Sacrifice and the Karoo

Today was Human Rights Day in South Africa and this morning we joined a small group of people in Greenpoint Park to protest against the proposed fracking in the Karoo. Among the most basic of human rights is the right to clean and safe water, the very thing that fracking undermines.

My childhood recollection of the journey through the Karoo from Johannesburg to Cape Town was one of two endpoints and mostly nothingness between. It’s a long road – a little short of a thousand miles – of which the Karoo crossing makes up more than half. Growing up, I always thought of the Karoo as something one went through, not somewhere one went to. It was a stretch of the road or railway where you would turn up the aircon and find ways occupy the mind until the crossing was complete, or better yet, do the trip at night to avoid the dryness and the heat and emptiness.

I first saw the Karoo through different eyes in 1997. We’d driven 40,000 miles from London and were on our final stretch to Cape Town. Our journey had taken us through so many diverse places. Maybe it was my receptiveness to diversity having been on the road for so long, or maybe it was just the way that age allows us to appreciate the journey rather than the destination, but on that crossing I saw the Karoo as though for the first time.

I know some people love lushness and tropical fullness, but I would sooner have semi-desert than the jungle. It’s hard to put a finger on it, but there’s something about vastness and emptiness that resonates with my soul and I feel myself drawn to it as I increasingly find solace in solitude. Part of it, I’m sure, is that abundance has a way of obscuring detail, while emptiness enhances it. The Karoo, for me, strikes a near perfect balance between abundance and emptiness.

Nowadays there’s not a lot of wildlife to be seen if you’re just passing though, but it hasn’t always been that way. Less than two hundred years ago, this was home to the largest animal migration on earth, as vast herds of springbok, estimated at over 10 million individuals, trekked in search of better veld. Today, the Karoo is just a shadow of what it once was. The last recorded springbok migration was in the 1950s, when a few thousand buck moved from the Kalahari into Gordonia. With the farmers in the nineteenth century came sheep and fences. Springbok don’t cross fences. Gradually, the buck were hunted into obscurity and as their numbers dwindled, those larger predators that didn’t die out went into hiding as sheep replaced buck as the primary food source.

This is such a marginal and fragile region, with just about every life form on the knife edge between survival and extinction. It’s an arid area with frequent droughts where somehow the plants and animals evolved to survive and even prosper in the harsh conditions. Nature always seems to find a way of establishing a balance, but the introduction of sheep into such a precariously balanced ecosystem was bound to set it off kilter as overgrazing, combined with the selective diet of the sheep, took its toll to the point where today in many parts, ten hectares of veld or more are needed to sustain a single sheep. Karoo lamb, while favoured for its taste, is in such short supply that there’s not even enough to stock the supermarkets in Cape Town, the closest major city and market.

I think that sacrifice is part of life, but we should never forget what it is that we’ve lost as a result of the choices we’ve made. Where a loss has been great, we need somehow to etch it on our minds as a reminder of what once was but is no more. Unless we do this, we will lose forever the hope that we may one day regain what we have sacrificed. If we were given a choice today between a few thousand marginal farms supplying Karoo lamb to the privileged few in the country, or being host to the largest animal migration on earth, who would choose meat?

Just over three years ago, we spent a few days in the Karoo with friends and were shown a farm called Vogelfontein, by a local agent. This was at the end of a prolonged dry period and having over extended themselves, the farm owners were desperate to sell. Though we couldn’t really afford it, we scraped some cash together and became part-owners with my brother and sister-in-law.

Situated in the Northern Cape with the southern boundary on the provincial border of the Western Cape, it’s a beautiful farm with a rich heritage. Being on the escarpment, there are many ravines and even a high waterfall, though it only runs, of course, when it rains heavily. In common with much of the Karoo, the rock formations, colours, and vistas can be breathtakingly beautiful. There are no roads or other houses visible from anywhere on the farm, and the only evidence of today’s world is in the vapour trails of the jets on the flight path between Johannesburg and Cape Town.

