80 Million Reasons

If you only saw the parts of Azerbaijan that I see on my way to and from the office in Baku, you could be forgiven for thinking that a large proportion of Azeri people shopped in high end clothes shops and drove nice, and some, expensive cars.

Looking at the skyscape reveals that the city is being re-constructed. On the highest point of the city the Baku Flames, three huge glass constructions are nearing completion, and throughout the city high rise accommodation blocks are being built alongside newer and better commercial properties.

As I sat with government officials yesterday, they each recommended that "next time" I visit should be May 2012 when Baku hosts the Eurovision Song Contest, "then", they say, "our beautiful new buildings will be finished and it will be better weather".


But behind the façades of the nice new buildings there lies a different story. Venture behind the 'tourist routes' and the architecture, the road and the living conditions change dramatically. Go beyond the city, they tell me (as I will see for myself when I go to Mingechevir on Tuesday for a few days) and you will think you're in a different country.

But when you hear that the country makes about USD 80,000,000 per day from oil and gas, (and that's not their only source of revenue) you have to question why there are still people that live in squalid conditions; there is no state health system, there is a pitiable pension allowance, there are thousands of children in state run institutions and the education system has had little update since the Soviet's left 20 years ago. These are things that the government invites us to assist them in changing.

Despite what I describe of infrastructure and opportunity, it is always the people that impress me the most. The Azeri people of Baku are friendly, welcoming and generous. They smile, they greet me, and they seem genuinely happy that I have come to see their country and spend time with them. And that's the measure of the wealth of a country!

Offering Hope, Inshallah

To the south-west of Azerbaijan lies the territory of  Nagorno-Karabakh, a landlocked region of about 4,400 square kilometres that has been in dispute between Armenia and Azerbaijan since Azerbaijan's independence in 1991. (I won't go into the politics of it, you can look it up if your interested.)

But whilst the politics and military actions continue, (although there is a uneasy stalemate that exists at the moment) it is always the indigenous people that pay the price. (About 583,000 people are displaced from their homelands, and 230,000 children have been born to IDPs.) I met a young man today that 19 years ago, with his family, fled his families ancestral land for fear of being killed in the conflict. He told me stories of a happy, uncomplicated, although poor childhood. He painted pictures of the mountainous area in which he lived, and the games that he and his mates used to play.

But then tears well up in his eyes as he recalls that in the last few months, he remembers that the only toys he and the other kids had they collected from the ground around their village. They took pride, at the time, in finding all different shapes and sizes of bullet and shell casings that they would join together into belts, chains, maps and what ever they could imagine. He recalls that as his parents hurried he and his siblings away all they took with them were these ballistic toys.

Arriving in Baku, he and his family moved into a single room at an old Russian Youth camp that had been set aside for the thousands of Internally Displaced People (IDPs), some came to Baku, others have made their homes closer to the disputed area, living in hope of return.

19 years have passed, and the young man still lives with his family at the old Youth Camp. He has completed his schooling, which was all done in a room at the Youth Camp, he has obtained an undergraduate and Masters degree. He is working for a Non Government Organisation that is delivering Community Based Economic Development programming to the IDPs, and next year he gets married!

So, we sit and drink spiced tea together, we discuss the theories of economic development and the difficulties of life, (and what would I know really) - but, "essentially" he says, "I have to do this work, I have to try and make a difference for the people that I belong to, I have to try and offer hope. And one day we will all be able to go home if we want to. Inshallah."

Baku, Azerbaijan

I wish I had the words to describe my first impressions of Baku. Arriving in the early hours of the morning in any city I think can probably leave you with a false impression – and Baku was, for me, no exception.

At 2:30am, my car sped down the wide, almost empty, motorway. We shot past huge impressive buildings that made me feel like I was in some kind of alternate universe. Russian, Islamic, Orthodox, Asian, all were represented. Then I came to a street with all the name brand clothes: Gucci, Armani, Prada, you name them and their here. But when I came to what appeared to be the huge stone walls of a fortress, and drove through a narrow gate between looming stone turrets, I knew I wasn’t in Melbourne any more.

