All Americans, although reluctantly, agree that the British accent is better in nearly every way. A British person who comes to the States is generally lauded for his cutting wit and inexhaustible charm, and a Brit will always have the upper hand on an American in wooing the ladies, despite how crooked his teeth may be. We may joke at how they call a “flashlight” a “torch” and the funny way they say “herb” by distinctly pronouncing the “h”, but there is no doubt the American accent is inferior.
Kenya was a British colony for a long time, and has therefore been subjected to the British way of speaking. But because English tends to be taught as a third language to many Kenyans, it becomes incorrigibly altered and twisted in the most interesting ways.
A few examples of this interesting fusion: In Mombasa there is a place called “Marikiti” pronounced “Mar-ee-key-tee.” It is a place where many people come to sell their produce and their goods. Only later did I find out that the name is actually supposed to be “Market” but it was just spoken in a Swahili accent, and the name stuck. As another example, I was looking over the attendance list of a woman's group, where each woman was required to write their name and sign. Some of these women have not had much schooling, and one particular lady named “Caroline” wrote her name as “Rarolini” or “Ra-row-lee-nee.” Because people pronounce her name “Rarolini,” she wrote her name as she thought it to be spelled. It sounded more like a type of pasta than a name, and I couldn't help but think it was the cutest thing ever.
Certain tribal languages in Kenya often mix and match the “L” and the “R” sounds. Kikuyu people especially have a difficult time saying words like “Large Ladders” or “Parallelogram”. But my favorite is how people call semi-trucks “Rollies.” The British term for semi's is “lorries,” but because of this L-R confusion, it comes out perhaps more appropriately as "rollies" - Those semi's do have lots of wheels.
But sometimes this dependence on phonetics becomes a barrier to communication.
I walked up to the taxi driver and I asked him in Swahili to take me to the “Leopard Lodge,” which I said in English. He looked at me as if he had no idea what I was saying. I was amazed to think he did not know of the place. Taxi drivers usually have an incredible working knowledge of their area, and I had just seen a massive sign with the “Leopard Lodge” written on it, so the place was definitely not obscure. I repeated myself, speaking very slowly this time. Still, he looked at me puzzlingly, trying to mimic the name I was saying. At last I just said the Swahili word for “Leopard” and he then looks at me with an eased expression, “Ohhhh,” he breathed. “You want the Lay-oh-pard Lodge.” I chuckled as I heard him pronounce it. I had forgotten that the Kenyan way of saying English words is to pronounce every single letter, so he could not at all make out the way I was saying it: “lep-rrd.”
The other day I asked my counterpart if she was going to watch the meteor shower at night these coming nights. It was supposed to be one of the biggest showers of the year, and it was to be visible in the southern hemisphere. My counterpart is very fluent in English, yet she still looked at me completely confused. “What am I going to look out for tonight?” she asked worriedly.
“The meteor shower!” I said again.
“What?”
“Meteor. Shower.”
“The meat, what?” She repeated, exasperated.
“Do you know what meteor is? Here let me write it down.”
I wrote it down. M-E-T-E-O-R. S-H-O...
“Ooohh. May-tay-or!” She exclaimed, as she saw the first word completely written.
“Ah, yes. May-tay-or. Sorry!” I laughed again to myself. The way we Americans pronounce meteor is more like, “meet-ear” so it is no wonder others cannot understand us.
Some other words that are unintelligible if pronounced in an American accent are: tortoise (tore-toy-see, buffalo (boo-fallow), ballet (bah-let), and any word that ends with a hard “R”: gutter, robber, roar (gut-ah, row-bah, row-ah).
We may all agree that the Spanish accent is passionate and fierce, the French accent is sexy and lyrical, and the Italian accent fantastic. But there is no other accent in the world as phonetically dependent as the Kenyan English accent. And it still beats the American accent hands down.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Saturday, September 17, 2011
The Silence Screams
She is 14 years old. A school girl. Her 20-liter jerry-can hangs awkwardly from her back. It is too late to fetch water; the road is hard to see and the wind howls furiously. She walks briskly, staggering under the weight of the water she carries back to her house. The sun has set, the last traces of light momentarily linger on the hills and the horizon. Dusk yields itself to darkness as she trudges home. This night in particular is especially dark, as if evil itself were casting its shadow over the village and infecting the hearts of the villagers with its sinister intentions. Perhaps it was.
