Cautious Pioneers

Yesterday I met a ton of fantastic women. This shouldn’t be a surprise given that this is what I’m here to do. However, at first glance Libya, like many conservative Muslim countries, doesn’t seem like the place you will meet impressive women. Not many are spotted on the streets. The ones who do venture out do so completely covered and usually with an escort. At night, more crickets than women are spotted…

I went to the Libyan General National Congress yesterday to meet some of the women who were elected. We drove up to the impressive pre-Gaddafi's demise structure that was built to lavishly host African Union leaders with plush couches, gilded mirrors and opulent chandeliers. Apparently only one section in the back was damaged during the liberation of Tripoli, because a few of Gaddafi’s hardliner (and ill-fated) guards hid out there for a fleeting moment. The rest stands perfectly preserved. With some hesitance, the new Libyan government is taking up residence.

In what seems to be a constant theme in Libya right now of “opposite-world,” I met with the first elected women leaders in Libya’s history. In the extraordinary aftermath of “liberation,” a history teacher, a chemistry teacher, and a couple of housewives now run the country. How does a housewife in a conservative culture get elected? I’m still not sure of the answer. The conversation could have gone better. They are warm and eager, but they needed help. Not monetary support, but rather skills support. They are pioneers sure, but they’re not exactly celebrating their status as the first elected women in Libya. They are not treated badly by their colleagues or husbands, but they are frozen in terror of their actual tasks at hand. Libya’s inventing democracy. Right now. It has never been present and it is alien. Their concerns were not “how do we codify women’s rights?” “how do we make sure women have access to healthcare?” “how can we make sure women in rural areas gain skills?”

Instead, they needed help making decisions. “We’re afraid. We don’t understand legal issues. We are not lawyers. The men are confused too. We need help doing our jobs.”

Hmm, not exactly the women’s issues I was expecting to tackle. At the end of the meeting, one of the housewives made a beeline for Halima, our Libyan-American staffer. She asked her for a recommendation for a babysitter. Halima was floored. She could not imagine these very important, pioneering women so fixated on ordinary issues. We launched into quite a conversation afterwards about how to encourage and support these women. We also realized that before we get issue platforms together, there are a whole host of “government 101” tasks at immediate hand.

Tripoli Tales

“Are you a Muslim?” a teenaged girl asked with exclamation, while giggling and elbowing her friend.

I explained that I was just visiting. I can’t describe the friendly eagerness on her face. At once I felt out of place not for not being Muslim, but because I can’t remember the last time I felt the youthful exuberant energy this girl was projecting. She was like the Sun.

Today I had my first set of meetings to discuss women’s issues in Libya. I got a pretty good glimpse of the challenges to women’s participation that exist. For example, while there are more women in University than men, most women graduate and get married and never work, because that is the cultural expectation.

As I try to digest these opportunities and challenges for my job, my mind drifts to personal interactions I had today. The young girl stood out. Also, my guide for the week, Halima, who is a lovely woman born and raised in Virginia of Libyan parents. She returned to live here about 6 years ago. She told me her story of living through the “liberation of Tripoli.” She told me that she convinced her 8 year old child during a visit to the hospital 3 days before the liberation that the bloodied soldiers being carried in where actors in a movie. He bought it, since he’s a Sylvester Stallone fan. She said her children cheered with each precision bomb dropped by NATO. It sounded like a scene from Life is Beautiful.

 

We drove past the beautiful Mediterranean Sea, whose brilliant unique color blue does not judge if it laps at the shores of Libya or Italy. The only sadness is that there is nothing, NOTHING built up on the waterfront. The real estate mogul in me says “buy now in Tripoli!”

An exciting moment came when I got back to my hotel room. As I always do when I visit a Muslim country, I studied and studied and studied the covered women today. I figure the skill to perform the perfect head wrap is genetically predisposed in Muslim women. I’ve never been able to do it. But every time I try, I discover a new trick. So when I visited the Islamic Cultural center today I was at least a step ahead of my colleague who could not keep her scarf on her head. Mine was static (which was good, because it’s humid here and covering the hair is a good thing.) Anyway, I caught something about the wrap today – an extra loopdee loop that I had not tried before and I think I’m now pretty darn close to the perfect wrap. I’ll never tell now that I know the secret!

