This article is part of a series about the experiences of one aid worker living and working in northern Somalia in 2002, starting with engine trouble on John Travolta's old plane, a foot xray and a beach full of dead marine life.
Given the lack of expatriate presence in the last six months, the projects have not been running quite as smoothly as perhaps they might, although full credit must go to the local staff, who have performed admirably in difficult circumstances. The agency was in the process of sub-granting cash to various local organisations on the ground and our task was to evaluate and revise the proposals and forward the best of the bunch to Nairobi for approval.
Humanitarian Aid Sub-Grant Projects
There were some interesting and well thought out ideas – a vocational fishing training centre (this did make me laugh as the poor chap had just completed the proposal before all the fish died, although he didn’t see the joke when I pointed it out – it will all be fine in a couple of months, apparently); a training centre for woodwork, electronics, sewing, complete with production centre for project sustainability; a soap-making factory, the first, thus reducing the need for imports.
Misselling Words
Another part of my brief is to evaluate implemented projects by local partners from a grant provided by the Dutch Government. Many of these are projects undertaken by local communities, where the aid agency has provided technical training and guidance, but where the community has been encouraged to take a stake in the project to encourage sustainability. So, for example, the agency might provide the materials for a health centre and the community will provide the labour; the agency will train health workers and the community will pay their salaries; the agency will provide an initial outlay for drugs and stocks will be replenished through the sale of drugs to the beneficiaries.
African Village Negotiations
My first field trip will always be remembered by Wanjiru, a very spunky female Kenyan auditor, as The Day Of The Green Boot. Having been bounced along ‘roads’ in the dust and heat of the Somali outback, the monotonous landscape only fleetingly interrupted by a herd of camels, a lost goat or the occasional oasis, we arrived at the village of Tisjiic, where we inspected the recently constructed health centre. Having satisfied ourselves that things were broadly in order, we set off to talk to the elders, the traditional power in Somali culture, in order to get their views on the project’s effectiveness and ideas for future interventions.
I can still see him. Thin, frail, aided by his walking stick, a grubby yellow t-shirt and bright blue sarong, some worn flip flops on his feet. As I went to shake his hand, he offered me his wrist. He never looked at me directly, but was friendly enough and answered the questions I posed through our interpreter. As I was making notes, he started to clear his throat. Not just his throat, but seemingly his whole body. I can describe what happened next as I was looking down at my notepad and could see my dusty black boot out of the corner of my eye.
It had just become green. I stared. Wanjiru stared. The elder just kept on talking. Soon after he cleared his throat again. We monitored his aim and took appropriate evasive action. I don’t think he meant it. I don’t even think he realised. It’s just that the table manners that my mummy taught me in England don’t seem to apply over here. I am still laughing at hearing Wanjiru’s voice, as I sat in the front of the Landcruiser. We were running out of time and had to take lunch on the road. She was passing out the tuna rolls (tinned tuna, definitely not from the Red Sea, at least not recently), when she let out a mournful wail:
"Oh God, there’s nothing like eating with the guys." I have heard of feeding time at the zoo, but Somalis would give camels a good run for their money. I could give you a running commentary of the mastication process of a Somali partaking of lunch.
Read more about an evening in remote eastern Puntland under armed guard.
Paul Bradbury - Author of Hvar: An Insider's Guide to Croatia's Premier Island, and Lebanese Nuns Don't Ski
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