He creeps up silently, and without warning grabs her. His large hand holds fast to her thin arms, his rough skin feels violent against hers. His other hand forcefully muffles her surprised and horrified screams. Abrasive. Suffocating. He carries her to a nearby shack, pins her to the ground and lifts her skirt. She struggles in vain, feeling suddenly vulnerable and completely exposed. One minute passes. Two minutes. Each minute longer than the last. The darkness conceals his face, saving her from witnessing his lips quiver with contorted pleasure from each forceful, unsolicited thrust, In just minutes he finishes, fixes his trousers and disappears into the darkness. She lays there shaking, gasping for breath.
Her feelings twist and wrench inside her. Dutifully, she returns home with her jerry-can full of water, unsure of how to feel; unsure if she should scream, or shout, or swear-- unsure if she should cry. As she looks into her mother's weary eyes, her lips tremble as if longing to say, “Mother, I was raped.” but the mere thought of those words felt suddenly so shameful, so absurd. She doesn't sleep at all this night, she just lies awake shaking, recounting again and again how it happened. Thinking how she ought to have covered her legs more, worn more conservative clothing. Thinking how she should not have been walking so slowly, how her laziness was to blame. Perhaps it was her fault.
Her eyes are empty now. It is innocence that causes the spark and vibrancy in young souls; it is innocence that burgeons the wonder and excitement just to be alive. But hers are empty. Inside them only silence. He took it all from her. He stole from her the very things she had not yet known were sacred – her innocence, her dignity, her confidence, her future.
But this girl is not the only victim. Another girl, the youngest of four daughters. Her body has just begun to show the signs of woman-hood. Her three older sisters have already been victim to their very own father's lust. Now, he is after her. Her mother knows, and sternly instructs the sisters to keep family matters private. Should word get out to others in the area about the father's behavior, it will be hell to pay for them all. “Don't be with Father alone,” one of her older sisters advise. She knows her inevitable fate, that soon she will be raped by her father. But she's not sure she wants to be. Frightened, suffocating – in her own home she moves about like a thief in the night. Her father, the very person who represents protection and security for young daughters, represents for her the most frightening figure in her life.
Still another. She was three years old. Grandfather would place her on his lap, and while doing so, he would lift up his shuka and insert himself subtly into her. Her shrill screams were dismissed as the usual whine of a child. Nobody knew. Nobody understood why she would cry when they told her to go to Grampa. She was a three-year old without her virginity. Those memories seared into her mind, traumatizing her from childhood through adolescence. She bore her burden in silence.
The stories are innumerable.
With all these girls and women, the echoes of their pain linger in contrived laughter, and memories from the past stalk them like their own shadows. The fear of being shamed, the judgment from their families and peers, the view that they are no longer pure – too many reasons to keep from speaking out and opening up to others. They suffer alone with a burden that is too heavy for one person to bear.
Their silence is suffocating.
90 of 100 cases of rape are not reported. 90% of the time rapists in Kenya go free from their crime. In the goodness of all our consciences, we scream for justice. It is difficult to think of a single act more evil than rape and incest, how in just minutes rapists can take away the entire future of their victims.
My heart cries for all the girls, and it burns angrily for those who make these girls subject to their sick lust. One does not understand the sheer gravity of rape until one becomes its victim. And in these victims' eyes is a longing for help, a cry to just be understood. In their eyes they are searching furiously for normalcy, for refuge.
In their eyes, the silence screams.
He creeps up silently, and without warning grabs her. His large hand holds fast to her thin arms, his rough skin feels violent against hers. His other hand forcefully muffles her surprised and horrified screams. Abrasive. Suffocating. He carries her to a nearby shack, pins her to the ground and lifts her skirt. She struggles in vain, feeling suddenly vulnerable and completely exposed. One minute passes. Two minutes. Each minute longer than the last. The darkness conceals his face, saving her from witnessing his lips quiver with contorted pleasure from each forceful, unsolicited thrust, In just minutes he finishes, fixes his trousers and disappears into the darkness. She lays there shaking, gasping for breath.
Her feelings twist and wrench inside her. Dutifully, she returns home with her jerry-can full of water, unsure of how to feel; unsure if she should scream, or shout, or swear-- unsure if she should cry. As she looks into her mother's weary eyes, her lips tremble as if longing to say, “Mother, I was raped.” but the mere thought of those words felt suddenly so shameful, so absurd. She doesn't sleep at all this night, she just lies awake shaking, recounting again and again how it happened. Thinking how she ought to have covered her legs more, worn more conservative clothing. Thinking how she should not have been walking so slowly, how her laziness was to blame. Perhaps it was her fault.
Her eyes are empty now. It is innocence that causes the spark and vibrancy in young souls; it is innocence that burgeons the wonder and excitement just to be alive. But hers are empty. Inside them only silence. He took it all from her. He stole from her the very things she had not yet known were sacred – her innocence, her dignity, her confidence, her future.
