tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38260090676773109312024-02-20T20:56:04.842+03:00Out of the AshesBenjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-40329294704172190702012-11-16T15:29:00.002+03:002012-11-16T15:35:17.369+03:00The Relevence of Israel and Gaza - Stratfor, Nov 16<br />
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It would be a mistake to argue over whether a war is about to break out between Israel and Hamas in the Gaza Strip. A war has been under way for several months, with Hamas launching Qassam rockets into Israeli territory and Israeli aircraft carrying out raids on Gaza. In point of fact, a war has been ongoing between various Palestinian entities and Israeli organizations since before the founding of the Israeli state.</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.63636302947998px; line-height: 1.2em;"><br />When Israel was founded, its creation intersected with the fate of the British Empire, the rise of American and Soviet power and the future of the Mediterranean Basin. The Soviets first supplied weapons to Israel through Czechoslovakia, while the British armed and led Jordan's Arab Legion and underwrote the Egyptian army. Later, the French, seeking to retain their hold in the Middle East, became Israel's main foreign patron.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.63636302947998px; line-height: 1.2em;">The moral arguments on each side have been heard and are persuasive to the side making it, and not to the other. The point is that the war has been going on for a long time, and has made less and less difference to the rest of the world, eloquent protests notwithstanding. We are not speaking here of impotent gestures and self-satisfying rages on both sides. Rather, we are speaking of geopolitical interest in the outcome of the war.</span></div>
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By the 1950s, the Soviets had switched sides to become the patron of Egypt and Syria, the United States formed an alliance with Turkey through NATO, and Israel became the wedge between Egypt and Syria. The Palestinians, under the Palestine Liberation Organization led by Yasser Arafat, received weapons and support from the Soviets, and Moscow used this alliance to counter Israel and U.S. activity in Western Europe.</div>
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Under these circumstances, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict intersected fundamental geopolitical interests of declining and rising empires and the struggle between rising powers for the inheritance of the European imperial system. Israel and Palestine occupied the same strategic point that the Romans had to have: the eastern edge of the Mediterranean. It was the point at which three continents met. Any Mediterranean power had to have it to anchor its position in the Mediterranean Basin. Any eastern or southern power needed it to access the other and the Mediterranean Sea.</div>
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Israel and Palestine were in many ways the tipping point of the Cold War. If Israel fell, the Soviets would control the eastern Mediterranean, given their hold on Egypt and Syria. Turkey would be isolated. If the United States held it then the Soviets would have fragments in the Eastern Mediterranean, not supporting each other and unable to give the Soviets a stable foundation. Control of the Eastern Mediterranean and bordering countries could change the balance of power not just in the region, but ultimately across the globe.</div>
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The Israeli-Palestinian conflict was only one dimension of the regional conflict but it was not a trivial dimension. Any action or reaction by either side could affect regional countries, which in turn were aligned with one of the global powers. The possibility of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict intersecting with other conflicts was very real and that gave both Israel and the Palestinians influence beyond their intrinsic significance. It was geography and geopolitics that gave weight to the conflict.</div>
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With the fall of the Soviet Union, there was only one global power and without a challenge to its power, the fate of the region fell in importance. The U.S.-jihadist wars would appear to have made it more important, inasmuch as groups like Hamas appeared to be part of the jihadist movement, but the fact was that the movement -- while able to inflict damage in limited ways -- was not a challenger for global dominance. Indeed, it was highly fragmented, quite idiosyncratic and remarkably disorganized. No matter how the United States responded in Iraq and Afghanistan, the case simply couldn't be made that the fate of the region affected the global balance as it had in the 1960s or 1970s.</div>
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As the United States withdraws from the region and <a href="http://stratfor.us4.list-manage.com/track/click?u=74786417f9554984d314d06bd&id=330839082c&e=54aa199c9c" rel="nofollow" style="color: #336699; line-height: 1.2em; outline: none;" target="_blank">Iran suffers a significant reversal in Syria</a>, the fate of the region becomes less significant. Whether the Israelis and Palestinians fought mattered in 1970 far more than it does today. A peace process, fantasy or not, is not a major priority.</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.63636302947998px; line-height: 1.2em;">The Egyptians remain heavily influenced by the military and the military is not about to allow Gaza's problems to spill into Egypt. Their forces surrounded Gaza and</span><span style="font-size: 13.63636302947998px; line-height: 1.2em;"> </span><a href="http://stratfor.us4.list-manage.com/track/click?u=74786417f9554984d314d06bd&id=564dec8476&e=54aa199c9c" rel="nofollow" style="color: #336699; font-size: 13.63636302947998px; line-height: 1.2em; outline: none;" target="_blank">went after jihadists in the Sinai in recent months</a><span style="font-size: 13.63636302947998px; line-height: 1.2em;">. The Syrians are busy fighting each other and the Jordanian regime has never forgiven the Palestinians for their attempt to end Hashemite rule in 1970. The Iranians are struggling to hold their position in the region and the United States under U.S. President Barack Obama is not focused on foreign policy, let alone on another Israeli-Palestinian battle.</span></div>
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This is the reality of the current round of the Palestinian-Israeli war. It matters to the Palestinians and Israelis but not to the world, beyond those who demand a world that is just and whose definition of justice is what they believe to be just. Where the world once hung on the wars of the region, it now sees this as simply another upswing in an ongoing and unending conflict.</div>
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Today no one but the combatants and their unarmed champions care. This, however, makes it a notable point in history. It is the moment at which both sides might realize that they are on their own and, therefore, become interested in peace. But with thoughts like that we might want to pass around a petition, fantasizing that a petition constitutes action. But indifference from the world is a harsh sort of reality.</div>
Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-75445208531510963232012-10-19T19:56:00.002+03:002012-10-19T19:56:24.960+03:00Bombing of Maarat al Noaman - briefThe bombing of Maarat al Noaman on Oct 19th highlights a significant shift in tactics for both sides of this conflict.<br />
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The town has been a target for rebel forces for some time, due to it's crucial strategic position on a major cross roads on the M5 highway, between Aleppo and Damascus, and they had only just taken it.<br />
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Facing a stalemate in the city of Aleppo, rebel groups have been attempting for some time, to cut off supplies arriving from Latakia and Damascus. Thereby placing considerable pressure on regime troops and increasing their odds in the city.<br />
<br />
It had been thought that Assad might send reinforcements from Damascus to deal with this situation - (which would have weakened his grip there) but instead he chose to send jets and demolish it.<br />
<br />
While this danger always existed, many thought he might be somewhat restrained in this region, as he sought to win back 'hearts and minds'. Instead it becomes clear that he has given up all hope of doing this, and at all costs will keep this supply line open.<br />
<br />
It also places considerable pressure on the rebels, who must now deal with the repercussions of this horrific bomb. It remains to be seen if civilians will continue to stay behind the rebels, or whether perhaps they begin to wishing that things went back to how they once were.Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-75531158942096192242012-10-05T00:11:00.001+03:002012-10-05T00:28:33.400+03:00PKK in syria<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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On the 3<sup>rd</sup> October Syrian troops attempting to
regain control of the Alshmal gate along the border with Turkey shelled the area, hitting the nearby Turkish
town of Akcakele. They killed 5 members of the same family and wounded others.</div>
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The Syrians, desperate to quell the steady stream of weapons
and aid coming through the open borders have been trying for some time to
retake this area in Idlib province, but with no success. This attack was an escalation of the methods being used, and a sign of their increased frustration in the region.</div>
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<br />
Turkey retaliated, and using their radar system
pinpointed the origin of the shells destroying artillery emplacements and killing a number of syrian soldiers.</div>
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<br /></div>
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While the Syrian government denies targeting the village,
and voiced sympathy for the dead, there is no doubt it was a suitably
aggressive move for Turkey, and Erdogan retaliated as many Turks hoped he would.</div>
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<br /></div>
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In the past many have been upset by his failure to act
following skirmishes along the border, such as the downing of a Turkish plane in
June and other shootings, so domestically this was a popular move.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And it is domestically that this will have the biggest
impact, for soon after the bombing, the Turkish government met to discuss what
actions it would take, and quickly gave the military the right to deploy troops
to other countries.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Erdogan has said that by no means does this amount to a declaration
of war, saying it is merely a sign that he will not be complacent or accept such 'mistakes', but what it
does do, very significantly, is allow him to strike at PKK bases inside Syria, (as
well as continuing to attack Kurdish bases in N.Iraq)</div>
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<br /></div>
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This is relevant for 2 reasons. First of all it is imperative
for the Turks that they counter the rise of Kurdish autonomy, especially after
their growing power in N. Iraq. One of the things that Turkey is most afraid of
is the rise of the Kurds in the wake of Assad’s downfall, having already armed
them heavily to use as a militia against the FSA. </div>
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Just yesterday in fact the PKK yesterday set up road blocks near the
N.Western town of Afrin to hold it for the government, and already we have seen
them attacking the FSA Farouk brigade in Idlib.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Secondly it is well known that Erdogan hopes to change the
Turkish political system to a presidential or semi-presidential one. He is
holding presidential elections in 2013 (with himself running as president) but
to do so he needs the support of the ultra nationalist, anti kurdish party who
hold a crucial 52 seats in parliament. Appeasing their desire to attack Kurdish
bases will go a long way to getting this approval.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And so today’s move is not so much about how Turkey chooses
to deal with the immediate Syrian crisis on it’s border (it will never attack
without the full backing of NATO, nor without a long term solution in mind) but
it does show that it is willing (while international eyes are turned in other
directions) to deal with the Kurdish issue in a far more permanent and
aggressive way. </div>
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<br />
Expect to see attacks on Kurdish bases rise.</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<!--EndFragment-->Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-675983723061563322012-10-03T23:06:00.001+03:002012-10-04T21:13:37.206+03:00Initial soundings....<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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We met some of our contacts today, and what we have learnt
is worrying. Things on the ground have changed immensely since we were last
here, and new fronts in the battle are opening up.</div>
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While the main war between rebels and the regime continues
stronger than ever, the most talked about is that between jihadis, salafis and
the FSA. The FSA is doing it's best to distance itself from these other elements but this is hard.<br />
<br />
Fighters from around the world have begun to arrive - some in support of the legitimate uprising against Assad, but others to wage jihad against the Shi'ites. This has caused ripples than can be felt everywhere and some rebels have gone as far as to admit that things may
have been better under Assad than they will be following his departure. One thing that everyone agrees on is that this conflict will continue for many years to come.<br />
<br /></div>
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With Saudi, Quatar, Iran, Hezbollah, Russia, China and the
US all having a stake in this, and attempting in one way or another to destabilize elements in the region, this is not at all surprising; though I will delve into
politics tomorrow.</div>
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<br /></div>
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In the mean time the immediacy of staying alive in the face
of a far greater military force remains the main concern, and the regime continues
to shell and attack from the air. This goes on unabated claiming many innocent
lives per day, and should remain at the forefront of our minds.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Food is at a low, inflation impossibly high, and basic
medical supplies in grave shortage. The FSA has better weapons now– rockets
and heavy artillery, though nothing to counter the regime. They have shot down 14 planes using new weapons; supposedly sourced from Turkey, and they
continue to be armed and financed in a big way.</div>
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<br /></div>
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There are rumours of a secret agreement between the US, UK,
Saudi, Turkey and Qatar, that allows Turkish weapons to be filtered through to
the rebels, though at present I have only little evidence of this.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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The border with Turkey is no longer held by the regime and the
FSA controls the vast majority of northern territories. As such we should be
expected to cross through legitimate border crossings with no problems –
however infighting between rebels means this may not be true. I can’t mention
details yet, but it may be better for us to cross at night and illegally, than
to go through a certain gate, such is the hostility.</div>
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<br /></div>
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There continues to be more FSA infighting between urban and
rural brigades, (often the well-financed ones vs the not so well financed.</div>
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<br /></div>
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There are also arguments between defectors within the FSA
(who are accused of abandoning a sinking ship,) and those Syrians who have fought the regime
from the beginning. (The FSA leaderships's recent move to inside Syria, is an attempt to validate
it’s position and unite the factions.)</div>
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<br /></div>
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Sources also tell us that:<br />
<br />
-Barrel bombs are the new weapon of choice for the Syrian regime –
packed full of TNT, oil and shrapnel they are dropped from helicopters and are
far more devastating than other weapons.<br />
<br />
-Farouk brigade is fighting a full on conflict with jihadi's in idlib province<br />
<br />
-Hamas is now also at odds with the regime.<br />
<br />
-Shipments from Benghazi to Mercine carrying both medicines and arms arrive sporadically.<br />
<br />
- the CIA has been infiltrating Syria in the guise of western journalists in order to assess jihadi strengths;</div>
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<br /></div>
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We anticipate many stories once inside Syria; Foreign fighters,
field hospitals, urban clashes, western involvement, and training camps. Though once again our true plans must
remain a secret, and I must leave you here.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-60835512558226174512012-04-23T22:23:00.002+03:002012-04-23T22:23:56.792+03:00Precautions...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few days ago, plans were in place and we were ready to
leave, when at the last minute our crossing was cancelled. For various reasons
this was the best option, but there is little worse than sitting here now,
unable to go forward, twiddling our thumbs and waiting to go. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’ve heard horror stories about journalists who are dropped
off near Syrian military emplacements, only to wait hours for somebody to pick
them up; about journalists who have paid smugglers the exorbitant cost of
crossing, only to be abandoned near the border; and about others, who have been
taken straight to Turkish border guards, in return for the sizeable bounty on
their heads. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so it is that we are biding our time, waiting for that
moment when we are alone on the ground, aware of UN movements and accompanied
by the FSA. In the mean time my ragged beard is growing nicely, and Rick is
dying his red hair. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These are just some of the precautions we must take to avoid
being caught by the Shabiha, though it will still be hard not to stand out. Other
than this we’ll be moving every hour; never staying in a building for more than
a night; staying in contact with activists in the surrounding region, and
keeping our precise plans secret. We’ll have no traceable sat equipment, and body
armour will be worn under loose clothing; probably without a helmet. We may
even throw on some local garb – because that surely will flummox them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As to what’s happening on the ground, we hear many things. As
the UN observers move from town to town they are swamped by activists and shown
buildings that have been hit. They speak to people who have been affected and
they occasionally encounter small arms fire.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But while this may be a fine starting point it does little
good. The UN know about the attacks on the cities but are not there to prove
they happened. Instead they are there to prove that the ceasefire is being
broken, which Assad can make sure they won’t do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Soldiers who are supposed to have left towns and cities (one
of the conditions of the ceasefire,) have merely changed into police uniforms,
and they continue to attack in towns where the UN is not present. We continue
to hear about (and have verified reports of) Russian made HIP helicopters
fitted with rockets, and know they have attacked mountain towns where the
favoured T62 tanks can’t reach. We will be looking for evidence of these
attacks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
More UN observers would surely make it harder for Assad, but
to be honest, it appears as if the ceasefire is merely a tactic to delay the
impending war. Perhaps not this month or in five or in 10, but eventually it
must come. The opposition will not rest until Assad is gone, and he in turn
will not step down. His brother Maher al Assad, who some say is as powerful as Bashar
himself, is leader of the republican guard, and of the 4<sup>th</sup> armoured
division (that which flattened Homs,) and is often cited as the power behind
the throne. His reputation is that of a true brute.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’ve been speaking also to defectors, one of whom was an
officer in the same 4<sup>th</sup> armoured division, and we now know that
moving around, although dangerous, is do-able. In our favour the Syrian army is
entirely reliant on their tanks and rarely leave the safety of their armoured positions.