There were many reasons for us wanting to buy this little piece of the Karoo. One was just to remove the sheep and return the land to nature, giving the naturally occurring plants and animals a sanctuary with room to exist and recover. But ultimately, my dream was to establish a refuge for us, especially for our then five year old twins, from the frenetic clutter of our life in Cape Town; Somewhere that we could go to and experience a way of life that we could juxtapose against our everyday lives and to allow the message to seep in that it doesn’t have to be this way.

Many of the relics on the farm tell the tale of a very different life and perspective to what we now have, and a time when the only resource to be had in abundance was time itself. For lack of steel, rocks were cut to make fence poles. Beaufort shale, so abundant in the region, was the staple resource used to construct stone houses, boundary walls, and dams. Large kraals, made from hand-cut, packed stone, speak of times when livestock needed to be corralled to stave off predators. I’m not particularly nostalgic by nature – in reality I love and thrive off technology and I founded and run a technology company – but I often look at our lifestyle today and try to set it against the lifestyles of previous generations in an attempt to gain insight into the price we’ve paid for they way we now live. My overwhelming feeling is that we’ve sacrificed time for material and that the more material we accumulate, the more it consumes our time in a seemingly never-ending feedback loop. The common phrase that time is money is a misnomer. The truth, I think, is that life’s most special moments are made almost entirely by giving time to allow the things that money can’t buy, to happen. If so, the paradox is that time is priceless and its true value is only realised when it’s freely given.

One of the most wonderful things about the Karoo and this part of it in particular is the night sky. In this dry area, about 1500 metres above sea level and hundreds of miles from the nearest large city, the stars at night are any star watchers dream as they literally saturate the sky. South Africa’s largest telescope (SALT) is a short distance away, just on the Fraserburg side of Sutherland, and the region is favoured to host the proposed Square Kilometre Array (SKA) – the largest radio telescope in the world that will enable us to see further into space than ever before. We always take our little telescope on our outings to the farm and are never disappointed.

But all’s not well in the Karoo. With the increasing pressure to mine the earth for ever more fossil fuels, the promise of large deposits of natural gas in the deep shales of the Karoo has become a prize too great to resist and there are several corporations with applications pending to do exploratory drilling.

I find it sickening that there appears to be no rational or moral limit to the price we’re prepared to pay for more oil and gas. Historically, we’ve always been able to get enough from relatively simple wells, but as demand and prices have increased we’ve turned to increasingly extreme and risky methods to obtain our fuel. As I write this, Shell are scaling their operations in the Arctic ocean and it seems that deep sea arctic drilling is only a matter of when as opposed to whether. This despite the certainty that a major oil spill in the harsh conditions of the fragile Arctic could be impossible to contain or recover from. Canada, formerly one of the world’s most environmentally progressive countries, has suddenly had a change of heart and abandoned all related morality as the the reality of the largest oil reserves outside of Saudi Arabia has set in and the greed from short-term tar sands profit has taken hold. The Athabasca river flows through the middle of the tar sands and drains into the fragile ecosystem of the Peace-Athabasca delta, the largest inland boreal delta in the world. It already has vastly elevated levels of carcinogenic, tar sands derived toxins, even though the scale of the current tar sands operation is just a hint of what it’s planned to be.

The fracking planned for the Karoo is no less extreme than Arctic drilling or Canadian tar sands, and in an equally fragile environment. Hundreds of thousands of wells will be drilled, each first vertically for several kilometres to reach the gas bearing shale layer, then horizontally within that layer. Up to 20 million litres of water, mixed with sand and toxic chemicals including benzene, toluene, xylene and ethylbenzene, are injected under immense pressure into each well to cause the fractures that release the gas trapped in the shale. Most of this toxic fluid gets blown back to the surface as the gas is released, where it’s retained in open earth dams. On the way down, the wells pass though the water table and steel casings are inserted into the well bore to prevent contamination of the ground water.

