As for man, his days are like grass,
he flourishes like a flower in the field;

the wind blows over it and it is gone,
and its place remembers it no more.

When I first arrived in Darfur I was met with such a potent environment that when asked how I felt or what it was like that i simply couldn’t answer. I had a thousand different thoughts and impressions moving around in my head, but no logic or reasoning to consolidate them into a legible or articulate narrative.

Today as I escaped Darfur for my first real R&R, I got a small glimpse of this world from the outside. As we taxied along the runway I began to understand the absurdity and complexity of this place that I had arrived in. The most important realization was that to capture this experience in a cute soundbyte for friends and family back home would be naive or even negligent. That is of course, unless they wanted the 5 word “yeah its an amazing place.” gag and move on with their daily lives. But I can’t, and I won’t. Instead I will share some lessons that I have learned from these first few formative months.

I have begun to learn the politics of powerful people and government organizations, and the differences between them and those they assume to represent. I’ve learned how to listen to fellow worker’s laments and not succomb to their cynicism or hopelessness. I’ve learned to accept the disturbing aspects of this work- children dying of starvation or fellow workers shot and killed. I’ve learned that what I am doing here may not be enough but that it is something. I’ve learned that life is fragile and cheap to some people, but that it does not change the value of a human life. I’ve learned that forgiveness is just as important as justice, but it’s never mentioned enough.

And finally I’ve learned that being in a place that so often lingers in these extremes of the human condition is actually making me feel more and more alive.

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For any other workers in highly volatile and ridiculously stuffed up situations, here are 5 warning signs that it’s time to probably take a break:

1. you now honk, shake your fist and road rage at lumbering APCs and gun toting rebel pick-ups, without fear of reprisal when driving around town
2. when the last thing you wonder before going to sleep at night is if you’ll wake with a gun barrel pointed in your face
3. the highlight of the day is a bowl of cornflakes and powdered milk
4. you fear wide open spaces without the safety of razor wire
5. you’re calling your workmates by their call signs and use radio protocol on phone calls to your family
6. you don’t notice the gunfire until it ceases
7. your coffee supply has run out!
8. when you cannot think unless you’re in front of your inbox and Outlook calendar
9. You’re now neither an early bird, night owl or even an afternoon person
10. When Australia is a country south of China… or something.

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There is a secret war raging in Darfur. No, it’s not the protracted conflict between militia, janjaweed and governments as portrayed by the media but a conflict of deadly proportions between ratis ratis and homosapiens - and it’s unfolding to a bitter climax in my compound.

This ‘war’ first began as a bit of territory spat a few weeks ago. Our compound community has many residents – birds, lizards, cats, rats and hedgehogs and I noticed one of our resident groups moving into rooms and areas of the compound that had ample supplies of food and quiet corners in which to raise their young.  I would wake in the middle of the night to find scouting parties careening across my bedroom floor, or scurrying under the shelves in the kitchen.

Signs of rule breaking were everywhere – little gifts of black jelly beans on the floor, a nibbled bread crust here and there, and the ultimate act of betrayal – chewing through a secretly stashed bag of coffee.

I and the rest of the residents voluntarily took up an appeasement policy in the hope that this blatant rampaging campaign would end and life in the compound could return to the hakuna matada that we all enjoyed.

Then they started breeding.

What was at first one or two dissident rule breakers soon became four and then eight. By last week the situation had become so bad that the rest of the community could no longer stand by and watch. Something must be done.

A council of community members was held, and although representation from other species was low, it was unanimously agreed that this aggression must come to an end and an impartial force should be deployed to enforce existing compound rules.

Now a war rages within our compound. The rodent campaign of ‘feed & breed’ is being challenged by a coalition of the willing. Various measures were employed but were seen as either too ghastly (rat poison that could affect non-combatants such as hedgehogs), or too impractical (bowls of panadol laced water, apparently to enduce sleepiness and lower response times!). A ‘Rules of Engagement’ was established and bamboo sticks handed out to all willing hands.

 So if you see me late at night with a stick in one hand, torch in the other and listening to Midnight Juggernaughts ‘Dystopia’ on my Ipod don’t be scared – I’m doing my part in taking back the compound from Reepercheep and his brood of rodent aggressors.

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On just about every street corner of my town is a store of some kind. Those fortunate enough to live at an intersection and have money can usually construct a concrete shack with iron doors and sell the same things as every other store in the suburbs of my town - soap, softdrink, melted toffees, coffee, sugar, rice, beans and a few other nick nacks like razors and perfume. They are pretty much the local version of a 7-11 but in true Darfurian form, they’re closed just about as often as they are open.

Down the street from my office is Billy’s shop, another one of these convenience stores that proliferate the dusty street corners. The great thing about Billy is that he graciously allows us to hang out the back of his little concrete shack drinking an almost cold coke while taking stock of whatever emergency is unfolding back at the office, at a field site or maybe just unfolding in our own heads. The other uses for Billy’s shop are to have a D&M with someone (yes, i just said D&M), or talk about some confidential matter that the hole filled walls of our office couldn’t possibly contain.

Padded cell, war room, softly lit counsellors office - it’s all of these wonderful things only a few short metres from our office. Thanks Billy.

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UNHAS offers the rare experience of boarding a flight and having no idea where it’s actually headed. The airport itself could’ve been mistaken for an abandonded British imperial outpost and once inside the crumbling walls I was taken to the check in and customs desk housed in a grubby demountable cube. Inside the human xray machines took extra care to squeeze and rattle any fragile looking items and confiscated both my carry on and check in luggage until boarding.

