Cowboys

It’s been a slow couple weeks in Juba. I was supposed to be out on mission earlier in the week, but due to circumstances outside of my control, I was never manifested on the flight and found myself grounded for another week in the capital.

I’m on the mobile protection team – a new approach to protection mainstreaming that is being led by my organization, Nonviolent Peaceforce. The idea is to integrate the protection of civilians into the overall humanitarian response in a sustained, meaningful way.

The problem is that the humanitarian sector is often preoccupied with logistics – how to get food from A to B, how many households need mosquito nets, and how to target vulnerable populations who have fled to the bush, those who are relying on emergency food strategies and sheltering under trees or in disused cattle camps.

My team will be there to make sure these logistics are incorporated in a way that humanizes the populations. Our main concern is to measure the capacities, vulnerabilities, and resiliencies of the host population in order to foster ownership and build long-lasting relationships with influential local actors.

We build the networks. We’re what Malcolm Gladwell calls “Connectors.” Ideally, those of us doing mobile protection are the “first in, last out.” We’ve joked that we’re the cowboys of the organization, flying wherever there’s need and busting our hump to establish a presence.

We don’t, however, just ride off into the sunset. When we hit the ground, we’re establishing relationships, not only with local leadership but with influential actors in the community – religious leaders, doctors, elders, teachers, business people, and women.

When a distribution finishes, we stick around to make sure that the systems serve everyone effectively, especially the most vulnerable – women, children, the elderly, and the infirm.

So you can understand the frustration that for the last week, I’ve been grounded. Insert Top Gun reference here –

I want the clip where they take away Maverick's wings for going below the hard deck, but you take what you can get, I guess. 

In all seriousness, it’s been a bit of a blessing in disguise. We’ve done a lot of the ground work that is necessary when building a team. We’ve been able to meet with others in the protection cluster to establish our mission and our responsibilities. We’ve also been able to outfit the team so that we can hit the ground running.

You’d be surprised how important this ground work is, and how little opportunity you have to do it in an emergency situation.

It’s also allowed me to spend time researching the human rights situation in the country and gain an understanding of what we will be facing in different areas of the country. Amnesty International published their report Nowhere Safe: Civilians underAttack in South Sudan a few weeks ago, around the same time that the United Nations Mission in South Sudan (UNMISS) published their Conflict in South Sudan: A Human Rights Report.

Both make for pretty grim reading. In the nearly six months since the conflict started, both government and opposition forces have committed grave human rights violations including rape, murder, targeted attacks on civilian areas of refuge including churches and medical facilities, attacks on humanitarian actors including the UN mission, and looting. Worse, these violations seem to be institutionalized on a scale and level of organization that represent crimes against humanity.

We can’t forget what that means. These are crimes so deplorable that they actually shock the conscience of humanity. They target civilian populations and serve no military objective other than to terrify and destroy innocent life.

There are, however, some gems of humanity that shine through the horror. Stories of survival buried in the narrative that allow you to believe that this conflict is anything other than madness and carnage.

From the Amnesty report –

“In the afternoon of 16 December 2013, I was at home, in the Mia Saba neighborhood, with my family. My wife and our five children were in our house and I was sitting outside under a tree with seven (male) relatives. We heard shooting nearby and I ran to a neighbour’s house. He is a Dinka soldier and a good friend. I stayed hiding in his house and we saw two Toyota pick-up trucks full of soldiers. We heard them shooting by my house… [After the soldiers left] we found that my seven relatives had been shot dead… We found my wife and children cowering terrified in the house. The soldiers had gone in and taken money, several telephones, a computer, and a TV. My neighbour took us to his home for the night and the following day he drove me, my wife and my children to the UNMISS base; he saved our lives. He knew that his colleagues had come to kill Nuer and he could not stop them but saved us by hiding us in his home” (emphasis mine).

In the midst of complete chaos, a friend helped a friend, a neighbor stood up for a neighbor despite ethnic differences. He did it at great risk to himself. There’s danger in being a ‘collaborator,’ a serious risk to your short-term well-being to preserve your own humanity.

