In solidarity of Україна (Ukraine)

September 7, 2014

Friends and Colleagues in Ukraine – 2007

Friends and Colleagues in Ukraine – 2007

My red-eye last night over the Atlantic from London to New York was not flight I wanted to catch, but due to lack of seats on earlier flights I booked it with an overnight stay in Newark before heading off to Dallas.

I was one of the first to board the plane and I was shocked at the small size of the aircraft, namely a Boeing 757-200. As I entered I could see the plane end-to-end. It had two rows of seats of three either side. The business class was tiny and I could see into the cockpit.

I walked down to Row 23 and took my aisle seat, which is my preferred seating. My wife Melissa loves the window seats, alas she was not travelling with me today. When I checked in online I saw that the window seat on my row was occupied and the middle seat was empty, so I was praying to the gods it remained so.

As the plane began filling up my travel companion came and sat down in the window seat. He looked flustered to say the least.

"I thought I was going to miss the flight," he looked at me and offered in an American accent.

"Where are you coming from?" I asked.

"Kiev, I had to run from the flight from Munich with only a 30 minute gap," he replied.

After he settled down I started conversing with him.

"Were you anywhere neat the fighting in the east?" I quizzed thinking he was some government or military personnel.

"No I was in the west around Lviv," he answered.

"Business or personal?" I asked further, beginning to sound like an interrogator.

"Aah! not business I am tracing my Ukrainian ancestors," He replied.

"Oh wow! that's brilliant, were you born there?" I questioned.

"No, no I am third generation born in the US," he offered.

He continued to tell me how his grandparents had emigrated to the US and Baltimore in the early twentieth century. He was trying to trace further back where his family came from and or went from outside Lviv.

"Where are you headed?" he asked me.

"I am off to Dallas," I replied.

"I love Dallas, but not the football team, Ravens are my team who play tomorrow. Are you on vacation?" He continued.

"Oh! I am not much of an American football l fan, soccer is my game," I responded

"And I am going home to see my wife,"

We continued to talk about Ukraine and I told him about my short work assignment in Kremenchuk, a mining city four hours south-east of Kiev.

He explained to me how he had traced 900 of his relatives from his grandparents villages outside Lviv. He was planning to reach 1500 and he had subscribed to Ancestry.com. He explained that as he was finding more relatives and lineage data he was updating Ancestry.com. He said that this trip was his first and now that he had made contacts he was going to be able to conduct his research from the US, without too much of a need to travel back to Ukraine.

We talked about Ukrainian cuisine, and I mentioned to him Borscht soup which he grew up on. Although the Borscht he grew up on was slightly different to the one dished up in Ukraine. I also talked about salo another Ukrainian dish that I remembered from my tenure out there. But most of all we talked about how much and how hard the Ukrainians drank their vodka or Horika. One brand I recalled seeing was Nemiroff which flashed a recognition in my companion's eyes.

He further explained to me how many of the villagers asked him, not in a demanding way but with sadness and sincerity, "Will Obama help us?"

He did not know what to say, because he knew it wasn't a yes. He dodged the question as best as possible without disheartening people too much.

I have a soft spot for Ukraine and it's people. My time out there was most enjoyable and memorable. I found the people to be very friendly and welcoming. I enjoyed International Women's Day weekend during 2007 in Kremenchuk, where eating, drinking and merriment was had by all. I further visited Kiev during May Day celebration that year and the city was alive to say the least.

My companion explained how his grandmother rued the day when in 1994 Ukraine signed the nuclear non-proliferation treaty and gave up its nuclear arsenal. I asked him why.

"Well, she said that it would leave Ukraine open to threats from other nations and especially the imperialist ambitions of Russia," he explained.

"And she was right, Russia is chipping away and taking Ukrainian land, where does it stop?"

"Yeah! I think the west has to make a stance and help Ukraine as much as they can. Diplomacy is the only way, we certainly don't want a full-scale war in Eastern Europe," I explained.

"I have a feeling nothing will happen and Obama will do nothing, because he does not know what to do," he replied.

"Russia could take in Kiev in  weeks and Putin knows it, hence he is doing what he is doing," I offered.

We continued to make small talk as he showed me pictures of his family's village in Ukraine. He showed me cemeteries he visited to find ancestors. After being served dinner we both took to our private solace, he watched a movie and I listened to music.

I was happy to meet this man who had traveled to the land of his ancestors to trace his roots and in the face of adversity such as war. He was doing a commendable task of updating Ancestry.com for anyone from his family to be able to trace their lineage. He was in his own way recording history.

Our flight was pleasant and we landed just before 9pm in New York. We said our farewells as I took the line to the visitor immigration section.

"Enjoy the game tomorrow and I hope the Ravens win," I offered.

"Thank you and enjoy Dallas," he replied.

To all those people I came across in Kremenchuk, I wish them safety and well-being. I further wish the people of Ukraine a peaceful resolution to the current crisis.

