a tall traveller´s small tales

Things are finally coming to a head here in Libya; the end is nigh for the Colonel and his regime. I’m sat watching Al Jazeera’s rolling coverage of events, showing images of people celebrating in Freedom Square on the waterfront in Benghazi juxtaposed with the news that the revolutionaries have taken control of swathes of Tripoli, having even reached Gaddafi’s beloved Green Square.

This was the way it had to end, armed uprising in the capital, the residents liberating themselves, spilling their own blood for the revolution, rather than having to suffer the indignity of waiting to be liberated by their countrymen. Developments have been swift in the last few days; swift and decisively one-sided. Ten days ago talk was of military stalemate, the rebels unable to advance either in the east, or in the Western Mountains, or here in the Misrata enclave. The only solution was a political one; dialogue with the Gaddafi regime. How times have changed.

As I write this Mustafa Abdel Jalil, Head of the National Transitional Council, has just announced the capture of Seif El Islam, Gaddafi’s eldest son and heir apparent. The regime is more than just crumbling, it is about to be swept away.

The turning point came about ten days ago: in the Nafusa Mountains the rebels came down from the mountains, their sights set on the coastal city of Az Zawiya 85km away, which had tasted freedom for two brief weeks at the start of the revolution, the uprising there brutally crushed by Khamees, Gaddafi’s most militarily astute and bloodthirsty son. If they reached the city the war would surely change – not only would they receive support from the population, but also, significantly, they would then be a mere 50km from Tripoli. Gaddafi’s generals knew this, and would surely do everything within their power to prevent the revolutionaries reaching the city.

I assumed that it would take them days, weeks, to advance. Instead it seemed to take no more than hours; the first footage coming out of Az Zawiya showed hundreds of fighters, far more than there had previously been in the Nafusa Mountains. The NTC had obviously been busy over the past two weeks, flying and ferrying combatants from the east into Tunisia and then on into the mountains.

In Misrata too the pendulum had swung in the revolution’s favour. Boats unloading munitions, tanks and weaponry had been docking regularly at the port, for so long the only means of access to the city. The city’s airport, out of action since mid March due to its proximity to the front lines and subsequent risk of rocket attack, had seen massive military planes starting to land on its runway, the word QATAR spelt out in huge letters on their underbellies so nobody was in any doubt as to their origin. They would spend no more than 10 minutes on the runway, enough time to rapidly unload supplies and armaments before taking off once more.

Things were building.

On Thursday 11th August a massive coordinated offensive was launched towards the town of Tawergha, to the south of Misrata. For months Tawergha had been the launching pad for all the Grad rockets fired into Misrata on a daily basis, and for months the rebels had been unable to take it. Yet on the 11th, just ten days ago, it fell within hours. And since then momentum has been building inexorably, exponentially.

Here in the Misrata enclave the town of Zlitan had proved a huge stumbling, block in the rebels’ quest to march on Tripoli, the population unwilling to see their city become a pile of ruins, a new version of Misrata. The fighters had reached Zlitan’s outskirts weeks ago, but had been forced to wait as negotiations took place with town elders on whether they would join the rebels in their fight. Once Tawergha fell, however, it was only a matter of time.

Sure enough on the night of Thursday 18th, just three days ago, the offensive began, continuing through Friday. Almost 40 fighters were killed, many of them friends or relatives of guys in the office. Mohamed, knew two of those killed, one of whom had been an English student of his and was just 19. These aren’t soldiers after all; they’re civilians fighting to rid their country of its hated dicator. Yet Zlitan was liberated.

The rolling news is still playing in front of me; Al Jazeera has announced the capture of Sa’adi, Gaddafi’s son who paid millions of Euros to play for Italian Serie A side Perugia, and who dissolved Benghazi’s Al Ahly football club and destroyed its stadium for allowing a donkey onto the pitch, in reference to his somewhat leaden footed footballing skills. Sa’adi couldn’t take a joke; tonight the joke’s on him.

The end has come so fast; faster than anyone could have hoped for. Gaddafi’s regime, after holding out for so long against the odd couple of armed civilians and NATO jets, has imploded. It’s being reported that hundreds of Misrata’s fighters, with naval support from NATO, were last night shipped to Tripoli using launches to get them into Tajoura, one of the capital’s districts opposed to Gaddafi from the start.

