Reflections on current allegations of racism at MSF

So recently, MSF has been in the news again - this time for their racist and colonial tendencies.  A sign-on letter circulated accusing MSF of failing to acknowledge the extent of racism perpetuated by its policies, hiring practices, workplace culture and “dehumanising” programmes, run by a “privileged white minority” workforce.

I often encountered racist attitudes there and in fact worked on a national staff perceptions study where many of the national staff I talked with decried the colonialist attitudes of the organization where a naive young inexperienced Westerner might be the supervisor of a much older and experienced person from the country where they were working. Many of the expats that I met had an inborn belief that only a "Expat" (i.e. a Westerner or European) could truly be neutral.  I was actually instructed when I worked for them to note what pieces of evidence I had from National Staff vs Expatriate Staff as I guess the Expat staff wee more "reliable" .

In the words of my friend Saleem Haddad who I met when I worked at MSF "...make no mistake, like I've said before, MSF is one of the most colonial and racist organisations I've ever worked for. [The linked article above] also notes: "The statement follows fierce internal debate about racism and the Black Lives Matter movement. Some staff were angry at a recent statement released by MSF Italy, suggesting it should not use the term “racism” and that “everyone, starting with MSF”, should talk about “all lives matter”.

This article doesn't mention that after this, the statement goes on to say "because discrimination exists against blacks, whites, yellows, women, men, gays, old, young, etc."

Yellows, ladies and gentlemen. Yellows.

I'm not harping on MSF for any other reason than I believe in its mission, and believe that, if the institutions of white supremacy and patriarchy within the movement are dismantled, the organisation could do some truly revolutionary work. Ultimately, I don't mind speaking honestly about this because I've got no skin in this game. I have no intention to work for MSF again so long as these sexist and colonial structures remain in place. Others have more to lose."

I feel the same way. I didn't sign that letter. I whole-heartedly support the authors of the letter for sure. But I saw some of the same men I complained about in my my blog post on Cassandra Complexity. White men who had power (and still do) signing on to complain about something that they could have done something about if they tried. But its easier to jump on the bandwagon than actually do something.

I originally wrote that blog as a letter to the Director General of MSF Holland and UK in support of a woman of color who had complained about discrimination there. When I heard nothing back from management, I decided to publish it as a blog post to raise the profile. Since racism often goes hand in hand with sexism, I thought I would just put this blog post from Cassandra Complexity here as a reminder that the women of color working at MSF are probably the ones getting it the worst.

Holier than Thou: Is it time for MSF's #Metoo moment?

This is my témoignage about the sexist culture of MSF Amsterdam where I worked from 2007-2011. Its the product of a lot of thinking and processing since the #metoo hashtag appeared, re-triggering lots of toxic memories and suppressed emotions. – Sarah Martin

Leaving Thailand: Reflections 3

On one my last nights in Bangkok, I drank some of my duty free champagne and watched "ZULU" with my neighbors, Richard and Andrea. Richard made a pizza and some salad and I cranked up the a/c. 

I have loved living in Sethiwan Residence and have lured friends to live here with me. Nothing is better than spontaneous dinner parties, movie nights, and hanging out with your neighbors. 

Also, I have a fantastic cleaning lady (Khun Nee) who took good care of Simon LeBon and me after my kidney surgery in 2011. The office managers have always been great and helpful. 

I'll miss my motosai driver buddies out front too - they always took great care of me and remembered where my hair salon was, that I don't like to go down Sukhumvit and prefer the back roads, and would run errands for me. 

It's been a good home to me. 

Leaving Thailand: Reflections 2

When I moved to Bangkok in 2011, I was overwhelmed with choosing where I wanted to live. I saw apartments all over town and in the end - I had to pick one solely based on where they accepted cats as tenants as making Simon Le Bon's arrival comfy was my top priority! I found a place in Sukhumvit in a neighborhood called Nana...right off Soi 13. 

One of the draws was being close to Sukhumvit Soi 11 which was a lively little street which meant I could walk to restaurants and bars and walk home. Soi 11 had lots of little dive bars and two very chic ones (Q bar and Bed Supper Club). 

Every night, little VW buses pulled up and turned the whole street into a party. We used to love going to the Red Wagon. 

My favorite restaurant on the street was the old 70s style American diner at the Federal Hotel where I could get a great crab fried rice and coke in the little bottles for less than $2. 

You could hang out in the alley and drink beer at Cheap Charlie's or the Pickled Liver. Both were great because they didn't really attract bar girls or prostitutes like many of the divey bars in Bangkok. You met a huge variety of people - expats, old thai men, tourists, the young and the old. 

There were two beautiful old houses on the subsoi between 11 and 13 and one was a spa. The closest mall was Siam Paragon. 

Today, as I went down the soi (which is torn up with construction), all of those things are gone and in their place is "luxury" condos, three new hotels, 2 hotels under construction, two big dance clubs (Club Insanity and Levels), an expensive "Argentine Steak House", a Baskin Robbins, a Starbucks, an Au Bon Pain, a Pomodoro, and lots and lots of empty little bars that used to be there scheduled to be knocked down for luxury condos. 

We have Terminal 21 on one side, Central Embassy on the other, and the big giant splashy Emquartier two stops away. The Thai junta banned the VW buses and all the fun character seems washed away. 

Guess its time to go before the whole city turns into a sanitized mall of chains that you can find anywhere in the world.

Leaving Thailand: Reflections 1

I get my medical care at Bumrungrad hospital which is a super diverse place. They have a McDonalds there that i always find myself eating a sundae at - today no different. The mix of people joining me at this American travesty of a restaurant really sums up Bangkok for me: Older Thai people with devoted adult children, sweet Thai nurses, old Arab men surrounded by veiled women and men in polo shirts and cargo pants, old white men with their young pregnant Thai wives, backpackers with motorcycle rashes, Thai and Indian families with young children, and a smattering of white expat women like me. The Japanese all go to Samitivej hospital. I will miss this slice of humanity and Thai kindness.