It is ultimately why I have faith that a solution can be found in this conflict. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe that. Sometimes it’s hard to see, but then I think of two of my colleagues, national staff, one Dinka, the other Nuer. Over the course of our training, they became fast friends. We never saw one without the other. Two women who developed a bond that will long outlast the politics of the day.

It’s what gives me hope. It’s what allows me to read reports filled with horror, to suffer abuse from aggravated IDPs in the camps, men and women who have experienced traumas far outside anything I could imagine.

It is what allows me to keep going, even when I’m stuck on the ground, longing to fly.

Bringing West Africa to South Sudan

"No! You don't eat it. You just chew it."

Three of our national staff had each just taken a piece of kola nut, the hard, pink fruit that I thought was ubiquitous across Africa and cut it with a chunk of bubble gum. Three South Sudanese men, all in their late twenties, examining a chunk of kola like it was some new experimental drug.

"But it makes you drunk?" one of them asked.

"No, no. It gives you energy. Like Red Bull."

"Yes, it gives you energy!" the vendor echoed.

"But what do you do with it?"

"You chew it. But it's very bitter. And it turns your teeth orange."

"No," the vendor corrected me. "You see, it turns your teeth orange if you don't brush."

"Spit it out like gum when you're finished."

"When you're feeling it," the vendor added.

"But you don't eat it?" my colleague asked. All three were looking at me with curiosity.

"No! Guys, how am I more African than you?"

They laughed. "We don't have this one. This comes from Congo!"

"Even me," our Kenyan colleague said, "I have never had this one."

"Never?!" I asked, "But this is everywhere in West Africa!"

And suddenly, all of us were reminded of the continent's sprawling size and rich diversity.

Some of us learned that kola nuts are, in fact, disgusting.

Crossing Cultures

West Africa was my entrance to Africa. I spent nearly three years there before going anywhere else. I see similarities across the continent wherever I go. I see similar art - an 'African' aesthetic that is plied mostly to the tourist trade, wear similar fabric - the 'pagnes' that I first encountered in Niger are seen as 'traditional' throughout the continent (despite their manufacture in Hong Kong or Amsterdam), and hear similar music - the rumba rhythms from Kinshasa and hip hop beats from the likes of Nigerian group P-Square - 

The remix of P-Square's 'Chop My Money,' featuring Akon and May-D, is one of the hottest tracks in Juba at the moment. You hear it everywhere.

Despite that, I decided to ask my South Sudanese colleagues, "Do you know what they're singing about?"

They didn't, and why should they? Nigerian pidgin hasn't permeated the rest of the continent, outside the 'Little Nigeria' neighborhoods that you sometimes come across in South Africa.

Chop is a perfect example. In Nigerian (and Ghanaian) pidgin, chop means to eat. In the case of the above video, 'chop my money' means that the woman all these men are interested in excels at spending their money. 

And they don't care, because "It's your seduction that makes sure we stay in line / sexual corruption cuz I'll kill anyone for your time." There's some additional pidgin - "I know dey lie" vs "you no go believe" playing on the homonym (knowledge vs. negation) as well as a Yoruba verse that slides back into slang "Omo ele I get pepper" (Pretty baby, I'll find money).

Expanding Worlds

Let's put it this way - it is over 4000km as the crow flies from Juba to Lagos. For an American, that's roughly the same as walking New York to Los Angeles. For Europeans, imagine driving from London to Syria. Americans will likely be listening to the same music, wearing similar clothes, and eating similar foods (though I've never had California's famous Jack-in-the-Box burgers nor do I understand all the references on Portlandia). For Europeans, the differences in culture, food, history, and politics is like night and day.

For Africans, it's somewhere in the middle, I think. Similar experiences with colonialism, arbitrary borders imposed at independence, but with a few dominant cities churning out pop culture for the rest of the continent - Lagos and Nairobi being the most obvious Anglophone megacities while Abidjan, Dakar, and Kinshasa take care of the Francophone nations.

I've been lucky enough, over the past several years, to travel and explore these various worlds, and now I'm finding myself in the position of a bridge between various cultures. 

