Race, space and dying well

The third module of the intercultural navigators programme took me to Leicester. Why Leicester? Because next year it is projected to become the first city in the UK where the majority (i.e. white British) population will be in the minority, making it a test case for 'multiculturalism'.

We learnt about the roots of the concept of multiculturalism - 1960s Canada where the rapid influx of economic migrants forced government and academia to consider the new arrivals' impact on the wider society. We then deconstructed it's meaning and connotations, comparing it to 'multiethnicity' (which is what most people really mean when they use multicultural, as they refer not to customs and habits but ethnicity), the new vogue term, 'diversity' and its ideal outcome, 'community integration'.

We also had some fascinating discussions with two local policeman and a community cohesion officer from the local council, however these were somewhat eclipsed by the heated and heartfelt discussions that they prompted after they left. Of the three visitors, one was white, one was Asian, and one was black - incidentally all were male, highlighting another axis of inequality that's been a running theme for us - and some in the group felt that the dynamics between the visitors, and between the visitors and the group, exhibited an unspoken and underlying racial tension. It all boiled down to people from minorities sometimes feeling that they don't have the right to speak.

The comment brought interesting reactions: I along with many in the room (which was, predictably, mostly white) became instinctively defensive, however as the discussion progressed I realised that an important point had been made: that I - a white, middle class male - must accept that others may feel discriminated at times, even though I can't see it, and only by being sensitive to that can I hope to understand and help people overcome it. It wasn't about me (or anyone else) being racist, but someone taking the brave step of sharing a very personal insecurity that resonates with people from minorities around the world (it did with me when I represented an ethnic minority in Africa), and underpins so many of the challenges that modern, diverse societies face.

We also compared different views towards nationalism. Many of our group had just returned from international conferences where they had met with intercultural navigators from the other participating countries (most of them in Central and Eastern Europe), and noted the strong sense of nationalism that their peers from the new EU member states felt. The only country that was more nationalist was Ukraine, which is still in the EU's waiting room. By contrast the Brits and the Scandinavians had felt uncomfortable (as I do) discussing and enacting their national culture. This was described as 'post-nation statism', a label that struck a chord with me.

The venue for these intense discussions was, bizarrely, the National Space Centre, which is located on a bleak industrial estate on the outskirts of Leicester. Approaching on the dundering local bus, we suddenly saw an enormous transparent beehive rising from the cracked car parks and crumbling warehouses around us. As we got closer we saw that it housed two NASA rockets.

Initially I thought it slightly surreal but ultimately pointless that such a venue had been chosen. I'd never really been interested in space. But we were given an hour to wonder around the exhibits on the second day, and I soon shed my cynicism and was running around as giddily as the primary school kids that frantic teachers were trying in vain to control. There were all sorts of red buttons for me to push and simulations to experience, but my favourite part was footage showing astronauts larking about on the moon. Some of them were skipping along, enjoying the reduced gravity; one was whacking golf balls as hard as he could; another was struggling to lift machinery and flailing around as if a wearing giant sumo outfit on a budget gameshow. It looked like a lot of fun.

The most memorable exhibit was a series of astronaut profiles. Being among the most competitive professions in the world one would expect the chosen few to be high-calibre individuals, but there was one, Kalpana Chawla, who caught my attention. Predictably she was an outstanding scientist, and a dedicated servant to NASA, but unlike the others profiled who listed hobbies such as 'winter sports' and 'scuba diving', her hobby was aerobatic flying. She was the first Indian woman in space in 1997, and though one of her experiments went badly wrong, a five month investigation found that a technical error was responsible, and she was fully exonerated. This meant that she would be able to return to space, which she did in 2003, however following a successful mission her space shuttle disintegrated upon re-entering the atmosphere.

I was surprised by how much it affected me, and in the week since I read it the tragedy of her (and her six crew mates) dramatic death has stayed with me. There are many themes to draw from her extraordinary life and death - how great that an Indian woman could achieve so much, but how much easier would it have been were she a white American man; why did NASA not allow the astronauts to repair the damaged insulation before it cost the crew their lives - but I've focussed on the simple story of a person doing something that she wanted to, despite the clear risk to her life. It's been said that those who aren't willing to die for something, will fall for anything. I'm not sure I want anything enough to risk that much, but then I am only young.

