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A Journey, Part 9. Small Is Beautiful

The sea was like glass when dawn broke the following morning, with not even a ripple save those made by the ship. It was sweltering already and in the sticky heat we were surrounded by a dense mist or steam which when combined with the eerie silence of the sea, lent an atmosphere of ghostliness to our position. As the bow of the ship broke the perfection of the surface, the sea scrambled in our wake to repair the disturbance and it was almost as though nature was conspiring to ensure that we left no trace in the water or the air. A little after sunrise we reached the outer waters of the port and the engines stopped. For two hours we drifted silently on the oily sea, waiting for a pilot boat to lead us in. By mid-morning we had African soil under our feet once again.

And Eritrea is Africa. Maybe it’s a cultural thing, but to me there’s something uniquely light-hearted about African people. No matter where you are and despite hardship, smiles and laughter are never far away and easily bubble to the surface. From the stifling heat and humidity of Massawa, we took a bus to Asmara, 110km by road but less than half that distance as the crow flies. It’s a steep climb almost all the way, starting off barren and dry at the coast and becoming progressively more lush as you ascend the 2400m to the capital city. As if by order, the bus was as typically African as could be; filled to the brim with all manner of luggage and possessions, breastfeeding mothers and their doe-eyed babies, and live hens roaming the floor.  On route we passed familiar acacias, flame trees, jacarandas, and bougainvilleas – further welcome reminders of where we were.

Asmara is a small and charming city. Wonderfully temperate as a result of its altitude, it has a distinctly Italian feel with many pizzerias and coffee bars. As halfway houses go, we couldn’t have picked a better city to wait for our possessions to arrive from Jeddah and with not much to see nearby, we made the most of the time relaxing and fraternizing with other travelers. But of all the memories I have of Eritrea as a country, the one that has endured is that of the near complete absence of litter and waste. I’m not sure whether this was a result of a wartime mentality from the recently ended thirty year war with Ethiopia, or whether it’s something particular to Eritrean people, but I was struck by how value was assigned to seemingly every item that would have been discarded elsewhere. In Asmara, I vividly recall visiting the Medeber – a kind of open air recycling market and a hive of activity where hundreds of workers turn all manner of would be waste, from tins to tires, into something useful. I did quick search on YouTube and it appears that it’s still going strong after all these years.

This year is the 40th anniversary of first printing of Small is Beautiful, E F Schumacher’s seminal study on economics as though people mattered, and I find myself asking what progress has been made since 1973 on dealing with the issues that he raised. The way I see it, the prognosis is not good. Even at a superficial level, if I compare the way we, as middle class South Africans lived in the 70s to today, consumption and waste has increased astronomically. We’ve moved from an era of paper bags, loose veggies and glass milk bottles to one in which we’re downing in a sea of packaging and it’s little wonder for instance that the Rausing family, founders of Tetrapak, count themselves near the top of the Forbes rich list. Some of us recycle, but others of us couldn’t be bothered or see it as something we’d like to do but simply can’t fit into our busy schedules. But even recycling is no panacea and we have to be careful not to lull ourselves into a false sense of greenness through relatively minor eco-friendly actions and without striving for more holistic and sustainable lifestyles.

It seems in general that the more affluent we become, the more we consume and the more we waste, if only as a result of us assigning less value to the waste we generate. I stumbled across the art of Chris Jordan a year or two ago and the impact it had on me was immense. He paints pictures not with paint, but with replicated images of the waste we generate and the things we consume, for example a painting of a forest using 139,000 cigarette butts, which is equal to the number discarded in the USA every 15 seconds, or 20,500 tuna, the amount fished from our oceans every 15 minutes. I find his works mind-numbing and for me they really bring home the complete unsustainability of the Western way. In the so-called developed world, we love to lay the blame for the world’s problems on overpopulation and the rampant breeding of the masses, but an honest appraisal shows the truth that our problems are actually rooted in the conspicuous consumption of the few. Well over half the world’s resources are consumed by a little over a tenth of the global population and these are not people living in Asia or in Africa. Despite the starkness of this statistic, we continue to believe in the gospel of Westernization and industrialization, with complete blindness to the fact that were the ninety percent to rise to parity with today’s privileged few, then our consumption and waste as a species would be more than quadrupled from what it is today. To think that we can persist in this is nothing but delusion, denial, and madness.