I don't by any means think I know even one percent of these various cultures I've visited, but I've picked up a little along the way. Like my wallet, I'm holding cultural currencies with bills from over twenty African nations. On my last assessment, I was equally comfortable speaking Zarma with the Nigerien security professional accompanying the UNICEF mission as I was identifying the Zimbabwean on the same mission as Shona, reminiscing about the beauty of Chimanimani, and laughing at the tragic absurdity of the hyperinflation that collapsed his country's economy.

Jack of All Trades, Master of None

Of course, there are trade-offs. As I learn more and more about the various places I've called home, I've become further disengaged from many of the cultural touchstones of people from my own world. I don't know about the latest Top 40 hit unless it crosses oceans to get played on Turkish radio. I haven't tried the newest pop-up gin bar, nor have I heard about whatever new app is allowing overburdened twenty-something professionals to find love without having to speak to strangers. 

It's alienating, but you know what? I don't think I'd have it any other way.

The First Mission

He came to us at night, half-naked, covered in dust, and breathing heavily.

"Help me! Please! They want to kill me! Please!"

I had just fallen asleep, so I was awake again in a flash.

"Zandro! Get up!" I shouted as three men ran in after him.

The largest grabbed him by the arm, was pulling on him, trying to pull him away from us.

"Wait, wait!" I shouted. I felt the stick the large man carried whip past my face as he tried to strike the man I was trying to protect. "MY FRIEND. WAIT! You've nearly hit me now."

When the belt nearly hit me, I placed myself directly between the two. One man on the ground, trying to shield his face from the blows, the other in a murderous rage.

What I didn't realize was the man doing the beating had several inches and at least 45 pounds on me. If it had been daylight, I don't know if I'd have been as quick to intervene.

___________________

It was supposed to be an easy assessment mission. We'd be providing protection support for the International Organization for Migration (IOM) in their distribution of non-food items (NFIs). IOM delivered the mosquito nets and blankets. We made sure the little old ladies didn't have to stand out in the sun too long in one of the biggest swamps in the world.

At least it's green.

Early on in our stay, however, we were approached by the local ICRC representative, who brought us a Kenyan man and a Ugandan husband and wife. They were looking to be repatriated to their home countries after months of fleeing the conflict around Malakal.

_____________________

There are things that must remain confidential. Things we know cannot be said. Things we see cannot be reported, if for no other reason then that they might put others at risk.

The Ugandan had been a merchant. He had money. Through a very circuitous path, the Ugandan found himself beaten, a gun in his mouth, forcibly marched out to the bush.

I've read far too many stories of human rights abuses in Africa to know that his story ended in anything other than murder. In Côte d'Ivoire, outside Man, I heard firsthand that both government and rebel forces had executed men outside town. Nigeria is notorious for police and military abuses that end with a "thief" shot while "trying to escape" even if his hands were bound and the bullet went through the back of his skull.

It was suicide for our Ugandan to push and try to run. It was suicide to stay and die in the bush. His potential executioners tried to wrestle him to the ground. He ran. They caught him near the river. He slipped his shirt and jumped our fence, where he'd found the people who'd promised his safety.

Four days later, we helped extract him, his wife, and the Kenyan. We got them safely aboard a helicopter to Rumbek and a plane to Juba.

At the airport, the Ugandan and the wife thanked us with shy smiles. The Kenyan, however, hugged each of us tight. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I'll never forget you. You saved my life. I'll never forget you."

He was a driver. A young guy who'd been caught up in the violence and had been running from it since. He was finally on his way back home.

__________________________

They're safe now. The three of them. There are others who aren't so lucky, who are still trapped in a sea of violence, trying to get home.

Imagine having no access to the outside world. The network is down. You haven't spoken to your family in months. They have no way of knowing whether you're alive or dead.

That's the fate of thousands throughout South Sudan at the moment, both foreign and domestic.

With this mission, we helped three find their way home.

For me, it was my first mission, a baptism by fire, as my partner Zandro put it.

I wouldn't have it any other way. 

Practice Makes Perfect

Nine and a half hours of training in the sweltering heat of Juba’s early rains is probably more than enough for most people.

But for the twenty-one of us who came to do unarmed, nonviolent civilian peacekeeping in South Sudan, in the middle of a civil war, there’s a bit more to worry about than the humidity.