Read this book!

black and (A)broad: traveling beyond the limitations of identity by Carolyn Vines
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Note: I know Carolyn Vines personally

Carolyn's voice is one that is missing from much of the travel literature that I love to read. She's African-American, came out of a challenging childhood from a racially tense country, and is well-educated, funny, and fearless. Carolyn chronicles the story of her fascinating life from Indiana in the American midwest to Voorschotten, Netherlands. You'll learn alot about how black women think and what struggles they must overcome as Carolyn evolves from the "good daughter" or  "sell-out" black woman (depending on who you talk to) who makes good grades, loves her Spanish classes, and grows up in the 70s and the 80s in the United States. As Carolyn tries to find her own path through racial and gender stereotypes, expectations of the family, community and her own fears, and survives heart-breaking personal tragedies, she evolves personally into her own woman who defines herself as a writer, a loving wife, and happy mother of two beautiful biracial girls living in a bizarre little white country in Northern Europe. Her take on everything from cycling through the rain while trying to keep up standards of having "good black hair" to the intricacies of dealing with Crohn's disease in Dutch toilets will make you laugh, make you sigh, and keep you wondering what is next for her.  Personally, I hope she has a second book in her - I'd like to read more about how her academic research about the role of African women in the Caribbean has shaped her own thoughts on racial identity as an African-American woman living outside of the US. This book touches on that topic many times but I kept wanting more.


View all my reviews

Humanitarians aka Mercenaries, Missionaries, and Mad Men: Part Two

(I left this post lingering unpublished from my return from my sick leave. It was written in October 2010. I'm in a different place now but I think I'll post it anyway.)

Well I've finally decided... I'm in it to win it (to paraphrase Hillary Clinton). I'm not giving up on humanitarian aid yet. A couple of things have convinced me...

1. Helping a friend apply for a training course, I was reading her writing sample. I got pretty excited about it and had lots of ideas on how to beef it up. I want to turn this writing sample into a joint paper on how quality of care can be as important a humanitarian principle as neutrality or independence.  I feel like I have something to say again... I want to write some papers for publication and I want to make an impact on this crazy profession again. I think I'm getting ready to find my voice, which has been lost for a while. 

2. I don't feel so alone anymore. With so many of my friends in the same exact organization are burned out right now and struggling.... I realize that its not just me. Sitting in the misery and depths of burn-out, I felt like a crazy person. I was the only one who was so angry and outraged. I was so exhausted and tired of fighting all the time. I was sensitive and impacted by everything. I felt like my skin had been scraped off and there was nothing protecting me anymore. But the more I get out of that state and talk to others, I realize that it is normal to struggle in abnormal situations. I need to take much much better care of myself nowadays. I have to learn to prioritize keeping myself healthy and de-stressed. I'm never going to change my passions and personality but I can change some bad habits.

3. Opportunities are presenting themselves to me. I've been stuck wondering what to do... but just by stopping for a little bit and ceasing to try to find the answer for everything and MAKE things happen, I've suddenly been shown a few different ways I can move forward. And a few little glimpses of a changed life that could make me happy and content. And they are all still related to being a humanitarian worker -I am not going to have to drastically change my identity. I have a better idea of who I can be in my career but I realize my career is not the most important thing to me anymore.

4. Discovering how wonderful and supportive my friends and family are. While I'm dealing with burnout, I'm not depressed. I've struggled with depression in the past. I'm just plain ole damn exhausted. And my friends who check in on me, call me up, meet me for picnics, take me to Poland, and listen to my frequent crazed thoughts about this and that are my lifeline. No man is an island. But I've felt like an island for a while - but thanks to my sister, my friends, and even random new strangers that I meet at after football celebrations and talk to - I realize that there is a lot of love and good things out there. I'm building back up my batteries.  You gotta have a good network to survive this life. 

So what have I learned in my downtime? 

Humanitarian agencies can be dangerous places to work. While my friends who don't work in the business don't really get why its different than other bad organizations,  the ones who do understand that its a toxic soup of poor management, nepotism, severe power politics, and a never ending supply of idealistic volunteers who will always step forward to accept the abuse. I think its the idealism thats the worst part of it.... over and over again, I've had to end conversations with people i've just met about where I work. I'm out on stress leave and when people hear where i work, they can't believe it. I don't want to tell them about it. I believe my organization is one of the best providers of humanitarian assistance in the world. I don't want to kill off charitable contributions! A lot of the stress is brought on by my own inability to make boundaries, draw lines, say no, and protect myself. The good people outweigh the bad but sadly the good ones have to leave after a while to protect their sanity. They often return but always trying to warn the rest of us about how bad it can be.  But the abusers of power, the corrupt people, the incompetent, and the (frankly) insane are tolerated here because "they really care about women and children" or because "you don't know what they were capable of doing back in (historic crisis)". Idealists all, we tolerate abuse and poor working conditions on the belief that those who are there must be good people just like we hope we are.

A friend once told me, when I was on a quixiotic quest to improve DDR programs in West Africa by becoming a donor,  that going to work for the World Bank would kill me. "That beast is too big to poison from within" - he said poetically (he's a pretty poetic and philosophical guy and the one to take with you if you get harrassed by the cops in Kinshasa... he can sweet talk his way anywhere!). I'm an idealist and I always think that I can improve things and contribute to the bigger good. I want to give away all my good ideas and work in teams and I believe deeply that consensus and participatory decision-making are the ways to go. But the place I work right now doesn't work that way. That beast might be too big to poison from within. 

So I have to find my own way - I don't want to leave. I still have things to accomplish here. I am going to have to fight to keep working there - I have also learned to find the other thinkers like me and stick by them. It's too tempting to get pulled into the clique but as my beloved graduate school professor once told me, "As an anthropologist, you are always going to be the gadfly". I want change and I want to improve the world to assist the most vulnerable women and children out there - that's not going to happen by being coopted by power or by shutting up when the going gets tough. I believe in what I do and I know there are others out there that do as well - I find them every time I go to the field or meet a new colleague (usually the depressed looking ones lurking by the copy machine).  To use a cliche - its a marathon not a sprint so I have to change tactics and build up new stamina. I need to start ignoring the crazies and focusing on the good folk.

