Over the past year, I’ve had the privilege of traveling widely as part of Synaps’ work on environmental adaptation in the Middle East and North Africa. I roamed as far west as the drought-stricken olive groves of Tunisia; east through the river valleys of the Jordan, Tigris, and Euphrates; and south into the overheated techno-fantasies of Dubai and Abu Dhabi.
In all this travel, by far the most illuminating days were those I spent in remote areas far from urban centers. Part of this can be chalked up to the nature of my research topic, and the pleasure of spending time in fresh air. More fundamentally, though, getting out of cities helped me realize just how city-centric my career as a researcher has been—and how enriching it is to expand that horizon. I wanted to share a few thoughts on why those of us paid to produce knowledge often get stuck in capitals, why it matters, and how to go about branching out.
Start-up costs
There are plenty of reasons why researchers and journalists skew toward cities. In the MENA, as elsewhere, the infrastructure of knowledge production is concentrated in urban centers: universities, think tanks, media outlets, funding streams, and so on. Researchers, foreign and local alike, mostly live in cities. When we travel for work, it’s often because we’re invited to conferences… in cities. This introduces a number of costs to getting out of the urban bubble, particularly in an unfamiliar country.
Transportation. Fieldwork in the countryside usually calls for a private car: whether renting one, hiring a driver, or teaming up with a colleague who already has wheels. I’ve found renting a car and driving myself to be the cheapest, but also the most exhausting. It can also lead to misadventures, which are not always welcome on busy trips: In March, I was driving in northern Jordan and found my GPS paralyzed by Israeli scrambling. That, in turn, left me scrambling; after much stopping to ask directions, I finally began my day of meetings an hour behind schedule.
Language. More remote areas typically imply higher language barriers. I am at ease speaking Levantine Arabic, but that’s a far cry from the Bedouin dialects of the Jordanian and Iraqi hinterlands. In such cases, it helps to work with a colleague who can help untangle tricky phrases, keep up momentum in interviews, and fill gaps in fieldnotes.
Accommodation. Fieldwork far from major cities can mean spending the night in places where hotels are few or nonexistent. That, in turn, can require finding a host willing to share their couch or floor. Many are generously willing to do so, but it takes time and energy to find the right place—and to be an equally gracious guest.
Security. Large institutions often impose cumbersome regulations on staff traveling to remote areas. These are sometimes less about actual risk than about bureaucratic risk aversion. (I recently learned that some administrators call this CYA, or “cover your ass.”) But it’s true that far-flung fieldwork can pose distinctive security considerations: Showing up in a remote village inevitably draws attention. When in doubt, the surest path to success entails teaming up with a trusted colleague who knows their way around.
Payoffs
All of this makes fieldwork in remote areas a significant investment. But it’s also a worthy one, vital to understanding a whole host of topics: from environmental stress to issues of class, migration, gender, governance, and so on. While most of us are not in a position to spend weeks at a time roaming the countryside, shorter trips can also be eye-opening: illuminating local realities as much as global trends. Here, for example, are just a few of my impressions from one-night stays in southern Jordan and southern Tunisia.
Some 200 kilometers south of Amman, the windy hills around Tafilah governorate tell the story of how renewable energy infrastructure is sprouting up in far-flung areas—even as rural economies wither. A shepherd complained bitterly about the bright white wind turbines that tower above his farm. Their shoddy construction, he charged, sprayed debris across his property: Scores of his sheep died of respiratory ailments, and those left behind live in low-grade anxiety at the constant buzzing the finished turbines emit. About an hour’s drive away, in the Dana Biosphere Reserve, a 17-year-old shepherd explained how dwindling rainfall and nonexistent state support have left his flock—and his family—perennially on the edge of hunger. Like many young men in this part of the country, he waits his turn for a spot in Jordan’s bloated army.