We’ve spent these first few days going a bit through security risks – abductions, grenades, targeted attacks, and the near-constant presence of small arms such as pistols and assault rifles. In this, we’ve learned that much like martial arts, the best defense against these risks is to avoid confrontation in the first place.

As unarmed civilian peacekeepers, our duty is to the communities we serve. We’re not content to wait patiently behind massive walls edged with razor wire. We don’t carry weapons to defend ourselves, nor do we travel in convoys with force protection accompaniment.

Rather, we rely on our relationships within the community to keep us safe and help us in our work. If the Bible teaches to “Love thy neighbor,” then the training so far has definitely focused on “Know thy neighbor…and make sure she knows you.”

Not just your neighbor, but your community – the various shop owners in various towns, the district government officials, the police, the military, the boys in the cattle camps, the women at the well, even the armed actors on the other side.

Indeed, the guys with guns, from either side, are some of the most important contacts we have. It’s important not only that we remain nonpartisan in our work, but that we remind others of our nonpartisanship. We do this not only by working with all sides but by making sure everyone knows we work with all sides.

There are definitely performative aspects in this. It’s not enough to be nonpartisan and nonviolent. Instead, we have to broadcast – through our words and deeds in every aspect of every day to as many people as possible – that we are dedicated to reducing violent potential and safeguarding vulnerable populations.

Practicing Fear

Everyone has to start somewhere, and on our second day of training, that start was with us, as individuals. We had to break ourselves down to build ourselves up.

That’s because one of the greatest dangers to the organization and to our personal safety will most likely not come through an external threat, but through personal mistake. It is all too possible, after weeks in the field, after bearing witness to fights, death, displacement, and extreme trauma, that it will all get too much. That instead of bending, we will break.

The first step is controlling oneself in the face of danger. Focus on the breath, reduce the pulse. Above all, remain calm. The second is to recognize the danger within you, the levels that can build and build until trauma has forced you so far into a corner that you have no choice but to lash out.

Without going into too much detail, we were pushed, hit, threatened – put in simulated situations that should frighten us and asked to remain calm. It’s the training that hopefully will prepare us for similar threats in the field.

There is fear in these scenarios, even if they’re just simulations. But by focusing on one’s breath, by turning inward, by finding that core inside of you, that the threats, the hits, the abuse and humility becomes so much white noise.

Practicing Trauma

Indeed, fear was easier to confront – the external – compared to what came next. We had to face down our demons and thank them for hurting us.

Each of us was asked to remember previous trauma. Something someone said to us that hurt so deeply, that even if we forgave or forgot long ago, left a spiritual scar in its place.

We shared simple phrases with the team that we associated with those events, and then we had to walk the gauntlet.

Think of some of the most hurtful things you’ve ever heard, and then think of some of the most hurtful you yourself have ever said, whether intentionally or not.

You’re stupid. You’re lazy. You’re fucking useless. I don’t want to see you again. I never cared for you.

We each had our phrase, and we had to walk between the lines of our team members while they looked us dead in the eye and repeated the phrase back to us. Twenty other people reminding you of your trauma and throwing it in your face, and after each one, we had to thank them for the pain.

For me, the anxiety skyrocketed the closer I drew to my turn. As I began the walk, each word cut deep. But as I continued on, it had less and less of an effect on me. The trauma was still there, but it no longer owned me like it once had.

And that’s important. Because the most dangerous time could come from when someone inadvertently touches that trauma. We lash out, and conflict ensues. By accepting trauma, being grateful for it, it can no longer hurt us.

Practicing Meaning

Finally, I’ll leave with a question that was asked of us. “What is one action you have done in your life that left you feeling content and helped you to feel real meaning?”

It’s a question we can all ask ourselves, something that we don’t often do. When was that last time? What was it that you did?

Chances are, it came about through helping someone. Humans are social creatures. We thrive in our relationships and connecting with one another.

So ask yourself, “When was the last time I did something that made me feel I had done something meaningful?”

Then ask, “What’s the next thing I can do to feel that again?”