The problem is that it’s just too easy for us to turn a blind eye to the consequences of our consumption, and almost all business marketing and spin is aimed at making us do just that. But somehow, if we are to overcome the problems we’re facing, we all have to begin to be responsible and to consider our lives and actions, bit by bit, and start to count the cost of everything that we do; To think about the fuel burned when flying in those avos from Spain or the mushrooms from China. About the true cost of jetting around the country or the world. To remember that plastics are derived from fossil fuels and to make an effort to buy local and loose, rather than freighted and packaged. To make a point of squeezing our own OJ, cooking food for our pets, and planting and tending our veggie gardens, even if it seems at first that we can’t afford the time. We may all feel to a lesser or greater extent that we’re living in glass houses and are afraid to speak out, but if we are to shatter our illusions then we all need to start throwing stones…

It took just over two weeks for our car and possessions to reach Massawa from Jeddah and by the time they arrived and had cleared customs we were itching to get moving again.  From Massawa, we climbed the mountain pass to Asmara one last time and set out the following morning for the border, travelling with a Swiss couple that we had met on the Red Sea ferry. We crossed into Ethiopia in mid-afternoon, hoping to get to Axum, but dusk soon approached and we were forced to find an isolated spot to free camp. On the morning of this day in 1997, we woke on our first morning in Ethiopia.  A dozen or so onlookers must have surrounded us noiselessly in the dawn and they stood quietly, some ten or twenty yards off, surveying us as one might survey an alien spacecraft that happened to land in a field near one’s home. Although we tried to engage with them, they were shy and intimidated by our presence and preferred to keep their distance. Shortly after breakfast we were back on the road to Axum.

A Journey, Part 8. Facing the Fear

In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best idea to slip into Saudi Arabia on an invalid visa, but sometimes one needs to be bold to move forward. From the outset, I found the general feel of the country to be quite repressive. We were stopped twice by police on the way to Jeddah, each time because they assumed that Hayley, seated in the passenger seat on the left, was driving. It’s against the law for women to drive in Saudi Arabia.

Reaching Jeddah, we set about making arrangements to get ourselves and our car shipped across the Red Sea to Eritrea, and the mood persisted and intensified. Ever present, the Mattawa cruised about in their cars, keeping a watchful eye on the public to ensure adherence during the five-daily prayer times and suppression of all spontaneous and human outpourings of joy and affection in between. To me, it felt almost as though someone had put burkas over not only all the people, but over society itself, leaving us feeling inhibited and obscured while peering out at our other similarly suppressed fellow beings in the swelter of a smothered city.

To start with, Hayley wore a headscarf outdoors, but soon decided to defy the law, tucking her plait into the collar of her loose fitting shirt in order to pass for a boy and avoid the covert lewd behaviour and the stifling heat.  Our Sudanese travel agents told us that we were referred to by locals as the khawagga (tourist) and his brother. But our troubles started when we decided to challenge Mr. Baboud, the owner of the only ferry to Massawa, who had trebled the price for ferrying the car on hearing that we were Westerners. Face to face in his office, his loathing and indifference was barely concealed and we left after a pointless and increasingly heated exchange, determined to ship the car on a freighter and to warn all the travelers we could of his shenanigans. 

The fear started to rise in earnest a few days later when our Sudanese friends, having arranged alternative shipping for the car, weren’t allowed to take it into the port.  The port officials told them that we were a security risk, that we had overstayed our welcome, and that the only way that we could leave was on Mr. Baboud’s ship. Now convinced that there might be something sinister going on, we returned reluctantly to the shipper’s office only to be told by him that the cargo space on his ship was full for the next three months.

On the Friday before the Sunday that we had arrived in Jeddah, they had beheaded four people outside the mosque, a block away from our hotel. All were foreigners and all executed on drug related charges. A long way from home, I couldn’t help wondering what would prevent somebody well connected from having something planted in our car or trailer. It would be so easy. If it happened, could we rely on a fair trial? As the days were passing, the tension was increasing and I was becoming more and more aware of the growing knot in my stomach.  I knew we had to get out soon by whatever means we could.

Even though we aren’t always exposed to it and don’t always feel it, I think that fear and its avoidance plays a huge part in our everyday lives. While established protocol and behavioural norms may be vital for retaining a semblance of order in our lives and in society, they can also provide a means by which we avoid challenging ourselves and awakening the fear that naturally results when we do. Even when there is a clear moral imperative, countering the flow can sometimes take tremendous courage; Consider the soldier who witnesses an atrocity that is morally reprehensible. On the face of it, his decision to become a whistle-blower is a betrayal of the military code of unity and may even be seen as treason, but he realises that his silence makes him complicit and is a betrayal of a deeper morality. He knows that he will be called a pussy and be vilified by his fellow soldiers and citizens, but he also knows that as a human being his inaction will forever damn him. So he chooses to commit to a moral course that moves him in the direction of his own vulnerability. This for me is the essence of courage. It cannot exist in the absence of fear and is always a choice to act despite fear.