 

 

Nervous Nelly goes to Libya

It seems that Jess in HD is going to be a travel blog and although I did not blog from New Mexico or Cape May, I'm getting back on the board this week from Tripoli, Libya.

My first impressions begin in Frankfurt. With the exception of one very German looking guy munching casually on a sandwich while browsing the newspaper, everyone looks a bit skiddish. I was expecting to be awkwardly juxtaposed with a bunch of bad ass security dudes, but unless they are all Libyan families, I don't see anyone remotely resembling Russell Crowe. The women I see are completely covered. Shit. I gaze sheepishly down at my sloppy jeans and neon green sneakers and wonder how I can still find myself in such an amateurish predicament.

My mind is preoccupied by the following:
- I hate flying
- Especially to Libya
- I hate new routines (IAD-FRA-TRI)
- The Nats lost :( but at least the Yankees clinched
- really, Libya?
- And finally, wow, I really blew it on the dress code.

It turns out I probably should have been a little more focused on my visa situation. I did not get a visa before I left and all I possessed was a letter written in Arabic alledgedly saying that I could pick one up at the airport upon arrival. I went up to the NON-NATIONALS sign and found a mean looking young agent smoking a cigarette (everyone was smoking and working - so weird.)

He gruffly gestered that I needed to go over to a counter to my right, with big windows and small awkward openings to shout into (in English, useless). About 8 Libyan men are behing the screen. One of them grabs my passport and the letter and says "Take Seat Take Seat." I look left then right. No seats. He insists so I leave my passport and walk about 15 feet away to a bench.

I had been prepared for this, sort of. After about 15 minutes he came back with a receipt and told me to go get some Libyan dinar. To do this, I had to walk down a long hall way, down 2 flights of stairs, past baggage claim (hoping my bags were there), through exit security (what's up with exit security??) Just when I realized I would have to exit the airport without my passport and luggage I heard my name. Liz, my colleague who I had already met, was there with money. I embraced her, grabbed the cash, wound my way back through to my friend at immigration (no one stopped me) and got my passport and luggage.

The ride in was interesting. As one always does, I tried to callibrate what city Tripoli was most like. I was surprised that is was much more like a developing country than I was expecting. I'm going with somewhere in between Khartoum and Cairo.  There is evidence of war as we got closer to the small downtown. I saw a huge demolished compound and exclaimed "Wow, what was that?" "That," Liz said, "was Qaddafi's compound." "THE compound?!" "Yep!" Apparently you can now take tours of it...let's see if we can work that in.

A few other noticable damaged buildings. Some great murals (I took a couple of pictures, but haven't figured out how to transfer them to the computer yet.) We pulled up to the super swanky Raddison Hotel. I sipped my crushed Kiwi juice while waiting for my key. Gym, spa, etc etc. My room actually looks out onto the Meditterrean Sea.

I had suspected this wouldn't be a South Sudan style trip. This much is true. What's next? Not sure.

Oh, one more note before I pass out. I do not feel afraid here. There doesn't seem to be tension in the air. It seems like a normal hustling bustling city. That anxiety, at least, is put aside for now.

Call, interrupted

I’m going to try to write this without committing blasphemy, but it may not be possible. I got the giggles during the call to prayer the other night. The Muezzin had started his call and suddenly there was a huge amount of feedback. Anyone who has been in a Muslim country knows how loud the call to prayer is. The speakers used by Mosques must be better than Bose. The amplifiers in Mosques must be the envy of rockstars around the world. The call to prayer is LOUD. So you can imagine how loud the feedback was. I’m pretty sure it shattered windows.