No News, Good News

I’ve spent the last five days in South Sudan, sweating my way through stiflingly hot, humid afternoons, waiting for rains that rush in on tempest winds and unleash the full force of the sky in torrential downpours.

I've been lucky to have a bit of time to adjust to the jet lag that has dogged me, a byproduct of humanity’s hubris – traveling halfway around the world in a steel tube while Disney’s Frozen plays itself out on a six by eight inch screen embedded in the seat back in front of you.

Training started unofficially with Psychological First Aid(PFA), a technique for first responders to a crisis or disaster situation. Much like physical first aid, PFA assesses needs and tries to create a safe space for victims. It is not counseling, just as first aid isn't surgery. Instead, it’s an attempt to staunch the bleeding and stabilize the individual for future healing.

The training has brought in several international staff new to the game as well as a few who have already spent several months in the field. We’re also joined by a handful of nationals, South Sudanese who are our links to other displaced persons through language, culture, and kinship.

A Good Time

I keep being told that I've ‘come at a good time.’ The rains are coming on, and for a few months at least, I’ll be battling mud and mosquitos more than sun and sand.

‘Good’ might be an overstatement though as far as work is concerned. The rainy season is coming on strong, and in only another month or so, much of the country will turn into a swampy mess. Roads flood, vehicles get stuck and break down, and incidences of malaria and water-borne diseases will rise drastically, not least in the numerous, overcrowded camps where we’ll be working.

This next month will also see some of the most intense conflict, as the opposing factions fight for land and control of key towns, bargaining chips for future negotiations. With one million or more already displaced, there will be no shortage of humanitarian need.

Indeed, the conflict has now been labeled a Level 3 humanitarian emergency, on par with the Central African Republic and Syria, which is why it has only recently landed on the international media’s radar, mercifully (I hope) displacing an extended search for a missing plane.

Safety and Security

Some have contacted me in the past few days because the recent violence has finally reached the threshold where it can be considered a ‘developing story.’

The past two weeks saw attacks and counterattacks on Bor and Bentiu, with dozens to several hundred killed. I’d just like to say that I am safe in Juba, and although there are always rumors that the rebels will make a move on the capital, I’ve been told that it is pretty unlikely at this point.

Though I will eventually ship out to a field site, and the dangers will be real, they are nothing compared to those faced by the vast majority of South Sudanese fleeing the fighting. We tend to think about bullets and bombs in conflict, but exponentially more people are killed by the hunger,disease, and lack of shelter that accompanies displacement.

What I’m trying to emphasize then is “Don’t worry about me,” and while I know that’s small consolation to those who hold me close to their hearts (here’s looking at you, family), it should also come as somewhat of a ray of light.

I have food. I have water. I have shelter. And for that, I am unbelievably lucky. More fortunate than many who have faced so much and have a long road back to normalcy, if that’s even a place that exists after civil war.

If you hear about an attack in the international media, you can rest assured that I’m fine. Because by the time it’s hit the airwaves back home, it’s already old news here. And if it’s been a while since you've heard from me or since I've last written, just tell yourself that no news is good news. 

South Sudan - The New Road

Six years ago, I left America to join the United States Peace Corps, an experience that would change everything in my life, taking me farther from home than I'd ever been before and further from anything I'd ever known.

I've been back several times since. I traveled West Africa, went back to Nigeria and my village, biked through South Africa, Lesotho, Botswana, and Zimbabwe.

It was always a lark though. Travel, never work, a distraction leading me on the path to now.

I'm leaving for South Sudan, where I'll be working with Nonviolent Peaceforce as an International Protection Officer. I'll be living and working in one of the camps for Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs), victims of what has become a full-fledged civil war only a few short years after the country gained its independence.

At the moment, upwards of 800,000 to one million people have fled their homes due to the fighting. With the rainy season coming on, the threat from malaria, dysentary, and other diseases is increased beyond belief for those crammed into overcrowded camps.

My job will be to work with vulnerable communities - conducting conflict assessments, context analyses, and liaising with local leaders and international organizations to hopefully help in some small way. I won't know more until I'm in country, and by that time, I will probably have limited to non-existent access to the Internet.