The Real 'Hunger Games'

September 5, 2014

Young Boys at A Soccer Match

Young Boys at A Soccer Match

I am out in Mozambique at the moment on a short work assignment for 6 months. I have never been to Southern Africa before and this is my first time in Mozambique. Mozambique lies on the south-eastern corner of the African continent and it is slightly smaller in expanse than twice that of the US state of California. The country has just over twenty-five million people with over 50% living below the poverty line. According to a UNDP report of 2013, Mozambique ranked 185 in the world out of 187, meaning it was the 3rd poorest country in the world.

Vast majority of the people live in the rural countryside and this is where I am working up in Moma District in the province of Nampula. Of the people I work with, most of the management team and technical experts are expats from South Africa and beyond. There are supervisors and junior technical staff from the cities of Maputo and Nampula. The bulk of the blue-collar workers are from the local villages consisting of both men and women, with men comprising the majority.

One of the Mozambican guys I work with is a young man in his twenties and is a training officer. He comes from further north along the coast closer to the Tanzanian border. One morning not so long ago I am in the office and he comes in and takes a seat in front of me. I looked at him and he appeared tired and haggard and lacking any vim.

"What's up buddy? Are you OK?" I asked.

"I have no energy, I feel weak," He replies.

My initial thoughts were that he had malaria, which is prevalent in this part of the world and every day someone at work is getting sick from it. A few weeks back five guys in one team got bitten by mosquitoes on the same night and all five got malaria, being out of work for four days.

"Have you got malaria?" I quizzed.

"No, I am just tired," He replied eyes half closed.

"Did you have breakfast?" I queried further.

"No I don't eat breakfast, because it is a habit," He replied.

"What do you mean habit?" I continued.

"As a child I never had any breakfast before school, and the first meal would be lunch and sometimes only dinner," He explained.

Not even thinking I continued my quizzing of the young man, "How comes you did not eat any breakfast as a child?"

"We never had any food Shah, we simply never had any food," he said sadly.

"I'm sorry man," I apologized.

He continued to explain how even today many families and children do not have enough to eat for breakfast, let alone three square meals a day.

It made me think about this country and how the local villagers in particular have a lifespan of only forty odd years. With malnutrition rife kids suffered the most. It must be one hell of a battle for kids to survive those formative years and make it into adulthood.

I saw further evidence one Saturday when I went to the local village soccer field to watch a game. I was the only non-African person there which caused me to be the center of attention for a group of boys from the age of three to ten. Their inquisitive eyes and smiles shone through their desperate outward appearances. Their clothes were tatty, their faces mud streaked and most had no shoes. The one distinguishing feature was their distended bellies. A protruding stomach was a clear sign of malnutrition. Such a sight was disturbing to say the least. I thought how does a child contend with malnutrition, malaria, tsetse flies, HIV and all else that nature throws at them in this part of the world to get to adult life and think about what to do. As a child in London I did not have to think about my next meal, nor fight any diseases that could be fatal to my life.

On another day the hunger faced by people in the locality hit me even more when around 5pm I was on the company bus being taken back to camp. The roads are dirt tracks and the going is slow to say the least. The roadside is jungle and bush with all sorts of flora and fauna spilling out on to the road. As the bus turned a corner I saw a group of ten-year old boys facing away from the road and intently focusing on a bush. I maintained a keen eye to see what they were doing. This rag-tag group of boys with only tattered shorts on as clothing and no footwear were picking some kind of berry from the bush and putting them in their mouths. They all had the swollen bellies I'd seen previously, and they seemed busy picking away at the berries in what seemed like a desperate bid consumer as much as possible in the shortest time frame.

As the bus drove on up towards the crest of a hill, I contemplated the dire status faced by children and their parents here. Don't get me wrong I have seen hunger and poverty in a lot places on my travels but not to this extent and in such a concentrated manner. Hunger even exists in developed countries, however there is a safety net in most of those nations.

People in this part of the world are literally subsistence living, whatever they can get from the land, rivers and seas they use to feed themselves. Up until a few years back rearing goats did not exist, the main food source is still cassava.

I remember as a 14 year old in 1984 when Band Aid was formed by Bob Geldof highlighting the plight of Ethiopian famine sufferers. Over the years I have seen images of millions of people suffering from famine caused by nature or man-made catastrophes. The impact of images on the 9 o'clock news has been nothing until what I have seen here almost every day.

Mozambique may be a country at relative peace, people here face hunger that is very real, very present and here to stay.


Taxi Driver Tales

July 12, 2014

Taxi de New York

Taxi de New York

My line of work requires a fair deal of travelling, whether it be planes, trains or automobiles as well as the odd ferry, tram and rickshaw. Having completed a recent assignment in London's southern fringes, I used a private taxi every day for almost six months I encountered taxi drivers of all backgrounds.