Bests and Worsts

While sitting in a little bungalow in Kerala reflecting on the sad state of my recent manicure, I decided to reflect on some of the best and worst things that I've learned while traveling these past 15 years. In no particular order:

Best Manicure and Pedicure: Boston Day Spa in Addis Ababa, 2009:  My manicure lasted for almost two weeks – a lifelong record! I was served hot tea, had a massage chair, and nice ambience. Not too expensive either!

Honorable Mentions: Washington DC, 2003 - 2007: The pedicure place across the street from my house on 18th and T streets was reliable and fast and not too expensive. Downside: Constantly trying to make you feel bad and insist that you needed facial waxing.

Singapore, December 2009: In a mall somewhere with Suzie. I have never had such shiny toe nails. And they lasted almost two months.

Worst Mani/Pedi:
(Three-way Tie Amsterdam/Mexico City/Delhi)
Near Nieuwmarkt, Amsterdam, 1999:  They scrubbed my foot so hard they cut it open and I bled, and poured such hot water on my feet that they scalded me. I could barely walk afterwards.

Zona Rosa, Mexico City, Mexico, 2005: Again, the pedicurist believed that my right big toe just needed a good digging to get the nail bed to right itself (it’s never been the same since I dropped an ice bucket on it at Garibaldi’s in South Carolina). Not only did it hurt like hell and bleed, I got an infection and had to lance it with a needle and a match in Guanajuato a week later.

Defence Colony, Delhi, India, January 2010: I could still see through the nail polish after two lackluster coats of varnish and the lady painted over my cuticles. On the way home from the salon, it began to chip.

Best Journey in a foreign country: Train from Fort Cochin to Alleppy, India, January 2010.Inside: chai salesmen, sleeping business men in the bunks above me, and an ambience unchanged from the 1920s. Outside: Water buffalos and green palm trees and canals and bridges.

Drive from Port Elizabeth to Cape town, South Africa, October 2003Most spectacular sunset ever seen somewhere  between Mpmulenga and Knyssna, riding along the Garden Route, riding an ostrich for the amusement of German tourists in Outhoorn, drinking a Castle beer at Ronnie’s Sex Shoppe in the Klein Karoo, crossing the Drakenberg Mountains, coming down into Cape Town to see Table Mountain.

Riverboat ride north of Bangkok, April 2002.Trees so filled with fireflies that they seemed to glow and levitate, heavy smell of dark brown water of South East Asia, green jungle on every side.

Worst Journey in a foreign country: Car ride from Nyala to Kass, South Darfur, Sudan, October 2004We were shot at and it broke out a window. Old pimped out hoopty that we rented broke down and the Janjaweed helped us get back on the road. Lots of tales about bandits that got all the cars on either side of us but not us. Potholes. Tense and frightening. Two weeks later we heard a woman from USAID was shot at the same point we were at. She lost her eye.

Motorcycle Ride from Sigiriya to Polonnaruwa, Sri Lanka, September 2005Styrofoam helmet, aching back from too many books in my backpack, scared out of my mind by the weaving and dodging traffic, screaming buses and 18 wheelers. “A supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again”

Car ride from Port-au-Prince to Gonaives, Haiti and Gonaives to Cap Haitien, Haiti: February 2005A backbreaking trip across the moonscape of a devastated land, it took four hours to go about 60 miles.  The 2nd part of the journey was over an extremely treacherous mountain pass with no guard rails, potholes and people in every treacherous hairpin turn. Afterwards, the driver informed me  about the brake problems in our car.

Best meals in foreign countries:Side of the road from Boguila to Bangui, Central African Republic, March 2007A piece of freshly caught fish grilled over a charcoal flame with hot peri peri powder and tomatoes and onions, washed down with a cold coke, eaten with fingers. It might have been made better by the fact that I was on a 10 hour land rover trip squashed in the front seat with another person and with a big barrel that reeked of oil behind me.

Beirut, Lebanon, August 2006:
Everywhere we went, we would get some sort of street food and it was ALL divine - from zataar filled croissants to labneh to zataar pizzas with fresh goats cheese on them to the Arabic and Italian ice cream parlours where we conducted our meetings. At night, we went to divine little bars and drank "Malcom Lowry's" and ate fresh Ceasar salads prepared by beautiful men while listening to the latest lounge music. All war zones should be so gorgeous.

Le Quartier Francais, Franschhoek, South Africa, October 2003: Freshly caught salmon trout grilled and served on a plank of wood accompanied by a divine South African Sauvignon Blanc by the glass in a beautiful old French Huguenot farmhouse overlooking a vineyard. Downside: My traveling companion had a stomach virus and couldn’t even eat her broth although she tried valiantly.

Califa del Leon in the Colonia Condesa neighborhood, Mexico City, Mexico, May 2006: My first Taco al Pastor - roasted pork served with cilantro and pineapple on a fresh tortilla. All you can eat until you can’t eat anymore. Washed down with a cold beer and eaten on the street corner in a beautiful neighborhood in Mexico City on my first night there.

Camel Market, Khartoum, Sudan, December 2005:Freshly slaughtered lamb purchased and then brought to Sudanese women who stir fried it over charcoal briquettes with salt and pepper -served with a leafy green like arugula, tomato salad, freshly baked bread, and peanut sauce. Washed down with lukewarm plastic bags of water while sitting on plastic garden chairs and swatting flies away in the mid day heat of Sudan. Sometimes the setting isn’t that important.

Malabar House, Fort Cochin, Kerala, India, January 2010: Seafood Uttalpillum (?) – a spicy mix of freshly caught Sea bar, tiger prawns, and squid cooked in a spicy tomato curry sauce with tapioca mashed potatoes served with sparkling water and a Kingfisher beer in the courtyard of the Malabar House next to a Sitar and tambla concert under a full moon. I sat under a mango tree next to a pool of water.

Somewhere outside of Saint Johann in Pongau, Austria, May 1998: I fell off the meat wagon and was trying to get back on. My boyfriend at the time wanted to stop at a famous place for Frankfurters dipped in mustard and grated horseradish. Even though I was a vegetarian, I couldn’t resist. It was delectable and I’ve never looked back since.