Obviously, I've had a lot on my mind. Things that I haven't even fully grappled with yet. If you have any questions, hopefully this entry can answer some of them. Apologies that this will seem very disconnected. It's hard for me to understand these things even as I write them.

1. Safety and Security

Large parts of South Sudan are currently active war zones. The rainy season will wash out roads and make heavy artillery movements difficult.

I'm not so much worried about my own safety, but that may only be because we tend to reduce risk until we face it. The most difficult aspect of preparing to leave this time around are the hidden anxieties at play among everyone I hold close and dear.

For lack of a better way to describe this, I am, essentially, going off to war, and while I won't be fighting, I will still be exposed to all the dangers that accompany conflict.

There's a scene in the HBO miniseries The Pacific, where one of the main characters is driven to the bus yard by his father. Instead of a father-son heart-to-heart, the real possibility that this could be the last they ever see of one another, the protagonist's father is complaining about the car, worrying over the engine and the money he's already paid to get it fixed.

Father and son leave on bad terms.

It's a symptom of masculinity, the inability to reach out and express concern, worry, and fear when men don't cry. The car is a distraction. It's displacement. It's a father who can't or won't express his fears and love for his son because he can't.

My last few days at home was a powder keg. My dad cursed out the neighbor over the phone. He called to apologize. I was aggravated over little decisions, like my mother's simple question over what I'd like for my last supper at home. Dad was overly concerned about how I was going to get to the airport.

They were the little microaggressions of fear and insecurity, anxiety and defensiveness that are layered beneath other arguments. And I don't know if there's any easy way to deal with them.

2. Home

When I left for Peace Corps, it was a two-year commitment. There was an understanding that it would end. There's no such guarantee this time around.

Over the last six years, I have spent several months at home between adventures and opportunities. I am so, so, so fortunate to have the ability to do that, even if (at times) it does drive me crazy to be stuck in rural Indiana.

I've been moving further and further away from the idea of America as my home over the last few years, and I think my parents have slowly, albeit painfully, realized that I am never coming back. I was gone nearly three years from January 2008 until September 2010. I was at home for several months before leaving again for Washington DC, Nigeria, London, Turkey, and South Africa. I came back for a few months before leaving again to pursue job opportunities in DC, and now I'm off for South Sudan.

I don't know where I can claim as my own anymore, and as much as I will be working with displaced people, I often feel displaced myself.

I always have a home to go back to. I know that, and I'm more fortunate than most in the world. But when you've carried your home on your back for years, the idea of permanence fades. I've begun to wonder if I'll ever find a home again, or if I've permanently ingrained mobility into my life.

It's scary to think of choosing a place when there's still so much to see.

3. Career

From everything I've read and everything I've done, this new job seems to be exactly what I want to do.

And that is the most frightening thing I've ever experienced.

What if I fail? What if I'm no good? What if everything that I've been moving towards for the past six years is broken and shattered? Where do I go then?

There's someone very special in my life who pushed me to follow my dreams. Really pushed me in ways that no one else ever has. I'm so grateful for her for that.

But following your dreams is terrifying. Because what if you succeed? The fear of failure can keep us in one place - a safe place, secure. It's easier to have dreams when you know you'll never accomplish them. But when someone presents the ladder to help you reach for the star, you begin to wonder - what happens after? Working for your dreams is work, and beyond that, there are new dreams, new things to work for.

Maybe there are some Buddhists present who can give me better answers. I should be content with what I have, right? Then why am I forever yearning?

4. Next Steps

There's so much I want to see and do in this world, and as I've gotten older, I realize that I have to make choices. Because it's nice to have all the possibilities open, but I can't sit and stare at possibilities. I have to make choices - choices that close some doors but open others. There's no looking back. As Robert Frost wrote:

Oh I kept the first [road] for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way, 
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

We often forget the last stanza. The narrator isn't saying the road less traveled was better, or that he was better for taking it. The road he took made all the difference, but still he tells it with a sigh, because he will never know truly know the difference.

Time is a river. We'll keep it in the flood. It carries us all the same.

Best to get a little bit of a swim in then, I guess.