Unlike western armies who patrol on the ground to secure areas, the Syrians
prefer to contain areas, then simply bomb them – that or attack with
indiscriminate sniper fire. Of this I am concerned.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We have been learning about the supply of weapons and money
into the country, mainly from Quatar and Saudi Arabia. While money is being
collected worldwide, little of it is getting to the people who need it, and a
lot sits in bank accounts waiting to be used, or siphoned off by the greedy.
That people can do this when it hinders the protection of others is incredible,
but such is behaviour in a culture that thrives off corruption.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Syrians have also claimed that foreign involvement and
support for the opposition is a violation of their sovereignty, when to be
honest what this really is, is a cold war of sorts fought between states
desperate to retain or gain control of Syria. It is ironic that while the
regime makes these accusations, it fails to address the massive support they
receive from Russia, Iran, Hezbollah and Iraq.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Iranian issue is an interesting one. While they try to
spread their sphere of influence in the region, they are also trying to stave
off the ‘green revolution’ at home and should Syria fall they are far more
likely to be at threat from home grown opponents. Sanctions on Iran are having
a profound effect on their ability to help other regimes; regimes that they
need so much, and I am inclined to say their future rests partly on the outcome
of this conflict. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
FSA members still have very few weapons – partly because nobody
knows who to give them too. When they can buy weapons they can’t access money
to buy them. AK bullets are $5/6 each and AK’s cost $3000, so well beyond the
means of normal fighters. In Libya defectors came with their own weapons, and
stockpiles were raided, but this seems unlikely here as the army simply isn’t
defecting as it was there. While some people have resorted to buying RPG shells
from Iraqi gangs the last group I spoke to got on 16 useable ones out of 100.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Arms dealers supplying Hezbollah have also been supplying
some weapons to the rebels. But as Hezbollah are Assad’s allies they have instructed
that only Ak’s and the occasional RPG can be sold– which against the heavy
artillery of Assad, can do not good.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
IF the West wants to get involved and overthrow the regime,
the best thing they can do is create a buffer zone in the north, and impose a
no fly zone. They will of course be wary of spending so much money in the lead
up to the US election, (no fly zones cost millions a day), while also worrying
about who will sweep into power in the aftermath, and what they in turn will
do. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Islamist issue is a concern here, and there are rumours
that the longer the West refuses to help (some people have told me the West has
‘betrayed them’) then the more likely it is they will turn to the
fundamentalist wahabi and salafi groups for funding… </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We visited a school for the children of refugees who are not
in camps; the only one… Many of the boys, some as young as 10, first arrived
refusing to play games, claiming they were now men, and asking for weapons to
return home and fight. They begin to show some hatred towards other groups and
the great fear is, if Assad falls, we will see a bloody and horrible war of
retribution. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the moment though, where we are is calm, and until we
cross the border Syria will continue to feel like a world away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We wait and wait……</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-88724525179832896012012-04-21T11:15:00.000+03:002012-04-21T11:23:12.789+03:00Who to Trust<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
As fighter jets tear overhead and torrential rain blankets
the region, we are ever more aware of the situation into which we go. Sitting
just a few miles from the Syrian border, Antakya is our last stop before crossing
into the unknown. It’s our last chance for a proper meal and a real bed; our
last chance to check our gear, and our last chance to turn back. Though neither
of us intends to…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jutting down into Syria this part of Turkey thrives off
trade with it’s troublesome neighbour, and with a relatively porous border, we are
told that Syrian spies are everywhere. This has made it hard for us, as we meet
fixers, smugglers, and members of the FSA, whose families are all at risk should
they be caught. It is hard to know who to trust, and what to believe, but we
have worked slowly and safely and only with those who can be vouched for.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thanks to the long and porous border however we will be able
to cross, and at the moment we are evaluating the options. I can’t name them
here, but they involve a late night crawl under the noses of Syrian and Turkish border
guards; on horseback and belly, under barbed wire and over walls. Once inside
we will be met by a network of activists and taken deeper in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unlike Libya, which was swamped with journalists, this
conflict seems largely untouched. We expected a media frenzy but have found
only a few other journalists, and by coincidence a number of them are friends. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are a few reasons I would say press is thin on the
ground – though ultimately it’s because of the increased levels of danger. First of all there is no ‘safe zone’ (as
there was in Benghazzi), and no no-fly zone. The rebels are vastly outnumbered
and outgunned, the army is not deserting at the same rate as they were in
Libya, and the opposition is deeply fractured. Going in therefore means doing so with the underdogs - and the threat of being caught is very real.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Reports reaching us from inside the country suggest that the
ceasefire is slipping away – but there’s little surprise there. Gunships are
rumoured to have strafed towns in Idlib province and the Shabiha death squads
still roam the countryside. Shelling continues in Homs and demonstrations in
Aleppo are being crushed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is very clear that this is the most complicated yet of
the Arab spring conflicts, and a few main factors are at play. Iran is trying
to increase it’s regional sphere of influence and losing an allied Syria would be a huge
blow. Iran also needs Syria to supply weapons to Hezbollah so will do what it can to keep Assad in power.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Russia is also in a pivotal role and has a number of trade
deals with Syria – weapons and oil. It also has it’s only naval base outside
the ex-ussr here, and are very happy with the status quo.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the same time, they have been on the wrong side of a
few conflicts recently, namely Libya and Iraq, and in doing so have missed out on huge post-war contracts. It is possible therefore that their
stance will change if the tide turns against Assad, and their recent
meeting with Syrian opposition groups suggests they are willing to
keep options open. I believe they must be lobbied and pressured by the international community to do so or else there can be no UN resolution.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
America and France, who led in Libya, will do nothing till after their elections,
and while Saudi Arabia and Qatar are rumoured to be giving money and weapons, nobody knows where it goes, and there is no evidence of it on the ground. Until these other states get involved Assad will
have an easy task.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile here in Antakya, we wait and watch, and our only
danger is being pelted by street urchins. I will continue to write until we go in..</div>Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-26417399739964894522012-03-15T18:53:00.004+03:002012-03-16T09:58:27.283+03:00<span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Idlib has been taken by Syrian troops</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size: 100%; ">, and our route in is apparently mined. We're holding back for the moment but will continue to watch closely.</span><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Rumours of arms shipments from Libya abound, and I don't believe t</span><span style="font-size: 100%;">he status quo will prevail. but f</span></span><span style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; ">or the moment we stay put.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; ">As Ricks says, we would rather report the news than be the news. </span></div>Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-7488225711165326792011-06-03T00:06:00.001+03:002011-06-03T00:07:11.114+03:00Misratahttp://www.vimeo.com/23795070Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-43872911134192616762011-04-29T01:38:00.000+03:002011-04-29T01:39:14.958+03:00Misrata misery<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Misrata is a City in tatters. Every street has been shelled, every house has been hit and every road has craters in it. It is a charred and blackened city engaged in such fierce fighting that it is hard to know which images to share, or what stories to tell, so extensive is the damage and the destruction. It is hard also to describe the feeling in a city that is torn between pride for its revolution and a sinking dread as the situation deteriorates.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Quadaffi has the city surrounded and besieged and resources are dwindling. The queues for gas stretch round the block (as do the ones for cigarettes) and food is mainly limited to tuna, bread and rice. The only access now is through the port, and this too has been under bombardment for the last few weeks. We arrived ourselves 24 hours after leaving the relative peace of Benghazzi in the dead of night and on a boat laden with antiquated RPG’s, grenades, ammo and missiles, though claiming that our cargo was “for the children”. We only just made it through the NATO blockade. This influx of weapons, stored even in the shower room, the engine room and the galley, when pitted against the heavy and advanced weaponry of Quadaffi will not stop the bombardment. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Walking around the streets it is impossible not to tread on bullets, mortar casings, rubble, broken glass or in blood and smoke hangs in the air - it is sheer chaos. The bodies of Quadaffi troops lie rotting on the ground and the stench can be overbearing. Buildings crumble around you and bullet ridden or bombed out cars and tanks litter the city. The hospital is low on medicine, doctors, and has run out of beds, so a tent has been set up in the parking lot to deal with the overflow. The morgue is a refrigerated lorry used usually for food and a trail of blood leads towards it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The sounds here are as varied and imposing as the sights. Rockets, cluster bombs, mortars, heavy artillery, sniper fire, NATO planes and the eponymous Kalashnikovs can be heard night and day, alongside cries of Allah Akbar and sirens. The walls shake even in the basement where we are staying, but this has become such a constant that it’s barely noticed. At night the press gather on the roof to watch NATO bombs and tracer fire light up the sky. There’s little rest here, and as the battle rages constantly, exhausted fighters and doctors are replaced by new ones either arriving at the port or from among the 300,000 men who have stayed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The two ‘armies’ are so close that it is never easy to know who is firing and it is easy to become caught in a crossfire. I say armies, but these battles are always between groups no larger than 100 and often as small as 10 and they spring up in different parts of the city without warning. They are also such a rag tag lot that armies might be an overstatement. Often the rebels fire at each other because of the lack of communication between them, and I have seen them run in front of each others guns and fire RPG’s in a crowd. If they need to contact NATO they must call the council in Benghazzi 240 miles away who then pass on the request. This is no way to fight a war, and yet they know no other way.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The sad loss of 2 experienced war correspondents last week is testament to the danger, and very few journalists now remain. Crossing each road involves a mad dash to find cover and often you may only be a street away from Qadaffi’s forces and bullets pepper the walls around you. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Quadaffi however has stopped short of sending in large numbers of ground troops, preferring instead to bomb and shell while sending in small teams to harass the rebels. His tanks have been hit by precision NATO bombs when they enter the city, so he is forced to remain in the outskirts while starving it and destroying it. He is also afraid of large numbers of his troops deserting, so keeps the numbers small.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Another reason that his troops are reluctant to enter the city is that Misrata is a twisting web of small and intertwined dirt roads. The rebels know these like the back of their hands and are therefore able to outmanoeuvre Qadaffi’s troops and surround them. They have knocked through walls between houses and gardens and we have run with them as they dart from street to street, roof to roof, encircling his forces. Snipers now pose the greatest danger and he places them wherever he can. Occasionally a bullet will whistle past and everybody will hit the ground, last night a French journalist was hit in the neck by a sniper only 100m from where we are staying, and it appears he will be paralysed for life.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Much has been written in the media about the use of mercenaries, however there are as many Libyans fighting for him here. They are uneducated and bitterly poor so both believe Quadaffi’s propaganda but are also willing to accept his huge sums of money. We have also been told that mercenaries have orders to shoot any defectors, and many people have told us of families being held hostage in Tripoli. At the same time, the punishment for helping the rebels if caught are beyond belief. I have seen a video of a boy no older than 10 years old who had had a 6 foot metal spike inserted into his anus until it came out of his shoulder – he was still alive, and his crime had been to deliver water.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I had the chance to briefly interview a Qadaffi fighter who had been taken to the hospital. Having leapt into his van as it left I was quickly able to ask why he fought for Qadaffi and why he fought against his own people – he claimed he had been told that he was fighting foreigners, that he believed the rebels were the invaders and that he was protecting his country. Whether this is true or not I do not know, however he was terrified and I don’t know what happened to him. One person has told me “We kill all quadaffi soldiers, we have no time to take care of them”, but everybody else claims they are in a secret location – we have not been allowed to see them.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">There is also evidence also for the presence of mercenaries. One pilot who defected had previously been asked to fly south and pick up a planeload from Chad. In another case, a truck was found full of Serbian fighters – 180 of them. Apparently the truck refused to stop and they were all killed. I have also seen numerous passports from Chad, Sudan and Mauritania so there is no doubt this is true.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mercenaries are not the biggest concern for the rebels though. Many suspect that Quadaffi troops may have infiltrated the civilians who remain and may be waiting to counter atttack. Countless military license plates have been found discarded, presumably swapped for civilian ones and uniforms are also in many buildings. Every few streets checkpoints have been set up to identify possible enemy fighters but quite how they intend to pick them out is unknown.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Last night at about 12.30 Qadaffi forces began shelling the city from an airfield about 15km away. They indiscriminately targeted residential areas, and his bombs killed whole families as they slept. We watched as body after body arrived at the hospital, and in total 31 men, women and children died. Some were torn apart by the blasts, and others burnt beyond recognition. Dismembered body parts were laid out on the floor next to the bodies, and as people cried out in anguish, the measures to which Qadaffi will go became very apparent. Throughout the night ambulance after ambulance arrived and as one mother wept inconsolably by the body of her dead son the crowd outside began chanting to the heavens. They continued all night but could not drown out the explosions around us.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">This morning we walked through streets and buildings where the bombs had dropped. Whole houses were destroyed, their kitchens and bedrooms caved in. Blood marked the spots where many had died and charred remains lay in the street. The area was very poor and families who had little to start now have nothing at all. There is no longer any doubt that Qadaffi is willing to do whatever it takes to regain this city, and every time it appears things the situation can get no worse it does.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">At the moment Quadaffi is on the back foot inside the city; he can’t get a stronghold in the centre, but this means little when he continues to bombard with his huge aresenal of weapons and continues to starve the people. The humanitarian situation here is dire and unless the blockade is broken soon it will get a lot worse, as this is the only main city in the West of Libya to be held by rebels; if it falls, much hope will fall with it. </p> <!--EndFragment-->Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-22499581175733027262011-04-17T13:01:00.001+03:002011-04-20T01:08:30.216+03:00Brits in Libya<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Glistening with pride the young boy pulled 2 shiny Kalashnikov bullets out of his pocket. Holding them aloft he announced with absolute certainty that with these two he would single handedly free Libya, bring down Colonel Ghadaffi, and right the wrongs of the last 40 years. He was serious.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The young boy in question, Mohammed, is merely 15 years old and has come from Manchester. He is one of many people from Libyan families who have flocked here as part of this “glorious revolution” despite never have lived here. His mother packed him a tiny bag some weeks ago and sent him on his way, then told his school that he was going to Spain.