But this girl is not the only victim. Another girl, the youngest of four daughters. Her body has just begun to show the signs of woman-hood. Her three older sisters have already been victim to their very own father's lust. Now, he is after her. Her mother knows, and sternly instructs the sisters to keep family matters private. Should word get out to others in the area about the father's behavior, it will be hell to pay for them all. “Don't be with Father alone,” one of her older sisters advise. She knows her inevitable fate, that soon she will be raped by her father. But she's not sure she wants to be. Frightened, suffocating – in her own home she moves about like a thief in the night. Her father, the very person who represents protection and security for young daughters, represents for her the most frightening figure in her life.
Still another. She was three years old. Grandfather would place her on his lap, and while doing so, he would lift up his shuka and insert himself subtly into her. Her shrill screams were dismissed as the usual whine of a child. Nobody knew. Nobody understood why she would cry when they told her to go to Grampa. She was a three-year old without her virginity. Those memories seared into her mind, traumatizing her from childhood through adolescence. She bore her burden in silence.
The stories are innumerable.
With all these girls and women, the echoes of their pain linger in contrived laughter, and memories from the past stalk them like their own shadows. The fear of being shamed, the judgment from their families and peers, the view that they are no longer pure – too many reasons to keep from speaking out and opening up to others. They suffer alone with a burden that is too heavy for one person to bear.
Their silence is suffocating.
90 of 100 cases of rape are not reported. 90% of the time rapists in Kenya go free from their crime. In the goodness of all our consciences, we scream for justice. It is difficult to think of a single act more evil than rape and incest, how in just minutes rapists can take away the entire future of their victims.
My heart cries for all the girls, and it burns angrily for those who make these girls subject to their sick lust. One does not understand the sheer gravity of rape until one becomes its victim. And in these victims' eyes is a longing for help, a cry to just be understood. In their eyes they are searching furiously for normalcy, for refuge.
In their eyes, the silence screams.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
The Duke of Titles
During some swimming competitions, swimmers may be asked for a “bio” or “history of accomplishments” so they can be read as the swimmer's name is announced. Perhaps if someone was National Champion in a certain swimming race, it would be a perfect title to jot down on the bio. Being a swimmer, I also turned in my fair share of bios, and one of my favorite things to do was to write interesting (yet true) facts about myself which have nothing really related to swimming. For example: Ranked 1st on the Cal Men's Swim team in table tennis, or 2nd place in the county spelling bee competitions in the Second Grade.
Now that I have been in Kenya for over a year, I have broadened my repertoire of skills. Here is a list of titles I can now claim upon myself, surely many of them will be very handy on a resume.
The Dung Decipherer. Whether it be a cow, goat, chicken, elephant, camel, buffalo, monkey, dog, or human, either by size or by shape and texture I have the ability to tell which animal has taken a poo. I can even give a list of uses for many of the dungs I come across.
The Green Thumb: Even without much water, my small backyard garden is showing healthy, consistent growth of tomato and kale plants. Just being among the growing vegetables gives me a sense of accomplishment, and the first time I picked and prepared vegetables for a meal entirely from my garden, I felt more proud of myself than anyone rightfully should.
The Drip Irrigator. The benefits a farmer has by implementing a drip irrigation system are substantial: less water use, better crops, preservation of the soil. The biggest negative aspect, especially for poorer farmers, is the high costs involved. One way to get around these high costs is to assemble one yourself. And I have done that. Just a bucket, a ½ inch rubber hose, a needle, a lighter, and a few plastic plugs will water 80 crops with less than $20. Now if only there was some water to put in to the bucket...
The Charcoal Maker. A very handy trick for all the times the charcoal runs out at a barbecue. With just a 200 liter metal drum, any solid biomass, and 3 hours, some fresh charcoal will be ready for use.
The Iron Stomach. When we first arrived in Kenya, the medical team warned us never to go without treating the water and always encouraged us to soak vegetables for at least 20 minutes in chlorinated water if they are to be eaten raw. After one year and some months here, I eat raw fruits and vegetables sometimes without even rinsing them, even straight from the garden. Many people I know observe the “5-second rule” where any piece of food, if dropped on the floor, is still edible if recovered within five seconds. But I dare to extend my rule...to a few days. I feel like I could drink from a dirty puddle and come away unaffected.
The Masaai Bead Weaver. Recently, a fellow volunteer taught me how to weave bead bracelets like a Maasai, and now I am teaching anyone in my village who wants to know how to do it. I was teaching one specific group of former sex workers how to make these beads, and among their group was a Maasai woman. I grinned at the irony of teaching a Maasai the very skill they are famous for – especially because I represent the demographic that purchases these beads at extraordinary prices.