Quite apart from the vast use of water, there are so many modes of failure in the fracking process that it would be flattering to call it risky. Storms, floods and other natural processes can and will cause the earth dams to fail. Poorly installed casings can result in the fracking fluids being injected at high pressure into the aquifers. Even with properly installed casings, how much do we really know about the minute detail of the sub-surface geology? It only takes one small fissure linking the gas bearing shale to the aquifer, to create a bridge by which the toxins can diffuse into the ground water. Any past earthquakes, for example, could have left such fissures, just as any in future can damage the casings. There are numerous hot springs in the Karoo which span from the surface to strata several kilometres below. In the USA, about half a million wells have been drilled in the past decade and countless cases of groundwater contamination exist and have been confirmed by studies and the Environmental Protection Agency. This is no surprise at all and I expect many more to come with time. The earth is not inert and over time every single casing will fail. Of course the gas companies deny findings of contamination, but then they would; no matter what they say, aquifers polluted in this way are impossible to clean.

Coincidentally, tomorrow is World Water Day. The animals and people in the Karoo depend almost entirely on groundwater for their existence and it will be the animals, the poorer people, and future generations who will pay the highest price for the damage that fracking will do to the Karoo. In the spirit of the South African Dream, will the government uphold our constitution by taking the high road and saying no fracking, or will we go the way of Canada and sacrifice our morality for a few years of energy from the Faustian bargain that is shale gas?

My dream for the Karoo is that one day it will once again be home to vast herds of springbok, free to roam and migrate as they once did. It’s not an impossible dream, but if it is ever to be a reality it will take strong and principled leadership. My fear is that if the shale gas bargain is accepted and fracking goes ahead, the sacrifice will be complete and the dream lost forever.

A Journey, Part 4. Reluctant Rebels

I’ve found that a near universal truth in travel is that the less touristed the area you’re in, the more special the memories will be. Tourism seems to have a way of hardening the hosts to the point where in the end, meaningful interactions become rare. With Western travellers being a relative rarity in Syria, the reception we received was always warm and often overwhelming. At the citadel in Aleppo, I remember being swamped by a crowd of excited and enthusiastic, scarfed schoolgirls, thrilled at the opportunity to finally be able to practice their English on real foreigners. Without fail, wherever we went, people opened up to us and appeared almost grateful to be able to share their views and perspectives.

Of all the markets I’ve ever been to, the souq in Aleppo is probably the most memorable. A far cry from the touristy Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, this was a market for locals, by locals, where in a labyrinth of dimly lit passages the smells of linen and leather, spices and incense mingled amid the hubbub of the merchants hawking their wares and buyers haggling for the best deal. But it was also at this souq that we had our first encounter with the male dominated perversion that taints so much of the Middle East, when Hayley was groped from behind in a crowd and to our absolute frustration we had no idea who the culprit was.

We spent two days in Aleppo before taking the road south toward Damascus. On route, we passed through Homs, now at the centre of the Syrian uprising and the scene of so much senseless devastation and bloodshed. Crac des Chevaliers, a stunningly preserved Crusader castle, lies a short drive west of Homs, and we spent a few hours there before doubling back and heading east across the desert to the ruins at Palmyra.

Up to this point in the journey, we’d met no other travellers, but in Palmyra we found a group of overlanders who had come up through Africa and were heading north. Apart from numerous other tips, it was from them that we got final confirmation that crossing through the Sudan was out of the question, making the route down through Egypt impossible. It was, however, possible to cross the Red Sea from Jeddah to Massawa in Eritrea. With no such thing as a tourist visa to Saudi Arabia though, the difficulty for us would be getting to Jeddah. After two days at Palmyra, we travelled back across the desert and down to Damascus.

Wherever we went, the Syrians we met were helpful and friendly to a fault, and my overall impression was of an industrious and content people just getting on with the business of life. Despite this outward appearance of normality in 1997, the truth was that under Hafez al-Assad, Syria had already been in a state of emergency, with draconian emergency laws, for 34 years.

It never ceases to amaze me what turmoil can lie beneath the placid facades of our existence. Things often are not the way they appear to be and even in the most oppressive and difficult of circumstances, we always seem to find ways to go about our lives under the pretense of normality. It’s almost as though we have a built-in ability to adapt ourselves in order to be able to continue functioning normally despite adversity, even to the point of denial of the adversity itself. We’re complex beings and I suspect it’s probably a survival mechanism that we’ve carried along with ourselves for eons. The reality though, that suppression ultimately breeds rebellion, is inescapable. Over time, like a river dammed, the pressure will build to the point where the smallest of cracks will cause a rupture. Unless it’s dissipated, sufficient time will always bring a reckoning and it’s just the mode of release and the way it’s dealt with that varies.