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">He announced very bravely that he had come to fight and possibly to die, and that he would do anything for his country and his people, and I have no doubt that at first he meant it. But very quickly it became clear that he no longer believes this. His romantic ideas have been replaced by fear, and despite his brave rhetoric he soon admitted that he just wants to go home, see his friends and talk to girls. Having seen the wounded in hospital, including a boy his own age, and having lived with the sporadic gunfire, he has quickly decided this is no place for him.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mohammed is not alone. There are countless other people here who have come to help, from Canada, America and Australia. One man from Chicago handed the keys to his car shop over to his friend before leaving to join the fight. When I last spoke to him he was now looking for ways out. The majority of these Libyan expats were born here, but there are also a number of second-generation exiles; born abroad, raised abroad and educated abroad. As they sit around the lobbies of hotels and in free apartments most of them soon discover that there is neither a weapon for them to use nor even a role, and that they have become mere voyeurs at the edge of a chaotic rag tag movement – a movement that has stalled.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In the early days of the revolution, for those who wanted to fight there was always room. Ghadaffi’s arsenals had been looted and anyone who could get their hands on a gun could head to the front. A couple of Libyan expats died early on in the shelling and others were wounded while bringing supplies to the soldiers, but now that rebels are trying to impose a stricter order to this chaos, there is little for them to do, and slowly they are now heading home.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Technically nobody is supposed to fight without having gone to one of the training camps but many locals continue to do so. The expats will not. Locals who looted guns had also looted uniforms and now they often stroll to the front line smoking pot, hop into a pickup truck and charge forward screaming ‘god is great’, only to come pelting back soon after encountering incoming fire. The confusion at the front is palpable, and this is one of the reasons the rebels can make no headway. I doubt however that attending training camps will change this, for the system leaves much to be desired.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I have spent some time observing the training and watched it in bemusement. As people sit around being taught how to fire rocket-propelled grenades, mortars and other weapons, many of them play on their mobile phones. Others are out of earshot of the instructors, and I saw some who simply walked away from their groups. As they attempted to drill I could not resist a smile, such was the haphazard nature. This is a direct legacy of Ghadaffi’s paranoia though for he was terrified of coups.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">For those who have travelled from abroad there are even fewer defined roles, and talking to many of the foreigners here it appears that they have started to realise this. Although they came with great intentions it is now slowly dawning on them that having rushed over there is nothing for them to do.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Some have become translators and some fixers <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>- but many others just seem to wait around. They came here to fight but can no longer do so, or in some cases no longer have the stomach to. One Libyan man born in England, who came with us to the front spent the day hunched down in the back seat of our car, terrified, even before fighting had begun. He’s very keen however to have a picture of him holding an RPG, and will no doubt return to his commnity a hero. For him as with others, the Libya that he had grew up dreaming is a far cry from the reality on the ground, and further still from the life to which he had become accustomed in Britain.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Herein lies the greatest irony though. All of the expats identify themselves as Libyans first, though they may never have lived here. Second generation emigrants in particular seem to feel more Libyan than western, and now face a crisis of identity. They have grown up thinking of their adopted countries as a foreign land, and yet can no longer feel at home back here either. It remains to be seen how many will move back when or if Ghadaffi falls.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I have encountered a number of conspiracy theories regarding the evil west, as is typical throughout the middle east, but not as many as I had expected given that this country has been virtually cut off for 40 years. Many claim that Europe is afraid of a free, united, oil rich and Islamic Libya on their doorstep, hence the stalling – and in this case they may not be wrong.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It must be said that Libyans who have lived under the fearful Ghadaffi regime show much more gratitude towards the west’s involvement than some of their compatriots from abroad– at least for the moment. While being understandably suspicious of the West, having lived for decades under a propaganda machine and having seen Western leaders prop him up, they are still grateful for the support. How long this sentiment will last however is unknown, and what is certain is that if this revolution does not pan out the way they hoped, it will again be the West that they blame. When NATO accidently bombs rebel tanks, this makes things much worse.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-71247472255313568172011-04-14T18:24:00.004+03:002011-04-17T13:02:14.299+03:00A few thoughts<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 15px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif;font-size:13px;"><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; ">A few thoughts:</div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; "><br /></div>The latest talks offering dialogue were held by African Union representatives a few days ago. They first visited Ghadaffi in Tripoli and then the rebel council in Benghazi. Ghadaffi agreed to a cease fire in principal but said nothing about his leaving, and he continues to shell towns including Misrata and Brega.<div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; "><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; ">The involvement of the AU will lead nowhere, it can't. The rebels won't even talk until Ghadaffi and his family step down but there is no chance this will happen. Firstly Ghadaffi has nowhere to go - he has isolated himself from every country - only uganda and zimbabwe will have him (maybe Venezuela), and while usually Saudi arabia usually takes the tin pot dictators who side with arabs (case in point ben ali and idi amin) Ghadaffi managed to personally insult the King during his first speech to the UN.</div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; "><br /></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; ">Secondly, many countries in the AU have received huge sums of money from Ghadaffi and will be reluctant to see a neighbouring leader overthrown by western force - they would rather just see a cease fire. Thirdly he's a megolamaniac who believes fully in his right to rule.</div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; "><br /></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; "><br /></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; "><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; ">Ghadaffi will also have watched the cases of Charles Taylor in Liberia, and Karadic in Yugoslavia who were both promised immunity but ended up at the ICC in the Hague. Most recently he will have seen Mubarak being arrested and will now be certain that he will be caught and brought to trial at some point irrespective of where he goes.</div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; "><br /></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; ">He may also now feel that he actually has a chance to win, or at least to hold a stalemate. The reluctance of NATO to help the rebels on the offensive (the UN charter only permits them to protect civilians, rather than help in regime change) will have boosted this.</div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; "><br /></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; ">It also seems that many countries are now wary of what might happen to Libya post Ghadaffi, hence the inaction. The council have written up a 2 page constitution, but it focuses on removing ghadaffi and talks only in very vague ways about democracy and elections. It is more rhetoric than anything else and offers no viable solution for a new state. </div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; "><br /></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; "><br /></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; "><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; ">The IMF says he has $6 billion in gold reserves and his recently defected interior minister suggests he may have as much as $10 billion in cash. So he can continue to pay his mercenaries and buy loyalty for some time to come.</div><div><br /></div></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; ">The only thing that will change this situation is if the rebels are armed or if NATO commits more forces. If NATO and the west are reluctant to do this then it is likely that eventually Quatar will. They are trying to position themselves as a regional political powerhouse - (they've hosted a number of summits recently including the most recent libyan one. They have huge infulence in the region and are the most wealthy country here)</div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; "><br /></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; ">Giving the rebels arms however will take time (both to get here and to train people), so yet again it looks like this will drag on for a very long time.</div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; "><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div></span>Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-88342283605582760132011-04-14T18:20:00.001+03:002011-04-14T18:23:10.036+03:00Ajdabiya<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">For the lasts few days the city of Ajdabiya has been the front line in the war between Ghadaffi troops and rebel forces. It is the last city before the rebel stronghold of Benghazi and therefore hugely symbolic in this battle.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We had been trying to enter for a couple of days, but were being kept behind a rebel checkpoint near the eastern gate. While sheltering in a bombed out mosque we watched fighters return from the front, drained and exhausted. The next batch was always ready to go however and so a constant flow of men continued the fight.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">With growing impatience we waited, never allowed more than a few streets inside before being rushed back amid gunfire. For two days heavy bombardment and sniper fire could be heard constantly, and as smoke billowed from the city we watched rockets streak across the sky. Nobody knew exactly what was going on but from the sounds alone it was clear that a battle was raging.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Finally following much persuasion we were allowed forward. There had been an apparent lull in the fighting and we had told the commander how we needed to see the hospital. One thing they have learnt very quickly is how important the media are and so we were given an escort and allowed to creep slowly forward.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Ajdabiya is normally a bustling city of about 170,000 but has since become a ghost town. The silence as we entered was eerie, interrupted only occasionally by bursts of gunfire and birds singing. Cars had been left abandoned in the streets, most of them burnt out. Make shift roadblocks had been put up on almost every intersection – though these had long since been abandoned. Countless buildings were gutted by fire and due to the shelling many had been reduced to rubble. Apartment blocks, shops, Mosques and offices had all been hit and it was clear that Ghadaffi’s troops were being indiscriminate in their shelling.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As we neared the centre of town, we could see rebel troops hiding in doorways. Many signalled for us to go back. We made it to the hospital however without any incidents and were allowed in. Most of the wounded that day had already been evacuated to Benghazi but some still remained, and the morgue was full. The wounded were either gun shot or shrapnel victims and many were in pain. It was an awful sight to see, and standing amid pools of their blood while trying to talk them, I felt suddenly guilty. Surely they deserved a little more respect, but as I moved to leave the room one called me back and almost unable to talk wanted to tell me what a monster Ghadaffi was.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Most of the doctors in Libya came from abroad; Egypt or the Emirates, and all of them have all now fled. There are therefore only a few left and many nurses now do the jobs of surgeons. We recognised a doctor we had met on the front line some days earlier and on that occasion he had just lost a fellow doctor in a NATO friendly fire accident. He appeared to have had no sleep since but was still running the surgery.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Leaving the hospital we decided to go further in. Ghadaffi’s artillery could reach to about the city centre and we wanted to see the level of devastation. Rumours of bodies lying in the road up ahead had also reached us at the hospital, and we wanted to verify this. Apparently their hands had been bound and their necks cut.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Ghadaffi’s tactics have been to bombard the centre then send in fast moving teams of pick up trucks - about 40 people total, to try and capture ground. These roving war parties are liable to come from any side and so it is easy to get cut off from the rebels – this is how many of them have been caught. These troops loyal to the regime are made up almost exclusively of foreign mercenaries and later in the day I was shown the photocopied passports of 44 men from Tunisia, Mauritania and Chad. We were told that these passports had been taken off dead bodies, but there is no way of verifying this.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Finally we reached the spot where the bodies had been found. They had since been moved, but judging by the blood on the ground, it was clear that 5 bodies had once lain there. A rebel commander pulled us to one side and on his phone showed us the bodies as they had been found. They were indeed bound and the necks slit open. Yet again if became clear that Ghadaffi will take no prisoners.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Just a few minutes later, while walking down a nearby street, gunfire and shelling erupted again and just over our heads a shell whistling by. We were thrown into a car and made our escape as Ghadaffi forces made another attempt to push in.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-4916039921655795102011-04-12T11:06:00.001+03:002011-04-12T11:06:37.871+03:00BenghaziWalking through the Libyan rebel city of Benghazi, it is impossible to miss the signs of fury. Countless buildings are charred, bullet holes mark the scenes of vicious gun battles and burnt out cars and tanks litter the roads. Each of these images evokes the scarred past of this city and of this country, but each is also a great symbol of achievement to the people. With great pride, they show off their victories, posing for pictures in Ghadaffi’s darkened cells, standing victorious on top of tanks and in true Arab fashion firing Kalahnikovs in the air. Throughout the city people flash peace signs in lieu of handshakes, and the old Libyan flag flies from every building and every car, replacing Ghadaffi’s own. There is a wonderful sense of freedom here.<br /><br />With each street comes a different story. On one are the holes where unarmed men drove through barrack walls in selfless martyrdom, another where the explosives used to catch fish brought down guard towers. Near our hotel is the ransacked mansion where one of Ghadaffi’s notorious female bodyguard’s lived, and a few streets from that are the secret underground cells that were located only when muffled cries of prisoners were heard from grills in the ground. So thick were the doors that bulldozers had to dig them out from beneath.<br /><br />The decimated palatial home of Ghadaffi himself which now sits surrounded by burnt out luxury cars, has also become a place of pilgrimage, and people flock here as they try to make sense of everything that has happened. Each of these ruins is of course a reminder of Ghadaffi’s repressive regime, but more importantly it is a reminder of the glorious rebellion and the great victory over the tyrant.<br /><br />But herein lies the biggest problem and the biggest hurdle facing the rebels. So many people believe that by just having started this revolution, and just by winning back this city, that the war is already won. They seemed to believe that one by one cities would fall before them and that in no time at all they would be in Tripoli. It was their dream that in one fell swoop they could rid this country of its evils and bring about radical change, but how very wrong, and very naïve they have been. As we now watch a stalemate developing, it seems that despite their initial joy, they are only now realising how many lives will be lost and how far they have to go. It is also dawning on them, as Ghadaffi’s troops push to within 80 miles of Benghazi that maybe, just maybe, they might not win at all.<br /><br />So it is that the joyous atmosphere felt throughout this city hides the reality of their predicament, and the scale of the troubles that lie ahead. Rebel fighters here must wake up, and realise that this fight is far from over. They must continue to train, but not just with weapons. They must learn how to hold a line, how to dig in and they must cease to scatter at the first sign of enemy attacks. They must learn how to communicate on the battlefield, and develop a system of ranks, and most importantly they must communicate with NATO. This lack of military knowledge is one of Ghaddaffi’s legacies and stems from his absolute paranoia. So worried was he about any uprising that no man ever received real training or fired a gun.<br /><br />I have been to the training camps now set up around the city and I have watched men try to drill. In many cases they are no better than the afghan national police and speaking to people it almost seems as if too much planning and premeditation will somehow taint their pure revolution. Most would rather just drive straight at the enemy screaming ‘god is great’ in some kind of modern charge of the light brigade.