Spengler on Obama
Spengler at the Asia Times is uncharacteristically vituperative about Barack Obama. And we get a clue to the mysterious Spengler's real identity. He writes under an alias for the Asia Times
Spengler drops a hint about where he's been, who he knew.
The senior Obama died in a 1982 car crash. Kenyan government officials in those days normally spent their nights drinking themselves stupid at the Pan-Afrique Hotel. Two or three of them would be found with their Mercedes wrapped around a palm tree every morning. During the 1970s I came to know a number of them, mostly British-educated hollow men dying inside of their own hypocrisy and corruption.
I'll guess that Spengler once worked as a consultant for either an international aid agency or a multilateral financial institution. That's always an interesting but disillusioning experience.
Development aid to the Third World is largely a racket run for the benefit of "international staff" who revel in their quasi-diplomatic status amidst poverty so extreme they are as gods by comparison. The other major beneficiaries are the host country counterparts who shamelessly rip the development assistance off. Everybody knows and everyone plays along. It's a corrosive moral atmosphere in which hypocrisy is the principal virtue. In consequence people who work in International Development consist of two basic types. The first type is the cynical, devil-may-care consultant who never rises in the aid bureaucracy but is indispensible to getting anything done. They pointedly reject the trinkets of international bureaucracy and while young enough think they can change the system. But they always give up in the end. The second type is the anal careerist of the subcontinental sort who scrupulously claims every perk due him, from paid home leave to relocation and drapery expenses; and who is as soulless and dead as the carpet he walks upon. In contrast to the first type, they never give up, no matter what.
But living the life of the first type provides a great opportunity to absorb color. There's nothing like sitting in a home-made sauna, built by a mad Finn in the tropics to remind him of home, with the temperature turned up so high that the pitch is bubbling out of the pinewood and dripping on your hair. Then running out when you can stand no more and leaping into a swimming pool, much to the consternation of the local househelp, who can never quite get used to the antics of the mad foreigners. And then to stagger back to the bar and buddy up to a German consultant so drunk he is toasting to the Fuhrer's health and greets you as his favorite untermensch.
And then to go out into Third World night and watch the children asleep on the street unaware that the angels who are meant to guard them are forever barred from their simple dreams.