Visit Detroit...Seriously

This post first appeared on the website of Trebuchet Magazine and can be found here: http://www.trebuchet-magazine.com/detroit-good-really/

So you’ve heard a bit about Detroit, and you’re curious to take a trip. Maybe you’ve got business in Chicago or Toronto, and you want to tack on some extra days’ vacation. Maybe you’re an urban explorer, who likes to break into abandoned buildings to relive a piece of history and photograph the decay. Or maybe you’ve gotten on the wrong Greyhound and now you’ve got an afternoon to kill and you don’t fancy spending it in the crippled shell of a Detroit bus station. Whatever the reason, worry not, there’s a place for you in Detroit.

Sports – Lions, Tigers, and Red Wings, oh my. Detroit has been a sporting city for decades now, and even though some of its teams have had some rough seasons in the past decade (the Lions are still the only football franchise to have gone completely defeated since the introduction of the sixteen-game NFL season back in 1978, and the 2003 Tigers were the third worst ball club of all time), that just means that it’s relatively easy to pick up tickets. It’s not all bad, either. The Pistons won their division four times over the past decade and picked up an NBA national championship in 2004. The Red Wings are consistently one of the best hockey teams in America, and have hoisted the Stanley Cup more than any other hockey team in America. With the construction of a new $444 million hockey arena downtown, you won’t even need to drive to get a taste of the ice.

Arts – Detroit has one of America’s cultural gems hidden amongst the grit and grime of downtown. The Detroit Institute of Arts has one of the country’s preeminent collections of post-impressionist, modern, and post-modern art. Here you’ll find everything from Van Gogh, Seurat, Cezanne, and Degas to Picasso, Matisse, and Rodin. Spend some time in the European section and you’ll come across a few paintings from Rembrandt and Rubens. A quick jaunt to the American wing will bring you a couple from Whistler and Church, while a wing dedicated to African American artists (one of the first and only curatorial departments dedicated to the subject) will open you up to a range of painters and sculptors you may never have been exposed to. Finally, one of the most important pieces to come out of the 1930s, Diego Rivera’s Detroit Industry, dominates the inner foyer and speaks to the viewer through the ages, painting a vivid scene of the intersection between capital, labor, technology, and humanity. Truly, it is a wonder to behold.

Food – If you’re in Detroit on a Saturday, head down to Eastern Market. This six-block, public, open-air market has been feeding the city since 1891, and every Saturday, hundreds of stalls compete for business with everything from food to fresh produce, cut flowers to jams and juice. Most of it comes from Michigan, Ohio, and Ontario, through there is some flown in from other, more temperate, parts of the country. Most of it is seasonal, but you’ll still be able to find some hothouse tomatoes in November, if you fancy it. For a true taste of the Midwest, head to Lafayette Coney Island where you’ll find that staple of Middle America, the chili dog, loaded down with onions, mustard, and hearty chili. There are some upscale establishments, but if you’re looking for something truly special, check out Slows Bar-B-Q, a hot stop for anyone coming through the city, with a particular focus on civic engagement. No less a vaunted publication than the New York Times has given the barbeque a write-up, highlighting it’s belief in the community and the restoration of the city.

Drink – I was a bit too poor to engage in much carousing on this latest trip, but if you, like me, are fond of the occasional dive, you could do worse than Detroit. My friends live a couple blocks from an old hole in the wall named Nancy’s Whiskey Pub. Established in 1902 in Corktown, one of Detroit’s oldest neighborhoods, Nancy’s offers live music on Friday and Saturday nights, and you won’t find a better price on beer (if you’re a fan of Pabst Blue Ribbon, that is). First timers get a free shot of whiskey, a sort of “Welcome to Hell,” that will immediately ingratiate you with all the locals. If you’re looking for some place with a bit more upscale ambience, check out the Grand Trunk Pub. There are a wealth of old speakeasies in Detroit, the Grand Trunk being one of them. All you have to do is sniff them out. Whatever you do, make sure you take a swig of local brews like those from Motor City Brewery, Bell’s, Short’s, or Dark Horse Brewing. If you’re in for something a bit softer, go for home-town originals like Vernor’s Ginger Ale or Faygo’s soda.