<br /><br />The rebels must also continue to offer a viable solution for a free libya and convince the West that they are not just ex Ghadaffi cronies. Most importantly they must not expect NATO to fight this war for them. The initial jubilation that was felt when NATO joined the fight is slowly disappearing as they realise that the west will not deliver the country to them on a plate, and that even if it wanted to, it is constrained by so many factors.<br /><br />When it comes to the relationship with NATO, immense gratitude is still shown on the streets, and certainly in this city it is acknowledged that the initial airstrikes saved many people from being slaughtered. However this is slowly being overshadowed by a growing suspicion that bigger powers are at play and conspiring against them. After 40 years of brainwashing, and having watched Ghadaffi being propped up by western leaders it is not a big leap of imagination for them to make, and in evening press conferences the council spokesmen is now often forced to deny there is a rift between them. That this is not the case becomes harder and harder to believe, as people continue to ask where are the NATO bombs and why do they not do more.<br /><br />The fact that recent NATO airstrikes have accidently destroyed rebel tanks have only strengthened this view and as confusion grows, so does anger. Now that Turkey has withdrawn it’s initial support for regime change Libyan rebels are feeling ever more isolated. NATO will only attack tanks outside cities but this is not enough for people here. In their eyes collateral damage is merely an unfortunate side effect.<br /><br />The most widely spread theory here is that the world wants this country split in two. Most people on the streets believe that the west is scared of a powerful, oil rich and strictly Islamic Libya on it’s doorstep, and they may not be wrong. I am told again and again that it was Ghadaffi who split this country in two, in the same way that colonial powers divided and conquered, and that history is now repeating itself. I am also told that it is a ridiculous concept that Al Qaeda is waiting in the wings, but with possibly the worse use of words I have heard, somebody today told me “show me Al Qaeda and I will hang him, and I will take his head”.<br /><br />One of the other big problems is the naivety about how the international community and NATO work. They do not understand why Ghadaffi’s troops cannot simply be wiped from the ground. They cite Kuwait as an example of this being done in the past, though none will tolerate ground troops on Libyan soil.<br /><br />There is still hope in this country that the revolution will offer a new beginning, however day by day this dwindles. I suspect that what worries the west most, both in terms of Libya and the wider Middle East, is that when looking at history, it is rarely the people who start revolutions who finish them. Instead it is the most organised and cunning people who hijack otherwise noble causes. Looking at the people currently running this movement I believe there is much cause for concern., but I pray I am wrong.Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-90290641487704764632011-04-09T01:12:00.000+03:002011-04-09T01:13:00.884+03:00Rag tag rebelsConfusion reigned today as anti Ghadaffi forces were again pushed back from the front line near Brega. Scenes from the battle leave little doubt that this rag tag group of men are ill-equipped and at present, incapable of taking on the well armed and better organised enemy on their own. Today also illustrated perfectly the issues facing the rebels, and as I watched their repeated attempts to push back enemy troops, it was clear that they are a long way from swaying the balance of power in their favour.<br /><br />Not only are a number of men armed with the most antiquated weapons, and in some cases even knives, but there is also basic lack of communication between troops, indeed it soon became clear that the soldiers waiting with us to move forward knew no more than we did.<br /><br />As I watched these men, varying in age from 17 to 50, I was struck once again at how little they know of warfare. Held back about 7 miles from the front line I watched truck after truck retreat while they struggled to reload their heavy calibre weapons, many of them arguing and screaming at each another as they did so. There was an incredible sense of confusion and moral is at a new low; for there have been no recent victories and hope for a fast win faded long ago. <br /><br />We were about 70 miles from Benghazi, where we are currently staying and today was supposed to be the final push from Ajdabiya to Brega. This has been the front line for almost a week but with NATO’s help this was supposed to change. The mood was jubilant as we rode forward with the tanks and missile batteries but it was not to last.<br /><br />Having been kept some miles back from the front with the second wave of troops, we waited patiently to move forward. We were in earshot of heavy shelling but the mood still seemed positive. The day darkened suddenly though, when out of the dust ahead came scores of pickup trucks retreating at full speed. They brought with them news of NATO airstrikes hitting their own positions rather than Ghaddaffi’s, devastating their emplacements, their tanks and scattering their troops. It is the second time that NATO has attacked the wrong targets and 6 rebels have been reported dead with 15 injured. <br /> <br />Once again therefore NATO planes have mistakenly targeted rebel tanks, and in the eyes of the rebels NATO has become ever more unhelpful. There seems to be an underlying suggestion that if these mistakes continue, or if NATO does not attack Ghaddaffi soon, then there may be a serious and long-term backlash against the west. Many people now suggest that the west is trying to split the country in two, and that there is a hidden agenda that we cannot read. I must say that it is easy to understand this in a country that has been cut off from the world for the last 40 years, and whose children have been brainwashed with stories of foreign evils. There is so much distrust.<br /><br />Immediately following news of this NATO mistake, anger on the front lines could barely be contained, and at times it felt as if it might be taken out on us. One man had lost his friend and as he pounded the truck and wept he cried out towards us before crumbling into a heap on the ground, embraced by those around him. The strangest thing though is that for every rebel who shouted and cried out in anger, there were others who could be seen clapping each other on the backs and smiling. For some it seems almost like a game, and there is a strange disconnect here between those have been carried away by the rebellion’s initial success and those who still hope to die for their cause.<br /><br />The whole scene, as we waited in the desert heat surrounded by ragged Libyan fighters, all waiting for news from what was going on only a few miles ahead was incredibly surreal, but it was soon to feel a lot more real.<br /><br /><br />Only one thing was now agreed on by everybody; that Ghadaffi’s troops were moving ever closer to our position. So as more ambulances screamed past us to the front the situation became more and more tense. Guns could still be heard in the distance as we walked among the troops, when suddenly from nowhere the ground shook and the air reverberated as two mortars exploded just a few hundred metres away. There was a loud initial thud followed by a loud explosion and as the ground shook chaos erupted.<br /><br />People leapt into every available vehicle and scattered. Hundreds of people were now running for their lives and as they sped past us, I could hear more cries of ‘NATO, NATO’. It took us what felt like an eternity to find our own car, and as I dashed backwards with my hands over my head (a rather pointless thing to do) I prayed desperately that there would be no more. We could hear jets overhead and other bombs in the distance but thankfully no more near us.<br /><br />We regrouped about 20 miles down the road , but nobody could tell us what was happening or whether there would be a counter attack. Nobody knew who was in charge, and everybody was shouting; At us, at each other and at the sky. Most of the cars had just kept driving away anyway and the army had disbanded. Even if we had wanted to go back our driver refused while our translator was panicked. It was close enough for me, and being my first experience with real warfare I felt …….. As I sit here now my heart still races, but I would be nowhere else.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />This chaotic picture from the front is repeated throughout the region and very clearly so in the rebel “stronghold” of Bengahzi. Despite the interim government’s insistence that only trained people can now fight it seems that anybody with a looted uniform can join the ranks. It seems that everybody is part of this ‘great movement’ though not many seem to be doing much. Anyone with a gun is more important still, and as the going rate of an AK is now $3500 that is no surprise.<br /><br />I have seen many other things that point towards the problems being faced here and general lack of coherent plans for the future, if not among the leadership then certainly among the soldiers. Yesterday I saw a boy no older than 10 dressed in uniform and directing traffic, while nearby two Libyan men fought over a gun much as 2 children might a toy. The interim government acknowledges that the troops are badly trained and need help yet this is a massive understatement. Tomorrow I go to the training camps, and from what I hear these somewhat resemble the Afghan national police facilities.<br /><br />I have met scores of Libyans from abroad who have flocked here for the chance to fight. Many of them go to gawp at Ghadaffi’s palaces or secret prisons, the shear horrors of what went on here only just dawning on them. Yet they come with a carnival atmosphere in mind and when faced with fighting shy away from the dangers around.<br /><br />One 15 year old from Manchester is currently waiting for training, but like many others who believe they had already won this war he had never really expected to fight. He is just a boy, he is scared and he only wants to go home. I have told him he should and took him to the hospital with me to see the wounded. I hope it will help.<br /><br />Everybody here has come to help but nobody knows how. Manu are so quick to talk about their experiences near the fighting and all show off bullets but they can do no real good. They blame the west for their past, they are blaming now for their present and will no doubt blaming them in the future. They blame the west for doing nothing or for trying to help. It has been hard work defending us.<br /><br />I cannot deny the bravery or the commitment of most rebels, and this must never go unsaid. Initial stories of men sacrificing themselves to bring down the walls of gadaffi’s barracks and of becoming martyrs abound. They have fought against a tyrant with their bare hands, risen up against 40 years of oppression and many of them will readily to die for their cause. This is the greatest strength they have. They are also a kind, and welcoming people. They do not hate individual westerners but they all believe that we are being played by big evil governements. Most believe that 9/11 was surely an American conspiracy.<br /><br />They know full well that in recent years the west turned a blind eye to Ghadaffi’s horrors to secure oil, and this is hard to deny.<br /><br />There is also no denying the atrocities that Ghadaffi is committing now. When listening to stories from the besieged Misrata, many of which are terrifying, it is clear that the time has come for him to go, indeed it is long overdue. For this to happen though this revolution needs to find its feet and make its plans, but for the tide to turn the West needs to do more – whether it should, whether it can, and whether it will be allowed to are different questions. <br /><br />This story is far from over, and this country will be mired with trouble for years. As people gather round tv sets each day and watch the action live, one cannot help but think they fail to not grasp the seriousness of their predicament, in the near future, and the far.Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-66260888824665826552010-08-03T15:22:00.003+03:002011-03-23T20:40:42.442+03:00Port au Prince<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Times;"><div style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 3px; padding-right: 3px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 3px; width: auto; font: normal normal normal 100%/normal Georgia, serif; text-align: left; ">There were many things I expected from Haiti but meeting Jimmy Buffett was not one of them. However it was while sipping a drink on the veranda of the hotel Oloffson, following this amazing encounter that I became aware of the fact that there would be 2 very different ways in which to report from this country.<br /><br /><br />One was from inside this oasis of calm, around a swimming pool surrounded by NGO workers, UN staff, fair weather journalists, and the odd celebrity. It is here that they congregate, drink, screw, dance and do an awful lot of talking. The other option was to jump head first into the tented cities, government offices, voodoo chapels and black markets, to paint a picture of a world that is harsh, corrupt, cruel yet also resilient and charming. The truth is though that these two worlds are intimately intwined, and that the decisions that effect this nation are so often made from behind the high walls of this very charming hotel. One cannot therefore tell the story of this tragedy without looking at both sides.<br /><br /><br />The Oloffson is an amazing place, unchanged for decades. It is a huge white wooden mansion with covered verandas and lush gardens that would not look out of place on Bourbon st. The doors are marked with the names of celebrities who have stayed here, with poor Van Damme being relegated to a back room next to my own. The hotel, on a hill overlooking the city was relatively untouched during the earthquake although there is a floor to ceiling crack in my bedroom wall through which I can spy on the people next door. The characters within the hotel are as special as the hotel itself.<br /><br /><br />The self styled doyen here is an old lady called Ginny, a photo journalist from the US. Before sundown her shrill NY accent can be heard shouting at the staff "A gin for Ginny" before swearing down the phone at a photo editor not willing to pay up or a driver who is late. People tend to smile politely at her but give her a wide berth - this is one battle axe not to be trifled with. There's another lady who sits with Ginny and may or may not be sleeping with her too. Every morning she spends breakfast flitting from table to table trying to piggy back on other peoples excursions though always being rejected by each.<br /><br /><br />There is also a young black man from a big US bank, trying to rebuild the financial system here. He was immaculately dressed and bizarrely lamenting the difficulties of being a white man in Haiti. I don't know if it was the drinks or his ivy league education but I didn't have it in me to to disagree. There's an enormous bald man from America called Odin who is here to sell wooden parrots to a chain of US supermarkets. Judging by the conversation I overheard, his clients are now balking at the $100,000 that it will cost to set this up. Charity and business do not always mix.<br /><br /><br />Then we have the owner, a tall white haitian with a thick gray curly mass of hair on his shoulders. Born in NY he is the lead singer of a famous voodoo band. I have yet to learn much about him, but have no doubt that he knows this city and its inhabitants better than most - a slightly aloof yet fascinating man. I am reminded here of hotel Rwanda and a day by the pool in Kigali, and I intend to know him well.<br /><br /><br />This morning christian missionaries with long beards skirted meekly past a Jordanian general, while an enormous mastiff, with a horrible protruding vagina snored on the floor. Vivaldi's Spring blared from the speakers almost managing to drown out the horns and cries from outside. Looking at this scene, it is easy to understand why so many Haitians are skeptical of aid workers and the promises they make. The private jets at the airport will do little to dispel this unfortunate image.<br /><br /><br />But before I go any further, I must say that it is very easy to be cynical about the reconstruction effort. That it is in the hands of Bill Clinton makes it an even easier target, but the fact must always remain that none of these people need to be here, none of them need to help or to care, yet they all do. And if all they ask is an oasis to retire to at the end of the day who can blame them. As Brother Buffett told me this morning in his soft alabama lilt "everybody needs an Oasis sometimes".<br /><br /><br />I have been watching the interaction between locals and westerners here with much interest. I've heard many people on both sides complaining about the other. Haitians think that not enough is being done for them, while aid workers think the Haitians are ungracious. Many claim that they expect everything but show little or no gratitude, while haitians (and many aid workers alike) are wondering what happened to the $20 billion raised, and are horrified that they still live in such destitute poverty. I hope to find out soon why there is such inaction, such waste and so little getting done, my feeling though is that it is a combination of bureaucracy and a corrupt local government.<br /><br /><br />The first interaction I saw between locals and foreigners was on board the flight here - it was an amusing picture. There were only a handful of westerners and they were the only ones adhering to designated seating. Watching a polite aid worker on his first trip to the country telling an elderly haitian lady that in fact seat 26B was his, entertained me to no end. He never got it back. As we took off a number of old ladies started to wail and wave their hands in the air. This continued until landing, getting louder with every bit of turbulence.<br /><br /><br />Outside the hotel, the city is devastated. I know you will all have seen pictures or have impressions about the devastation but the scale is more than even I can fathom. Tented cities with hundreds of thousands of people angle deep in mud, buildings in huge sections of the town simply flattened, but not yet cleared. Huge piles of rubble in every road and people trying as best they can to keep life moving, but with every industry destroyed what can they do? Little food, little water, little hope. Just 5 minutes from the airport I drove past a crumpled body, dead on the street. Nobody stopped. I overheard someone today asking "What about the bodies?" The response was, "The dead look after themselves".