Probably the greatest criticism of UNHAS is the 15kg luggage limit. I don’t really have much of a problem with it, but then those who want to bring 124 kgs of personal items with them (literally!) have found problems with this minor complication. My own luggage weighed in at a satisfactory 12kgs, enough room to bring back a cold pizza and some shiney beads from the capital.

The departures lounges were long concrete slabs painted blue, with a grass thatched roof offering shade from the sun and a complimentary tahitian feel when the breeze mustered enough gusto to ruffle it’s edges. The arrivals area consisted of a dust bowl surrounded by barb wire and armed police with anti-tank weapons, while the transit lounge was literally a tall thorny tree to camp under as the plane refueled before take off.

After a frisking by overenthusiastic security guards I  arrived at the airplane to find my luggage had been sitting on the gravel in the sun for the last two hours. That sneaky chocolate bar I was savouring in the outer pocket of my carry on had now become a deliciously warm winter beverage.

As the Dash 8 taxied along the runway, we passed various broken up cargo and passenger planes that  ended their journey in a firey ball of flames in the desert. It should be a disheartening sight but I thought yes, this is Darfur, this is normal. And finally as the flight attendant checked that we were all buckled in, he reminded us - ‘Please ensure that all personal electronic devices such as mobile phones, Thurayas and VHF radios are switched off before take-off.’

So it’s kind of like a no frills budget airline. But more important than the public transport exterior, it’s your lifeline to civilization and for some lucky people - a journey home. Unfortunately like I said, you never know quite where you’re headed as the flight zigzags lazily across all three Darfur states before arriving in Khartoum.

And as for inflight entertainment, the only distraction I found other Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia and the wadis and mountains below was the pretty UNFPA girl opposite me who I thought I’d met before.

‘You’re from Guatemala, right?’

Not the greatest conversation starter in the world, I know…

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When we talk about a security issue here, it’s whispered in hushed tones and muted voices. The door to the office is shut and we converse in our cone of silence. It’s actually pretty lame- we have no glass in the windows, people constantly barge in and if you’re hanging by the door you could probably even hear the air move as we gesture and point excitedly at large maps on the wall (I wanted a laser pointer so I could point  excitedly from my desk, instead all I was offered was a 10 ft bamboo pole).

So today there has been lots of discussions, lots of door closing, and lots of pointing at maps on the wall - no wonder people here just assume you’re a western spy (even though I’m from the east - jeah!). But I’ve learnt two things so far with all this security planning and guesswork about who is shooting at who and where.

The first is that it is a thankless and all consuming task.  It can take up my whole day, and then it can even invade my whole evening with one quick phone call. The second is that it’s like herding a flock of clouds with a wooden stick. Maybe that last line didn’t make sense, so it’s actually quite an accurate picture of what happens when you try to find out something that everyone in the market heard two days ago.

As for me, the situation is about as ‘fluid’ down under as it is in eastern Chad at the moment. If only everyone else popped an immodium or two and we’d all be better off…

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In Mongolia we used to joke that the country’s national anthem was probably a car alarm. Every day and night you could here these alarms resonate a warning to their owners through the streets and pervade even the most sealed air conditioned offices in the city.

In Darfur, I swear that the sound of donkeys braying is just as pervasive and ever present as those car alarms were in Mongolia. Luckily, I’m away from the street in my compound. Those whose bedroom windows open onto the street complain of restless nights from the all night braying and mating calls during donkey-love season. And in Darfur when donkeys are unhitched for the evening they have free reign to form gangs and prowl the streets to terrorize chickens and the unlucky dog who happens to stray into their path.

But the term ‘beasts of burden’ has never been so appropriate for an animal. They are whipped, kicked and beaten into submission until they stumble up a rocky hill with large water bladders straddled over their backs. There is a theory that a form of collectivization exists here and the local residents simply grab the closet donkey each morning to ride to market or use as their water carrier throughout the day.

As for me, I’m thinking of buying a donkey to ride to work. My Sudanese mates tell me I can pick up a battered old ex-water donkey for around 80 Sudanese pounds, or I can get a real racing donkey for anywhere upwards of 100 pounds. My sneaky plan is to grab one off the street in the early morning hours. I’m sure that none of my neighbours will notice the hwija kicking up dust as he gallops down the street on his trusty steed!

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Accountability: The topic of a mandatory phone call or email sent twice a year to Geneva/London/New York.

Baseline: The ‘s**t that went down’ before the aid agency arrives at a location.

Beneficiary: A numeric representation of the population who will benefit from the activities of an aid agency. The more beneficiaries cited in the proposal the more funds the agency will receive for a project. For extra funding camels, goats and trees can also be considered as beneficiaries. The people in tv commercials for World Vision.

Beneficiary Accountability: The topic of a phone call or email sent twice a year to a goat or tree in a remote village.

Concept Note: A Reader’s Digest version of a project proposal. An inaccurate and inspirational document designed to catch the donor’s attention by pulling at the reader’s heart strings.

Donor: The guilt ridden, international marketing and propaganda arm of a western government. A donor visit involves the sudden and sneaky appearance of pastey coloured bean counters wearing Kathmandu brand clothing.

Logical Framework: Shortened to ‘logframe’, a landscape table of information designed and distorted by donors to be so complex that it baffles the reader and becomes the illogical footnote to a project proposal. Essential, yet strangely not taught at Australian universities.

Monitoring and Evaluation: Generally referred to as ‘M&E’, an activity held at various points in a project to assess progress. Can be outsourced to consultancies to offload excess donor funds before the end of financial year, or carried out internally in order to fudge the numbers.

Sustainability: A high and lofty ideal held by people who work in air conditioned offices. A point of discussion when one has nothing else to add at a meeting.

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