Private Security: The consequences of safety

After being in Haiti for over a month, I’m beginning to realize just how much private security companies (PSC) affect the lifestyle of ex-pats. At first glance, these PSCs are a huge relief for international organizations – especially the small ones that do not have the capacity to organize their own networks and personnel. At a minimum, most provide vehicles, intelligence, drivers and bodyguards. Many however, provide services ranging from airborne logistics, to electronic surveillance, to executive protection. It was many of these companies that were the first to arrive in Haiti after the earthquake. They performed early rescues of clients and even assisted in some aid distribution (weeks after the earthquake IPOA set up a website to list all private security providers) . 

But many take issue with the private nature of these companies. Critics link PSCs to US imperialism and label their activities as “disaster profiteering”. Defenders say that they are just filling a need of the market, since the local authorities cannot be relied upon for protection. 

Indeed, a competitive market creates quality service (and the profit to go with it). But few markets are perfect, and this one is no exception. The problem of imperfect information creates an incentive to pursue two strategies: 1) overstate the dangers of the environment and 2) encourage an extreme level of protection services. 

My awareness of the first strategy began with my debriefing from the airport, where I was sternly told by a senior staff member of our PSC that 10 expats were being kidnapped per month. Since then, I have heard from multiple sources (UN Police, British Foreign Service) that the real number is about a tenth of that.

The second strategy is obvious when you start to hear about the many strict security regimes. For instance, a few NGOs have curfew beginning at 6pm and are only able to travel to restricted areas in the city. They must always have at least four people in the car (including an armed driver) and after 4pm they need to travel in convoy with another car. There is a glimpse of more rational thinking however. My NGO is more lenient on security. We have drivers during the day (accompanied by a body guard at night), who will take us virtually anywhere before 11pm. Even more relaxed, certain Latin American embassies allow their staff to own their own cars and are simply advised to follow embassy suggestions when it comes to where and when to travel.

In any case, the result is a city where few are willing to take chances, and thus very few “blancs” (Haitian term for foreigners) can be found walking the streets. It begs the question of whether an alternative approach exists. Some say that the millions spent in private security could be spent on supporting the local police forces. In addition, relaxing security regimes might mean more foreigners could be found on the streets (albeit in safe areas of town), thereby bringing foreigners and locals more in contact.

Of course, the counter argument is clear. Who is willing to give up maximum personal security for the sake of police capacity building or cultural rapprochement? Who’s to say these are even possible given Haiti’s history of corruption, poverty and international meddling. While those of us on the ground struggle with these questions, the security companies will continue to make us feel safe with them, and fearful of what may await us should we break our curfews.

Comments? Questions?

Picture from a EODT Technologies website (present in Haiti)

Fresh air

We met a smiling Richard at 6am sharp in front of our apartment. A Haitian print-shop owner in Petion-Ville, he regularly decides to skip church on Sundays and go hiking instead. He told us he has an enthusiastic but unreliable following – sometimes the group is twenty, other times just two. Today we were only joined by one other person – a young German woman named Katarina. She gently reminded him that they haven’t had 20 people for a long time. He laughed and looked down, perhaps wondering whether the hiking group’s golden age had passed.

We began our 3 hour journey by walking up and out of town. The streets were already bustling, and a colourful parade of market goodies were being walked down from the mountains, steadily balanced on human heads and donkey’s backs. As pavement turned to gravel, and gravel to dirt, the road became quieter. The cinderblock grey of the city gave way to the lush green of the Petion-Ville hills.

We continued to push uphill, putting altitude between us and the urban sprawl below. The temperature was already breaching 30*C, but the breeze was a welcome reward for our early start. By now, the road had turned into one of the many trails that web together the community. We passed simple one-room homes, vegetable fields, and communal water taps. But the perfect pastoral experience was suddenly intruded upon by a small clearing with a carpet of plastic trash. The bottles, cups, bags and cans were evidence of a rocking party last night (or was it last year?). Unsurprisingly, waste disposal is far down the priority list for the government and families alike.

The trail continued upwards, yielding amazing views of the city bordered by mountains to the north and south, the ocean to the west and plains to the east. We walked with our necks craned to the view and relied on our hearing for surprises up ahead on the curving muddy trail. “Bonjou!” was the familiar greeting from the locals. The farmers – shovels and hoes in hand - beamed smiles as they let us pass. Other locals - impeccably dressed and impossibly clean - were trotting down the trail to church. When there were no other sounds, we could hear the call of church bells for mass. But as Richard explained, this was just pre-recorded sounds over the megaphones. The few bells that existed in the area became casualties of the earthquake. Continuing on, we would here rustling beside us, and a tied-up goat or cow would be inevitably there to stare vacantly back at us.

We then came upon more buildings. The first just looked like a damaged and graffiti-marked house from a far. A closer look revealed a Voodoo place of worship. A man emerged to marshal my photo taking, and then went back to his work. The next cluster of buildings was buzzing with children. A few giggling girls darted after each other, protecting some unknown treasure. Not far away, four boys swarmed around a home-made soccer ball, only briefly looking up to greet us before returning to their game.