</div></span>Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-69546583363883978332010-08-03T15:21:00.001+03:002010-08-03T15:21:29.019+03:00evangelical voodoo<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; "><div style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 3px; padding-right: 3px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 3px; width: auto; font: normal normal normal 100%/normal Georgia, serif; text-align: left; "><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">The constant, savage sound of voodoo drums is both terrifying and hypnotic. It is a manic sound that beats and beats and beats inside your head and through to the bone. It is repetitive, continual, and as it pounds through your head it is easy to see how people become possessed.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">It is said that this country is 80% christian and 100% voodoo and last night was proof of that. I had been asked by some texan missionaries to attend a performance at a nearby christian refugee camp, and with nothing else to do decided to join. What we expected however and what we got could not have been more different. It was the most eery performance I have seen and left us drained and exhausted. In the case of the Texans, who had been looking forward to a christian sing along, it left them scared and angry.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">In a small dark room at the centre of this foul and muddy camp the dancers leapt and fell and swayed for over an hour. Not once did the drums stop beating or the men stop dancing. They portrayed every character from Haiti's culture, and overseeing it all was Baron Samedi; god of the dead. We watched as they mimicked human sacrifice, slave murders, and otherworldly possessions. They prayed both to the ground as well as the heavens, and they contorted their bodies in ways I thought not possible. As the night continued the evangelicals beside me began to huddle together as the dancers slapped the ground, cracked whips and beat their chests. </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">The frenzy grew and grew and reached its peak as Samedi blew flames towards our heads. The heat was intense and if any of our group had not realised this was a celebration of paganism they certainly did then. One of the girls screamed and clutched at her pastor, he in turn had a look of horror on his face and shielded her from this blasphemy. </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">Soaked in sweat these dancers got closer and closer to the group. A one armed man began to body pop and then bizarrely dropped to the floor and did the worm. The lights went out but the drums continued, they got louder and louder and in the candle light all we could see were big white grinning mouths. I desperately wanted this to end, and was not sure I could take much more. At the same time however I feared the silence that would follow, and when it finally came it was as if something had left us. I was mesmerized. Nobody moved and nobody spoke, we just sat there in the dark before eventually filtering out one by one. I looked down at my notebook and saw deep teeth marks in the cover.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">That this performance was not at odds with their christian belief is amazing, but then so much about this land is at odds with itself. It is also amazing to think that this was not a real voodoo ceremony, for that I will have to go inland.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">I politely declined the offer of an evening prayer session and left the texans. I headed straight for the only hotel with a bar, for if anything warrants a drink it was this. Walking alone through darkened Haitian streets after such craziness was strange indeed. The streets in the old town are all deserted - barely one house in the area is safe following the quake. I had a feeling people were lurking in the shadows though and I quickened my pace.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">Walking into the hotel I was thrown into another amazing scene - it was a Haitian wedding. At the centre of the group were 2 men sitting face to face. They were reading french poetry back and forth in quick tempo while women in white frilly dresses looked on and swayed. I don't really know what was going on but intend to find out.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">I had arranged to meet a friend who runs a maternity clinic. She texted me soon after I arrived to say she would be late. She was at her clinic and about to deliver a dead baby - her 5th that week. When she arrived soon after I found out that the mother had refused to deliver. She had wanted to keep her still born a little longer.</p></div></span>Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-23895005676978581172010-08-03T15:20:00.003+03:002010-08-03T15:20:58.256+03:00Tourism and taxis<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; "><div style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 3px; padding-right: 3px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 3px; width: auto; font: normal normal normal 100%/normal Georgia, serif; text-align: left; "><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">Crossing the mountains in a clapped out tap tap with 9 seats but carrying 20 is a horrendous experience - one that I would repeat in an instant. There is something exhilarating about a situation you cannot control and embracing it. Packed to the point of claustrophobia, our stubborn little van crawled its way to the top of each hill then hurled its way down the other side barely missing the edge. There was no time to appreciate the passing landscape, but I know it is stunning. Lush mountains, babbling brooks and waterfalls.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">Despite having our windows wide open I inhaled more exhaust than air and there was a good amount of retching from the back. To make matters worse the lady to my left kept vomiting into a little bottle and making the sign of the cross. Our driver blared out rap music, the air was hot and and heavy and I had eaten something strange for breakfast. So extreme and painful was every bump and turn that it was not long before we were laughing uncontrollably, there was little else to do.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">Our fellow passengers must have thought these 2 blancs were crazy as we laughed through the pain, but they embraced us both warmly when we finally arrived in Port au prince and wished us well. Although many people here are initially weary of foreigners and stare at you with blank looks, they soon warm to you, and such shared experiences help a good deal.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">It took us 3 hours to arrive but we had made it. But having said goodbye we were faced with yet another intense scene, for moments after being dropped off we were spotted and a cry of 'Blancs' went out. The surrounding crowd turned and the word was passed from person to person. All around us we could hear people shouting 'Blancs, blancs blancs', as they rushed towards us. Apparently foreigners do not visit this part of town and in an instant every street vendor was heading towards us - we cowered.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">We had arrived at the main bus terminal of port au prince, a dirty, loud and crowded hub for rural haitians flocking to the city. Covered partly in corrugated iron it leans to one side and seems ready to fall. Many people have sought refuge in port au prince and most of them have ended up either here or in camps. Both however are better choices than the abject poverty people face in the hills where almost no aid has arrived. The scene was both sad and intimidating.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">Desperate to sell us an array of gruesome looking foods and dirty water, people pushed and shoved and tugged at our clothes as we tried to haul our bags to the other side. To our rescue came Ronny, a tiny little man who came darting through the crowd towards us. Despite his size he cleared a path, bustled us into his car and removed us from the groping hands. People continued to reach in and bang at the windows but we made it away. Soon after we were being welcomed back into the familiar surroundings of the hotel oloffson, looking a damn sight worse than when we had left, but feeling like real travelers.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">Once again I was reminded of John Mills in Ice cold from Alex and as we staggered towards the bar we were met with familiar faces. It felt as if nobody had moved since our departure and their drinks were still full, but I did pick out a few new faces. Most notable among them was a group of high schoolers from virginia playing UNO, and a grizzled drunk shouting about evil in the world. As I write this now he is still at it, and his poor haitian mistress looks aghast at what her evening must hold. The high schoolers have since taken refuge in their rooms.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">I have promised myself to rest here for only a few days. I am back briefly to write a piece on the world cup fervor that has swept this country, for the place is alive and buzzing. With 80% unemployment this is now something for them to do and they are ecstatic. Screens are going up around the city and this seems to have brought a brief respite from the hardships they face daily. For haitians it seems to be both therapy and an opiate.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">You must excuse the last few days of silence. The pace of life here is as slow as our tap tap and also contagious. Energy is easily sapped, and I am beginning to understand the laziness. Days drift by at their own varied pace and the heat is unavoidable - the fact that I can not be near the loo as well as an internet connection also causes problems.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">I have come from the city of Jacmel where life is as slow as it gets. This was the second biggest tourist hub on the island before the quake, and I believe that one day it can be so again. Much of its tourism in the last couple of years has been from lonely canadian women looking for companionship, yet it offers so much more. For example there is the country's biggest transvestite community, its biggest artist community (usually enveloped in a haze of pot) and picture perfect beaches. It has drug runners, a film school and mountain waterfalls. It also has some of the poorest camps, some of the worst malnourishment and many orphans. However for socially conscious tourists this should be the first destination. It is beautiful and unspoiled. For my own part I was able to help in the camps handing out nappies and translating for a charity building schools - I feel less like a voyeur.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">We met a wonderfully eclectic group of people there. The town drunk is a man named Anderson and we befriended him one day only to save him the next. It was early one morning when we found him staggering in the middle of a busy intersection with cars rushing past him on all sides. He had stopped to light a cigarette but passed glazed eyes was not succeeding. We helped him to the side of the road, bought him some food and left him to sleep. I doubt he ever did.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">We then prevented a man from having 'God' tattooed on this eyelids - not only would it have been a home made affair and dangerous, but he would have lost all chance of employment. I think he went ahead anyway yet I felt better for having tried. Bizarrely this was a man I had seen in the voodoo dance the night before.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">Most surprisingly we met a jamaican englishman from hackney whose boat had been wrecked off the coast some months ago. He has since been living in a camp with the locals with no money and no way home. I will return to find out more, but do not yet understand why he has not contacted the embassy - something isn't right, and there is an article in this. He seemed stoned and happy. Yet pleaded for help.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">Tourism here has now dried up but in the past this country was once thriving. On the North coast is a port called Labadee. It is a private resort leased to a US cruise company, Royal Caribbean International. Since 1986 ship after ship has brought thousands of Americans to enjoy a sun soaked, booze fueled couple of days, yet for publicity reasons none of them ever knew they were in Haiti. Advertisements referred to it as an island, crew members were told not to say anything, and it was cut off from the locals by high walls and a private security force. To even mention the name Haiti is a death knell for companies.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">While this sounds incredible it is also understandable. Very few people see a war ravaged country as their idea of paradise, yet bearing in mind that the cruise company has contributed the largest proportion of Haiti's tourism revenue for decades, so be it. What this does show is one of the biggest problems facing the future of this country and the difficulties that potential tourism faces. In time I believe this can change. I believe that if the nation can be rebuilt and if the locals can embrace foreigners they might recreate a haven that once saw Mick Jagger, Van Damme and Graham Greene call this place idyllic. </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">Life within the NGO compounds remains strange and cut off. It is far removed from the realities of the street, although they move around the camps at ease. Last night I had dinner with a wonderful spanish girl I met on the plane. Her NGO does not allow her to leave the compound and so it was that we were chaperoned around town by french military. It was a bizarre date to say the least and at 9 she was ushered out the door after a fast farewell. Perhaps it was the 2 kidnappings the night before, but it still felt it extreme. I was left alone to find a ride home and when my moto taxi broke down in darkened alley I began to wonder if I too should take more care.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">This is a country full of extremes yet I would encourage everyone to visit.</p></div></span>Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-76795325532277219912010-08-03T15:20:00.001+03:002010-08-03T15:20:30.189+03:00A harrowing day in Cite Soleil<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; "><div style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 3px; padding-right: 3px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 3px; width: auto; font: normal normal normal 100%/normal Georgia, serif; text-align: left; "><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">Cite soleil is not a place to be trifled with and a hard place to enter. Until recently it was known as the most dangerous bario in the world, and running gun battles were continuous. It has been immortalized in various films and little aid has reached it since the earthquake. It is a dirty, impoverished shanty town and drugs are rife.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">So it was with trepidation that I went in, hat pulled low, and camera hidden. I had found a guide who lived there and had offered, for a sizeable fee to show us around. In a stroke of good fortune, the man who we had prevented tattooing his eyelid was originally from soleil and his family still lived there. One of his brothers, Wally had agreed to lead us in.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">The police here have made much of their success in ridding the area of bandits, including the king pin himself, Avis. Although hundreds of them escaped from prison during the quake, Avis has since died in a shoot out and most others have fled to the hills. Police have been told to fire on sight if anyone is recognized, so few have remained. They now patrol regularly, though the international troops will not go in. For my own safety I was comforted by the knowledge that only aid workers are now being kidnapped - journalists are worth a lot less. Tragically, the daughter of the head of a big charity was taken a few days ago, and there has yet been no word.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">The first thing that struck me as we approached was the smell. Never in my life have I experienced such rank and foul odours as I did there. It seeped into the mouth and down to the lungs and at times I wanted to throw up. I was to afraid to offend anyone however and tried instead to hold my breath. We had left the main road and driven down a canal which was little more than a sewage dump. Yet children played in the street and foraged with dogs, while next to them lay rotting animal carcasses.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">We left the bike and went in on foot. The first thing I noticed was the bullet holes littering the walls. They were sprayed across doorways and windows in what could only have been indiscriminate murder. Gang signs were on many surfaces and as we walked by people kept calling out "Kabri" and bleating. Kabri is one of the nations favourite dishes - goat and we were told it meant that we too would taste good.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">Most people slouched in doorways and lazed in the shade that offered no rest from the heat. Some of them smoked drugs, others played dominos. One man idled past us with a small yellow bird that he had fashioned into a neckless using a piece of wire. It was attached by the legs and was still alive. Every face turned as we passed and stared with a mixture of curiosity and hate as if to say what right have you to observe our misery.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">Despite my initial fear however everything went smoothly. We passed Avis' hide out, Wycelff's house, met the local crazy man and interviewed a few thugs. For them, nothing has changed since the quake. The area was not hit that badly and there were very few real buildings to collapse. They merely pushed their homes up again and hijacked some aid convoys.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">Moving continuously we wound among the small and cluttered streets and came finally to the main road that led through the centre. More dead animals and mountains of rubbish lined the streets. It was along here that the dead were taken after the earthquake and about 10 trucks a day brought piles of bodies to be burnt in the hills. 300,000 dead estimated.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">Following a harrowing couple of hours we left and went back to the hotel. It took us only 15 minutes but felt like a world away. When the devastation and poverty of Port au prince feels comforting, you know that something has changed inside.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">What strikes me most is the resilience of everybody I see. They have learned over so many decades to live hand to mouth, day to day and as if each could be their last. They always make do, can sleep anywhere and most are smiling. Children play and hold your hand. They look up not with envy or anger, but with hope and more hope. They are at heart a laid back people and I believe also peaceful.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">Such hope and expectation however is not always a good thing. It begins to create a reliance on foreign aid, and the general consensus here is that aid programs must encourage self sufficiency. While the west can and must provide a lot of the goods they must also avoid doling things out.