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are not making enough to pay the workers once the grant runs out?  Hey we’ll just set up a weaving group for the miners’ wives – yes I know, women’s rights, they should be allowed to work in the coal pit too – but they can sell the clothes they make and use the money to buy the coal from the men.  What do you mean clothes are cheaper and better made in India?’  At this point if you were a politician you would get lynched, but in development world, you finish your project, write a report and off you go with your bag of gold, never to be seen in those parts again.  In the West you would bring together the local business men and women, no matter how distasteful the wealth gap, and say, ‘Hey we need a new high speed rail link to Birmingham – we can work together like this, create this many jobs and we all benefit like so, cha-ching.’  The absence of strong government in developing countries meant it was all the more important to work in partnership with the local fat cats, making them see it was better for them to plough most of their earnings back into their own country, instead of a Swiss bank account.  Mahmood was just the type of man who could make a difference to his area, as long as he saw his own bread was being buttered by doing so.  He might be a bastard, but he was their bastard, and in that respect he was better than the Chinese. 
    Tim looked at the tea as Mahmood poured, trying to see how translucent it was.  The water in the area was bad, particularly due to the recent drought and people never boiled it for long enough.  Was this the cup that would get him?  For such a paranoidly fastidious guy he certainly chose the wrong profession; it was a real effort to throw caution to the wind, even just to get in a car with Asefa, and he was one of the good drivers. 
    Tim placed his cup down on the low circular brass table in front of him. “Mahmood, thank you for your hospitality.  I’m sure Asefa has explained to you why we’re here.”
    “Yes,” said Mahmood, “The Chinese and the government want to rob us from our mine and you will protect us, God willing.”
    He tried to think of a way of keeping the conversation grounded in reality. “Well not exactly.  We will do our best but what I want to start off by saying is that if the local community is organized in its demands, it stands a much better chance of getting a fairer deal from the whole situation.”
    Mahmood fidgeted uncomfortably. “That is not true Mister Tim, not true at all.  If the government wants, it will take, like it did the Ogadenee’s oil.  We are just a small people and cannot stand against the will of such men.  But with the help of the British and Allah in his wisdom, we will prevail.”  He didn’t sound convinced.
    What Mahmood was trying to achieve was unclear and Tim knew this would be difficult.  As always, he couldn’t promise him anything, so he gave the answer he always gave: “We’ll see what we can do,” and for good measure added, “Enshallah.” 
    They finished their tea and Mahmood offered to show them the mine.  Tim was apprehensive about the tour; health and safety left these parts with the last colonial canary, but like the driving, it was a risk that came with the job.
    The mine was a labyrinth of tunnels, dug into the rock over hundreds, maybe thousands of years.  After a minute’s descent in a fragile lift, suspended by a single cable, they arrived in the entrance tunnel, curving gently downwards and lined with cheap lamps, a tangle of wires and dirt.  Along one side ran a rickety conveyer belt that carried lumps of native copper up to the lift and the belching soviet era trucks waiting outside.  They followed the tunnel down and down, passing Somali workers, white from the dust and red in the eyes. 
    “They chew the khat to help them work, it keeps them awake, but now they go up for prayer,” said Mahmood, gesturing at the men as they downed tools and headed for the