On Assad’s death in 2000, the status-quo remained intact as power passed to his son Bashar al-Assad. As the Internet grew, access to it too was controlled and social networking sites were blocked. Should we be surprised that Syria is fast becoming the most bloody uprising of the Arab Spring? How can modern leaders be so deluded as to think that suppression can be wrought without corresponding danger of uprising?

I’ve often wondered about how and why revolutions start. Why is it that the people of Syria rose up while the people of Zimbabwe, for example, remain passive despite tremendous hardship and years of despotic government? I’m not sure I know the answers, but two essential ingredients of rebellion are certainly a deep discontent with the status-quo, and a catalyst to unite and mobilize the discontented. Maybe in Zimbabwe the nature of the apparent affront is just not enough to push people over the brink, or maybe there are just too few people doing instant messaging to set the spark. But I suspect that in Zimbabwe it’s more a case of incompetent and corrupt leadership than widespread calculated and metered suppression of freedom and inalienable rights. The former may cause frustration, but seldom the outrage that can stem from the latter.

Rebellions, of course, aren’t limited to those on a national scale. We may rebel within our communities, workplaces, families, or relationships. All may manifest themselves in different ways and all bring with them the promise of change. Of all possible rebellions that we survive though, it’s those where we rise against ourselves that I believe are the most personally significant because they bring with them the opportunity to reforge ourselves, refine our truths, and realign our lives. Carl Jung believed that around the age of six, we bury those parts of self that we find intolerable and then for most of our lives we refine the persona that we choose to present to the world. As the persona diverges from our inherent sense of self, tension increases to the point where it begins to tear apart the fabric of our being and the soul begins to rebel against the person we have become. The emotional forces can be immense, but like any other rebellion we have a choice in how we deal with it. Many resort to outside help. Some crush it by sheer strength of will and denial, but in doing so remain trapped forever. Ultimately though and as with all rebellions, I believe that the only sensible approach is to come to understand the backdrop of the conflict and embark on a course of reconciliation, in this case between what we are and what the soul wants us to be. Following his own midlife, Jung spent the remainder of his years dedicated to his understanding of self, a course echoed by his famous mantra “know thyself”.

I see humankind at a crossroad that has many parallels with what we experience at midlife. As people, we have deviated so far from our essential nature that it’s creating massive strains in our societies as we see what’s happening and find it morally reprehensible and irreconcilable with what we know to be right. And it’s getting worse. Despite the spin, our leaders are making no real effort to change our course and get us off the road to apocalypse. Every year brings more devastation to nature, more species marginalized or extinct, an increasing gap between rich and poor, and more war. We have got here because of our obsession with power and greed. Never before in our history have the choices facing us been of such scale and impact.

I’m not a believer in violent uprisings and my fear for Syria is that like almost all violent revolutions of the past, Assad’s passing will only result in oppressive rule yet once more, albeit by a different party, and the the cycle of violence will ultimately repeat itself. In this sense, this is why we were so fortunate in South Africa where where the transition to democracy, under the guidance of great leaders, remained structured and was ultimately peaceful. But even here, 18 years on from the first democratic elections, the corrupting effect of absolute power and the obsession with its retention is increasingly evident.

Today’s headlines report fresh massacres in Homs and my heart is with the people of Syria. They deserve so much more.

A Journey, Part 3. The Crucible

On the afternoon of 12 February, having thawed for a few days at Nessebar, we crossed the border from Bulgaria into Turkey and headed for Istanbul. Entering the first Muslim country of our journey, we had no idea that we would spend the next four months waking almost every day to the muezzin’s call. Our route through Turkey would have us spending a few days each in Istanbul and Ankara before travelling down through Cappadocia to the Sea of Maramara and finally east to the border with Syria.