Across the Mediterranean, Tunisia’s countryside warns of the havoc climate change may wreak in countries bereft of agricultural planning. Driving south from the capital, a sea of olive groves sprawls around the highway for kilometers on end. Healthy trees mingle with those dying of thirst. Most are rainfed, subject to the whims of increasingly scant, erratic precipitation. They are also almost entirely uninterrupted by other flora: a practice known as monocropping, which leaves crops vulnerable to disease, pests, and soil degradation—but which has nonetheless long been promoted by western donors and development banks. Some groves are ringed by walls of prickly pear cacti, many of which are being devoured by a contagious fungus. “Imagine such a disease came for the olive trees,” fretted Mongi, my Tunisian colleague and host. “This country would be ruined.”
Investing wisely
Along with all the analytical insight these visits yield, they also offer lessons on how to make the most of such outings in the future. Here are a few that have helped me.
Team up. In places that are completely unfamiliar or highly remote, I have found it essential to join forces with trusted colleagues from the country in question. This becomes more important the more variables a trip poses: long drives in peripheral areas with shoddy internet, security considerations, tough dialects, and so on. Beyond logistics and language, though, I’ve benefited immensely from working with colleagues who know more than I do about the places and topics we’re tackling. They ask questions I wouldn’t think of, add nuance, and help me learn between meetings. The right teammate thus means everything—and should be compensated accordingly.
Observe everything. Observations are an essential part of any fieldwork—see Synaps’ memo on the topic. But this goes double when the fieldwork entails driving around for hours. A car ride can be as precious as any interview, particularly when accompanied by someone who can explain the scenery. In Jordan, my colleague Ahmed helped unpack the significance of roadside quarries, dams wedged into wadis, and dramatic fluctuations between lush agricultural zones and gritty desert. In Iraq, Fahad talked me through how different villages were affected by different rounds of violence. He also explained that it’s important to wear a seatbelt at checkpoints manned by the police, but better to remove it when passing by certain militias.
Leave space. Given the resources involved, I’m always tempted to cram as much as possible into any given trip. Over time, though, I’ve realized the benefit of building empty space between meetings. That leaves cushion for getting lost, but also for improvisation: A lunch invitation can easily turn into a driving tour or an introduction to a neighbor, and the most spontaneous experiences are often the richest. I’ve also found it helps to leave a half-day empty after a round of wandering, to gather my thoughts and type notes while they’re fresh.
Mind the gaps. In cities, it’s usually easy enough to build diversity into my fieldwork: between genders, generations, social groups, and so on. Not so in rural areas, where more conservative social codes have meant my interactions are overwhelmingly male. The men I meet tend to skew toward middle age, reflecting the fact that many younger people have gravitated toward work in cities. While I’m unlikely to correct such imbalances entirely, there are ways to mitigate them: by making a conscious effort to branch out, teaming up with colleagues who are better placed to fill gaps, and by factoring such biases into my overall analysis.
Be self-aware. Finally, working in remote areas raises the stakes around “positionality”: the interpersonal and power dynamics shaped by our identity in any given interaction. Naturally, self-awareness is key to ethical research in any setting—see Synaps’ memo on ethics. But I’ve found it particularly critical in areas where my presence as an outsider is more unusual. Often, this is about meeting interlocutors wherever they are: taking ample time to explain my work, refraining from pulling out a notebook if I sense it may create anxiety, and so on. Some dynamics are trickier than others: In places where households are short on cash but rich in hospitality, visiting at lunch or dinnertime might imply being welcomed with a feast that seriously strains the hosts’ budget.
In the coming weeks I’ll be sharing more detailed takeaways from fieldwork in Tunisia, Jordan, and Iraq. Stay tuned!
Illustration credits: Email banner by Marita Kavelashvili, via Unsplash.com. Satellite image of Lake Tharthar (Iraq), via Google Earth. Jordanian wind farm / Tunisian cacti by Alex Simon.
Thought provoking Alex, thank you. The city/rural divide is likely to continue to grow? I enjoyed the vicarious pleasure of meandering these less travelled roads!