Field Notes #1 – Day Drinking as a Coping Mechanism

"Sometimes you know as soon as you get on the train that the day isn't going to get any better."
We just don't know how yet."

Following the motto "You wish, we play," the turn of the year unexpectedly led me into a notoriously sensitive operational environment.

The initial stages were predictable: standardized questions, heightened attention, and some escort until passport control. Afterwards, the usual routine of waiting times, delays, and the comforting feeling that time is a very flexible concept here.

From that point on, I decided – out of conviction or naivety – to continue along the public path into the operational field. An involuntary detour into religious symbolism inevitably followed. Commemorative culture, souvenirs made of olive wood, and spiritual significance collided with tourist remnants. Made somewhere else, sold as something meaningful.

Spiritually somewhat overwhelmed, yet with the usual political disillusionment, we continued towards the border. The entry was surprisingly uneventful. The return would later provide the necessary dramatic counterweight. But that's another story.

What remains are a few well-known truths that are reliably confirmed:

• Young lives regularly end as collateral damage of someone else's stupidity.
• The god of cash functions with astonishing reliability across religions. Faith, on the other hand, only works very selectively.
• If someone with valid papers tells you, "You're not getting back in here," then they mean it.

Consequently, in the end only restrained day drinking remained to bring the day to a somewhat socially acceptable level.

Field Notes #2 – From Rain to Rebel Situation

This time, a business trip took me to one of those cities that are reliably highlighted in red in security policy PowerPoint presentations. Somewhere in Africa. Besieged by rebels. Officially, they speak of a "volatile situation." In practice, this means: armed men, lots of rain, and surprisingly stable hotel prices.

The atmosphere was thick with tension. The heavens opened, as if to greet me personally. The eSIM, acquired with meticulous Austrian care, however, decided to adopt a neutral observer status. No network, no signal, no digital existence. My luggage also opted for strategic autonomy and ended its journey prematurely in an unknown location. Probably in a more climatically favorable environment.

Lacking a connection, I resorted to my tried-and-tested crisis routine: ten dollars, a stranger's phone, and a shred of dignity. My contact on the ground—responsible for transportation, security, and presumably also for situational optimism—unfortunately declared himself unavailable. He assured me that a taxi, despite the dangerous situation, was perfectly fine. He said this with the same reassuring matter-of-factness with which one might explain that statistics rarely reflect individual cases.

The logical step would have been to turn around. Unfortunately, "turning around" presupposes that there's another flight available to take you back. There wasn't. So, into a taxi. Sunglasses on. Following the strategic principle: "If I can't see them, they can't see me either." A security concept of impressive simplicity. Particularly effective if you're the only white person for several blocks. Camouflage through wishful thinking.

Due to a lack of clothing, I asked the driver to stop at a shopping mall. He nodded understandingly and stopped in front of a collection of structures that architecturally ranged somewhere between improvisation, survivalist squatters' block, and a DIY store's clearance section. "Look"“He said. I saw. Even through my sunglasses. And decided to postpone my fieldwork in consumer ethnology to a later date.

So, on to the hotel. An oasis of internationally standardized parallel reality: a marble lobby, the hum of generators, security checks conducted with routine indifference. And—a saving grace for civilization—a hotel boutique. I dressed myself in the finest silk lingerie. In a city under rebel siege. It was less a luxury than a quiet act of cultural self-affirmation: one can be in a geopolitically precarious position and still feel silky smooth.

The discrepancy between the situational awareness and the lobby decor could hardly have been greater. Outside, armed fragility; inside, air-conditioned stability. Two worlds, separated by a revolving door and a metal detector.

But the textile self-rescue was only the beginning. This short trip was to hold further lessons – about logistics, perception, and the astonishing human capacity to stick to meeting agendas even in precarious situations.

But that's another story.

Field Notes #3 – The Go-Pass, or $50 for Freedom

Finally, I began my journey home and entered the airport – after four security checks. You very quickly develop a sense there that leaving the country is less of a movement and more of a process.

Two young men sat before me in remarkable administrative harmony. I handed my passport to the first. He looked at me briefly, as if to make sure that I was indeed the person in the photo – or at least sufficiently similar. Then he wrote my name on a piece of paper.

He tore off the written passage and handed it to his colleague. The colleague checked the accuracy of what had just been written, stamped it, and gave a curt nod. An act was completed. Substantively meaningless, formally of considerable importance.

On to the next counter. Here too: two people, side by side. The one on the right transferred my information onto a form with three carbon copies and, with practiced ease, asked me for $50. The Go-Pass has its price – and it remains remarkably constant, regardless of the inflation rate or geopolitical situation.

I didn't get my documents back. They went to the left. There, they checked again whether the verification had been carried out correctly—and whether the $50 had actually changed hands. After successful confirmation, one of the three carbon copies was removed. Two remained. Progress through paper loss.

Only now was I allowed to go to check-in. Check in my luggage. Onward to security.

My passport played only a minor role there. The Go-Pass, on the other hand, was the star. One of the remaining carbon copies discreetly disappeared into a folder. No explanation, no comment. Just one more.

At the gate, the final stage began. Boarding commenced. Only those willing to hand over the final copy of their administrative documents were allowed onto the tarmac. I handed over the last copy.

In my mind, I was already on the plane. My journey home seemed assured. Freedom of movement restored. Contract fulfilled.

But right in front of the aircraft stairs stood another official. With his hand outstretched. He wanted to see the last piece of paper one more time – just to be sure.

A document that officially doesn't exist anywhere had taken me through more checkpoints than my passport. You don't leave a country with a ticket. You leave when every copy of your departure has been monetized and archived.

The Go-Pass is not a form. It's a business model with a stamp.

Field Notes #4 – Peace Dividend through Exhaustion

There I stood before a well-known river in the heart of Africa. Nothing but sand as far as the eye could see. Unfortunately, it was sand that had proven to be of inferior quality for construction purposes. So they resort to the material that the river releases in its shallows. Not with dredgers, not with machines – but with pure muscle power.

A man is traveling upstream in a small boat. A group of men are already waiting in the water. As soon as they arrive, they begin loading the boat. Not sparingly, but right up to the limit of its structural integrity. The water is lapping dangerously close to the gunwale. Just before the laws of physics take over, he turns back.

He doesn't dock. About ten meters from the shore, the next group is already waiting. The sand is shoveled from the boat onto flat metal trays. Others take them and carry them at a run to the shore, where they dump their load directly in front of the next layer.

She loads the sand onto donkey carts. From there, it goes to the makeshift loading ramp. More unloading. More shoveling. More loading – this time onto trucks, until they are finally ready to depart.

Between the riverbed and the truck lie five transshipments, several transfers, and roughly twenty men. At first glance, the question arises as to its purpose. Why not an excavator? Why not a pump? Why not a more efficient process? But an excavator needs fuel. Spare parts. Maintenance. Capital. Twenty men only need work.

At the end of the day, everyone earned something. A little, but enough. And they are tired.

Perhaps that is the real logic behind the system: not efficiency maximization, but risk minimization.

A kind of peace dividend through exhaustion.

Sometimes manual labor is less infrastructure than social policy. And stability doesn't come from machines, but from bodies that are engaged and fulfilled.