Thursday 20 August 2015

38. From a distance

What have these three got in common?: 
  • the Atacama Desert; 
  • butter beans; and 
  • Sir Alfred Herbert? 

I'll give you a clue: this blog-post, when it settles finally into its weighty purpose, will get  tellingly close - too close maybe - to a very tough issue.

So: what do the Atacama, butter beans and Sir Alfred have in common? 
If you need more time, then look away, because here is the answer: 
They all look better from a distance.

With the Atacama, the reason is self-evident: It’s drier than binomial distribution tables, and, (like the study of them), when you get stuck in it, it kills you. 
(I am told that, in probability theory, the binomial distribution with parameters n and p is the discrete probability distribution of the number of successes in a sequence of n independent y/n experiments, each of which yields p probability of success. See what I mean?)

To give credit where it is due, however, the Atacama is a majestic way to dry out ...




... but nevertheless is best appreciated from a considerably long way off.

A butter bean is the second example of something, which, when experienced close up, is distinctly less palatable. Fair enough, from a distance a gang of them can look dishonestly appetising …



… but inadvertently bite into one of these imposters, and your incisors feel like they’ve just got stuck into a long-abandoned mouse-nest hiding behind the lettuce. Butter beans masquerade as vegetables; they pretend to enhance good-for-you salads; they impersonate new Jersey Royal potatoes. But in fact they are nothing more than badly-packaged sawdust.




Sir Alfred Herbert is my third example of something more readily appreciable from further away. He was a 20th century Coventry philanthropist, and Officer of the Belgian Order of Leopold. (In case you are wondering, I believe that the Belgian Order of Leopold was “Apportez-moi meer chocolade”, but I am not sure.)

Sir Alfred donated an art gallery to Coventry, and within is the most stunning piece of art I have ever seen: the size of an entire wall, it depicts Sir Alfie by means of the most extraordinary and unlikely technique. Not only is it best seen from the other side of the gallery, but you actually need a video to take it in:

https://youtu.be/BfAW7aLayNg

Some things, then, are better appreciated from a distance.

Which leads me seamlessly into the next wisp of thought-vapour emanating from the spout of my ageing kettle: 

“From a distance” was the title of an iconic song of my youth.

Actually, I was 39 when it came out, but I felt young inside.
(Funny, isn’t it, how you keep on feeling 18, even when you need help putting your socks on; help hearing conversations in your garden when two bees are chatting in next-door’s; help finding your glasses when someone has left them on top of your head; and help remembering who this person is who just greeted you like an old friend, but whose face is only vaguely familiar, like a book you might have read, but didn’t.) (He’s your next-door neighbour, by the way. Also ex-rugby team-mate, who shared a desk with you at work; who carried you down to base-camp when you broke your leg on Everest; married your sister; and is godfather to three of your children. But normally he wears glasses.)



Anyway, “From a distance” was the title of an iconic song of my youth.
There’s a bit in it that goes:
“From a distance,
We are instruments
Marching in a common band,
Playing songs of hope,
Playing songs of peace,
They are the songs of every man.”

For a generation of Baby Boomers, brought up on Love-Not-War, this struck a beautiful and harmonious chord. We really did feel the hope and the peace.

But what, I now wonder, did the song mean by “from a distance”?
Did it mean from far away in space? In time? In perception?
Surely it did not mean that from a distance there was hope and peace, but when you got right up close, it turned out that there was just corruption and irreconcilable intolerance?


         
I don’t think so.
Of course, corruption and intolerance are with us always, and you will always stumble over them when trying to influence any of the world's crises. But I think perhaps that the song was saying this: there is such a thing as being too close to a problem. You only see the day-to-day frustrations; the two steps back not the three steps forward; the fly, not the ointment; the one curmudgeon, not the hundred supporters; the broken parachute, not the lovely view. (Note to self: need to work on the metaphors.)

From a distance, in other words, you can see how far we have come, rather than only how far left to go. 

So, from a distance, the EMBRACE-Tushikamane project has grown from being a shy skinny infant of a project, to a well-balanced healthy youngster, ready to leave home and set the world to rights. From a distance, we have come a long way – as chronicled in this blog, and summarised in the recent post:


However, if there is such a thing as being too close to a problem, there is also such a thing as being too far away.  

Last week, five thousand miles away in Dar Es Salaam, our new Tanzanian Project Leader was due to activate his role, with the objective of having five ‘community participation’ groups up and running by next Easter. A short time into the job, he has resigned.

From close up, this is a disaster. Who will run the project now?



A central point at issue, however, was what to do about the status quo encountered in many African schemes: corruption. The Project Leader’s proposal included the payment of ‘thank-you’ sums to village leaders, to ‘incentivise’ them to allow us into the village. Yes, really. To allow us to help them reduce maternal and child death.

Should we bribe village leaders to allow us to help bring the village into the twenty-first century? No. No!! No!!! This is not the way to lead under-resourced people into a better world. Of course, I understand that corruption not only exists, but is deeply embedded in many countries. I know that fighting it at high level is a thankless though not hopeless task. However, although it might be naïve to believe it, we are on the cusp of something new and fresh: the empowerment of women in rural impoverished communities, with the sure knowledge that this leads to betterment of village life at every level.

We have been privileged to be party to the World Health Organisation’s most modern strategy for preventing the tragic loss of mothers and children. We have been presented with all their materials and methodology. Now we are going to make it happen. Corrupt back-handers to traditional village leaders are not part of this vision, and, I firmly hope, will not only be rejected by those organising the support of the communities, but also by the communities themselves.

We have a plan B, and even as I write this, the Berega and Tunguli communities themselves are coming up with a responsible and sustainable strategy, which does not include 'incentives'. More of this in the next blog.

Managing the process from five thousand miles away has the advantage of allowing me not to be over-disconcerted by set-backs. I can see where we are going, and I know all too well how bad the problems were before we began the journey. Going back is not an option.

However, what we also need now, besides the vision and direction, is the right people in the right roles. Close to the heart of the problems, we need Tanzanians who take a dogged and courageous pride in what we hope to achieve. Rural Africans who are determined that the villages will leave far behind them both the tragedy and corruption of days gone by.

Maybe their children will look back, from a distance, and feel the warm glow expressed by a song they never heard, but maybe always knew:
  
“From a distance, there is harmony, and it echoes through the land.
It’s the hope of hopes, it’s the love of loves, it’s the heart of every man.”