I am staying in a small Hotel in Icherisheher (www.icherisheher.gov.az), or the Old City. The original site and buildings of Baku. Narrow, cobble stoned roads wind like a maze inside the walls. (And the way we sped through them made me feel like I was in a scene from a Bond or Bourne movie.) I am living 1 minute walk from the most iconic image of Baku, Qiz Qalasi (Maiden Tower).

At 10:00am, my car was stuck in what seemed to be one long traffic jam as we made our way to the office. Up past the construction of the new symbol of Baku, the Baku Flames, (the photo of the tall glass buildings) and again past shops bearing the names of international brands, huge Russian style government buildings with bronze statues of Presidents and Bolsheviks and new and old apartment complexes with washing hanging out the windows and cats which seem to be everywhere.

So first, and very surface level impression: this is an amazingly diverse and friendly city of about 2.5 million people. Little Russian sedan cars dodge large Japanese SUVs, and everyone goes where ever they need get to where they want, but fast, very fast. It was a good day.

Too Long in a Flying Can

It was a long 45 hours that began in Islamabad and has ended in Baku after 3 flights, 3 hours sleep, 3 airport waiting areas and a lot of 'annoying' people. It is experiences like these last hours that test my humanitarian spirit. And at the moment, I think I might fail the test.

Let me tell you how I get to this low point of tolerance and patience. It began at Islamabad where I passed through 9 forms of security checks to get into the waiting lounge. 3 different people opened and checked my luggage - apparently my multi-vitamins caused alarm and after being asked 3 times if they were for my personal use I was allowed to keep them! I passed through 2 X-ray and intimate body pat down searches. I had my papers checked 4 times, once by an officious uniform that decided he had the power to hold up the whole airport so he could personally verify all passengers, (until his own supervisor yelled at him) and that doesn't include the check in and immigration check. But I was just starting, so whilst annoyed I was holding it together.

Dubai: Terminus of lights, palm trees and shops. A busy, bustling living organism of all forms of humanity. Hajj pilgrims, tourists, self-important business travelers and annoying darting golf carts all combine, with over-tiredness, to begin to increase the levels of intolerance, impatience and annoyance. (On a bright note I had Cold Stone ice cream for breakfast! Dark chocolate ice cream with white chocolate bits and pistachio nuts!)

Istanbul: again, busy and no place to escape it. Despite having 4 and a bit hours to kill, the last 30 minutes are a mad dash, with a couple hundred other people, from the once posted departure gate at one end of the terminal to the gate where our plane waited: apparently someone forgot to tell the passengers. Everyone finally on board but, oh wait, a passenger decides she doesn't really want to go, so she's deplaned but now we all have to retrieve our hand luggage because, for security seasons we have to make sure she didn't leave something unwelcome on board, and then of course they have to find her checked luggage. So we miss our departure slot, the plane can't use its electrics, so no air and warm sweaty bodies all too close, but eventually we line up behind 9 other flights for a relatively uneventful flight... except; when the meal comes I ask for a ginger ale, only to be served a gin and tonic, by now I am very tempted but one may not be enough.

So now, the humanitarian, the lover of people, the advocate for human rights is ready to lock himself away in a small room, alone, without people and canned air and regroup. In about 7 hours time I need to go about the business of a humanitarian aid worker, I need to care, I need to be compassionate, or at least I need to adopt our newly acquired family motto: "fake is insquequo vos planto is".

Let me say that none of the people described here did anything wrong: I am just being judgmental, mean and nasty; and trust me I can be, especially when I'm tired, just ask my wife and daughter!

Maybe soon I'll write something a little more inspiring!

A New Direction

The smell of burned diesel and engine oil was heavy in the dusty humid air as we moved through the bus terminal in Rawalpindi. This is the place where you can get anything - and sadly I mean anything.