It’s going to be fascinating hearing the stories that come out of Tripoli in the coming days and weeks, as we find out to just what lengths the dear Colonel went to stifle opposition and paint for the world a green-tinted picture of doting devotion to the Brother Leader.

I’ve just been up on the roof, fireworks going off all around the city. They’re interspersed with celebratory gunfire, red tracer bullets blazing crimson trails up into the night sky. They’re beautiful you know, and silent. I think they’d be a welcome addition to Guy Fawkes Night; might petition the government on that one when I get back to the UK.

Tripoli has risen up. The end is hours away. Libya, you’re free.

Misrata, 17/08/11

Quick update on life in the Misrata enclave

I’ve been here three weeks now, and the sound of shelling coming from the front lines and gunfire from within the city has become part of daily life. It’s amazing how quickly you adapt to your surroundings. Misrata is starting to feel more and more like home. In Benghazi it was difficult to believe that the country was in a civil war; life had virtually returned to normal. Here in Misrata the vast majority of shops and businesses are still closed, their owners often fighting on the front lines, while signs of war are everywhere.

In case I needed any reminding that I wasn’t exactly in North Oxford any more, it came yesterday. Eamon, an Irish guy spending some time working out here, was fixing something on our roof when he noticed that our next door neighbours had a cluster bomb on their garage roof, just the other side of our garden wall. One of the guys from a demining NGO working here in Misrata agreed to dispose of it for our neighbours. When he climbed up a ladder, however, he found it wasn’t there anymore; somebody had picked it up and moved it. Not particularly clever. What didn’t help was that the owner wasn’t home and nobody had any idea where it had ended up. Unable to locate it, let alone defuse it, the demining team went home and I went next door to our house to have some lunch.

When I walked out of our front door an hour later someone I’d never met before called my name from across the road. I went over and he introduced himself as Ibrahim, originally from Sudan. Ibrahim wanted to let me know that the bomb had been found and called me into a yard across the road from our neighbour’s house. There, in all its olive green, ochre yellow lethal glory, was the cluster bomb, sitting innocently on a plastic chair. Because I’d been with the demining team an hour earlier Ibrahim assumed that I knew what to do with it, so he picked it up and tried to give it to me.

These things have a 6 metre kill radius, are banned under international law and are motion sensitive. It wasn’t something I particularly wanted to be holding in my hand, thank you very much. The look on my face must have been priceless, because Ibrahim burst out laughing; I told him he was doing a great job of looking after it, but that maybe, just maybe, it would be best if he put it down.

Like I’ve said before, this is an office job with a bit of a twist. Still yet to go to the front line though…

So I’ve been here in Libya for a month and a half now; time, most definitely, to share with people a little bit of what the hell I’m actually doing here, in both senses.

I’ll keep this brief, and go along filling in the gaps when I find both the time and the energy to write.

Quick catch up: after training in Paris I flew to Cairo, where I was marooned for a week due to some pesky little sat phones (that apparently don’t even work here in Libya. Good to know). Cairo to Benghazi, where I was based for approximately a month, and where I had to actually start doing some work. 6/7 day weeks, 12 hour working days, downtime spent downing grappa with Médécins Sans Frontières folk or on the beach. There was also a fantastic day spent with one of the drivers Maree, two of his little kiddies and Valentina, a vivacious Italian ACTED partner in crime, up in the Green Mountains visiting ancient Greek/Roman ruins.

I’m currently in Misrata, the rebel-held enclave in the west of Libya; 200km to Tripoli, considerably more to the de facto capital of Free Libya, Benghazi. The city is still accessible only by sea; to the east, south and west lie the front lines, some 35km, roughly, from the city centre. This is a place very much still at war, unlike the relatively peaceful east of the country. Shelling of the front lines can be heard from the city, as can rocket impacts when they land within the city limits. The damage, too, is comprehensive in some areas, particularly downtown along Tripoli St, the road the tanks rumbled in on when Gaddafi attempted to retake the city. Everyone here has been affected by it; all have lost someone close to them. I’ve only been here a week and in that time, in the office alone, one of the guys has lost a best friend. Today one of the drivers lost his cousin. This is no metropolis – 400,000 people tops – and it is losing on average six young men a day on the front lines. No celebratory wedding gunfire here; the bullets are for those on the front lines only.