Kosovo - revisited

You can tell from the passengers on the plane that this is not a normal destination. The functional, smart-casual clothes and Americanised English gave the majority of them away as 'internationals' - foreigners working for the various international organisations and multilateral institutions. The rest of the plane was filled with uniformed soldiers (Danish), a sprinkling of brave backpackers, and Kosovan expats in headscarves and flat caps. (My politically incorrect colleague expressed amusement at seeing 'farmers' in planes.)

Kosovo is a truly bewildering and fascinating place. Having been there a few weeks previously, it was nice to come back and learn a bit more about the world's youngest state.


Kosovo's independence monument

It is a place of stark contradictions: deep in an apparently intractable political quagmire, yet its capital, Pristina, exhibits an incredible dynamism and energy. People are extremely friendly, warm and open, and yet I sensed a very dark underbelly to Kosovan society, confirmed by a tale of a friend of a friend - an international - who whilst worked establishing the telecoms network following the war was spied upon and had her flat repeatedly burgled. She had lived happily in Beirut, but (understandably) couldn't handle Pristina, and left without seeing out her contract.

Kosovo, and especially Pristina, is like a Disneyland of bizarre new buildings, lending the place a surreal air. The road between the airport and Pristina is dotted with endless petrol stations and brand new, stand-alone furniture shops, with barely any stock and no customers. Foreign aid (and its illicit mistress, rampant corruption) have led to building frenzy, with little thought on their actual use. Old buildings are very hard to find in Pristina, and where they do stand they feel out of context, not least because the street level often comes halfway up the first floor.

Then there's the enormous presence of the internationals. Kosovo is a who's who of multilateral organisations. (The same un-PC colleague described it as 'Africa without blacks'.) The country's graced by the presence of UNHCR, UNDP, EU, OECD, NATO, as well as just about every international NGO, not to mention the controversial NATO force in Kosovo, K-FOR. The OECDs modern skyscraper office is such a landmark that it's proudly displayed on postcards.

The presence of so many internationals mean there are lots of very good restaurants and high-end shops in Pristina. Kosovo is one of Europe's poorest countries, but these restaurants are a haven for foreigners and wealthy locals. The conversations I overheard there were all in impeccable but clearly non-native English.

At the end of our first day's work our local partner in Kosovo, Ertjan, drove us out of the city to Germia park: the long, lush park that snakes out of the city centre to a high peak a few miles out of town. Ertjan is understandably proud of the beautiful park, though he noted with scorn that the numerous new houses scarring the pristine environment were illegal buildings. Apparently most are owned by members of government, who have no trouble in securing the necessary permissions to get away with it. Under the Serb control this never happened.

The park bore witness to the Serb's last stand in Kosovo, as the peak's panoramic views made it an obvious choice for the Serb army's command base. It also made it an easy target for the NATO forces in '99, and there are still huge craters there testifying to the size of the bombs dropped. Near the crater I saw a modest yellow sign denoting a landmine. It was the first such sign I'd ever seen and in my enthusiasm I almost bounded over to have a closer look.



The work itself went very well. Our two-day training workshop passed off successfully, despite the angry dwarf who burst in near the end to denounce virtually everyone as either corrupt, stupid or fascist. The conference we held on the final day, which aimed to strengthen the relationship between civil society and government, was a tempestuous affair, with the government representatives getting a rough ride. They responded fairly well, and I almost felt sorry for them, until I later learned that they had been guilty of a cynical piece of spin: they'd decried a recent protest in which the protesters had killed chickens by 'smashing them on the concrete' outside parliament; I later found out that actually the protesters had released 120 chickens (one for each MP in the Kosovan parliament) into the parliamentary gardens, only for them to be exterminated by government-hired pest controllers. It was a bizarre and fitting twist at the end of my brief visit.

Montenegro - redux

Just spent another five days in Montenegro - the surreal, three-year-old micro state between Croatia and Albania - running civil society development events, and it's been an interesting few days.