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">Another big problem is that a number of charities are arriving with temporary housing that is made to last for only a few years. Some has not been hurricane tested and is liable to fall apart when the rains arrive, yet the government has for some reason O.K.'d it. Everybody here knows that there is no such thing as temporary housing in Haiti, for when you give someone a structure they will stay in it till it crumbles. </p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></div></div></span>Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-4122997120251691422010-08-03T15:19:00.002+03:002010-08-03T15:20:02.056+03:00Castaways<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; "><div style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 3px; padding-right: 3px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 3px; width: auto; font: normal normal normal 100%/normal Georgia, serif; text-align: left; "><div style="text-align: center; ">1<br /></div><br /><br />Huddled beneath a black tarp in a small open boat under the midday sun was not where I had hoped to find myself. Better suited for a somalian pirate attack than a ferry ride, the boat creaked and chugged its way across the sea. It had been almost an hour since we had left the bustling wharf of Les Cayes and I was beginning to get claustrophobic.<br /><br />Huddled around me in the unbearable midday heat were 20 rural haitians, a few chickens, and many boxes of fruit, and despite the cover we were getting stung by the sea water. The boat swayed this way and that, and every few minutes our captain shouted 'left' or 'right', as he commanded us to redress the balance. As with all forms of transport in this country, be it on 2 wheels, 4 wheels or water, no vehicle leaves until overburdened and uncomfortable.<br /><br />If you have ever seen a photo of african refugees trying to reach europe you will have a vague idea of what this was like, and I began to wonder if we too might end up adrift. Quite what everyone made of my presence I'm not sure but it was an adventure indeed and we were all in it together. At one point when the waves got bigger a bottle of Taffia was passed round and we each took a swig. It is a cheap and heavy rum that does little to quench thirst, but peoples spirits rose.<br /><br />I have read that life in Haiti hesitates on the verge between tragedy and comedy, and as these words came to mind I laughed<br /><br />Les Cayes was once known for producing the best rum in the world and I have heard that this is where the term 'OK' comes from. Shipments arriving in NY marked 'Aux Cayes', would contain the finest rums and be left unopened. This is of course the Haitian version, but one I quite like.<br /><br />I had counted only 3 life jackets as a fisherman had carried me ably towards the boat on his shoulders. The small wooden jetty was rotten, falling into the sea and no use to anybody. The little port was filthy, and flies covered everything. Men urinated in the mud where they pleased and mopeds revved their little engines among the beggars and the street vendors. At first I was just relieved to be out of the melee and away from prying hands, but what lay ahead was worse.<br /><br />Just offshore a container ship was unloading large sacks into waiting dugouts and about 20 of them vied for position; it was a noisy and aggressive scene, and I was pleased to push through them and reach open water. As we set off into the ocean I was reminded of Agoue, the voodoo divinty of water. Nobody had yet offered him a gift as is customary, so as the sea got choppier I hoped that I was not destined to become Jonah.<br /><br />As things got worse I lowered my head, huddled among the others and prayed we had enough fuel. Every few minutes I allowed myself a peek over the edge to see if we were any closer, but at 5 knots and with a strong current this never seemed to happen.<br /><br />At one point a small baby was passed up through the group, and being at the front it was wedged by my side. It soon began to bawl, whether because of the heat, the wet, her skin dissorder or me I don't know, but I was beginning to regret this trip. When people began to argue around me under the dark cover I felt this was an adventure too far.<br /><br /><br />I was trying to reach the little island of Vache, famed for it's beauty, and wanting my trip to be as authentic as possible had declined the offer of a private boat. I had told the people expecting me that I would find my own way to the hotel, yet this was not how I had imagined it. The journey had become both precarious and very lonely and out in the middle of ocean I was missing a friendly face or an english voice. I was even missing the little bus that had been my home for the previous 5 hours, and the regular jolts of the dirt road as I travelled through the mountains. Not even the taffia was calming my nerves.<br /><br />Eventually however and much to my relief we made land and the first stop was mine. We pulled up near a beach as beautiful as any I have seen and I was again carried ashore. "Tout servis" they insisted. For once refusing additional payment.<br /><br />I was the only one who got off here and as I turned around the boat was already pulling away. There were not buildings in sight, and I shouted after them the name of the hotel "Belle View?" They pointed inland and up the mountain and laughed.<br /><br />Soaking wet, sunburnt and thirsty I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed into the woods up a little path. Soon I heard voices and found myself in a small village. Once again a cry of 'Blanc' went out and children came rushing. Receptions such as this get tiresome every minute of the day and I am getting desperate for some privacy.<br /><br /><br />A few minutes later I had been escorted to the hotel and found myself in yet another Haitian oasis, a little paradise. We were high on a peninsula overlooking a turqouise sea, lush hills, coconut trees and a small fishing village. It could not have been a more welcoming sight.<br /><br />Hearing the children, a portly haitian lady popped her head out of a window under a low straw roof. "Monsieur Benjamin?", she inquired with surprise. I was dirty, wet, and the salt water had matted my hair into a wild mane. I hadn't changed in a couple of days and here I was emerging from the trees alone. She rushed to greet me. "We expected somebody a lot older" were her first words, and I soon understood why.<br /><br />It turns out that this hotel caters for one specific type of guest - middle aged French men, single and wearing speedos. How could I have got it so wrong! Underneath the prices for water skiing, scuba diving and kayakking (none of which seem to be on offer) is a price for a speed boat to 'Madame Bernards'. I haven't yet inquired about this, but judging by the few girls who came in last night I think it is not for sightseeing.<br /><br />I fell asleep early and was mauled by mosquitos. It had been quite a day and one that had ended as bizarrely as it had begun - at the home of a famous haitiaan rapper in port au prince.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: center; ">2<br /></div><div style="text-align: center; "><br /></div><br />Gemini is his name and he once recorded with Wycleff - in Haiti that makes you a god. He had very kindly offered to put me up for the evening in his ramshackle house and it was a wonderful experience. Sitting on a burned out car freestyling in creole (him not me) was surreal. Despite the rats around us and the regular powercuts he kept going for a good 30 minutes, and we had soon amassed a large crowd (as much to gawk at me, as to hear him).<br /><br />He had asked only for a bottle of rum as payment and this also made us many new friends. A couple of women offered us their company but muttering something about a wife back home I refused. This seemed to make no difference however and they persisted. To my relief there was a Lakers game that evening and we rushed off to buy petrol for a generator.<br /><br />We talked for hours about Haiti, its problems and its future. I have found that outside the aid workers and politicians there is little optimism here. Haitians focus predominantly on the bad rather than the good, and never ask how they might improve their own lives. This may seem callous on my part for they have endured much, but not once have I seen real optimism. They seem to have become used to living in misery and can imagine nothing else. It is sad.<br /><br />Not once have I seen them embrace the aid that is flowing in and use it as an opportunity to build a new future. Not once have I seen them lead a project; they want it all done for them. In this culture it seems that 2 wrongs make a right, and I am starting to believe what I have been told a couple of times: "Haitians can be a barbaric people".<br /><br /><br />All over the country I have been seeing graffiti saying 'Bon retour JC Duvalier'. When I asked Gemini and his friends I was told that many people would like to see the return of a strong leader. They believe that under Baby Doc they saw better days; they had security and less poverty. Corruption among the police and politicians was no worse than it is now and for this reason hardly anyone intends to vote in the next election. "Preval is a drunk" many of them say, "and who will be different"? I do not agree with them for a minute, they have forgotten the horrors of dictatorship, yet the grass it seems is always greener.<br /><br />At the end of the night Gemini insisted I take his bed. Despite protestations that I would sleep on the floor he would hear none of it. Despite everything that I have written today, there is a hospitality here that feels at odds with the cold reception you often feel. I finally accepted the bed and woke a few hours later with just enough time to queue for the bucket of water and sliver of soap in the alley.<br /><br />Today I will rest, and tomorrow I continue South.</div></span>Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-32055228862059754132010-08-03T15:19:00.001+03:002010-08-03T15:19:35.990+03:00Tap Taps<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; "><div style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 3px; padding-right: 3px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 3px; width: auto; font: normal normal normal 100%/normal Georgia, serif; text-align: left; "><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">1</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I saw yesterday the true nature of poverty in this country. Outside the main ports and the towns I have visited so far, people live a wretched existence that seems not to have changed for decades. No aid has arrived nor does it seem to be coming, for this part of the country was ignored by the earthquake as it has been ignored by everyone else. All the aid has been earmarked for earthquake hit zones yet it is needed just as much elsewhere.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I was traveling across the Massif de la Hotte, an inhospitable range of mountains that cuts off the South Western tip from the rest of the country. It is a trip I would wish on nobody, for there are no roads, merely dirt paths and tap tap's have no suspension. They have been building a road to connect this part of the country to the rest, but it seems that little is getting done.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There is an old Haitian saying, 'Beyond mountains there lie mountains', for in this country having overcome one obstacle there are always countless more. This journey showed me the literal truth of these words as well as the endless problems facing the country.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">2</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I was waiting for my tap tap to arrive in Les Cayes knowing that it would pull over for only a minute. It was market day, and the sounds and smells of the stalls were overpowering. One second I could taste fruit in the air and there was a sweet smell of vegetation, but the next I was choking on the smell of meat in the midday sun, and being deafened by the cries of street sellers. Blood dripped off makeshift wooden tables standing below hanging carcasses, while children and dogs played in the street. The police were doing their rounds, and appeared to be helping themselves from the stalls as they pleased. When they saw me taking photos they leant against their car and eyed me suspiciously, beers in hand.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A group of us were jostling for the few spaces that would free up when the bus arrived. I knew full well that any overflow would end up on the roof and that bloody well wasn't going to be me. When the bus came into view the crowd started to get rowdy and I decided perhaps a bribe would serve me better than a fight. </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Luckily for me though the multi coloured bus named 'Redemption' ground to a halt 200 metres past us, and we all took off running. I could see the driver laughing as we dashed towards him; I suppose there can be few other amusements in his line of work. Everyone else was hauling huge bags of maize behind them, or were large women, and being completely unchivalrous I sprinted as fast as I could. I arrived first and for no extra price found a seat and jammed myself in. I was delighted, for although bribes only ever amount to a few dollars I am reluctant to pay them.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">At the back door people were still scrambling, and as the bus started its engine a few people were not on. One man had been hauled off at the last minute and had his place taken, and he was not happy. The door was slammed in his face and he ran behind the bus screaming; his maize was on board but he was not. People in the street barely even noticed, and continued selling. This is the way of the tap tap, a couple of people smiled to themselves. He finally made it onto the back ladder and continued to pound at the door until we were travelling at about 30 miles an hour, at which point he gave in and climbed to the roof. Others were not so lucky though and ran hopelessly behind us in the dust.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Once again I was delighted it is the world cup, for if ever there was an ice breaker this is it. I have purchased a small brazilian flag and whenever talk turns to football I pull it out to a chorus of cheers. On this occasion my flag served me well and soon most of us were friends. There are always some people in Haiti though who will never crack a smile. They look at you with suspicion and distaste, and it is these people who intimidate me, it is these people who worry me, and it is these people who have machetes. I have therefore taken to making allegiances early on and sticking to the friendly people.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">3</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As we left the city we left the tarmac and the bus climbed quickly into the mountains. Outside I began to notice a change. Villages were now little more than a collection of shacks covered with banana leaves and most people were practically naked. Barely any of them had shoes and of those that did some were wearing pieces of tyre attached with string. Haitians are an ingenious people and reuse every bit of material they find. Old shoe soles are perfect for hinging doors, while old bicycle wheels can sharpen even the bluntest machete, be fashioned into rudimentary bellows, or used as a hula hoop.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">At every village people run alongside passing buses, desperate to sell a small handful of corn or a couple of sweets. There are two kinds of people among them; those with a look of desperation on their faces and those who appear resigned to their poverty. A dollar out of the window is the least I can do, and elicits cries of joy. The only things in abundance here are mangos and bananas and families often eat nothing else for days on end. As we continued to speed higher up, the ride got worse and the poverty more acute. By the middle of the trip, in the middle of nowhere, the only villages we passed were temporary housing for the men and boys building the new road. It was as close to slavery as I have ever seen.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In the scorching sun, boys in their mid teens were lifting large rocks with their bare hands and carrying them barefooted through thick red mud. Straining under the weight they would carry them to a cart that was pulled, not by oxen or donkeys, but by other men over to a larger pile of rocks. Here, more boys waited to smash them with hammers before laying the small pieces back on the road. I have never seen more tiring work or more inhospitable terrain, and I was reminded of an African diamond mine.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Every mile or so there were warning signs for explosions, and every now and then we heard a rumble. I felt as if I was a character in the Mexican film "The Wrath of God" (Wrath of Evil?) and each turn or bridge we crossed got tighter than the last. Wheels often slid and corners were close, however the bus wouldn't slow down, instead it sped it up. By this point the ride was so uncomfortable that I was beginning to bruise and we hurled along the mountain. Another tap tap pulled up behind us and tried to overtake. As it did so everybody began to lean out the windows and shout "Aller, aller" at our driver. It baffled me that they would want to go any faster, but assuming it was a race and wanting to join in I did the same. Head out of the window I got a good view down the cliff but nevertheless belted out encouragement. After my second "aller" people turned and stared. I was apparently not to be included in this fun and sat back down sheepishly.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I soon realized why they were urging the driver on though, because when we were finally overtaken we were engulfed in a thick dust that was put up by the other bus. It was miserable and everyone was soon caked in dirt, my hair turned to dreadlocks. People were coughing and urging the driver to get back in front, and so again we sped up. Someone then broke a bottle of petrol as the bus pounded up and down continuously so there was now also a strong smell of gas. </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I wrapped a t-shirt around my head but it didn't help and I soon began to feel nauseous. For some reason I have recently become an insomniac and have barely slept for the last couple of days, so when occasionally my head would be thrown against the metal side I cursed my decision to take this road. I have also been taking immodium and was praying that it would continue to do its job, at least until the journey was over, but the way this was going I had little hope. Sure enough having held on as long as I could I had to cry out, "pisser, pisser", it was near enough the truth. The cry was passed on to the driver and as we stopped everyone cried out "Blanc veut pisser, blanc veut pisser" and stared. They laughed at me as I scrambled off, and watched as I crouched in the dirt.