Istanbul is such a beautiful city and the sense of history is palpable. Capital of two of the most pervasive and powerful empires, first the Byzantium Empire as Constantinople and then the Ottoman Empire as Istanbul, she reigned supreme for over 1500 years. It was, quite literally, the centre of the world. With the city straddling the Bosphorous Strait – the metaphorical moat between Europe and Asia and the gateway to the Black Sea – it’s not hard to understand why. I could only imagine what this city must have been like in it’s heyday. While much of the splendour has been jaded and the beauty faded, the jewels of the city like Topkapı Palace, Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque stand as proud reminders of her former glory.

In keeping with the spirit of Istanbul, Turkey itself has long served as a melting pot of cultures and people. Although the Turks and Kurds make up the bulk of the population, there are sizable minorities of Greeks, Jews, and Armenians, and dozens of smaller ethnic minorities. We’ve become used to some ethnic diversity in our modern nations, but what’s different about Turkey is that many of these groups of people have been there for centuries or even millenia. Quite literally at the intersection of Europe, Asia, Arabia, and Africa, almost anyone who went anywhere passed through Turkey en-route and invariably left traces behind.

Ask any traveller what it is that draws them to travel and the answer will almost certainly be the experience of diversity. Whether in landscape, nature, food, or people, one gets perspectives on the road that would be hard or impossible to synthesize any other way. As we immerse ourselves in the different, our views can’t but change and be enriched.

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness – Mark Twain

For all our differences as people, we’re so alike and I think that the essence of what we have in common is centered on love and compassion. Wherever in the world we are, people long for happiness. They love their families, want a better life for their children and want the world to be a better place. These are the ties that bind us. I seethe when I hear derogatory remarks directed at broad groups of people, be they Zimbabwean or Mexican, Jewish or Muslim. Such prejudices are abundant in almost every sector of society in every country and they are one of the great cancers that affect humanity and steer us away from our true selves.

The word inhuman is defined as “cruel, brutal, or lacking qualities of sympathy, pity, warmth, compassion, or the like”. It’s a lovely definition because it’s a succinct reminder that we cannot call ourselves human unless we have compassion at our core and that this is our natural state. Our prejudices stem from the warrior psyche, that part of us that mistrusts and alienates others so as to ultimately render them non-human and us at the same time as inhuman (synonyms: unfeeling, unsympathetic, cold, callous, hard, savage, brutish). When practicing prejudice or maligning a group of people, let’s not forget its origins and that it’s ultimately nothing less than a form of savagery.

From Istanbul, we travelled south to Ankara where we again tried and failed to get visas for Syria and the Sudan. There was so much conflicting information that it soon became clear that we would only find out whether we would get into Syria when we arrived at the border, sans-visa. From Ankara, it was on to staying in a cave in Cappadocia – a Lilliput-lunar-like wonderland where hundreds of people still live in caves carved out of huge ant-hill shaped rocks.

Mersin, located on Sea of Maramara, is one of Turkey’s largest ports and is off the main tourist routes. On reaching it, we’d already acquired a taste for middle-eastern desserts and, stopping into a pastry shop for knafeh and coffee, we got chatting to Mehmet, the owner. Off the tourist track, we’d found the Turks to be incredibly hospitable and friendly; I will never forget an evening at a tiny rustic locals-only eatery in Dalyan, near Çeşme a few years earlier, when the sparse-toothed, vested proprietor stood by our table with his glass of raki for the entire meal and toasted Salut! at every opportunity. Mehmet was no exception and before we knew it we’d accepted his invitation to experience real Turkish food that evening.

When travelling, and especially in a country like Turkey where an invitation to tea is often just a prelude to a hard sell, the easiest thing to do is to keep the shields up. We’d heard horror stories from Turks in Istanbul about travellers being held hostage and forced to sign credit card slips at gun-point after having accepted invitations into clubs and bars. Sometimes though, one has to make a leap of faith, follow one’s intuition and place one’s trust in another because it’s only when we do that we’re able to really overcome the barriers that separate us. But trust and vulnerability are inseparable and there was no small amount of trepidation before we met up with Mehmet later that afternoon and climbed into his car to experience the city he loved from his point of view. It was a night to remember as we moved from the restaurant – where he refused to let us pay a single lira – to bars, sharing stories and perspectives in broken English. None of it would have happened without his goodwill and our reciprocal trust.