Although this may be a dramatic example, I think that life offers each of us times at which we must choose to overcome our fears in order to honour the truth that’s written inside us. It could be a career that has become a dead end, or a relationship that’s no longer able to fulfill the way it once did. But there is comfort in the known and fear in the unknown and in disruption. Fear of rejection or failing at a new endeavour. Fear of disappointing or hurting others. Fear of being seen as a failure, or as insensitive or selfish. In reality though, we only have this one life and somehow we have to be true to ourselves, take it in both hands and live it for all it’s worth. To make it count. Life is just too short to force it or to fake it. It can be hard to let go of dreams that we might have invested our hearts and lives into, but if they no longer align with our internal compass, what choice do we really have? After all, if we are not true to ourselves, how can we possibly be true to others? Somehow, at times like this, we have to call on the strength within to help us overcome our fears and to change course, doing so with all due care while investing faith in the unknown and the uncertain, daunting and terrifying as it may be.

On this evening of this day, 16 years ago, we were on Al Rasheed, on route to Massawa. We had left Jeddah the previous day, leaving the car and trailer behind and trusting our Sudanese friends with the task of getting them to follow us to Eritrea. Although feeling torn and anxious in dispossession,  I also felt happy that our time in the Middle East was finally over. As I stood by the railing of the ship and watched the phosphorescence dancing off the dolphins as they surfed the bow wave, I felt the rising of the African blood in my veins and the mounting excitement and anticipation of the journey ahead. I was going home at last.

A Journey, Part 7. Perspectives

Leaving Masada behind, we drove north, skirting around the Dead Sea before crossing back into Jordan at the Allenby Bridge. Getting into Israel at this border post had been such an ordeal a few weeks earlier, but crossing back to Jordan was a breeze. Jordan had become a kind of home-from-home for us, as we used it to stage our expeditions into the neighbouring countries. This was our third time crossing into the country and each time we’d encountered the same friendly reception. Getting back to Amman that evening, we checked back into the same hotel where we had stayed previously and I noted in my journal;

The mood in Jordan is so different from that in Israel. More easy going and laid back. Everyone seems happy despite the fact that most are poor. Israel was great, but I must confess that it’s good to be back.

The next morning we set off early for the Saudi Embassy, hoping that the visa applications would have been processed in our absence. This was, of course, wishful thinking, and the next few days saw repeated visits to the embassy, all to no avail. In the end, we managed to get the phone number of Madame Nadia, a member of staff who would serve as a point of contact for status updates, and we took the Kings Highway south toward the Red Sea port of Aqaba.

The scenery on the journey south from Amman is spectacular with vast wadis and canyons. Like many countries in the Middle East, Jordan is an archaeologist’s dream, rich in ancient history. From Amman, we’d day-tripped to the wonderfully preserved Roman ruins at Jerash, and also to a few desert castles, including Qasr Azraq, a fort used by T E Lawrence during the Arab Revolt. Now journeying south, we stopped to visit the crusader castle at Kerak, with its warren of subterranean passages and chambers, but of all the historical treasures in Jordan, few would dispute that the Nabataean city of Petra is the jewel in the crown.

Located in a hidden valley with the only access being through the Siq – a winding and narrow canyon – Petra remained unknown to the West until 1812. It’s hard to describe the first sight of the Khazneh as one emerges from the Siq – one really has to see it to appreciate the impact it has. Standing 14 storeys high, perfectly balanced and precisely carved from the rose-coloured sandstone cliff, it’s without doubt one of the most beautiful and awe-inspiring of human creations. Somehow it’s managed to escape the ravages of time and almost two thousand years on it remains in near pristine state. We spent a day wandering about the ancient city, trying to absorb as much of it as we could. While Nabataean culture vanished many centuries ago and little is known today about these ancient people, we do know that to them Petra was the cosmic navel – the very centre of the Universe and the source of all energy and life.

From Petra, we continued our journey south to Aqaba and once there, set up camp in a seaside campsite a few miles from the Saudi border. We would spend the next few weeks there, taking daily trips into Aqaba town to phone Madame Nadia at the Saudi embassy in Amman and to get our daily fix of mint tea and Kunafeh. The campsite was a hub not only for for travelers passing through, but also for Jordanians who would come on the weekends to spend time with their families, and for Saudi men who would come across the border to ogle at Western women less modestly clad than legal at home.