The Water Harvester: Perhaps this is more of an unhealthy complex now, but any drop of rainfall from my roof puts me all hands on deck trying to save that water as if it were my very child falling to her death. Once, it started raining when I was at work. I looked outside and saw the dark clouds extending as far as I could see, so I assumed it was raining ten kilometers down the road where I lived. I instantly dropped everything I was doing, saddled up on my bicycle and furiously pedaled home so I could put my buckets, basins, and pots out under my roof. I don't think I ever cycled home so quickly, and though both my backpack and I were thoroughly soaked, it was worth it.
The Sound Sleeper: One year has thankfully granted me immunity to the morning rooster crow. I know other volunteers live near more difficult animals (donkeys in the morning could substitute large church bells), but I soundly catch my Z's until my body naturally wakes me up – at 7:30am.
It's too bad I don't have another opportunity at those swimming bios. I would have quite a few more titles to put down.
Now that I have been in Kenya for over a year, I have broadened my repertoire of skills. Here is a list of titles I can now claim upon myself, surely many of them will be very handy on a resume.
The Dung Decipherer. Whether it be a cow, goat, chicken, elephant, camel, buffalo, monkey, dog, or human, either by size or by shape and texture I have the ability to tell which animal has taken a poo. I can even give a list of uses for many of the dungs I come across.
The Green Thumb: Even without much water, my small backyard garden is showing healthy, consistent growth of tomato and kale plants. Just being among the growing vegetables gives me a sense of accomplishment, and the first time I picked and prepared vegetables for a meal entirely from my garden, I felt more proud of myself than anyone rightfully should.
The Drip Irrigator. The benefits a farmer has by implementing a drip irrigation system are substantial: less water use, better crops, preservation of the soil. The biggest negative aspect, especially for poorer farmers, is the high costs involved. One way to get around these high costs is to assemble one yourself. And I have done that. Just a bucket, a ½ inch rubber hose, a needle, a lighter, and a few plastic plugs will water 80 crops with less than $20. Now if only there was some water to put in to the bucket...
The Charcoal Maker. A very handy trick for all the times the charcoal runs out at a barbecue. With just a 200 liter metal drum, any solid biomass, and 3 hours, some fresh charcoal will be ready for use.
The Iron Stomach. When we first arrived in Kenya, the medical team warned us never to go without treating the water and always encouraged us to soak vegetables for at least 20 minutes in chlorinated water if they are to be eaten raw. After one year and some months here, I eat raw fruits and vegetables sometimes without even rinsing them, even straight from the garden. Many people I know observe the “5-second rule” where any piece of food, if dropped on the floor, is still edible if recovered within five seconds. But I dare to extend my rule...to a few days. I feel like I could drink from a dirty puddle and come away unaffected.
The Masaai Bead Weaver. Recently, a fellow volunteer taught me how to weave bead bracelets like a Maasai, and now I am teaching anyone in my village who wants to know how to do it. I was teaching one specific group of former sex workers how to make these beads, and among their group was a Maasai woman. I grinned at the irony of teaching a Maasai the very skill they are famous for – especially because I represent the demographic that purchases these beads at extraordinary prices.
The Water Harvester: Perhaps this is more of an unhealthy complex now, but any drop of rainfall from my roof puts me all hands on deck trying to save that water as if it were my very child falling to her death. Once, it started raining when I was at work. I looked outside and saw the dark clouds extending as far as I could see, so I assumed it was raining ten kilometers down the road where I lived. I instantly dropped everything I was doing, saddled up on my bicycle and furiously pedaled home so I could put my buckets, basins, and pots out under my roof. I don't think I ever cycled home so quickly, and though both my backpack and I were thoroughly soaked, it was worth it.
The Sound Sleeper: One year has thankfully granted me immunity to the morning rooster crow. I know other volunteers live near more difficult animals (donkeys in the morning could substitute large church bells), but I soundly catch my Z's until my body naturally wakes me up – at 7:30am.
It's too bad I don't have another opportunity at those swimming bios. I would have quite a few more titles to put down.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Just Pictures (Part 2)
During the rainy season, sometimes the roads get a bit muddy for the public transportation system. As we climbed up a hill, twice we all had to get out and help push the matatu forward. Although not depicted in this picture, it was interesting watching big, well dressed mamas pushing the vehicle through the mud.
It is a bicycle pump.