Throughout the terminus are 1,300 small workshops where you can buy anything from fast food to vehicle parts, a shalwar kameez to a refurbished motorbike. Like shadows little children, as young as 5, wander through the crowds, the buses and the shops. Some are covered in black sticky oil which they have been soaking into sponges and squeezing it into containers in the hope of selling it to mechanics; others carry sacks on their backs, the days rummagings that they hope will give them something to eat. Some are workers in the surrounding shops, working for less than 'minimum wage'. Many others scavenge for food and eat what ever they can find. They are all wearing threadbare clothes and have filthy faces, and their eyes are scared, despairing and hopeless. 

At night the terminus lights up and takes on the appearance of a street party. But behind the flashing lights children are bought and sold, some sell themselves in competition with pretty much any other form of sexual exploitation you can imagine.

This is the backyard of a project that is working to bring new directions to children and families. It's a three story building where street children can come and play and learn in a safe, clean and encouraging environment. As I walk into the room where 12 little kids sit playing with the most basic of toys, they stand and greet me with shy smiles, and eyes that are beginning to show some sparkle. They have all been taught to wash, to use soap, to brush their teeth. 

Next door are the bigger kids, they too greet me, and I them with my rudimentary Urdu, which makes them laugh. They are about to have a test on the day's English words they've learnt. But their happy about it! Again shy smiles and happy eyes welcome me.

Up the stairs a group of teenage girls are working together to learn how to make frocks. At the moment they learn how to cut a design out of paper, but soon they get to turn a piece of cloth into their own design. As we chat, they, shyly indulging this strange white man, they tell me that they love it here. Their parents are happy for them to come, and they feel safe and they like their teacher. They may have a chance of making some money for their families out of this skill.

And just down the corridor there are 8 mums, their kids downstairs, learning to make bags, sewing, leatherwork and painting. At the end of three months of training they will graduate and get a sewing machine. Hopefully they too will make some money to help their family.

It's a small project. There are millions of children living in extreme poverty and working to help their families survive, and there are only 80 in this program. Is it enough? No! But its a start. 

Maybe one of these kids will find a voice that will convict the lawmakers. Maybe one of them will become a lawmaker. Maybe...

Expensive Shoes

Another day, another 50 cents: if your lucky!

About 0.5 cents from a pair of quality, hand sewn leather shoes bought in Dubai airport, (or wherever) went to the 6 year old boy on my right. He is one of the (about) 10 links in the chain from flat leather sheet to shiny black leather shoe and for 10 hours a day he paints glue on the sole. Along with 10 other 6-8 year old boys he is an apprentice in one of about 350 small shoe factories in the city.

Just down the road another boy, 8 years old has been kneeling beside a bright red stretched cloth, stitching sequins and beads into a design that will become part of a wealthy woman's wedding dress, or perhaps sold in a high end material shop in Melbourne. Each stitch hand sewn, each bead picked up at an amazing pace by one of maybe 40 young boys in a concrete room. These boys too, will work for 10 hours, the 18 year old will make about $20 a week, the younger boys less. They will be able to do this work for about 15-20 years before their eyesight fails and/or they have spinal problems from the crouching.

The city I visited is known to be one of the two worst cities for child labour in the country. But for many families there is no choice, if their son doesn't work, they don't eat. Dad is often working as a labourer, in a tannery or perhaps driving a donkey cart; Mum wasn't educated and so cannot earn, daughters are protected at home because abuse is a very real issue - that leaves the son/s, who can earn enough to help a family survive. But it means that they too will never go to school.

One mother we spoke to said: "I can't afford to feed my (4) children properly, how can I justify spending money to send them to school?" 


So what do we do? At the moment two 'small' things:

1. we are going to educate, train and empower Mums. If we can help them make an income, probably home based, then they will not have to send their kids out to work. (No Mum wants to!)
2. we have set up a drop-in centre for working kids. Parents can register their child, and with the permission of their employers, we are educating children (boys and girls) up to a minimum standard after which they can be main-streamed into local public schools. 