 

So, just what am I doing in a Libyan enclave, caught up in the middle of a civil war? Good question. As to why, I guess I fancied a new challenge, something that would push me. It’s doing that, that much is for sure. And what physically am I doing? I’m in charge of Reporting, which entails writing progress updates on projects we’re doing here; helping draft proposals and concept notes for projects we’d like to implement; writing assessments about all and sundry; drafting legal contracts; revising documents. All thrilling stuff you understand. In most organisations that would be it for six months; ACTED, thankfully, likes to throw people in at the deep end, so I’ve also been proposing projects to UN staff worth $150.000 about which I know nothing; attending meetings with the head honchos of all the NGOs out here; carrying a backpack’s worth of cash from Benghazi to Misrata; developing projects of my own volition and supervising moving offices, from choosing the property right down to moving furniture etc.

 

It’s been good so far. I won’t say it hasn’t been dull at times, because it has – this is, when all’s said and done, an office job, just with more gunfire and shelling than your average one. And the stress is high; people who know me even a little bit soon realise that I’m not what you might call a workaholic, and the 12 hour days and 6 day weeks are taking their toll. But as soon as we begin implementing major projects, and as soon as I’m able to see those projects having a positive impact on people’s lives will be fantastically rewarding, in a way that securing a major new deal for a hedge fund manager or consultant could never hope to be.

All the best, more soon I promise

The flight touched down at Charles de Gaulle with it already past 11pm. The airport was virtually empty as I half ran, half stumbled my way to the bus stop, cursing my inability, despite numerous trips round the world, to pack sensibly. Did I really need my hiking boots? A tape recorder?? What the hell was I thinking – that CDs, let alone MP3s, hadn’t yet reached Libya’s shores? I arrived panting, sweating, in time to catch the last bus into Paris city centre. Conveniently, its final destination was Place de l’Opéra, just a few minutes stumble from both the ACTED offices and the hotel that they’d booked me into for my time there.

Next morning I had time to grab coffee and a croissant in a café in the Place de la Madeleine, a stone’s throw from the hotel, and marvel at my good fortune. Having spent a mere 24 hours in Paris in my first 25 years of existence, this was the second time in two months. And I’d lucked out with the location – no off the beaten track bolthole at the foot of Montmartre hill this time; I was slap bang in the heart of classy downtown Paris, as evidenced by the vast neo-Classical église in front of me – more house of gods than House of God – and the steady stream of busy, beautiful Parisians.

At half nine I was stood inside ACTED’s surprisingly small offices, awaiting further instruction alongside four other fresh faces – Pierre, off to manage a hygiene project in the world’s newest country, South Sudan; Julien and Barbara, both French and both about to do internships out in the sweaty, sultry eastern lands of the Democratic Republic of Congo; Laura, a madrileña who’d seemingly drawn the short straw in terms of excitement – working in the Paris office itself. And me, off to Libya.

The next three days were informative and hectic, in equal measure. ACTED’s history, principles, aims and practice had to be distilled into hour-long sessions; so too, did the methodology behind undertaking a project, from idea and donor proposal through to implementation, assessment and completion. It was whistle-stop, and all conducted in French, which was good practice having not used the language for far too long; pell-mell, but great fun. The other guys on the training were good people, while I had time at the end of day one to sink a few bières with Kouroush, Olly’s mate from his TEFL course who we’d met up with two months previously. And Paris is, well, Paris. An aesthete’s dream of a city, all pleasing squares, grand boulevards, gabled houses and Eiffel’s iconic monument poking its peak above the skyline, the indolent Seine coursing its way twixt the elegant banks.