I flew out on my birthday, along with three senior colleagues. I managed to shake them off in order to chat with a beautiful Aussie woman on our flight. Turned out she works on private yachts as a chef, cooking for the super-rich and their guests on luxury boats. She'd just finished five months cruising the Bahamas and was about to spend another five among the Greek islands. 'Sounds incredible' I said. 'It is', she replied. 'Must pay badly', I said. 'Actually it pays really well, plus there's no tax and no living costs', she replied... I considered changing career.

The hotel were we stayed, and the events were held, is an enormous Spanish-run all-inclusive resort, of the kind one would expect to find (but probably hope to avoid) in somewhere like Torremolinos. It's got an incredible location, in the corner of a stunning bay, ringed by high mountains and right on the beach. But the place had a prison-ish vibe: it has three buildings referred to blocks A, B and C; we were shackled in irremovable plastic bracelets as we checked in to prove our mighty full-package status and claim our free drinks (in plastic cups); and we had to eat when and what we were told. The food was atrocious re-heated buffet style. The chips tasked like cold cardboard and the stews were clearly drawn from the back of the fridge with a mop before being microwaved.

The music was also torturous. They'd clearly got the DJ from Guantanamo Bay. There were just four CDs to choose from in the main pool/bar area that formed the resorts centrepiece the least bad was a Michael Jackson compilation. But not the good stuff. Tunes like 'Earthsong', which I must have heard four or five times during my first afternoon. When I asked the bartender what he was playing at, he replied that he too would not choose such bile, but it was hotel policy to give the elderly and tone-deaf customers what they wanted: nice, pleasant, inoffensive love songs.

The most amusing thing about the place was the sorry looking staff's uniforms: bright yellow waistcoats with blue and white shirts, and a blue bow tie with the company's horrible yellow star logo on each drooping side. I could see the staff cringe as they wore this cross between Butlins and smurfland outfit, and I cringed with them. And sniggered a bit.

Of course I wasn't there to moan about the food or laugh at the uniforms, but to develop civil society in order to hasten the country's accession to the EU. Easy. Well although that's the sort of grandiose claims we were forced to make when writing the project application, in reality we had much more modest ambitions: to train 20 or so NGO leaders in how to make their organisations more sustainable, and then to hold a conference gathering people from NGOs, government, and the European Commission.

It all went surprisingly well. And although we had to work in a windowless conference suite while the sun shone over an area of stunning natural beauty outside, it was made much more pleasant by the fact that Montenegrins are famously relaxed (i.e. lazy) and refuse to work after 3pm, giving us all the best part of the afternoon to enjoy the sun and the cocktails we could order by waving our stupid bracelets at the friendly but absurdly dressed waiters.

After the second day I went to speak to a group of participants who were well into their third cocktails of the afternoon, and one of them tipsily asked me my age. '26' I replied. 'Oh, I thought you were 18 [giggles all round]'. (I heard from our local partner later on that a few participants thought I was too young to be running the event, tempting me into a complex). I smiled serenely (and soberly), and walked away. But later in the day I got my revenge as the teaser - who turned out to be just 20 - asked her friend to tell me to take her for a moonlit walk. I politely declined, using the speech I had to give the next day as an excuse.

The speech started with me explaining what my organisation does, but before doing so I clarified to the audience that although I may not look it, I was old enough to drink alcohol, so if they saw me doing so after the conference they needn't worry. After all it is a young country - what were they complaining about?

On work (while I should have been there)

I skived off work today to hear Alain de Botton, the pop philosopher and writer, speak about his new book: The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work.

It was pretty interesting. He started with a brief history of the topic. Apparently the notion that work could be anything more than slavery, and could even be fulfilling, only arrived in Enlightenment of the 18th century. (At the same time the thought that one might marry for love, rather than merely practicality, or prestige, became popular.) Since then employers have striven to help us find meaning in what we do for them, lest we become bored, de-motived, and under-productive.

