OR/MS Today - August 2000

August 2000

Oracle

Trouble in Shangri-La

By Douglas A. Samuelson

The city lies in a valley surrounded by beautiful mountains. On clear days, the tallest mountains dominate the northern horizon. Blue, always capped in white, mostly treeless — trees will not grow at that altitude — they awe even the most cynical, world-weary travelers. Some say that simply gazing at them takes away the sins of a lifetime. At least it makes a person feel smaller, less important, and his concerns seem so, as well.

The pace of life is slower in this city, too. The cars, mostly small vehicles seemingly assembled entirely from spare parts by ingenious but unorthodox local mechanics, mingle peaceably with bicycles, mopeds and the occasional pack animal. The traffic is less regulated than in an American city, but somehow more harmonious. People simply manage to weave through the narrow, crowded streets without conflict, and that, too, makes the American visitor aware that somehow things are different here.

People say that this city and its environs were the real "Shangri-La," the peaceful paradise of legend. Officials in the tourist office are happy to encourage this legend; no doubt the tourist officers of several other localities are equally happy to assert competing claims.

"So what do you think of our city?" the local scientist asked his American visitor, an OR analyst. "Did you see the new British consul on our TV the other evening, in the news broadcast they managed to squeeze in between power blackouts, saying it was one of the most beautiful cities in the world? Do you agree?"

The American sensed a trick question and decided to employ some diplomacy of his own. "The view of the mountains really is beautiful," he said. "Maybe that's what he meant."

The local scientists guffawed. "Just what we need, another diplomat," his host laughed. "Come on, admit it. It's a dump. The air pollution keeps getting worse, buildings are falling down, we can't get streets repaired. And that British fellow couldn't have been talking about the mountains, because the haze that day was so bad you couldn't see them. Worst of all, have you heard about the water?"

"I haven't tried it," the visitor admitted. "I just assume it's a general rule in the Third World — don't drink the water unless you're sure about it, because you're likely to encounter some bacteria all the locals are used to but you're not, and — well, you know."

The smiles around the table had vanished. "You don't understand," the host said, his face a mixture of sadness and something else, perhaps a grim anger — the visitor wasn't sure. The host explained, "We can't drink it either any more."

"What happened?" the visitor exclaimed.

"A combination of too much developed-country generosity and too little foresight," the host explained. "You see, about 120 years ago, one of the Western democracies — Britain, I think — gave us a modern water and sewer system. It was an engineering marvel, the best anyone could do at the time and for a long time afterward. It was so good, in fact, that it didn't need any maintenance for a long time. So for a long time, nobody thought about ever having to maintain it!

"Indeed," he continued, "it served us well, even better than its designers could have expected. But eventually pipes burst. Slowly, quietly, the drinking water mixed with the waste water. Now our city sits on top of a giant cesspool, so extensive that we would literally have to tear down a third of the city's buildings to fix all of it. And we drink bottled water from the mountain springs outside of town."

"How awful," the American commiserated. "I've done some studies and written some articles about how you have to plan and budget for the whole life cycle of a project, not just the purchase or construction. But I've never seen anything on this scale."

"Actually, you have," the host demurred softly. "I spent several years in your country as a graduate student. You Americans think this is Shangri-La? Well, to me, 20 years ago, Shangri-La was San Francisco. It was the most beautiful, vibrant, interesting city I ever saw, and somehow everything worked. I especially liked Ghirardelli Square, a collection of shops and restaurants down near the Bay. It was a wonderful place for a poor graduate student to wander around on a Saturday evening — window-shopping, listening to the musicians who were usually playing out in the square, maybe having dinner there once in a while.

"I was back there two years ago, and I couldn't believe the change. There were maybe three restaurants open where there used to be a dozen or more, half a dozen shops where there used to be three dozen, no musicians in the square, not many people. I was curious, so I started wandering through the buildings: how is the space being used now?

"And what I saw were architects' offices, law offices, computer companies. People got so rich they were able and willing to pay premium prices just to be there, but when enough of them did that, they took away most of the reasons for being there. It was the same on Union Street, and some other places I used to love. Prosperity and popularity did what earthquakes couldn't, and now the place is just not the same!"

"So what can we do?" the American asked.

"Not much," his host replied sadly. "You can only plan so much, and then it's beyond what you can see. I can only suggest that if you do find paradise, don't try to improve it, and don't tell too many other people about it."

Douglas A. Samuelson is chief statistician for the Statistical Analysis Center of FMAS DynCorp, in Columbia, Md.; president of InfoLogix, Inc., a consulting company in Annandale, Va.; and an adjunct professor at The George Washington University.

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