Architecture – During Detroit’s heyday, the city seemed to compete with Chicago for the biggest influx of art deco skyscrapers. The city has one of the country’s best collections of early 20^th century architecture. Unfortunately, most of it is in a dire state of disrepair, and many of the buildings have been slated for demolition, if the city can ever find the funds. Friends of mine know the current owner of the Book Tower, an Italian Renaissance-style building from the early 1920s. Plans are in the works to rehabilitate the building as a centerpiece of a revived downtown, though work has yet to start. The old Michigan Central Station, built in the Beaux Arts style, narrowly avoided demolition after a local resident threatened to sue, citing the National Historic Preservation Act of 1966. Plans to refurbish it as the Detroit Police Headquarters were scrapped earlier in the decade and the building remains a broken and haunting reminder of Detroit’s glory days. Finally, the Guardian Building, formerly the Union Trust Building, is a beautiful example of a wildly successful restoration, and now houses beautiful tiles from internationally known Pewabic Pottery as well as several large works by muralist Ezra Winter. Its bold art deco design as well as its close association with the city’s financial markets has earned it the nickname the Cathedral of Finance. Take a coffee in the lobby café and try not to imagine yourself as a hard-bitten detective in some gritty film noir.

Nature – You might not think it, but Detroit’s place along the river connecting Lakes Huron and Erie presents a beautiful stretch of waterfront that is hard for any other American city to match. Stuck right in the middle of the Detroit River is the 397 hectare Belle Isle State Park. Frederick Law Olmstead, who famously designed New York’s Central Park, drew up the original plans for the park, though only some of his ideas were fully incorporated. The park boasts a botanical garden, the Belle Isle Conservancy, an aquarium that has been refurbished and staffed entirely by a group of zealous volunteers, and the James Scott Memorial Fountain, which commemorates a man who no one really liked. Like everything else in Detroit, you’ll freeze in winter, but it’s perfectly brilliant from April through October.

Alternatives – Of course, there’s more than enough to keep you entertained in the city for a few days, but if you’re one to strike out on your own, then check out some of the amazing street art around Eastern Market. The Red Bull House of Art, located just around the corner from the shops, gives up-and-coming Detroit artists a chance to show off their new works. The Heidelberg Project is one man’s attempt to stave off the worst of Detroit’s collapse by building an artistic community around the abandoned houses in his neighborhood. Local resident Tyree Guyton uses everyday found objects and reconstitutes them as thematic art incorporating nearby abandoned properties. The project supports emerging artists and young adults in the inner city to challenge their perceptions on art and discover creative outlets to give back to the community. Finally, if you’re ready for a real slice of history, you can tour Ford’s River Rouge Complex, one of the oldest and largest factory complexes ever built, measuring in at over 16 million square feet of factory floor. In its prime, it operated its own dock system and boasted over 100 miles of internal rail track. During the 1920s, the factory employed over 100,000 people – a city within a city – and acted as the centerpiece for Diego Rivera’s Detroit Industry.

So, if you’ve never thought much of Detroit, let me say that now is the perfect time to think about visiting. With the city on the verge of a historic bankruptcy case, there is a real danger that Detroit will lose many of the things that make it so special. Belle Isle has already been leased off to the state of Michigan, who will oversee its transformation and restoration and inevitably charge for admission to the site, one of the few green spaces formerly freely available to inner city residents. The Detroit Institute of Arts may be forced into selling off some of its most prized possessions, including paintings from Van Gogh, Matisse, and Rembrandt, among others. Christie’s auction house has already embarked on an appraisal of the collection. The Heidelberg Project has faced numerous challenges over its 25 year history, most notably the threat of arson. The day after I was there, the House of Soul, a wood-paneled house covered in records from hundreds of various artists, burnt to the ground.

Finally, like any city on the rise, gentrification will start to take its toll on the city’s current bohemian vibe. Already, major retailers such as Whole Foods have moved into Midtown, and while we should welcome the city’s revitalization, such developments always have a price. Get in while the dirt and the grime is still a part of the city. You can’t understand Detroit without it, and once it’s gone, the city will be that much poorer.