Richard then told us that that we were nearing the end of our loop. Our complaining legs shuddered down the mountain and we re-entered the world of rubble, cars and road-side markets. A parade of UN SUVs passed us, probably heading for some weekend hotel escape out of the city. I guess our escape had been of a different variety, one where our view of Haiti was not restricted to the view from an SUV window.

The 5000 mile diet

One night last winter as I was complaining about the lack of strawberries at the market, our Italian roommate looked confused. “What? Strawberries in the winter? You will have them in the spring” he said. Italians, as we learned during our year there, are used to eating local, fresh and seasonal food. They look forward to what each season brings and savour the ever changing tortellini stuffing knowing that it will take a full year until they can cook the same recipe. As for me, I was annoyed. I wanted strawberries in the winter and pumpkin ravioli all year long.

I had heard about the importance of eating local for environmental reasons, but as Italians constantly remind you, fresh food simply tastes better too. So I set out to learn more about food and what we eat. I read books like The Omnivore’s Dilemma, and the 100 mile diet, watched Food Inc., the No Impact movie, and Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution episodes. By the time we went back to Canada, we had started eating healthier, simpler meals.

We were determined we would try to eat local, to lower our environmental impact, and to be “environmentally friendly.” But then we decided to move to Haiti.

Yes, what you see here is the milk that we had with our cereal this morning. “Fabrique en France”-yes, it comes from across the Atlantic. Our cereal is from Memphis, the bread from the Dominican Republic, lemons from Spain, cookies from Colombia, chocolate spread from Canada and spaghetti from Mexico.

After wondering if we would have to eat rice and beans almost every day like we did in Central America, it turns out foreign workers are able to buy all the food items they are used to back home. Craving Godiva chocolate? Our supermarket has it. Aunt Jemima frozen waffles? You can find them there too.

Our dilemmas are countless. Should we be purchasing luxury items that most Haitians can’t afford? How should we consider the negative economic impact of importing goods that can often be produced locally? And what about the environmental impact of importing dairy from France?

Hopefully we will have a better insight into some of these issues by the end of this year. In the meantime, we are trying our best to buy Haitian food. As of this week our bread, coffee, cocoa and eggs are produced here. I also got some local produce at the market.

What 600 gourdes ( $15 US) can get you in the streets of Port-au-prince

For more about food and aid…

From NPR, excellent video at “The Problem With Giving Free Food To Hungry People”

From Information in Context “Why do we so often give aid in ways that do not support the local economy?”

TV advertising and the World Cup

In keeping with the soccer theme of my last post, I thought I would draw your attention to the wonderful world of Haitian TV advertising. In a poor country where most of the population never sets foot in a formal store to buy brand-name food or merchandise, it makes sense that there are few companies willing to spend the money on advertising. So after your first few World Cup soccer games, you’re guaranteed to know the five commercials by heart – cell phone, chicken stock, juice, beer, and rice. Don’t worry, there’s no risk of being tortured by those SUV commercials where the car braves jagged cliffs, rushing rivers and alpine forest without so much as a bug splat to show for it. No, here in Haiti the commercials appear limited to pretty and handsome Haitians dancing away (with one of the aforementioned products in hand) to some cheery Caribbean tune in kitchens, on beaches or in front of cement brick walls. The exception is the commercial posted here, which has quickly become the most famous interlude of the World Cup.

During the game, other ads are superimposed on the screen (think ClipArt). The most common one is a plane advertising a local airline. When Argentina began losing, the plane cheekily chugged across the screen with an Argentina flag behind, presumably as it flew the team home. At times, the commentators (two guys with a microphone in a Port-au-Prince studio) chose to add some music to the game. For example, during the last twenty minutes of the Argentina match, they played the first three bars of Andrea Bocelli’s “Time to Say Goodbye” at least 10 times. With all this going on, who needs HD and computer simulations ?

Haitian delight after Argentina gets knocked out

What's the next-best thing to a Brazil victory at the World Cup? For Haitians (and many others), the answer is simple: an Argentina loss. And make no mistake, the party on Saturday was huge in Port-au-Prince as Brazil fans celebrated their arch rivals embarrassing demise to Germany in the quarter finals. We watched the game from the common-area roof top of our apartment building. As Germany piled on each goal, a widespread roar would erupt from the adjacent neighbourhood. Yellow and green figures would dart into the streets for a passionate impromptu hug or a bouncy squealing dance. As Argentina was finally put out of their misery by the final whistle, a small group began joyously charging down the road chanting "Messi, Messi". The group, seen in the clip below, swelled with every passing house, and was by no means paying tribute to the Argentinian star. Instead, it was a mock burial ceremony represented by a dressed up figure carried on a piece of tin roofing. Ah, victory is sweet. But defeat is exhilarating.