Pave d'Auge in Beauvron-en-Ange, Normandy, France, July 2009: A Michelin 1 star – foie gras,  a chilled red Sancerre, divine fish, vintage calvados, exquisite service

Castelmuzio, Tuscany, Italy, August 2009:
My first taste of pecorino cheese dipped in truffle honey served with a Vino Nobile. To die for! Eaten in a small little apartment overlooking the hills of Tuscany, an olive grove, and the abbey from an English Patient.

The Royal Thai restaurant at the Cinnamon Lake Hotel in Colombo, Sri Lanka, September 2005:Thai Seafood Green Curry with Joel. “Make it how it should be made” he answered in response to do you want it spicy. We sweated and ate and sweated and ate until we almost passed out and had to stagger back to our hotel rooms. We came back the next night for more.

Hotel La Cayenne, Les Cayes, Haïti, 2001-2003 :
Poisson au gross el or Lambi Kreyol for dinner. Served with a big boiled plantain and spicy rice and beans and cold Prestige beer. Or Spaghetti with avocado and hot sauce for breakfast. Something about that hotel and the food brings back good memories.

Little restaurant near a great small Fado joint in Alfama, Lisbon, Portugal, February 2008:Grilled sardines, a bottle of vinho verde. Divine!

Worst Meals in a Foreign land:
Saclipea, Liberia, December 2004:Boiled cow head with hard rice in eaten out of a communal bowl with five Liberians and a Congolese. “That white woman can’t eat that hard rice!”

ICRC party in Nyala, Darfur, October 2004: Ate nothing but rancid “La Vache Qui Rit” cheese and sandy bread for three weeks, came to a party at the ICRC rooftop and lined up for the barbecue. My mouth was literally watering. The par-cooked goat meat that I swallowed almost without chewing was bad. I had to decide whether to make myself vomit then or hope for the best. I hoped for the best and got food poisoning. That’s when I learned about Oral Rehydration Salts thanks to my friend Mamie and the MSF clinic.

Most Monotonous Diets in foreign lands:
Everything at our hotel in Pretoria, South Africa, March 2004:
All you can eat buffet. You had to fight off hordes of German tourists to get to the food and then it was bland, over cooked, and sauced with what seemed to be paste. Terrible in its nothingness particularly compared to what I knew South Africa was capable of.

Traveling through Kinshasa, North Kivu, South Kivu and Ituri, DRC , May 2005: Almost every day we ate beef brochette, pommes frites, and a beer. By the end of three weeks, I was dying for vegetables and was pretty convinced that I had “trigger finger” from gout.

The MSF Cafeteria, Amsterdam, the Netherlands, 2007-2010:Every day you have your choice of dried out breads, processed mystery meats and cheeses packaged in plastic wrap or odd salads such as canned beans, celery, canned corn, and olives in mayonnaise or red peppers, canned black olives, fake tofu/feta, celery, and raw onions swimming in olive oil with no vinegar. Deep fried cutlets that when cut open are made of spaghetti. Soups that are either grey or brown and taste vaguely like paste or canned beef flavor. Buttermilk or milk to drink. “But it’s free!”

Worst book to read in a war zone:
David Rieff’s Bed for the Night in Darfur in 2004. Will kill any sense of hopefulness that you might have and replace it with despair.

Best Book to read in Haiti before the earthquake:
The Comedians by Graham Greene. I was reading it all night and woke up in La Cayenne hotel to open my door to the blinding bright Caribbean light. Outside was a Haitian man in mirror shades, a red speedo, with a big gun. I thought it was the tonton macoute. I closed the door and splashed water on my face. When I reopened the door, he was still there. Turns out President Aristide was coming to the hotel and he was in the advance body guard team.

2nd best book to read in Haiti before the earthquake:
The Comte de Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas – French. Rackish. Dumas was rumored to have black blood. Keeps you endlessly entertained and is long enough that you don’t have to carry another one around with you.

Best Song to enter a war zone to:
“Rock the Casbah” by the Clash. I listened to this as I drove overland from Syria to Beirut during the August 2006 Israel-Hezbollah clash.

Best song to dance to in a refugee camp in Sudan:
“African Queen” by 2Face Idiba  – at the Bulls eye night club in Kakuma Refugee Camp near Lokichoggio, Kenya.

Song I’ve heard on every continent that I’ve traveled to:
"Aisha" by Khaled. Sung live in a nightclub in Cairo, innumerous car radios in Beirut, on an iPod at a Save the Children party in Darfur, at the nightclub in Honduras, at a house party in Papua New Guinea, at a hotel party in Mumbai, India.

Books I didn’t like about places I’ve been to:
The Catastrophist, Kinshasa, Congo. All I remember is that the author kept describing the so called irresistible woman as having extremely thin hair. What woman wants to be described by a man who is obsessed with her as having thinning hair? Why did that even occur to the author as a way to describe the heroine? There was something in there about someone spitting in someone’s face. Everyone was annoying and I wanted everyone to die by the end of it.

The God of Small Things, Kerala, India. At this point, I don't know why I didn't like it but I recall not liking it.

 Books I did like about places I’ve been to:
Anil’s ghost in Sri Lanka
The English Patient in Tuscany, Italy
The Comedians, Haiti
The Heart of the Matter, Sierra Leone
Country of my Skull, South Africa
Berlin by Anthony Beevor, Berlin, Germany

Frog in a pot of water

While I was in our project in the highlands of PNG, I was "evacuated" with staff by a 10 seat prop plane that was chartered to fly in, pick us up, and deliver us back to the capitol. It was actually quite emotional - after a meeting where the management informed the national staff why we were leaving and everyone hugged goodbye, we rolled out of the compound in a convoy of white landrovers to the airstrip followed about ten minutes later by crying staff - I felt like I was in an episode of M*A*S*H. My colleagues were worried about leaving patients and colleagues behind and wondered if they would ever return. Despite the fact that I had only been there three days, I was emotional too and even felt some tears in my eyes when we took off down the old dirt runway.

