All this and more was mostly done with great grace, favour and equable spirit, but not always. Mr Grumpy came along one day, in a not-bad car. The first victims were a couple of the inevitable pedestrians who believe that, by waving, they become bullet proof while crossing five lanes of traffic travelling at 70kph. Most drivers avoid them by slowing or going wide. Mr Grumpy went straight at them, hitting the brake at precisely the moment he began delivering them a speech out his window. The journey resumed. A couple of minutes later, as we sailed along in the outside lane, there came from behind the preliminary "I am here, might you move over?" toot. There is a delightful moment in Agatha Christie's autobiography where she describes her driver on an expedition to an archaeological dig: "Aristotle honks his horn ceaselessly in the Syrian fashion".11 This practice clearly began as soon as vehicles arrived in the Levant.
My man looked around, even though the car in front was only two metres away. He resumed the speech delivered to the pedestrians, and did not move. That provoked the "Fuck, I am trying to be reasonable but get out of the way" horn blast from behind. In turn, that intensified the speech. By now, the in-pursuit vehicle was about twenty centimetres from the boot of the taxi. Grumpy decided the pursuer might just be serious so swung in, only to be savaged by a horn blast from the guy in the vehicle a metre to my right. He got a speech, too. Grumpy then moved fractionally so Pursuer could edge past, just, without scraping paint on the concrete divider wall. As Pursuer passed, the pair of them slowed, exchanging pleasantries accompanied by wild hand gestures through the open windows. Not to be outdone, the guy on the right pulled level with the window on my side and he, too, began contributing to the discussion. This went on for two hundred metres before we all went our ways, and I got the benefit of Grumpy's final version of affairs. That was an exciting start to the day of planning and policy-making.
Adventurous or sedate, most drivers were straightforward, turning on the meter and taking the most direct route to the stated destination. Of course, some do not. And some did not learn—one tried the same trick on two different occasions, but I guess we all looked the same to him. It emerged in the office that some consultants, conspicuously the Americans, paid up to SYP 650 for a SYP 50 max trip, and one was even asked for 1,650, so the gougers were about.
The classic dodger, though, arrived at peak time outside the office on a day just before a public holiday when taxis were rarer than a Middle East peace accord. He raced past but, figuring I was not from around there, backed up into the protesting traffic and beckoned me in.
"Hariqa" I said, figuring a walk back to the house through the souk.
"Uh?"
OK. "Hamidiyeh."
Off we went. He then grabbed my hand, and looked at my ring. "Give me the ring" he said, with a smirk. This would be a long ride. And the meter off.
"Adaysh?"
He indicated three hundred pounds, and it was a fifty ride normally. Still, I had a cab so we plea bargained it back to one hundred which was what I would normally pay, fare plus tip that delighted most drivers.
"Give me your watch, too."
This was getting weird, and then my phone rang so I got it out. Call over, he gives me his phone and wants mine. It all looked like it was an attempt at entertainment because, by then, he was also singing along with Fairuz (the legendary Lebanese diva revered in the Levant), waving to passersby to whom he also flexed his muscles.
By now we were taking the familiar taxi cut through Damascus' version of Car City to get a run down to Hamidiyeh. A woman driver wearing a hijab and with her child in the back, unrestrained, ranged up on my side, so the clown prince began obviously to chat her up, the two of them chatting across me. Interestingly, she clearly did not mind and drove off with a smile, at which my man naturally considered himself the logical successor to and swashbuckler in the Thousand And One Nights. His chest puffed, he continued the performance, lecturing other motorists, haranguing pedestrians, singing new tunes, and waving wildly to all and sundry.
We finally arrived across from Hamidiyeh and I escaped light one hundred pounds but still in possession of watch, phone and wedding ring, along with another cultural experience.
Aiding and Abetting
~
The office was in an elegantly shaped building out towards Mezze, sitting atop a slope overlooking on one side Umawiyeen "Square" and its ever-present traffic entertainment, and on the other a major artery that leads down to Yarmouk Square near Al Midan to the south of the Old City. The traffic snarl in the latter was spectacular for most of the day, the noise and associated smog pervading offices which, on that side of the building, were already constantly hotter than those on the other side because of the building's alignment.
From the men's pissoir on the northern side there was a spectacular view out towards Mt Qassioun and Abu Roumaneh, taking in the Sheraton and its swimming pool. It was disconcerting initially, because while standing there looking out, matter in hand as it were, it occurred that the reverse might be true from other buildings, with just as spectacular results. Well, maybe not that spectacular because this was the fifth floor, after all, so unless they had binoculars and knew where to look....
The project was a sprawling, ambitious one aimed at aiding Syrian development by improving the impact of its higher education system. In 2012, the eminent Arab scholar but heavily anti-regime Fouad Ajami described the Syrian university system at that time as a "shambles".12 In the arcane world of international aid and development, though, this was just a small exercise to fix that state of affairs. It was funded by the European Union, now one of the major world "donor agencies" along with the World Bank and the Asian Development Bank, joined by a myriad of smaller players like AusAID from Australia, DfID from the United Kingdom, JICA from Japan and now increasingly, especially in Africa, the Chinese who play the game very differently.