Is it enough? Will it stop child labour? No. But its a start. And hopefully within the next 3 years we will have redirected 1,200 children from factories to school, and we will have assisted Mums to believe in themselves, to learn a new skill and set-up a home enterprise.

$1,000.00! That's All?

The water is red, and I could swear it's bubbling! The animal byproducts from over 300 tanneries and the rubbish from the city is putrefying under the midday sun. You might be forgiven for thinking that the scene is out of some sci-fi movie set on a distant planet - and you could be right. the scene and the reality that I have just left behind is a long way from the reality of most of us.

I have been in a provincial city in Pakistan which supplies about 1/3 of Pakistan's leather. Over 300 tanneries provide the cities population with its major source of income. But the leather products, your jacket, shoes, bags, come at a huge cost for the majority of the population.

There is a perpetual haze over the city from the fires that boil the animal offal for oil to produce soap, and from the brick kilns that produce another of the regions specialities. The stench from the mountains of freshly stripped animal skins, drying carcasses (that will eventually be turned into gelatin) and chemicals that are used to treat the skins is unforgettable. And the unnaturally blue stagnant, putrid, viscous, water, (the result of chromium, which eventually turns the water red after prolonged sunlight) slides down the open channels into numerous seepage ponds throughout the area, and eventually seeps into the ground water and the river.

This environmental disaster area is home to over 300,000 people. The water should be undrinkable, but what if that's all you have? The air is polluted, toxic with numerous chemicals, not to mention the smell. And the ground should be nigh on unusable, spoilt for agriculture. But alongside one of these red water refuse dumps lives a mother with two children. Javan (16) and his sister Samina (14) were normal healthy children - until one day they were struck by a disease that rendered them mute, blind and lame. They were found scraping themselves around in the dirt by a local NGO who took them to hospital and after some treatment they regained their sight, but not their legs, or normal speech. "For another $1,000.00", we are told, "they could be cured, they could walk and speak".

But of course it's not that easy. There are hundreds that need this kind of intervention, and unless something is done about the water and environment there will be hundreds, maybe thousands more in the future. The "easy fix" is a $1,000 for Samina, but the best fix is awareness and advocacy. The real problem can be fixed: legislation exists, public servants exist, infrastructure can be built - but whilst profit driven by desperation exists the will and ability to change seems to be the deficit.

Bandi Maira

Deep in the valley below Nathia Gali a village community of 490 people appears as if out of nowhere. This time its a hike into the village proper, up a rock strewn pathway cut through the rocks and trees. The village is spread out over a large area, and steadily rises "to the sky" my host tells me.

High up, "in the sky" on top of the mountain is the only water source for the village. Dr Adbul Hai, Imam and President of the village smiles at me as he tells me that together we have built a wall in the sky to protect the water source and make the village safe from the seasonal flood due to snow melt and rain fall.

Together the Imam and the Officer walk hand in hand through his village as he proudly shows me poultry sheds, goat herds, fish farming ponds, orchards, kitchen gardens, new rock pathways and carpet weaving. He looks at  me and says of the World Vision Team, "What they promised, they have done. What the say they will do, they do. There is no limit to what humanity can do if we do not care who gets the credit."

Earlier in the day I had visited another inaccessible village, Sukka Kas, where the village together with assistance of World Vision had built a rock Gabrian walled water channel. This village too is constantly flooded by monsoon rain and snow melt, but this year they are prepared because of the new channel. They are hopeful that the water will not destroy this year, but rather will be directed to a safe and useful location. The water will assist the crops they now grow, which have meant they have no need to buy vegetables for part of the year.

As I begin the tramp out of this village, (the shalwar kameez makes it easy to stretch out and climb) a young man says to me: "Americans, they don't like us. They think we are all terrorists. What do you think?" First, I was quick to point out that I was Australian, a brother in Cricket! Adam Gilchrist and Ricky Ponting are heroes, fellow Australians - a little bit of association never hurt. But after we chatted for a while I was invited to lunch!