Before long though it was over, done, fini. With training on the third day completed it was time to gather belongings, stow away some laptops and satellite phones HQ had entrusted me with, bound for the Libyan mission, and get myself back to the airport. Thinking it was probably best to not do the Tom usual and cut it too fine, I gave myself two and a half hours to get across the city and aboard the flight. Plenty. Unfortunately, there were a rather large number of other motorists who seemed to want to leave Paris at 6pm, so what had been half an hour on the way in turned into one and a half on the way out. I had 45 minutes before my flight left, which was faintly embarrassing. Embarking on this new, ‘time to grow up and get a serious job’ challenge, I was going to fall at the first hurdle.

I prayed for a delay, my only chance; and lo and behold, verily I say unto thee, someone listened. Delayed by an hour. I had time, even, to desperately restack my bags, so carefully and painstakingly packed the night before, in order to limbo the weight allowance. Bloody sat phones. Little did I know….

We touched down at Heathrow, and as people began to grab items from the overhead lockers I heard my name over the tannoy – “would Mr Thomas Lloyd-Jones please report to cabin crew, thankyou.” I felt like a naughty school kid. What had I done? Was I in trouble? Not only that, I had to find out who it was that had called me Thomas; someone was in line for a slapping…. I reported to the front of the plane and was directed to an official-looking lady, decked in Air France regalia, who informed me that the delay that I’d thought had saved my bacon had in fact made my connecting flight from London to Cairo unobtainable, impossible, Tantalus’ grapes. I was in Heathrow, I had over an hour before the flight left and my bags were already on their way to the new plane. Yet the answer was no.

On the plus side, I got a free night in the five-star Terminal 5 Sofitel, breakfast included. On the down side, I was in England; the ACTED HQ was in Paris and as far as anyone knew I was still due to arrive in Cairo at 4.15am, where a driver would pick me up. Oh dear. A few hours into the job and it was already time to sort things out myself, no organisational safety net now. Thankfully I got through to Ibrahim, the driver, and told him about the change of plans and change in arrival time. Step one complete. Yet the issue of my bags nagged at me. It was in exactly this kind of situation that luggage disappeared into the bowels of an airport and, disoriented, failed to resurface in the intended place. It didn’t help that I’d lost my baggage ticket stub.

Up at 6am the next morning, having only arrived the previous night at 11pm; not enough time even to make the most of the Health Spa. Time enough, though, for a big helping of breakfast – free food, possibly my favourite fricative pairing of words in our blessed language – and then back into the purgatory of Heathrow. From Terminal 5 to Terminal 2, then on Terminal 1; having flown into Terminal 3 the night before I was well and truly doing the circuit, stuck on the Heathrow carousel much like my bags. Arriving at the BMI desk I was informed by a smiling member of staff that at that moment in time I had neither a valid ticket nor any means of tracing my luggage. Fantastic.

Things improved; after a quick coffee I went back to the desk, to be greeted by better news. My ticket had been validated, ensuring me a seat on the flight to Cairo. Furthermore, it appeared that my suitcases had been tracked down and instructions relayed to have them loaded onto that same plane.  It was all going to be ok, I thought, as we took off a few hours later; I was leaving my shrouded island behind, destined for altogether hotter climes.

So this was it then, another new adventure just around the corner.  Libya this time, a country in the midst of what some referred to as a revolution, others a civil war. Either way, things were probably going to be interesting.

I was going to be doing a 6 month internship for l’Agence d’Aide à la Coopération Technique et au Développement  – let’s call them ACTED from now on – in a role mainly consisting of writing reports, donor proposals, situation assessments etc. Plenty of office time in their base in Benghazi, but also inevitably the chance to visit ongoing and planned projects in other parts of the country under rebel control, notably Ajdabiya and Misrata. A slightly surreal thought that these place names, unknown before the war but now familiar to all those who had been following events in Libya, were going to metamorphose into real, tangible cities. And that I was going to be getting to know them very well over the coming months.

From the first phone interview with ACTED to the job offer had taken 4 days; they’d given me another 10 days between finding out about the job offer and having to be in Paris for the start of three day’s training. Probably best not to let us wee little interns have too much time to think about what exactly is in store for us. Ten days in which to buy everything needed, get vaccinations, choose what to take and get the Arabic-speaking part of my brain, rusty after having lain dormant for nigh on three years, oiled up and working again. Far more important than all that though, just ten days in which to say goodbye to Oxford and all the people in that bespired city who mean so much to me and who I was going to miss badly over the coming months.