Mostly the drivers would stick to their own company asking only where I was going, taking the fare and a curt adieu would conclude the journey and transaction. However, during the latter days of my engagement I encountered three very different taxi drivers who stuck in my mind. Two of whom conversed as if we were travelers sitting around a camp fire at night on the Silk Road. The third chap cocked his ears with intrigue but kept our chat to one-liners.

My first taxi driver was of African descent in his late fifties, and upon picking me up from my place of work asked me what the company did. I explained it was a construction company and they engaged in a multitude of such activities all over the world. He further went on to ask how big was such a company.

"Well, why don't you take a guess?" I asked him.

"Twenty million pounds sales every year?" he replied sheepishly, not sure whether his answer was a pie in the sky or not.

"On this bit of work that this company is doing the value is one hundred million pounds," I replied.

"What!" he exclaimed almost hitting the anchors on the car and slightly jolting me in my seat. I checked my seat belt was fastened as my driver continued on our journey.

"Let me put it into perspective, an engineering company that supplies services to this firm had a sales turnover of twelve billion dollars last year," I detailed.

"My goodness, that is so much money " my driver stated.

I asked him where he was from to which he replied saying that he was from Ghana in West Africa.

"Yes, Africa a very rich continent but the people do not see the riches," he added sadly.

"A lot of countries are in a race to take Africa's natural resources. This is particularly so with Chinese companies digging away throughout the continent trying as quickly as possible to extract valuable minerals, metals and precious stones," I elaborated.

"Yes, true indeed and it is only the leaders and military who become rich," he added.

"Another twist to the African story is that you have countries that are starved of fertile arable land leasing hundreds of thousands of acres in Africa to grow produce and then ship it back to their own countries to feed their people," I explained to the driver.

"Really! are you serious?"  he gasped.

"I kid you not my friend, even countries such as Bangladesh where my parents are from are leasing land in Zambia and South Sudan for food production. Take Mozambique for example they have leased out 7% of their agricultural to foreign companies, the highest of any African country".

"Wow! I never heard of this, and it is the African leaders who live in luxury while people suffer," my driver went on.

"Well! Leaders in the West become rich too but in very different ways,"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Did you know Bill Clinton last year made a speech that he got paid $500,000 for, and on average he charges $150,000 to give a one hour speech?"

"What just by speaking?

"Yes, at events held by businesses and other organisations, and our previous prime minister Tony Blair can charge up to £190,000 for lectures and after-dinner speeches," I explained.

"My god that is crazy, so much money to speak," the driver shook his head as he brought the car to a halt outside the train station.

"You are the nicest passenger I've had, thank you for talking to me," he complimented as I paid him the fare.

"The pleasure was all mine and god bless you my friend," I said as I left the vehicle.

 On another day my driver is of Sri Lankan origin. He tells me he has been in the UK for 15 years having escaped his home country as a persecuted Tamil Minority. On the ten minute journey he relays his story of how he saw family members gunned down by Sri Lankan government troops - who are Sinhalese, making up the majority of the island's population as well as running country.

I listened as his voice lowered and a sense of sadness at the loss of family members and friends clouded my drivers thoughts. I could sense a heavy heart and I was touched by this humble man who was now bringing up his family in the suburbs of London, working hard as a taxi driver.

I asked about his family in the UK, his reply gladdened me immensely. He told me about his two daughters studying hard, one was at university and the other was preparing for her GCSE finals this summer.

"Thank you my friend for sharing your story and I am sorry for your loss," I offered as I stepped out of his vehicle.

"No thank you for listening, I will always miss my home country," He replied as I left thinking about what this man must have gone through in his home country before fleeing.

 My final driver was a little less verbose and did not even acknowledge my entrance into his vehicle. I sat down and asked him to take me to the station, to which he grunted a noise indicating understanding. So I sat back and my ears picked up the language of the radio station he was listening to. Clearly not English I listened a bit more intently, as a familiar vowel hit my ear drums. I recognised the language as being Farsi, but wasn't a 100% sure. So I asked the driver,

"Is that radio station in Iranian?"

"Yes, it's Persian," he replied.

"Oh! OK, I can recognise some of the vowels of the DJ," I continued.

"Hmmm!" he solemnly acknowledged my recognition of his language.

Not deterred I continued being my effusive self.

"Happy Nowruz," I wished him.

"Oh! thank you," he responded surprised that a total stranger would be aware of the Persian New Year.

"So is Nowruz today?" I questioned.

"No it is tomorrow," he responded.

Before I could continue any further we had arrived at the station. I paid my fare and bid him farewell by saying, "Salaam Alaikum".

"Salaam Alaikum," he replied as I closed the door behind.

 All three drivers were very different and had three very different stories, the latter which I did not get to hear. Taxi drivers around the world are the archetypal story tellers who delight their patrons as they ferry them from destination to destination. It's funny, but I enjoyed my chat with the Ghanaian driver the most and today I am in Mozambique for a short working stint.

I never thought a conversation about a part of the world would mean I would end up being there three months later. However, being in one of the remotest parts of Mozambique is proving to be revelatory to say the least.