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I had barely finished when I heard the engine roar into action. As I scrambled to do my trousers up the bus began pulling away and I sprinted to catch up. Whether it was a joke or if they would have left me I don't know, but I've played the same trick in the past and may finally have got my comeuppance. I jumped in the open back door and did my best to make light of the situation, but inside I was fuming. Everyone else had found it hilarious and they were still laughing. I laughed with them but my sense of adventure had long since gone and I was now being mocked by a busload of Hatians. I wanted only to sleep, but the constant, painful jolting and swaying made this impossible. I was holding on with both hands. I finally put on my ipod and withdrew. Caccini's Ave Maria was a suitably mournful song with which to watch the misery outside.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">4</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The last mountain town we passed must have been the site of an epidemic, for I have never seen so many handicaps. There were a number of people with bloated heads, and deformed faces. Many seemed crippled and appeared to creep in their doorways reminding me of Moreau's Island. For once nobody approached the bus and the other passengers remained silent. Despite asking where we were, I could not understand their creole responses and was happy to keep moving. I caught a glimpse of a white priest dressed in a cassock and wish I could have spoken to him. What brings missionaries to these inhospitable parts of the world bemuses me, yet I am also in awe. </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">After 4 and a half hours we arrived. I have found that travelling from one town to another has taught me a lot more than stopping in them, and while I do not intend to take that route ever again I was glad I had. There was no fond farewell this time, i was in too fowl a mood, so I jumped straight onto a moto taxi and headed to the home where I was staying. In this town mopeds and people share the roads with donkeys, cows, pigs and chickens so it took a while to navigate. As with the rest of the country piles of rubbish lie in the streets and and nobody works. Blancs are even more of a rarity.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I had been given an introduction to stay with a Pasteur David and had been in touch only a few days before. But arriving at the compound I was told that everyone had left for the States and I could not come in. I don't know what went wrong in communication but standing there, with the metal gate closed in front of me, tired, stranded, hungry and alone I was at a loss. A crowd of curious locals; boys, men and girls came to look. They do it everywhere and it's infuriating but if you ask what they want they just stare at you. I tried to shoo them away this time, but must have looked ridiculous for they just laughed. I felt at a loss.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I finally managed to find my own hotel, not easy in a town like this. It was expensive and dirty, and the most welcoming place I have known. The staff when I arrived were warm, kind, and the food was delicious. I slept soundly and I no longer feel ill. Today I am as optimistic as ever and excited about continuing. Tomorrow I explore what is left of the home of Alexandre Dumas, whose family had slaves at a nearby plantation.</span></p></div></span>Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-20181125963891034382010-08-03T15:18:00.000+03:002010-08-03T15:19:07.841+03:00Cat's Cradle<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; "><div style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 3px; padding-right: 3px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 3px; width: auto; font: normal normal normal 100%/normal Georgia, serif; text-align: left; ">My body has finally given in and I'm bedridden. I'm pretty sure it was the dubious looking meal the rappers prepared for me, but they were so pleased to offer it I couldn't say no.<br /><br />This post will therefore remain short.<br /><br />I last left you in Jeremie, a quiet town where I found little to do. It was beautiful but uninspiring. Old colonial streets and a charming cathedral were the highlights but the french were so busy in Haiti that these are found everywhere. At least people didn't snarl at you there the way they do in Port au Prince, and the city felt a little safer.<br /><br />Hoping for something more remote I set off into the surrounding mountains in search of the home of Alexandre Dumas. (Snr). The family's plantation, L'habitiacion Madere, was near a small village called La Tiboliere, and although I knew it no longer existed I was curious to see where the family were from, the landscape that inspired them, and the conditions under which their slaves once worked. The ruins were apparently still intact so I was optimistic.<div><br />La Tiboliere is perched high in the hills. It has a population of a few thousand, but as most homes are spread deep into forest and it has only one dirt road, you could easily mistake it for a village of 10 families. The one solid structure is a large pink church with turrets that rise from the trees, and tower above the thick vegetation. It seems that every hamlet in this country has a grandiose church and it often dwarfs all around it. I can't help but feel that every religious denomination has tried at one point to 'save' the haitians, and that they have all sought to out-do each other. Catholics and protestants in particular have gone to battle over haitian souls, and there is bad blood between them. Mormons, latter day saints, baptists and buddhists have also given it a go, but none have removed the prevalence of voodooism. <br /><br />My moped driver told me that he knew people who could put me up, and as anything would have been better than the moped ride down I spent the night in the hut of a lovely old woman. She hasn't seen many blancs before and did nothing but grin at me; we said barely a word to one other. Amazingly I slept soundly on her floor, my holland and holland bag once again doubling up as bedding. The mosquitos ate better than I did that night and breakfast was leftovers. I set off the next day having washed out of the family's communal bucket and still never having spoken a word to my host.<br /><br />Someone had said they could lead me to L'habitacion Madere, but as so often happens here we merely walked in circles until he demanded money. The Haitians can be real bastards sometimes, and I want to strangle half of them.<br /><br />I was close to the plantation, I knew that, and must certainly have trod in the footsteps of at least one Dumas, but much to my disappointment and despite walking for 3 hours I never saw anything resembling a house, or a memorial. Apparently there had once been one, but it was stolen - everything here has been used to patch up homes.<br /><br />The landscape in the region was inhospitable, the air heavy, the heat unbearable. I can imagine a plantation being only slightly miserable if there are people to fan you, no strenuous labour and plenty of rum. Yet shackles, servitude and whips in this environment are beyond my comprehension. I rushed down to the airfield in time to catch my plane to Port au Prince. I needed movement, I needed change.<br /><br />I call it a plane but it was more like a metal box with wings. I thought about how many times I had read about flights full of missionaries going down in far away lands, and then I counted the number of missionaries sitting around me. 5 out of 7 passengers. I hoped they were praying.<br /><br />The pilot did little to settle my nerves. He was a spanish man who looked about 70. He wore 4 different pairs of sunglasses during the 30 minute flight, he had a towel round his neck like a ww2 ace, and told us to use telephones - "No hay problem". I wanted to know how he had ended up flying for tortug air in haiti, but he was smoking before the plane had stopped and an elderly canadian missionary was pestering me as we got off. She was convinced I was a boy scout and wanted to know where we had met and what chapter I belonged to. After telling her I was trying to earn my last badge here, I rushed into the terminal and back to the comparative sanity of Port au Prince.<br /><br />I headed straight to the home of my rapper friend, had another impromptu freestyle, was goaded into walking to the end of the road and back and finding rum, and finally was fed something foul that made every sinew wretch. The next day I checked back into the Olofson and collapsed. I was in a dire state.<br /><br />I remained like that for a couple of days with no sympathy from any of the staff. In fact they found it amusing - again - bastards!<br /><br />I finally headed back south to Jacmel for a couple of days to finish some interviews. I'm here now and have been commissioned to write a piece for the Sun. I am finally an auteur!</div><div><br /></div><div> Today I won money on a fighting rooster I have named Spartacus. I miss everything and everyone, though Kurt Vonnegut has kept me company.</div></div></span>Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-86299761250834059112010-07-03T19:51:00.001+03:002010-07-03T19:52:43.559+03:00Voodou<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 12.0px Helvetica">1</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I could hear the cock fight before I could see it and as I was ushered up a small dirt path the sounds of roosters crowing and men shouting got louder. Having passed the guards and the women waiting patiently outside we entered the arena and found ourselves among a frenzied crowd of people filled with blood lust. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Seated around the central ring, 5 meters in diameter were about 50 men in tiered seating, they were engrossed in the ensuing action; waving money, drinking rum and making strange clucking sounds. Their focus was on two badly mangled roosters circling each other in the ring, whose heads and necks were raw, and who were bleeding badly. The birds flung themselves at each other and took turns pecking at the other's eyes and tearing at their crowns. When occasionally they swiped with their razor sharp crampons a loud 'whoosh' came out from the crowd. This move in particular brought special pleasure, and did special damage.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The fight went on like this for about 15 minutes, and became rather boring. It was slow work and I couldn't see much difference in the blows. The crowd however remained engrossed and I can only assume that the finer and more technical points of cock fighting passed me by.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Finally the skinnier of the two wobbled on his feet and collapsed into the dust, at which point the other one jumped on him and began pecking indiscriminately. Soon one of his eyes was gone and I couldn't understand why nobody stopped the fight, but people seemed to be waiting for something and continued to coo with glee. All of a sudden the fallen rooster sprung up from a pool of blood and attacked. The crowd went wild and it was like Ali coming off the ropes against frasier. I have to say it was contagious. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Would this be the greatest come back of cock fighting history? Would Red, as he was known come back from the brink of death to triumph.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The answer is no, for soon afterwards he was down again, and in worse shape. The initial excitement of his comeback was soon muted, as for the next 10 minutes the poor bird went up and down, unable to see. He fought on valiantly though and when the bell finally went (each fight lasts 30 minutes) Red was on his feet and the fight was amazingly called a draw.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Red's fat owner barely looked at him, and there not a hint of emotion in his eye. He picked him up, tied his legs and thrust him into the arms of a small boy waiting by his side, who ran off with him. This was clearly the local cock fighting tycoon and he sat back, licked his fat fingers then took another swig of rum while waiting for the next fight. I did the same, my own bird was next.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">We had invested in a rooster of our own. I hadn't seen him but had been told he was well fed, regularly massaged and exercised. Perhaps If I'd known quite how cruel these fights were I would have abstained but I was here now and going to watch him win. I had named him Spartacus, (not a name that the Haitians adopted) and he was fighting a similar sized bird. I laid down 500 gourdes.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I wish I could say that this fight was as exciting as the last but it was not. For the first 15 minutes they exchanged blows, getting ever more battered and then much to my joy, the other bird just started running away. It was rather amusing to watch 2 chickens running round the ring, but it lasted only a few seconds at which point Spartacus was declared the winner. Cowards are the worst kind of losers.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I think I was duped into investing in him as he was whisked away before I was able to congratulate him and I never got my moment in the winners enclosure. "My bird" I said with pride to the man next to me, who looked back baffled then moved away.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">On my way out I passed Red. He was tied to a post and lay crumpled in the dirt. I don't think he had much chance of surviving, and he would certainly never fight again. The english in me came out and like an idiot I tried to comfort him. First with some bad clucking and then with a stroke, and then he pecked me. I'm sure he was dinner that night.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The next day I returned to Port au Prince. I shared the bus with a few fighting cocks who must have been winners. Their owners sat at the back of the bus with a bird under each arm and drank all the way home. Their roosters crowed loudly and stuck their heads out proudly. Women recoiled from their bare necks.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 12.0px Helvetica">2</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I spent the night at the Oloffson and entertained myself with some people-watching. There is a polish filmmaker here trying to make a documentary about haiti and she has decided to follow a man who claimed to know the country well. He was to form the basis of her film and lead her around the country to amazing places while talking intelligently. He had claimed to have written a couple of books / articles on Haiti and when I last met them she had just started filming and was full of excitement.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">It is now 2 weeks later and she is at her wits end. Apparently he is camera shy, drinks all day, and doesn't speak creole. He makes crude jokes to the camera and is trying to sleep with her. So far they have barely left port au prince and she's got no footage. I watched as she tried yet another interview on the verranda and almost burst into laughter when he had to ask her what to say. "Say what you think, say what you think!" She cried at him. He looked on in panic.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The next day, I took a bus to Gonaive. This is a hotbed of voodoo activity and I have decided to spend my last few days in the country immersed in the culture. I had found someone who could introduce me to some Houngans (voodoo priests) and take me to some ceremonies. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">As I made my way to the station my taxi driver told me to hide all my belongings as the bus left from Cite Soleil. I had hoped never to return there, and wondering around the mass of busses with my bags, desperately trying to find the right one was awful. It smelt of death, disease and drugs and I had to climb through mountains of rubbish to find the right one. I have become strangely immune to all the rubbish and poverty - other than the the thugs who line the streets and taunt you, it's all seems rather normal. When I finally got on board I was hugely relieved despite the fact there were no seats left. I crouched one the floor feet and had a large pot put on top of me.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">This bus ride went quickly, I've had many worse. We were not crossing many mountains this time and instead drove across the central plateau which almost resembles the african Savannah. We also had entertainment - a live infomercial. A man stood at the front and pulled a dazzling array of items out of his bag. Ginseng, Tiger balm, soap, toothpaste, hats, belts, sunglasses, and flavoured condoms. The crowd heckled him about every item and bartered and shouted and waved money, it was quite a scene, and I observed it all from beneath my pot.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The flavoured condoms sold particularly well and were greeted with whoops of laughter. His sales pitch involved much smacking and licking of the lips, and he mentioned AIDs every second word. I almost bought some myself. When at one point he suggested they were could be for "him for him, or him for her" the bus went quiet. That is not a topic of conversation here, and he quickly moved on. Wanting to participate myself I did by 2 little bottles of roll-on aftershave called "Yes Boss". They're wonderfully anglicized Haitian bottles, and while I will never let the contents burn my skin again, I will treasure them. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 12.0px Helvetica">3</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Gonaive has been called 'the ugliest place in the Antilles" and is famous for 4 things; Mosquitos, matches, hurricanes and dust (although the match company has long since moved to the dominican republic). It is one of the most awful and dirty places I have been. Thousands of mopeds battle each other through the haze for poll position and it is hard to see more than 20 metres ahead of you. It was hit by a huge storm 2 year ago and the town was devastated. Hundreds died, roads were wiped away and buildings collapsed. You can see the roofs of cars peeking out from the ground, buried under the silt that was carried from the mountains. 2 story houses are now bungalows, and no repairs have been carried out. It is a sad place, it is horrible it is mean, it is filthy and like the rest of this country it is hopeless. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">It is here that all the revolutions start and it is also called La Cite de L'Independence. There are 2 main squares, both containing bizarre modernist memorials. One of them is called Place Bouteille and in the middle a large statue of a bottle towers over everything. The story goes that Dessalines wanted Haitian independence to begin on 1st January 1804, however this gave his secretary Boisrond Tonnerre only 1 night to write the constitution. He worked throughout the night but when everyone gathered to hear it read out the next day he did not arrive. People rushed to his house and there they found him passed out on top of the constitution, an empty bottle of rum beside him. The statue sits on the sight of his house and commemorates the drunken creation of their nation.