For the last day, the Abbattobad team has been telling me that I look like a Butan Pashtun, apparently they are fair and red/brown haired, so Dr Iqbal (Development Team Manager) assured me that as long as I kept my mouth shut I could pass as a Pakistani from the Butan area. Today, to finish off the transformation they presented me with a Pashtun cap and shawl - apparently I really look the part now. Nathia Gali has been a wonderful experience.

Tourist Dream, Resident Nightmare

I woke early this morning to that unmistakable sound made by a straw broom sweeping away the leaves and rubbish on a road. It was early, it was dark, it was cool and other than the sound of scraping straw, it was quiet as we set off from the city on our way to the village of Nathiagali - a tourist mecca high up in the mountains.

During summer both national and international tourists flock to the little village partly because of the amazing natural beauty, but also because of its cooler climate. About 2 hours from Islamabad the road approach is litterred with rocks and debris from innumerable landslides that obscure half the road, leaving the vehicles to squeeze through a narrow neck of road that drops off to the valley. Around the hairpin bends we slow to dodge a donkey train, a family of monkeys, or a group of school kids walking to school.

It is beautiful scenery, and I imagine that in winter, when covered in snow, it's a picture perfect view to rival any alpine scene in Europe. But below this tourist dream, lie numerous mountain villages, home to families that have lived and survived off their ancestral heritage since the Moguls conquered the land. These are villages difficult to access, some inaccessible by vehicle. They are desperate for water, for health and education facilities. In winter they are cut off from resources. It is quite a paradox that it is desperately hard to survive in this apparent paradise.

There are so many stories that could be told of the way in which lives are being transformed by the project interventions I have come to see. But just a couple of quick snapshots:

• In one village they are now growing their own vegetables and as a result they have not had to get to a market, or spend limited funds to buy this season.
• In this 'fairly' conservative Muslim area, women were confined to the village, but as a result of awareness programs and community dialogue women "feel confident to go outside the village, to attend training in the village, to walk children to school, to shop and to sell". Through specific skills training they are making candles, tailoring clothes, tending goats - and through awareness programs and entrepreneurship training they are identifying markets to sell their produce. For the first time they are making an income that has not only raised their self-esteem, but built the social capacity of the community and raised the standard of living for children.

There is much more that needs done. But the biggest thing that they are grateful for: "you have raised our awareness and now we know who to talk to, how to talk, and we can speak for ourselves". Lives are being transformed by the sharing of hope.

In the Office

It is always interesting to see what you get when you transplant a group of passionate people from all over the world into a brand new context. They have come from Australia, Britain, Denmark, Zimbabwe, Russia and Tanzania to partner with Pakistani staff to deliver life transforming ministries. Alone each person, regardless of their origin, is clever and committed but essentially ineffective in the enormous task, but together, as a team, they are delivering some pretty impressive life changes.

It still feels like a drop in the ocean, but for those who today will eat, read, deliver a healthy baby, or find a job as a result of the efforts of this team and the money of hundreds of donors, it is a chance at life - a life that most of us take for granted.

I wish that I could transport donors, and potential supporters, to the field and introduce them to the people: let them look into the eyes of the proud new mum and see the simultaneous look of hope and concern; let them see the uncertain smile on the face of the school kid who got his first pen; or the relief on the face of the young girl that doesn't have to walk miles to get the days water supply.

It's when the case numbers become faces and stories that lives are transformed - and its not just the lives of the recipient - it's my life too.

Welcome to Islamabad

It's been a couple of days, but after 20 hours in planes and a day sleeping in Dubai I have arrived in the beautiful city of Islamabad. The airport was relatively quiet, until you got outside the secure doors, then all hell broke loose. Although I haven't seen much yet, because it's 4am, the roads are wide and clean, and if you didn't have to weave around the security posts, straight and smooth.

So, later I'll have a look around but for now, I think it's time to find a bed for a while. And then I guess I should do some work, since that's why World Vision pay me!