I have so many memories from the campsite, including a Bedouin pop song that was played so many times by the caretakers that it remains imprinted in my mind and I don’t believe any amount of therapy would succeed in removing it. I managed to get through both Martin Chuzzlewit and David Copperfield while we waited. There was a coral reef a short distance offshore and we would snorkel out to break the boredom of the day. It may sound like an idyllic location, but in reality the campsite was a desolate and windy place more reminiscent of a scene from Baghdad Cafe than Blue Lagoon.

Written near the back of my journal, in Western and Arabic script, are the names of four Arab men that we met and shared stories with in while there. Their names were Ali Mansoor Abu, Mohammed Ali, Eid Amer, and Daifallah Ali. I vividly remember sitting around a fire that they had invited us to, and using pieces of pita to eat chicken with yogurt as we talked about their lives and ours. As inevitably happened in these conversations they talked of how wronged they felt by Western hostility towards Arabs and the misconceptions in the West about Arab and Muslim culture. How strongly they felt that the news reaching people in the West was biased to Western views and perspectives and undermined Arabs and the truth. This same perspective was something that I had felt since entering the Middle East a few months before; It’s almost as if we become so used to one-sided stories that we come to accept that the side we know is the only side that exists.

If there is one truth that I have learned, it is that truth is elusive and those who claim to always know the truth are inevitably either fools or fanatics. I like to think that most people are neither and yet, despite that, we can and do have vastly different perspectives on what is essentially the same truth. In reality it’s difficult and often impossible for us to completely set aside the biases that our cultures, experience, and circumstances impart on us when evaluating the facts in order to arrive at we believe to be the truth. Even so, if we are aware of the impact that our predispositions can have on our analysis of the facts, we can try to take them into account and we will inevitably arrive at an approximation of truth that is more accurate than would have been the case had we not done so. As the world becomes ever more driven by corporate and political spin, so I think that the onus shifts to us as individuals set aside any desired or supposed outcomes and to be responsible when searching for the facts and determining the truth that the facts reveal.

Empathy is what allows us to see as through the eyes of another. The world will always be full of people with different opinions and perspectives and we should be thankful for and celebrate that diversity, or at the very least tolerate it. We can empathise with those that suffer if we allow ourselves to and I believe that as human beings we should always try to do so, equally and across the divisions between us. While it’s easy to say this, I find I have to remind myself, for instance, that the brutal killing of a child is no less a crime against humanity when it happens in Baghdad than it is when it happens in Boston. Increasingly, I find that the only attitude that I have no tolerance for is intolerance itself; It’s intolerance that ultimately brings about the lack of empathy that divides us and leads to hatred, mistrust, fanaticism, and violence.

For me, travel has always been about expanding horizons and new perspectives and experiences. Although I had great difficulty with many aspects of Arab and Middle Eastern culture, as our time in the region drew to an end I found myself rejecting many of the stereotypes prevalent in the West and accepting that many of the views held in the West are based on misunderstandings and a perspective that is fundamentally one-sided and flawed.

Despite our attempts to pass the time in the campsite, which included a spectacular day trip across the open desert to Wadi Rum, as the days marched on and there was no progress with our Saudi visas, we became increasingly restless. Despite weeks spent waiting and numerous promises, there had been no progress at all with the Saudi embassy in Amman, so we decided on a change of plan. We had heard that the Saudi Embassy in Cairo would issue transit visas to travelers sailing by sea from Suez in Egypt, to Massawa in Eritrea, allowing them to change ships in Jeddah, but not allowing them out of the port. We didn’t want to take our car into Egypt because of the enormous expense, so we decided to go to Cairo to buy passenger tickets, preferably fake, then get Saudi transit visas before returning to Jordan and using the visas for overland access.

Finally, on 16 May, we boarded Santa Catarina,the slow boat to Egypt. Once there, all went according to plan and a week later, on Friday 23 May, we arrived back in Aqaba. With Friday being the Muslim equivalent of our Sunday, we guessed that we would have less chance of encountering red tape at the border post, so we headed straight there with our not-valid-for-overland-travel-and-obtained-with-fake-tickets Saudi Arabian visas in tow. As if by miracle, they let us in.

It would take us two days to reach Jeddah and on this day, 16 years ago, we spent the day on the road south. In mid-afternoon, we turned inland off the coast road and drove a few miles across the open desert to free camp. The reading on the GPS was 24° 32.49N, 37° 29.83E.