Mersin is only a short distance from the Syrian border and on this day, 15 years ago, we arrived at the border and with minimal fuss obtained our visas and crossed into Syria heading for Aleppo.

A Journey, Part 2. Indoctrination and Freedom

Leaving Eger, we pushed east toward Debrecen and the Romanian border, crossing into Romania on 6 February and spending our first night in Cluj.  From there, we took the road through Sighişoara (once home to Vlad Dracul – Dracula’s father), and Brașov (the coldest I’ve ever been), to Bucharest. The Romanian countryside is absolutely spectacular, with vast plains and rolling hills covered in snow.  The roads, though, were potholed almost beyond repair and much of the visible infrastructure was completely dilapidated.  

We didn’t linger on this part of our journey through Romania and Bulgaria and it took us only a few days to reach Nessebar on the snow-free Black Sea coast. From our limited interaction with people in on route, we were struck by the difference in attitude between people here and those in the Western countries we’d travelled through before. The concept of customer service, for instance, was almost absent – not as a result of bad attitude, but rather because one got the impression that the people had probably never seen themselves as customers, or permitted themselves what we would consider normal customer expectations.

Seven years on from the Romanian Revolution of 1989 and Bulgaria’s transition to democracy in 1990, I got the impression of countries trying to come to terms with freedom and people coming to terms with their need to accept, adopt, and adapt to new roles, expectations, and attitudes. Although the change in doctrines in South Africa was very different to that in these countries, it was easy and natural for me to identify with what we experienced in Eastern Europe.

The doctrines of the societies in which we live define our norms and have an enormous impact on our thoughts and behaviour. Growing up in apartheid era South Africa, I’d had first hand experience of the shape shifting effects that a major change in doctrine brings about, as people like Mandela and Hani that we’d been indoctrinated to believe were terrorists, turned out to be moral heroes and champions of freedom. This has always served as an ominous reminder to me of the extent to which the prevailing doctrines can shape and constrain our thoughts, and of the need to look beyond the political and other agendas of the day and seek out one’s own truth.

It seems it’s harder to see the effects of a doctrine when you’re on the inside, and much easier to find fault with the doctrines of others. This is even more so when the press is muzzled or acts merely an agent of the politicians, as was largely the case in countries of the former communist bloc and in apartheid era South Africa. In this respect, it’s our individual freedoms in general and freedom of speech in particular form the bedrock of free society, and the current trend to curtail freedom both in South Africa and in other so called liberal democracies is deeply perplexing.

Here in South Africa, the strength of the ANC allowed it to muscle the Secrecy Bill through the National Assembly in November last year. This bill makes it a crime to possess or disclose classified state information, punishable by imprisonment for up to 25 years. Whether or not the disclosure is in the public interest is irrelevant. Hot on its heels, the proposed Spy Bill will bring about the formation of a powerful State Security Agency with powers, among other things, to tap the communications of ordinary citizens without a warrant. In the United States barely a month ago, President Obama signed the National Defense Authorization Act into law. This permits the Pentagon to kidnap and indefinitely detain and interrogate both foreigners and American citizens, without recourse to the law, right to a trial, or legal representation.  Hardly a murmur was raised as the American Bill of Rights of 1789 was effectively repealed. Recently, my sister reminded me of a fitting and haunting quote by Benjamin Franklin.

Any society that would give up a little liberty to gain a little security will deserve neither and lose both.

We’ve seen these types of laws before. They are reminiscent of those promulgated here, in South Africa, by the Nationalist government with it’s apartheid agenda, and by other counties before, on their descent into totalitarianism. What is the agenda now and what is the truth that needs to be suppressed? A tragic and common theme among virtually all of today’s liberal democracies, is that no matter which way the people vote, they get more of the same. Are we seeing the demise of democracy in the interests of the corporate-military-industrial agenda?

I remember vividly being at university in 1984 as the year came and went, without fanfare of course. When forecasting the future, we often tend to think that changes will happen more rapidly than they do in reality. Now more than ever, I feel the real danger of an Orwellian outcome.