this one’s just going to lack that finishing power.

Unless your keen to know that last night was karaoke night and I sang a mean “House of the Rising Sun” (The Animals) and “It’s still rock and roll to me” (Billy Joel), then brought it home with “Boot Scootin Boogie” and capped it off with a finale of Sinatra’s “My Way”. (We’re not big critics down here.)