In researching his book, de Botton spent time with people in a range of obscure professions - including biscuit makers and rocket scientists - as well as some fairly mundane ones, and found the most motivated employees in a multinational accountancy firm. I think accountancy must be one of the dullest professions going, but apparently the big firms are so aware of the risk of being boring that they spend huge sums on state-of-the-art HR departments that have endless ways of making staff feel stimulated, appreciated and fulfillled. Scary thought.

He also explained that the recession is making people happier about their work. The new catchphrase is 'at least I have a job'. This agrees with Rousseau, who defined happiness as the relationship between ones expectations and ones situation, and so to make people happier one either improves their situation or reduces their expectations. However as a friend pointed out, many people who hate their jobs now feel stuck there as it's so hard to get another position - hardly a recipe for increased happiness.

De Botton has been called a simplifier extraordinaire, and while he is a great speaker, some of his arguments were a little facile. For example he suggested that the working class take on employment was 'pre-Enlightenment', i.e. 'work-to-live', while the middle class view on work is more about meaning, i.e. 'live-to-work'. He admitted that this was a gross generalisation, but this caveat was not enough to spare him a particularly awkward question from a self-labelled working class Irish woman who pointed out his famously priveliged background, before asking hiw views on the notion that dull jobs for the masses was part of a conspiracy to keep the proles in their place. Both de Botton and the event's egotistical Chair huffed the question away with discomfort.

Another rash claim was to suggest that while most people work to pay the bills, many also work to 'make people happy', whether that's fixing a squeeky door or feeding a starving orphan. Feeling uneasy at the incomplete picture this painted, I took my chance the ask a question - what about the darker sides of motivation: greed, competition, megalomania? His response was that while they existed, they didn't matter as only the outcomes of their toil counted, because as Adam Smith argued, the 'invisible hand' of capitalism means that the market will always find equilibrium. Well yes, but hasn't he read the news lately?

And so, feeling proud to have delivered my question fluff-free to a packed and highbrow audience (my achievement of the day), I trudged out into the rain and considered going for a coffee to think through the various ideas I'd just heard. But then I realised that I should really get back to work.

Eager beavers in Newcastle

I used to spend weekends lying in, relaxing and recharging my batteries. Yet I've just spent my weekend, like many before and many to come, crossing the country to work two full days, for free. Sometimes I think I'm mad.

I was in Newcastle, one of 20 facilitators running a training weekend for 40 young people that we'll be sending to Africa for volunteering projects this summer, with an organisation called Tenteleni.

Every time I do it, such weekends confusingly leave me both exhausted and totally invigorated. The 'vols' are always good fun: their energy and creativity, born of youthful vigour and employed like its going out of fashion, make me feel increasingly, hopelessly ancient. Rather than mourning my loss of joyous naivety, I rejoice in theirs. They may be wet behind the ears, but they are a bright, sparky bunch, and they will go down well with our African partners.

The best conference in the world?

It promised to be the conference to end all conferences: 2500 high-level businesspeople from across Europe gathering to hear dozens of VIPs speak in a lavish two-day event.

The first day's agenda included no fewer than three heads of state, as well as a dozen European Commissioners, and President Barroso. The venue was the European Business Summit, in Brussels.

The main topic of conversation was, surprise surprise, the recession. The first plenary included a speech by the dry-as-dust Belgian PM. Belgium, on account of its crippling internal division and infamous inability to form a government, has been referred to as the world's most successful failed state, so I wasn't sure how seriously to take his unimpressive boasts. I was about to nod off until he delivered the most embarrassing moment of the conference by ending his speech with a meek nod to Obama: "Can Europe overcome the recession. I say 'yes we can'." I felt half the audience groan.

Unfortunately this set the tone for a series of extremely dull speeches about the recession, and the dangers of protectionist measures being adopted. There was a lot of pro-European, anti-American smugness on display. Vision and charisma were sadly in short supply.

It turned out that nobody there was particularly interested in us either. As one of the only civil society groups there, and a fairly small one at that, it took just a few seconds of our elevator pitch before those we spoke to realised that they were wasting their time, as they were not going to make money out of us.

Following more short conversations and dull contributions from heads of state - the Czech PM, having resigned two days prior to the event, had his awkward deputy explain his recent controversies; the Turkish president mumbled about why Turkey should join the EU - things finally got interesting, with the onset of the cocktail reception.