A little background:
In the area where we work in the highlands, its extremely violent and neglected. The people there still wear traditional clothing often and they conduct elaborate tribal wars. Because of the violence, there's been almost no one working there for years. We run a project focused on sexual violence, domestic violence, and surgery for violent injuries. For the past few weeks, there's been a bunch of drunk men with seriously big machetes (one was like 3 feet long!) breaking into the hospital and shouting death threats at the staff. Since we are a neutral agency, we don't use armed guards so all we can do when they come in is lock ourselves in the compound.

Since the authorities woudn't do anything about security, management decided to "send a signal"by evacuating the staff. The community was so pissed off at the authorities for problems in the past that they sent 20 people to kill the CEO with machetes and spears three months ago. So security is a big issue. But the people in PNG are very emotional - it was hard to communicate what the "signal"was that we were sending...
the community was also incensed that we were leaving so they staged a demonstration outside the hospital threatening to burn the place down. Which we were afraid they might do. So as we were packing up on Tuesday night for our 11am evacuation flight, we heard gunshots from right outside of our "doublewide" trailor (or prefab house as its called in PNG) where we were staying. The radio handsets that we are all required to carry with us everywhere went off and we were told that we had to hunker down.

It's been a while since I heard gunshots... in DC, it wasn't that unusual but in Amsterdam, if I hear that sound, I assume its a car backfiring. I've grown accustomed to peace - even though I work in war zones. On the Ethiopia-Somalia border, I saw men running around with automatic weapons but I don't recall hearing shots.

I was staying with a psychologist and a doctor in the prefab house and we had all been chatting as we packed so we all went into the hallway and sat on the floor while our unarmed guards went out to investigate. Then there was another gunshot from closer to our house. We realized that we had the door to our house still wide open but were too afraid to run past all the windows to close it. So we decided to crawl into the shower and sat there for thirty minutes until we got the all clear. Since the UK doctor was listening to Kelly Clarkson whle she was packing, we had to continue to listen to it while we sat there wondering what was going on. So I got to contemplate the fact that I might be killed by a crazy drunk man while sitting in a shower of a doublewide lstening to Kelly Clarkson. Not exactly how I thought I would check out.

In the end, it it was all fairly uneventful. Supposedly the police were "checking their weapons" or one of the drunk dudes that has been harrassing the hospital was in an altercation with another guy and someone pulled a gun. Everyone seemed to think it was fairly uneventful and we had some laughs about sitting in the shower later on. But now that I think about it, I feel more like the frog in the pot of water that doesn't know how hot its gotten until its boiled. The violence in Papua New Guinea is so pervasive that it's hard to see it. The people are so sweet and friendly and nice but there is a potent brew of an unfamiliar culture based on payback and revenge and home brew that gets angry men drunk faster.

Sometimes I think about the risks that I take in my line of work. In general, I have a higher than normal tolerance for risk, I suppose. But sometimes I think that I have become immune to thinking about danger which is a bit scary. I wasn't really scared when we were crouched on the floor, I stayed calm and we thought of options. I remember being scared in Lebanon when the bombing started and I realized I had no idea what to do if the building I was in was bombed. Preparation has always helped me feel calm - if I know what I'm supposed to do, I can just go on auto pilot. But in PNG, I felt scared in the nightclub in Lae but not in the hospital compound in Tari.

Friday night in Papua New Guinea

“I shot the sheriff but I swear it was in self defense“

Went out to the Yacht club in Lae which is filled with fat old white Australian men sitting drinking numerous draft beers and getting drunk. We go because the drinks are cheap and there is a breeze from the sea. Three women, a woman from India, a woman from Germany, and I sit gossiping about work, gossiping about men, talking about our lives – an unusual sight in Papua New Guinea – there is no man there to protect us, to hover over us, to tell us what to do. So the Papuan women are intrigued and always come to talk to us. One comes over – she’s lovely, dressed well, very drunk. She starts off telling us about how she is being forced to do things she doesn’t want to do  - things that she wishes she wasn’t doing. We’re concerned and waiting to hear what is going on. But she instead talks about being unable to get pregnant, about having irregular periods, about being unable to conceive and how sad she feels because she has the money because she’s married to a white man, to go to a local clinic and get a d&c.  I still wonder what she’s trying to tell us. We encourage her to visit us at the sexual violence clinic. She says she works near by and has heard about us. We never mention the word Sexual Violence.

She leaves and we all look at each other – we were thinking the same thing. We start talking about leaving pamphlets in the bathroom so the women who work here and the women married to expat men can read them in private and know where to go for help.

Anyway, its Friday night. The other women have been working for five days straight treating about 25 women who have been brutally beaten by their husbands, raped by strangers, and have brought in their children who have been sexually molested. I’m tired because my brain has been stretched to its limit by an American doctor who wants everyting NOW and challenges me. I am happily tired. Rather have this than ridiculous office politics. We’re drinking gin and tonics and looking at the mountains  that meet the Pacific ocean and the big moon. The mental health counselor tells us about a karaoke night nearby at a place called the Melanesian Inn. Supposedly the nurse and the logistician got pissed and sang “Bohemian Rhapsody” there, completely unaware that a video was playing behind them of women in bikinis holding bananas and riding elephants seductively.

We’ve got to see it. We’ve got to go there! I have to see a karaoke place where women hold bananas suggestively. I always forget what they are really like. So we drive over in our big white humanitarian Jeep, I hope out of the back in my pink sundress, clambering down the back step with my gold strappy sandals.  We walk in – 15 kina charge! Outrageous (that’s almost 3 dollars! And beers are only 1 dollar 50). But they wave us in – three single women! We walk in to an intense punch of the scent of cigarette smoke, body odor, and what smells like barely disguised sexual frustration and anger. I’m suddenly aware of the vulnerable position we are in. I’m not used to it. In my countries, in general, I can wear skimpy sundresses to bars and dance and talk to men, and no one is going to drag me off into the bushes and rape me. I’m a little nervous, I hve to admit. I feel vulnerable with four gin and tonics in me and nothing between me and my modesty but a cotton sundress. I didn’t dress provocatively – it was so hot and humid so I wore the dress because it’s lighter than cargo pants and a tshirt.