These agencies are served by a phalanx of contracting agents who tender for projects as a whole, then in turn engage an army of "consultants", individuals from around the world who do things like advise on approaches to strategic planning in higher education. Word-of-mouth is a powerful weapon in determining employment, but most contractors advertise via major websites like Devex, DevelopmentAid, and JobsForDevelopment. It is one of the world's great multinational systems, and has attracted its fair share of critics.
The criticism of aid has produced a large literature, but ranges from the view that all such efforts are mere bandaids plastered over gaping wounds, right through to conspiracy theories that see all aid as a postcolonial means by which former imperial powers maintain covert exploitation rights over impoverished, enchained "third world" countries. This latter view was particularly apparent in anti-globalisation debates attendant upon recent World Trade Organisation and G-8/G-20 meetings around the world. In between those stark polarities fall a range of emphases, such as the idea that aid simply entrenches already corrupt regimes, ignores local context, subjugates rather than liberates women, enshrines extant power and social structures, and enriches a few individuals rather than large populations.
Early in 2010, Oxfam produced a thoughtful if partisan view, responding to more trenchant critics seeking abolition of aid.13 The paper divided aid into two categories: politically-driven or ineffective aid; and twenty first century aid channelled more directly into recipient government budgets to help develop vital infrastructure and services. That is, under the latter system aid funds would go into general revenue for application as thought fit by the host government, but in negotiation with donors. Being Oxfam there was a predictably strong focus on grass roots issues like infant health and basic education, but the twenty first century vision imagined more of a capacity-building emphasis with stronger performance protocols exercised over recipients. The issue of corruption, notorious in some companies, was dealt with simply by saying that not all aid was lost to corruption, a novel defence for any contractors familiar with some of the more rampantly rapacious regimes. In fact, Oxfam considered the bribe-g
iver to be more at fault than the taker. There was also a swipe at aid considered to be "too often squandered on expensive consultants" and, so, unlikely to succeed. All consultants might either shake or bristle at this point. However, the Oxfam paper's ultimate suggestion was that far too little money was going into aid. In 1970 the United Nations set a minimum figure of contribution at 0.7% of Gross National Income, but by 2010 only five countries had met or exceeded those levels, the Scandinavians plus Luxembourg and the Netherlands.
This was all thought provoking for those involved in projects around the world, and particularly for those headed each day towards Mezze on what was then a harbinger for other programs that Syria might attract. The project fitted the capacity-building model, as do many programs emanating from the major agencies these days. Yet the challenge is always to connect that work directly to national benefits and "outcomes", as the jargon dictates, in systems that might take years to evolve. The "expensive consultants"" might well have a far bigger cumulative and national impact than the heroic, at-the-coalface volunteers whose contributions often go unnoticed. However, there is at least an argument for saying that both "inputs" should be valued equally, so long as there is clear return on the investment.
Syria is an interesting case from the Oxfam angle. A pariah state politically in the minds of many, it became the focus for aid givers in the years just prior to 2011, including the World Bank normally thought of as American-dominated. That is, the "Axis of Evil" thinking might have still be in vogue, but the World Bank was cautiously beginning a support program, perhaps another sign of changes in American thinking. Syria was not abjectly poor by global standards though the inevitable decline of its oil revenues, the rise of climate change-related problems like water scarcity, and persistent graduate unemployment created an increasing range of problems for its essentially undemocratic government. In many conversations, locals mumbled quietly about the absence of "democracy", all the while appreciating that the term could have nuanced meaning, even if people like George Bush did not think so.
The motives for this rising interest from donors was varied: genuine interest in the rights of people thought under-supported and marginalised in health and education; a desire to help significant minorities like the Kurds; sympathy for causes like Palestine because, like its neighbours, Syria has had a resident Palestinian refugee population since 1948; and the powerful if fragile idea that aid might somehow be a useful lever in the struggle to keep Syria "onside" geopolitically. Against the background of these varying ideas, projects struggled to deliver results on the ground while navigating local ways of doing things, and dealing with funding agencies increasingly pressed by "accountability" regimes demanding value for investment, but with apparently little idea what that might really mean.
Being big in scope, this specific project had a range of consultants providing a snapshot of people typically involved in such work all over the world at any given time. Of the two long-term experts, one was South African-born, raised in England, now based in Italy after having worked all over the world. Such is the dwindling world—I had once worked with his brother at a university in Australia. The other was born in America to British parents but, after a long international career, now based in Vietnam with kids at school in England. This industry is the true face of the modern global world, almost the modern continuation of the travels of people like Ibn Battuta and Marco Polo. There is at once a mix of curiosity, restlessness, good intentions and professional pride at work here.