As we hungrily gobbled the surprisingly few canapes that made their way to our perch, Carlo and I saw what must have been the youngest delegate at the conference, an unimpressed 15 year old boy in a suit ambling through the crowds. I wondered who would pay the €2,500 conference fee to have their bored kid there, but as Carlo explained, for the ruling classes it's essential to thrive in this kind of absurd environment. By the time he's 18 that guy will be running events like this.

After some trial and error we found the perfect spot to catch the waiters on their way from the kitchen, allowing us our pick of snacks and instant access to the endless supply of champagne. I was starting to enjoy being off duty, until Carlo pointed out a familiar face, sitting alone in the corner.

Will Hutton is one of the few authors that I can say changed my life. When I was 17 I read his tome on global capitalism, The World We're In, and it ignited my interest in geopolitics and worldwide inequality. And here I was, about to say hi. As we walked over to him I started to get nervous.

He was very friendly, and the three of us chatted for a few minutes. He came across as a true intellectual: relaxed, sharp, and with a power-play anecdote for any occasion. He casually described introducing Gordon Brown to Ed Balls (arguably now the real deputy PM), and described how New Labour came five years too late. I was hanging off his every word like a giddy schoolboy meeting his favourite footballer, until we got to the front of the queue to the gala dinner, and Carlo and I were asked for special tickets that we didn't know we needed. Will Hutton waved goodbye and casually wondered in, as we were escorted back out by the polite but assertive ushers.

In the end we managed to con our way in, and with some further creative honesty managed to get a seat at one of the sponsors' tables. But it was barely worth it. The food was good, but not great. Our company on the table - a Belgian consultant and fellow gatecrasher - was as dull as his PM. In the end it was probably not the best conference in the world.

Where the hell is Llangrannog?

I didn't think places like this existed in the UK: undulating green hills diving into a rugged, rocky coast; a contented, modest and extremely sparse population; and severe physical isolation due to the region's poor transport links. It seemed like a place of the past, or abroad, or both.

And another country is exactly what it is. English is the second tongue of the local people I met, their daily conversation marked by the throaty growls and sing-song tones of the resurgent Welsh language. The Welsh Assembly Members we met, proudly describing themselves and nationalists (and feminists), made it very clear that Wales is now ready to stand alone. Indeed its politics, though heavily restricted by Westminster, is commendably progressive - the WA was the first 'parliament' in the world to achieve gender equality in 2006, when 30 of its 60 members were female.

I was in Wales as part of a British Council programme called 'Intercultural Navigators' (ICN). I've never seen myself as an intercultural navigator, 'young leader', or 'change maker', but according to the British Council that's what I am. Whilst the buzzwords make me gag, I was very impressed by the group of people that had been selected. Aged between 19 and 27, every individual in our group of 24 (which includes just five men) is extremely sharp, pro-active, open and humble. The group is also impressively diverse: everyone has a unique story to tell, and almost every demographic has been ticked.

It was an intense two days - physically, emotionally and intellectually demanding. Everyone has so many interesting things to share that almost every conversation was fascinating, but full on. I've learnt some useful new perspectives. For example, I have eaten communal meals with my hands before, in Tanzania, and India. But I'd never before considered that eating in this way builds trust because of the very physical and immediate form of sharing. At the very least it requires trusting that one's fellow diners have adequate hygiene. I'm very grateful to my Congolese fellow group member for this insight, which will help to change how I think about 'other' cultures.

The British Council has convened groups across Europe, and we are the UK's ICN group. Each national group will meet four times, before joining the other groups in an international conference. The programme aims to equip the next generation of leaders to address the challenges of the dynamic, modern and globalised 21st century.

It's an exciting programme, and I can learn a lot from the rest of the group. I'm lookin forward to the next module, even though the first meeting started with disaster. Following our meeting with the sparky Assembly Members in Cardiff we took a bus to Llangrannog, which should take two hours. Unfortunately our driver had other ideas and took us to the opposite end of the country. We finally arrived after midnight, following a gruelling six and a half hours on the road. How ironic that a group of navigators suffer poor navigation!