We are the only non  Papuans in the place. The music is nice but the man are DRUNK and the women start to cluster towards us. They are all prostitutes. It’s been my experience that prostitutes tend to be the nicest women in the world (with the exception of those on 13th Street NW in DC in 1996 but that’s another story). These Papuan women who are almost certainly on the game come and sit with us – eager to talk to women and chat with us and find out what is going on. “Me no savvy English, me talk talk pidgin” says one. One, who is smoking a small cigar keeps kissing my hand and smiling at me. They are funny and nice. We order a round of drinks.

Suddenly a band strikes up – keyboard, bass guitar, guitar, drummer, and two singers. They are singing John Fogerty’s Centerfield. “Put me in coach, I’m ready to play!”- we get up and dance. The music is surpsingly good. A very short mideget like man comes up to dance with us – he dances in ecstasy with his hands in the air, maintaining a safe distance. One of the prostitutes begins to grind against me. To Centerfield! I dance away. The woman who has lived here six months is laughing hysterically looking at our faces as we find ourselves danced against the wall by the female prostitutes. The band begins to play “I saw her Standing there” by the Beatles. We keep dancing. Some men come up and dance too close – a security guard eases on up and puts their arms on the men and whispers in their ear – the men back off. I wish they had that service in the US. Dutch men are so cold, they never dance too close.

We  feel protected – we dance and sing as the band moves into Bob Marley – I shot the Sheriff – an ironic song given the violence in Papua New Guinea. But an awesome version! The singer has a great voice. And then into … of course… no party is complete without it – “No Woman No Cry”. But still the female prostitute is kissing my friends arms and grinding against me. We decide to take a break to have another beer. And then! The Drifters! The music of my youth in South Carolina – at Camp Saint Christopher, at the Swan Lake Dance competitions, at Myrtle Beach – at school dances. I have to dance to this. The other girls don’t want to dance so I find myself on a dance floor with two prostitutes and four men, dancing and trying to shag to “Under the Boardwalk” . I twist and turn and try to spin the prostitute but she seems unable to follow my guidance and keeps trying to grind. So I sing – UNDER THE BOARDWALK – DOWN BY THE SEA- UNDER THE BOARDWALK- ….

A man starts screaming – two men carry him out on their shoulders as he twists and thrashes about. The men start circling closer and closer. The guards are eyeing us nervously. A giant huge man with hands twice the size of me comes up to talk tome. He’s a local Rugby player. He won’t admit it at first and when I ask him what he does, he says, he’ll tell me later insinuating all kinds of things. He has great dimples. It’s midnight.  Another drunk falls over a stool and lands on the floor. The prostitutes are gathering again –their betel nut stained teeth shining against their dark skin in the black light. The smell of unwashed and sweaty skin is overwhelming and the fans aren’t helping ventilate – just pushing the smell closer and closer to me. I’m getting nervous again – so we leave.

As we walk up to our driver with his humanitarian logo embossed vest and our giant white SUV, he tells us there is still a fight going on – the man who was thrown out of the bar! We can’t resist. We have to go look. There are five security guards still watching. We climb in to the car and head home at midnight – one more hour before curfew but it feels prudent to go home now. Just another Friday night in Lae, Papua New Guinea.

More shopping in Singapore

Turtles for sale in a bucket in the seafood section - not for pets!

The "Smoking Kills" folks in Singapore are strict - photos of people in advanced stages of cancer and miscarried fetuses!

Frogs for sale in the seafood section too. Those legs look pretty small

Fresh crabs!!!! So nice!

And of course, Jackie Chan herbal shampoo.

Still bewildered in Holland

Even though I've been here two years and four months, I still find things that bewilder me from time to time. Tonight I went shopping for sheets and new pillows because my sister is coming to visit and she's a pillow snob. I went to the Bijenkorf because its a swanky department store and I was feeling flush with cash and wanting to splurge on some high thread count sheets.

When I go there, I realized they don't have single, double, queen, california king and king... they have 90 cm, 200 cm, 220 cm lengths and different widths! I have no idea what length and width my double bed is. I tried to describe it by saying things like "It's for two people and its longer than normal." Hmmm. Then I bought some pillows. They are square - not rectangular. The bed set that I bought has a duvet cover and two pillow cases but no fitted sheets.

It's really humbling to be an idiot asking silly questions as an adult. But on a brighter side - I'm so Dutch acclimatized, I rode home with two duvet sets, two giant pillows, a box of wine glasses, my purse and extra raincoat all packed on my bicycle without a single accident. I didn't risk listening to my iPod during the time but I did think about it.

Woe is Me

I'm becoming more Dutch every day. I had a bicycle accident this morning.

I was zooming to work listening to my ipod with my giant India Lonely Planet and a box of Swiss chocolates in the only bag I could find hanging from my handlebars. I got around the corner and BOOM. The bag got caught in the spokes of the front wheel, I ground to a halt, I flipped over the handlebars and dragged the bike and myself into the center of the intersection and landed on my face in the middle of the road.

Luckily, nothing was broken except my bike and my Lonely Planet (and tragically, the box of Swiss chocolates). I hurt my instep of my foot, scraped my knee and ripped a hole in my jeans, and destroyed my pride. A man walking to work rushed over to help me and helped me stand up. I limped with my destroyed bike to the bike shop that was conveniently located right where I fell. I then had to limp to work on foot feeling in complete shock and embarrassed.

When I got to work (it was really cold this morning), I had crystallized salt from the tears on my cheek.

But the bike store people were really nice and informed me that statistically it is very difficult to kill yourself in a bicycle accident. So I got that going for me.

New Year's Eve Rituals

On the Millennium new year's eve of 1999-2000, I was determined to have good luck so I tried to perform every ritual I could find. 2008 wasn't particularly lucky for me and my loved ones so maybe I'll try to recreate it again...

Here's a list that I'm compiling. Feel free to share yours!