That was reflected in the rest. One Scot was based in Brussels, another in Tallin, Estonia. Two Brits were based in Cambridge having worked and lived all over the world, one resident in Singapore for a long time. A Dutchman had once worked for Shell but escaped to his own space and now worked all over Europe, the Middle East, Africa, and Mongolia. One German had an IT background and a solid EU experience. There were odd Australians and Americans. A German woman met her Kiwi husband while working in the Pacific, and now commuted to the project from Auckland. An Irishman had partnered another Kiwi, so was now based in Wellington having lived previously in Strasbourg. Then, adding further to the mix, a range of regional experts drawn from Egypt and elsewhere made up the full team. During one especially frenzied week, something like twenty two international consultants hit the office at once.
This eclectic bunch had development experience ranging from extensive to very little, and were senior to junior in an institutional sense. They were employed by a range of different companies in a complex consortium as now mandated by the EU in order to reflect "Europe", and a constant source of discussion was the bureaucratic dance required to get anything done, including being paid. That latter question continued to be discussed long after the life of the project. Many of the international consultants come in for very short periods, so stayed in hotels like the Four Seasons, the Dedeman, the Sheraton, with a few unwary ending up at the Carlton which soon developed a reputation for being expensively hopeless. The group, as on projects elsewhere, developed a local knowledge that becomes useful in a surviving comfortably sense, as the great anthropologist Clifford Geertz pointed out several years ago.14 In some respects, aid game players become a sort of ennobled version of the 60s hippie trail, moving from places like the Day Inn in Vientiane to the Goldiana in Phnom Penh, soon learning that it is cheaper to live in those places than in cities like Amman and elsewhere.
For those players "in-country" for longer periods, the choice of where to live became interesting and complex. This project's consultants plumped largely for apartments in Shaalan, the nearby middle-class area in the so-called 'central city". That term implied the more modern elements of Damascus stretching out from the Old City, up the lower slopes of Mount Qassioun and towards the older, cooler slopes of Salihiye where once lived interesting expats like Sir Richard Burton the nineteenth century linguist, traveller, anthropologist and, for some at that time, pornographer, because of his translations of some of the "East's" raunchier texts. That included the full version of One Thousand and One Nights that shocked many of his contemporaries in England. This area, then, was a sensible location close to work, amidst ready food and necessities supplies, and near a range of modern shops and amenities. Even though this is modern Damascus its streets, curiously, are sometimes as narrow as major ones in the Old City so that traffic in and around many of the apartments was a nightmare. Nevertheless, the Shaalan gang quickly developed a Geertzian local knowledge as to the best sources of falafel (deep fried chick pea paste) and shawarma (shaved meat in flat bread), fruit and nuts, restaurants, DVD and book shops, and even where to find musical instrument shops. Some began walking to the office, learning how to navigate the major traffic circles.
There was a constant group debate about the relative merits of living in Shaalan or the Old City. For most people coming in for 2-4 weeks at a time it was a simple matter of availability. The network could lay on a Shaalan abode at a phone call, and it would await a person straight off the plane. That apartment was close to work. The Old City was less straightforward, partly because the knowledge network about it had not evolved, and partly because of a perception that the Old City was "far". The only obvious and easy choice was to stay in the burgeoning Old City boutique hotels, but even though the negotiated rate for those came in below the per diem paid by the project, most self-employed consultants with commitments like anyone else looked towards conserving money.
On top of that, though, sat the element of the unknown and, for many, the prospect of an Arab toilet became a squat too far, as it were. Some consultants investigated living in the Old City because of all its obvious attractions and experiences, but the predominantly traditional design of houses and apartments with outside bathrooms (even if they had "French" toilets) was finally too much. And that was fair enough because people had work to do, and needed to be comfortable in order to do that work. For most, then, the Old City became a visiting site, a home away from Shaalan.
This polyglot group worked with a range
of national professionals from the Minister down and, as always on these projects, the first step was to understand how it all worked—sometimes that understanding never really arrives, particularly when one major bureaucracy intersects with another. At Ministerial and Deputy Ministerial level some really impressive and talented people worked with limited resources, endeavouring to find a way ahead for a country moving uncertainly from a directed and post-Soviet style development model, towards a more deregulated and market economy-driven one. That meant dealing with issues not previously encountered, like how to match massive higher education participation growth with labour market needs. Some of those senior people spoke excellent English, German or French.
The next level was as impressive. The Director was a seriously bright young Syrian, with a PhD in English and linguistics from Edinburgh University, and with perfect English modulated by a wonderful Scottish burr. The senior translator had an undergraduate degree in English completed in Damascus and the United States, a Masters in International Relations from the United Kingdom, and another Masters in simultaneous translation and interpreting from Damascus. Her English was better than anyone's, including all the international consultants. These two stood out as a new breed of Syrian women, but obviously faced career choice decisions in an environment where women still could not easily if ever reach the very senior ranks. The same went for the very talented, capable, under-utilised and underpaid women who staffed the project office.
A House in Damascus - Before the Fall Page 4