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">That night I attended my first voodoo ceremony. It was a celebration of St Pierre, and the Houngan would be summoning his spirit into somebody. As we drove to the outskirts of town I began to get worried. I did not believe in the power of Voodoo, but intended to respect it and be wary of it. I had read that I should bring a gift for the Mambo (the queen) and had brought the finest bottle of rum I could find. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">As we approached the compound the drums could be heard beating and when we entered the courtyard I saw an area that had been draped and covered in the red and green of St.Pierre. About 30 women and a few men, dressed in silk costumes of the same colours were sashaying round and round an altar. At the altar stood the Houngan, raising bottles and cups of rum to the sky then throwing and spitting it on the ground and waving candles in a circular motion. There were machetes buried in the earth up to their hilts and large cakes sat between the bottles and the incense. Every now and then the machetes were torn from the ground and brandished at the dancers. The look of fury and anger was such that I expected them to be used. I was praying there would be no sacrifices though had seen some goats bound outside.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The Queen was singing loudly in what sounded like an african language and this was then echoed by the rest. Round and round the altar they danced, moving perfectly in sync and shuffling their feet in perfect tempo. They waved their hands slowly, their eyes closed and they looked to the sky. A man played a conch and the sound echoed out like a clarinet. It was an eery sound but beautiful and amazingly played. It was mesmeric and lulled me into a strange trance.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The entrance had been blessed by Mambo, and a line of candles prevented bad spirits from entering. I had been allowed to take photos, but most people were unhappy about my presence, many spat in my direction and pushed me away. I sat quietly for a long time and waited for them to get used to me but was never really welcome. Luckily a generous gift to the mambo had secured me entry and I had also paid my respects at the altar. I was told that I could not use a flash until after the possession, though when 'accidently' went off i was set upon. There is a very dark side to this country and in particular the rural areas and I believe firmly that you are always a moment away from being in danger.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The ritual went on for a few hours. Whenever someone got tired and sat down the mambo would scream at them to continue and force them to their feet. It seemed to me that anybody might start to convulse under such pressure and sure enough someone finally collapsed to the ground and started writhing. She dragged herself through the dirt clutching a burning handful of twigs. She looked exhausted and out of it, her eyes were glazed, she vomited a white foam and she grasped at the people around her. She held her stomach and rolled over and over, her eyes were tightly closed one moment and wide open the next and finally after about 5 minutes she slowly sat up.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The spirit was now inside her and she was carried to a chair in the centre of the group. Acting on behalf of St. Pierre she was given a bottle of dark green liquid (some kind of rum) with which to feed people. One by one she lifted the bottle to their lips as they approached her, and every time they drank they embraced her and thanked the spirit inside. She continued to gargle and drool and contort her mouth. On one occasion she refused a man the drink, she held the bottle close to her bosom and spat at him. She shouted something at him and he was pulled away. He begged St.Pierre at the altar and then tried again but she would not give. The man looked devastated and sat quietly in the corner for the rest of the night, his head in his hands. He had been cursed.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">When everyone had had their fill, the mambo and the houngan gathered round her and placed a silk scarf over her face and head. They intoned some more chants and when the scarf was removed the lady sat there looking bemused. I genuinely believe she was unaware of what had happened, and was confused. She looked searchingly into people's eyes then began slowly to cry and then wail. Everyone gathered round and held her.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I believe that the power of the mind can make people believe almost anything, and if you believe firmly enough in the power of voodoo then it does hold power. However i believe that it is the person that gives it its power and I am unconvinced it comes from elsewhere. I could not help but think that this may be true of all religions.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">It had been an amazing experience and I am reluctant to say much more. We ate food from a large communal pot that had been an offering to St.Pierre. That it didn't give me the runs was magic indeed.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">4</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">My opinions about voodoo would be reinforced the next day. I had arranged an appointment with a houngan, and for a price he would read my spirits and offer me protection.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I arrived early in the morning and walked down a little alley to his chapel. My head was hurting from the night before and I was feeling ill. It was filthy and covered in little trinkets that were left over from spells he had cast. There were countless voodoo dolls, some tightly bound in string, others squashed under a large rock. There were paintings on the wall of different spirits, most taken directly from the bible. There were many knives, candles, small coffins and empty bottles of rum. There was a world cup fixture list on the wall.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Women's knickers were tied up in a big ball of string with twigs and wax and suspended from the cieling. When I asked what for I was told that he specialized in helping men win the women they wanted, and then tying them down. How romantic I thought.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The houngan asked me what I wanted. I told him that I was just curious about voodoo and had heard he could tell me what spirit I was aligned with. I didn't know what to expect, but knew that I was in deed. He is well known and casts many spells for the town. He sacrifices a many animals and outside there was a table covered in blood. He put on his red robe and hat, lit some candles and closed the door. He draped a red silk scarf round my neck and sat directly opposite me before taking a long pull from the bottle. He then made me do the same, and after spilling some on the ground as an offering to St. Michael I almost wretched. This was 90% alcohol and a traditional offering.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">He placed a candle and a cup of something in my hands. He began to chant and shake a maracas, as he did so cockroaches began to climb the walls. It was eery and I was not comfortable. About 20 of them rose to the ceiling and covered the murals on the walls. He waved the candle around me and then drank some more. All of a sudden his head dropped forward and he started to choke and dribble from his toothless mouth. His helper mopped his lips from behind though he continued to spew a white mucus for a good minute. When he finished I was told that he was now possessed and would 'heal' me. I muttered something about not needing to be healed but the houngan leant forward and screamed. It was in a strange language that I couldn't understand, and the end of each sentence got louder and high pitched as he spat more mucus in my face. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">He told me that the spirit of Apostol Santiago was inside me and was now inside him as well. He showed me a picture of a white man riding into battle on a white horse. He is the splitting image of St. George, and I felt rather pleased. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Then he began to 'heal' me. There was a lot more screaming and a lot more flying spittle. He began by telling me what was wrong in my life. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"You have recently lost a close family member" he screamed. Sheepishly I said no</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Then you have bad health" he cried. "Not really" I had to admit</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"You have no money and need to live" he continued - "Well I could do with some more" I uttered hoping to appease him</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"You are having nightmares" - "I'm afraid I'm not" </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"You have recently had a big fight with a best friend". "Not that I can remember"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Well did you once have a fight with someone you knew?" . "YES", I cried at last. "YES YES". He was delighted. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"I told you, I told you", he said with joy. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"That's exactly what he told you!! He knows you, he knows you!!" His helper cried out</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Incredible" I screamed with mock credulity "how did he know!?"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Because he is inside you and knows everything" was the sincere answer</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">He spent the next 20 minutes telling me more. Apparently I have 3 sisters and 2 brothers. I am the oldest. I'm going to be famous, and happy, and live happily ever after. I thanked him and got out quickly. What a fraud!</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">There was more the next day, but now I must run. I will say that what follows made me ever more concerned that I am dabbling with something serious.</p>Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-37975435143807967822010-03-16T15:52:00.000+03:002010-03-16T15:53:44.201+03:00Political campaigns<div>http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mxa7eQ1JgPI&feature=player_embedded</div>Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-25140636097908989522010-01-19T18:39:00.001+03:002010-01-19T18:39:28.841+03:00On the RoadFlying into Kurdistan and out of Dubai highlights perfectly the extremes of the Middle East. I won’t really go into it here, but leaving one for the other is a wake-up call, a reminder of how neighbouring countries can change so much and grow apart in so many different ways and also how the region has become such a paradox. My story isn’t about Dubai however nor should it be; Dubai offers little in the way of self-expression and little adventure. I hope that what follows will.<br /><br />Our adventure began just after transferring from one terminal in Dubai to the next. From the new, gilded Emirates hub to the provincial rundown building across the road, that services passengers travelling to those ‘other’ countries.<br /><br />I was curious about something as we entered. Who else was travelling to Iraq? Who else was choosing this way. It looked to me like a motley group of contractors, soldiers, spies, budding filmmakers and intrepid explorers (ourselves). At first we all exchanged only the occasional polite smile or covert glance, but when a few hours later we were being thrown around in a cramped plane, united by a sense of trepidation and excitement we had become best of friends.<br /><br />Two hours after leaving Dubai and soon after passing over Baghdad we began our descent into Erbil. The turbulence was atrocious; the plane was rickety, loud and old. The pilot kept dropping altitude rapidly every time we turned, and he thundered down at a hell of a pace. Whether or not this would confuse an insurgent I don't know, but it certainly had the passengers holding on for dear life.<br /><br />From far above, the Iraqi landscape looked scorched. Black lines streaked across the brown earth and through the haze all we could make out were fires that peppered the landscape. We’re not sure what these were: rubbish dumps or oil wells. Suddenly in the distance two bright flashes erupted upwards, again we don’t know for sure what they were.<br />To be honest the whole scene from above was somewhat haunting: this was the land ravaged by Saddam, the land which had ignited some of the worst conflicts and atrocities of recent times, and a land also in which we were about to arrive.<br /><br />Armed however with an invitation from the First Lady of Iraq, a bag of Imodium, and a bottle of whisky (which we smuggled across the continent on the advice of John Simpson) I was sure we were equipped to handle what lay ahead. As I sit here now at the end of our first 8 hours, in a room with a gaping hole where the balcony should be, having chased bats around, having narrowly avoided death on the roads, and having being ripped off - I believe we still are. This is on its way to becoming everything I had dreamed of, everything I hoped for. AK47s, check points, angry soldiers and a feeling of the unknown are proving me right. These are people who are warm, welcoming and proud. I cannot wait to continue. Benji.Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3826009067677310931.post-62729800289866387842010-01-19T18:38:00.001+03:002010-01-19T18:38:56.974+03:00Feetfty Cents, big idolChildren’s centre for incurable diseases, torture cells, rap palace and Bach recital. It has been quite a day, and one which again has shown me the resilience and kindness of the Kurds, but also the dark side of this country.<br /><br />Despite our troubles yesterday, today ran smoothly. This morning, we were met as promised by Rizghar, our rather quiet translator, and our driver (who bizarrely has spent time in Banbury, Oxfordshire), they will both be with us all week. We are lucky because Rizghar has been subcontracted from outside the PUK, therefore does not mind talking openly about politics and issues that plague this country. When someone talks for a minute though he translates for 15 seconds. I will be keeping my eye on him.<br /><br />(p.s - Looking back at this, Rizghar has turned out to be wonderful. A great person, who I hope to work with again)<br /><br />The Children’s centre this morning was the first harrowing event of the day, and brought to focus many things that are missing here. I have been wary of disabled children ever since being attacked by one at a French monastery as a child, so this, I was nervous about.<br /><br />It is the only centre in Iraq that helps spastic children (their terminology), autism, cerebral palsy, polio victims and many other horrors. I wish I could accurately describe how far behind they are in understanding these diseases but the list is too long. They have blacksmiths, carpenters and leather smiths making toilets, wheelchairs, casts and special shoes for the children, on site. They literally hammer metal into shape for the children to wear and sow shoes by hand using pieces they can scrounge. They get no support from the central government, or from the red cross who have ignored their letters. They can barely afford to stay open and at one point while talking to the director (who doubles up as a paediatrician a cleaner and a nurse) there was a power cut. He didn't even skip a beat and just kept talking until the lights came on again – a regular occurrence throughout the country.<br /><br />The centre has 15 – 20 staff who take care of 7/8000 patients around the country. They have 19000 on record. The problem is that the wider community does not fully understand these diseases and they are considered taboos. The saddest thing is that these children laugh, they play, they want affection but are treated as outcasts. I cannot really say any more as I do not know where to begin. It was not easy being there.<br /><br />Next we visited the Amnasuraka security building – Saddam’s regional torture facility. The building itself, a grim communist style square is in ruins; pot marked by bullets from the outside and blackened on the in. When it was finally overthrown and everyone inside had been kicked or stamped to death there was still such anger among the people that they took it out on the building. When in use nobody would walk near it for fear both of random cruelty and to avoid the screams. Next door the torture chambers survived and have been left as they were. Blood marks the floors everywhere; the weapons used for torture are still there. Glass bottles for insertion, nails for driving into skulls, metal rods, electricity – the list is limited only by imagination.<br /><br />For every person found guilty of being a peshmerga the whole family was raped and killed, their house bulldozed, and anyone left alive forced to pay for the bullets. The centre has life-sized sculptures recreating the horrors. Usually recordings of genuine torture are played at full volume (courtesy of Saddam’s extensiv archives) but today, thank God, the system was broken.<br /><br />Our driver, our translator and our guide had all lost family members there – they were in tears. While interviewing someone about the chemical atrocities my battery ran out. I didn’t have it in me to ask him to stop and just held the camera till he finished. In a weird way it felt like that scene from true lies. I have been to Auschwitz, I have been to Rwanda, I have been to S.E Asia, I have seen or heard little like this.<br /><br />After more meat, rice and beans we drove outside the city to meet up with our budding rap artists. This centre is for any and all forms of music and dance. The diversity was amazing. From traditional Kurdish music (we met the classical finalist of Iraqi idol) to western stlye rappers, Persian rappers, flamenco guitarists, Bach pianists and break dancers. There was of course a varying degree of talent among them, but I thought it wise not to tell Iraqi gangsta rappers they didn’t have it in them. Some of them however are the funniest little people I have met; bandanas, bling and bass. “Feeefty sense big idol”<br /><br />What I saw here was a microcosm of Iraq itself: the new against the old, the east against the west. There was a longing to express oneself and to be recognized. I was curious about the difference between the artists and their respective genres and was told that each group tolerated one another, but did not really interact.<br /><br />The whole scene was both surreal and incredibly entertaining, yet had amazing undertones of the country as a whole. Like in domestic government there was a lack of leadership among the kids; everyone wanted control so nobody had it; everybody wanted to talk but they didn’t want to listen. At some points it descended into chaos; at others they got on with their own business. Once again we got mobbed, once again we survived. I could get used to this.Benjamin Hallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13527131004635019087noreply@blogger.com0