* Drinking champagne at midnight
* Kissing a loved one at midnight
* Eating twelve grapes at midnight and making a wish after each of them
* Wearing yellow underwear at midnight
* Turning your underwear inside out at midnight
* Walking around the house with a suitcase to travel in the new year
* Wearing polka dots to bring good luck
* Setting off fireworks and banging pots and pans at midnight
* Have large denomination $ in your pocket at midnight to get money in the new year.
* Throwing water out of the windows to wash away evil spirits at midnight
* Throwing flowers in the water as an offering to the Brazilian goddess of love.
* Eating Collard Greens for money on new year's day
* Eating Hoppin' Johns for luck on new year's day

Over sensitive? Or insensitive?

Following is the invitation that was sent out in my organization inviting us to the Xmas party. The party was held last year in the cafeteria of the building and we were all invited to bring our iPods for music. While we always pinch pennies around here - the other branches of our organization have their parties in pubs or outside the organization or have a luncheon.

I was completely offended and annoyed by this invite and am going to boycott the party. Am I over-sensitive and surly? Or are they insensitive? I invite you to weigh in at the comments section...



The Management Team of (MY ORGANIZATION) would like to invite you all for the yearly Christmas Party. But this is not all.. the MT would also like to invite you to join our effort to get ready for the New Year.

How? After five years our office is getting messy, with (empty?) boxes on top of cupboards, old and teared posters, never used shadow archives, and other stuff.
Therefore we feel it is time for a big clean up. We will start this exercise as of 14 o'clock and hope all will join to take out everything that is not useful anymore.
Facilities will place containers on each floor to collect our junk. Around 17.30 our office should be tidy so we can start the Christmas Party, where our caterer will serve drinks and bites in junk-style..

RSVP: Please inform Service point before Friday December 12th if you join the Christmas Party.

Hope to see you all there!
Best wishes,
The Management Team

Dusseldorf Weihnachtmark

In order to get into the Christmas spirit, I traveled to Dusseldorf, Germany this past weekend to visit the Christmas Market (or Weihnachtmarkt). Dusseldorf is about 2 and 1/2 hours from Amsterdam so it was an easy trip there. Holland's main Christmas type celebration is Sinterklaas (with my pal, Zwarte Piet)which isn't as big on the decorations that recall "Christmas" to Americans. In fact, the decorations tend to be black men scaling walls with sacks over their shoulders and tall bony bishops. Don't even get me started on the special that I saw with a Miley Cyrus type girl singing a song with six back up dancer Zwarte Piets doing "egyptian" style moves.

Back to Germany! A friend once told me that all Christmases are based off the German model. And going to the Weihnachtmark definitely puts you in a "Holly Jolly" mood! We drank copious amounts of Gluhewein (a hot spiced red wine), ate bratwurst, roasted chestnuts, Flamkuchen (a cheesy pizza type thing with bacon and onion!), crepes, chocolate, and more gluhewein. While you gorge yourself, you can wander from decorated square to decorated square and look at handmade angel chimes, candles, sheepskins, tree decorations, angels, jewelry, and all manner of gifts. In the old town market, the altstadt, they had displays of traditional crafts with wood workers, ironsmiths, candlestick makers, and glassblowers making and displaying their wares. But back to the food.... the point of the market is definitely the food. We ate our way across the market and back and still managed to find room for more!



It wasn't super cold, which was a bit of a relief, as I've been recovering from the flu, but we had a lovely time wandering around for two days. I'm definitely in the Christmas mood now - and not feeling overwhelmed or negative like I often do in the US where I'm overwhelmed by adverts telling me to BUY BUY BUY! Support the economy! Get a diamond from your boyfriend because if he doesn't buy you one, he doesn't love you! Shop til you drop! I guess I prefer to eat til I pop!

Blackface Holiday

I'm full of guest bloggers these days... my creativity is dried up but I'm loving what my friends have to say. Feast upon my friend Black and (a)Broad's thoughts on the Sinterklaas and Swarte Piet festival this year...

A Dutch Holiday in Black Face

Aaaahhhhh. That glorious time of year is once again upon us. Pepernoten (tiny spiced cookies) are strewn all over the place, random shoes seem to walk themselves into stores where they wait to be filled with wat lekkers (usually pepernoten or candy) or a small gift. Talk of Sinterklaas (St. Nicholas or Santa Claus, but also eponymous for the celebration itself) fills the air as do threats from parents of ne’er-do-well kiddies that old St. Nick won’t bring them anything if their misbehavior continues. Sinterklaas has just traveled by steamboat all the way from Spain with his white horse Amerigo and his helper Zwarte Piet (Black Pete). For your average Dutch person, Sinterklaas is unthinkable without Black Pete – skipping about, entertaining the little ones, and throwing out wat lekkers – dressed up in medieval Turkish or Moorish costume, black curly wig, face painted with thick black paint, and bright red lipstick.

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Election Day!

It's election day finally! Our long national nightmare is almost over! I cast my ballot via email. It's amazing that little ole Sumter South Carolina had the ability to do that! I filled it out, scanned it, and emailed it (from Kenya, no less!) and cast my ballot for you know who. My 81 year old father, who I think voted for Truman in his first election and who fondly remembers Franklin Roosevelt, thought long and hard and ended up voting for Obama. My sister will wait in line in South Carolina and cast her ballot today. I hope she's wearing comfortable shoes and shares with us the stories of the crazies that I'm sure will be there. I'm sad that I'm watching this historic election from afar. I had big plans to return to South Carolina and train to be a poll monitor because I saw some serious shenanigans in the 2004 election when I came down to South Carolina to vote. But unfortunately, my leave time was spent on more intimate family matters. The US electoral system will have to get on without me.