And what a send-off.  A lazy, hilarious, booze-fuelled sunny afternoon’s punting down the Cherwell with JP, Wolffy, Enoma, Megan, and Paddy. Venice can keep its dazzling waterways, Amsterdam can keep its canals; neither can compete with an afternoon of friends, food and wine aboard a punt. I fell in, getting my judgement of speed and manoeuvrability all wrong as we approached a bridge; we did a spot of bank-to-bank pinball with Enoma at the helm; with Megan punting we spent large amounts of time enjoying one particular stretch of the river, seemingly glued to the spot;  Wolffy, her throat sore, her voice lost and her memory of lyrics all askew, was doing her level best to murder a number of classic songs on the way back; JP was busy lobbing mud any which way and fending off spider’s webs lurking in the low hanging branches of trees that came our way as we neared the banks. Blissful indolence; life, in my book, as it should be lived.

There was more though; the final Friday before catching the flight a troop of us wended our merry way to Thorpe Park for a day’s unadulterated enjoyment. It was fantastic, the sheer excitement of it all bringing out everyone’s inner child; a reminder as to why nobody should ever fully grow up. And the rides weren’t bad either – Thorpe Park had obviously upped its game in recent years. Colossus, proud holder of the title for most loops on a rollercoaster, as evidenced by the guy a few seats in front whose mobile decided to make a dash for freedom as we roared along upside down. Saw, based on the film, was so good we had to do it twice. Thrills and spills accompanied by Jigsaw, he of the over-applied rouge, kindly informing us that it was “game over” and “time to die” – a charming chap. Nemesis Inferno, for which we queued for front row seats and got treated to two minutes of uninterrupted face-first adrenaline. There were others too, with drops and spins and loop de loops; the biggie however was Stealth, the one we were building up to and saving til towards the end. We timed it between a pair of sudden downpours and saved ourselves half an hour’s queueing. Onboard then, strapped in and awaiting the green light. Apparently it goes from 0 – 80km/hr in 1.9 seconds, numbers that don’t mean an awful lot until you experience them.

It went quite fast, shall we say, the G force contorting our faces like those halls of mirrors you get at the fair. A rushing blur along the straight, vertically up a 40 metre stretch, down the other side and then grinding to a shuddering halt. It was all over in less than 20 seconds. And……? We bounded out of our seats, down the ramp away from the ride and immediately, unquestioningly, in unison, without a word spoken all rushed straight back to the end of the queue to do it all over again. Addictive? You could say that.

Saturday evening rolled around; the time left before my flight was being reduced to hours, not days. The rentals were out of town, the house was free, there was only one thing for it – discozeit!  70’s music – check. Outlandishly colourful outfits – check. Discoball – hell yeah baby! The party was rockin’, virtually everyone I wanted to say goodbye to putting in an appearance. Lads from rugby, the Wine Café crowd, Natalie and her friends, Marky Bizzle with Françoise and Kerr. Garish outfits, flowing booze and floating tunes. Andy Brennan, making a one-night-only star appearance, went for the usual ‘go hard or go home’ tactic and was happily snoring upstairs by 1am. Harry Sutton, the elusive Gosford no 10, flitted in and was back out of the front door within five minutes. I think. He might have been a figment of my psychedelised imagination.

Natalie was looking absolutely breathtaking, the most beautiful girl in the party by a disco mile. Flowing blonde hair, short, figure hugging multihued dress and knee-length cowgirl boots – she was getting a lot of admiring looks. Chatting with Jez and Briggo from rugby in the hallway, they asked me why exactly I’d ended things; and looking at her standing in the kitchen, chatting to people, beaming her huge, genuine, lovely smile, I found myself unable to answer them. Yet there was Libya, just a few days away, and I knew she deserved better, deserves better, someone who’s not just going to up and leave like I have a tendency to do. I know I shouldn’t have. I know we shouldn’t have. I’d hurt her already, and was going to hurt her by walking away from Oxford, from her and what might have been. But we did. We kissed, for the first time since breaking up. And there was so much tenderness, so much genuine emotion in that shared moment that I can feel its echo even now, the memory of what was.