Anyway, I got the giggles, because the Muezzin of course did not give up. After all, it was the call to prayer, the evening “salat”. He’d start with the familiar, “Allah Akbar,” and then there was something like a mini-explosion, then feedback and then the very familiar sound of fumbling with the mic. You can just imagine the scene…panic that the window for salat was closing and this call would have to be skipped. He kept trying though and twice the power went out. The force of the amp was so great it took out what could have been about 10 city blocks.

Giggling to myself locked away in the ARC guest house (perhaps entertainment came a bit cheaply given my isolation), I thought, “TIA (this is Africa.)” Only in Africa and never in the Middle East would the salat be thwarted by technical difficulties. Only in Africa and never in the Middle East would the most reflective time of day be interrupted by a willful struggle to right this malfunction. Only in Africa…

Point, Khartoum

Actually it's two points that get Khartoum out of the red in my book.

The first is www.goodhairdaysgalore.com! The arid bone dry air of Khartoum has given me GREAT hair days. I barely have to put any product in. I do none of my usual tugging and pulling to get my curls to ease their clench a bit so that I don't look like a cupie doll or a Q tip.

Psychologically, and this is no joke, it's been a real load off not stressing about my hair. I am far too consumed I know, but it's a true source of daily stress and it's gone. In its stead is an obsession with looking in the mirror and marveling at how effortless the curls fall exactly as I've always wanted: just below my shoulders in near perfect spirals. None of the "f" word (frizz, shhh!) See exhibits below.

The other victory is in the food category. Khartoum draws its food influence far more from its Arabness than its Africaness. I've had lovely fresh baked bread every day and fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, yogurt and olives. There is this salty cream cheese that I got from the little shop down the street that is to die for.

The restaurants here don't win for esthetics, but the food has been good. I ate at GAD the other night and had very tasty grilled chicken (and given my current obsession with finding chicken that doesn't suck, it was an extra delight.) There was lots of babaganosh, hummus and fresh parsley salads. At the ex pat place, Solitaire, they have this lemon mint juice slurpy thing that is out of this world. And for some reason that makes no sense to me, they give you free desserts - I had a piece of cheese cake and a kiwi custard and chocolate tart.

At home, I have a good enough kitchen and cook fresh eggplant. Tonight I will cook my sweet potato stirfry because I have all the ingredients. And some how the cucumber yogurt salad tastes better in the Arab world.

I should have left my granola bars at home. Nice work, KRT, nice work.

KRT: The obstructionist zone

This place put the frustration in frustration. I told Jeanne it was like a lackadaisical Venus fly trap. 

The dream of traveling to Darfur is looking dim. Wait a minute, I don’t even really want to go to Darfur. I mean, professionally and programatically I do – there is a very cool project we are trying to start in Gereida. We are going to try and create communication and dialogue channels between pastrolists and farmers. We going to build markets and peace! Well, actually the town got sacked by rebels the day before I arrived, so it turns out we’re not going to do shit.

http://www.sudantribune.com/South-Darfur-town-falls-to-rebel,42535

On top of that, apparently my visa says "Khartoum only," despite me applying to go to Darfur, so it's unlikely my travel will be approved. Oh, and they changed the procedure for travel permits the day I arrived. And then again the next day. Listening to our administrative staff makes things clear as muck. In addition to the dizzying obstructionist bureaucracy, everyone's from a different country so there are thick accents, competing languages, etc. No steps forward, 42 steps back.

This is my Khartoum face:

Arrival Khartoum

Firstly, it’s friggin hot. Africa hot hot Mr. Bigglesworth. It’s 43 degrees C today – that’s a wopping 112F. But it’s ok, because there’s air condition. Oh, and the other good news is that on a scale of Juba to 10, the Khartoum airport is a solid 7.5. None of the crazy of Juba airport. The Sudanese scrum is not there. 

I get why Juba is so petulant. It has none of the infrastrure of this place. Khartoum is fairly modern, power grid. Also the food is pretty good – very Arab influence, so lots of good bread, olives and feta.

I arrived at the ARC office/guest house, which is a four story building with 24 hour electricity and most importantly, air conditioning. Seriously, I would not survive without it. I just washed some dishes with burning hot water that came out of the cold tap.