It's amazing to see how the Netherlands (and I suppose the rest of the world) is watching the US on this election day. There are numerous parties being held all over the city. I saw and ad for one at the Hilton for 20 euros which promises Special VIP guests, Large Screen TV coverage, all American snacks buffet and breakfast complete with weak American coffee and chicken wings? Fried cheese? Nachos? One wonders what Dutch think American snacks are. The Democrats Abroad have rented out Boom Chicago's space, an American improv comedy show. The Hotel Arena near my apartment is promising D-Rashid and Sander Hucke as DJs. Will they be spinning Bruce Springsteen and Bon Jovi? Chances are it will be the same old Euro-House music that you always here. At the Kriterion, a cool indie movie house near my apartment, CNN Internaitonal will be on the big screen and US expert Dr. Ronald Holzhacker will be talking. About what? About how the media pundits always get it wrong and screw up the West Coast voter turnout? Numerous expats are also having parties. The problem is the six hour time difference (and nine hours for California). We'll have to stay up all night to see what happens. there can't possibly be that many Americans abroad that we could sustain this number of parties in Amsterdam! Say what you will about America but I can't imagine any other country that the world will be watching so closely on their election day.

But I'm SO nervous. I can't decide what to do. Perhaps I should sit at home quietly agonizing and celebrating every new revelation alone with my bottle of Ravenswood Zinfandel that Cat brought me. Should I crash a party? Just go to bed and wake up to find out who the new president is like I used to do as a kid? I'm so scared that some lunatic is going to do something to ruin this election. That there will be riots and voter fraud and bad things will happen. I'm afraid the Republicans will pull some shenanigans and disenfranchise the poor and black voters (I saw that going on in South Carolina in 2004). I'm worried that the bigots and the idiots will ruin it for everyone. (NOTE: Both Republicans and Dems have their share of idiots and bigots). The same people that road rage others off the highway, think its funny to hang effigies of Obama or Sarah Palin in their yards at halloween, and shout Kill Him! or archly raise questions about Palin's gynecological history are evenly spread throughout both parties. The crazy fringe.

But I'm still so afraid! That's what it means to be a liberal in the USA. You can't believe that anyone else believes in what you believe. You've been depressed and intimidated into having a cynical view of the USA. I'm sick of hearing Europeans say that the US is too racist to elect a black man. It was news that a hungarian descended immigrant was elected to be president of france! Imagine if they were to elect an Algerian! And CANADIANS! Boy I'm tired of Canadians slagging us off. Some doofus in a "I love Hockey" t shirt boldly proclaimed "I Hate Americans" to me yesterday. Note to Canadians: People think you are American. Get used to it and quit your whining. You just elected a conservative government.

But in my heart of hearts, I believe in the USA and I believe in Americans. Even the 2000 elections were peaceful compared to elections in other countries. Sure they were stolen but we moved on as a country. People will wait in line patiently. There is great hope and anticipation. The apathy is gone. Millions will turn out. Others will be couch potatos and just sit at home and watch cable tv but still, people I know all over the US are getting out the vote, calling, canvassing, engaging others in discusison. The system will work, won't it? Won't it?

I hope so. I hope I hope i hope I hope i hope. I believe that we're finally going to get a good leader that will help us through these troubled times. And I hope and believe that things will change. And that the US will show its true colors. I hope.

Art in Amsterdam

I've decided to take an art workshop. It's not quite lessons - I'm not sure what its going to be like. My first time was this morning. I cycled over to the studio on CzarPeterLaan at 10am and knocked on the window to be let in. We drank tea, looked at teh photo I had brought of something I felt close to, discussed supplies, talked about what would be the best way to render it, and then another person showed up so we drank tea, ate strawberry cake, and talked about religion and healthcare.

After a very pleasant three hours, I cycled in the stiff wind to the supply shop and bought some paper, some pastels, and (since I was near the market) some apples and asters.

I didn't once touch an art supply to try to draw anyting - I just talked about it a lot. This could be the perfect new pastime for me! I like talking about knitting. I like talking about taking tango lessons. I like talking about going to the gym. I like talking about playing my flute. I like talking about taking long bike rides. When it comes down to actually doing it - sometimes the reality is not as nice as the fantasy. So maybe my new art workshop will involve me talking about painting and drawing alot without having to actually produce anything that will not live up to my fantasies of my own art.

Virtual Reality - better than the real thing.

Scheveningen Kite Festival

I spent Saturday afternoon at the Kite Festival in the world's most difficult Dutch word to pronounce city of Scheveningen. Doesn't look that hard to pronounce, does it? Well its got one of those guttaral throat sounds in it.

Here's a little video of kite flying bliss on a sunny Saturday Afternoon.

Culture Clash

After almost six weeks in South Carolina, being back in Amsterdam has been a bit of a shock. First of all, it was about 98 degrees when I left Charlotte on September 7th and it was about 62 when I got here on September 11th. It's full on autumn. The trees are changing colors. Everyone is wearing scarves. I wake up cold everymorning - which I did in SC but that was because the air conditioning was on too high.

And then I am having a bit of a culture clash trying to readjust to some of the Dutch things that I had forgotten about. I met up with my friends Susannah, Naomi, and Emma for drinks and Jamaican food. Afterwards we went out with her friends and ended up in a Blues band. When I tried to tell the bassplayer that I enjoyed the show he cursed at me in Dutch and told me that he was on break. I got elbowed in the Albert Heijn. I was almost run over by a taxi as I rode my bike.

Monday and Tuesday were hard at work. I tried to keep my head down on Monday and just work but the organization's debate culture was alive and well and I soon found myself arguing over things I really don't care about. Back to just trying to make it through the day.

Monday night I cut Simon's claws and I cut one too close and he bled ALL OVER the apartment. I have bloody paw prints on everything. I didn't sleep at all because I was trying to stem the bleeding. I ended up having to dip his paw in flour after all my attempts to bandage it failed. Bandaging a cats foot is not as easy as one would think. One big shake and bandages fly off. He's fine now and I'm still traumatized.

So - let's see. I've been back since Thursday night and I've been a wreck. Hm. Let's hope things get better. Today's plan of attack includes eating a lot of chocolate, buying cheap flowers to brighten up the apartment (pink dahlias and white chrysanthemums), listening to cheerful music loudly (including Laid by James, Barracuda by Heart, Wonderboy by Tenacious D and Dancing Queen by Abba), and watching Mad Men (a show I became obsessed with in the States). Going to bed early and going for walks at lunchtime to eat soup seem to help too.