A very old grandmother without teeth building a grass-thatched roof for a small hut. Her small cell-phone pouch she wears around her neck has the words "Jesus Loves You" written on it. I love this lady.
During a trash clean up project, I had the kids make art shapes out of bottle caps. Displayed here are two students proudly showing their bottle-cap elephant.
In the background of this photo are rare African Violets. Our tour guide informed us that this rare spot up in the Taita Hills is the only place in the world these precious flowers grow, so obviously I had to put my face next to them for a picture.
A Kenyan eating contest - 300ml of coke and 200 grams of bread. The winner of this contest was a woman.
Two women gathering grasses for their livestock. The women here can carry unimaginable quantities on their heads.
This "poster" hangs in a nursery school as a reference for the children to learn the English names of different items. Interestingly enough, the English word: "cooking pot" or "pot" was substituted for the Swahili word "Sufuria". I would think "pot" would be a little easier to learn.
This is a natural rock water catchment that stores the rain water. The small wall was built in 1961 by the inhabitants, and has served the community without fail until 2010, when a small leak was found and repaired. Now there is talk of building the wall higher and increasing its storage.
Here a teacher stands with some students during a sanitary pad making project. The teachers are always exquisitely dressed in the local patterns and fashions, and the students are always in uniform. Beautiful.
Just Pictures (Part 1)
Maasai. Beautiful. The most traditional and most displayed culture in Kenya, showcased on all travel brochures. Here they are performing a traditional maasai dance during Madaraka Day.
My evening bike ride home with the sun setting on my right shoulder. When I am late heading home, my silhouette keeps me company.
During the track/field village competitions, a student from our local school is performing the shot put.
An overturned truck seen along the Nairobi-Mombasa highway. Unfortunately this is a fairly frequent sight.
The water problem in my area. Women with their jerry cans line up behind a water truck, patiently awaiting their turn for water. These water trucks are a rare blessing, usually the people must walk miles and miles with only as much as they can carry. This truck has saved many of these women about 6 hours of walking.
Some nearly naked children playfully jump into the channel where the ferry crosses. Hopefully they don't venture too far out; sharks and other dangerous aquatic life are said to roam these waters.
The "Anti-Corruption Box" displayed on many government buildings around Kenya. Kenyans understand the biggest problem in their country is the corruption of government employees, so these "suggestion/question" boxes are an effort to keep them walking the straight line.
This is a traditional Duruma house, made with grass roofing and wooden beams and clay. A family of 9 live inside this home.
Roasting marshmallows in my room with all the kids from my compound. There's nothing like a roasted marshmallow to melt away all one's troubles, and it's times like these I will never forget.
A home made drip irrigation kit. It was quite a celebration when we poured water in it and realized the water was actually coming out of the tubes.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
On Youth And Savings: An Essay
It was midday Friday in East Africa, the hot equatorial sun oppressively cast its heat on the small truck-stop town. A group of teenagers sat idly near their motorcycles at the public transport stage, chewing khat and waiting for customers. As I walked by they hailed me down, wondering if I needed a ride. I stopped and sat next to one of the youth, greeting him in the local slang. A conversation ensued.
“So why do you use this stuff?” I asked, motioning to his handful of khat, a natural stimulant which causes insomnia and mouth cancer after extended use.
“Do you know the way it makes your penis stand?” He said vulgarly. “I can pop six times in one night. I keep going and going...you know...even until the girl cries for mercy.”
He looked at me with an ugly smile; the khat stuffed into his mouth protruded unattractively beneath his lower jaw. “You know pop, right? You get it?”
He said the word 'pop' in English, but the rest in Swahili. Though I am still learning the language, there isn't a good translation for the word, “ejaculate.”
“It causes impotence you know, if you use it too much.” I said plainly. “It will make it so your penis cannot stand anymore unless you use more and more of the drug.”
The kid stared at me shocked. He was obviously a bit concerned about the welfare of his future penis. His friend who had been listening in on the conversation had a worried expression as well, but he spoke up, “It is only if you use the poor quality khat, if you are using the higher quality stuff nothing like that (impotence) will happen to you.” He spoke as if trying to convince himself of the safety of the drug, trying to justify his constant use of it.
I sighed at the futility. Their use of khat was symbolic of the general mentality among the youth: live for the day, don't worry about the future. Yet this mentality is detrimental to one of the fundamental concepts of business: saving money. In a culture where most property is communal, inflation is drastic, and death rates are high, there are plenty of economic and social incentives for not saving. A famous Swahili Proverb: “Haba na haba hujaza kibaba” or “Little by little fills the kibaba measure” reflects the importance of saving, but those sweet words of wisdom are too easily forgotten.
Our conversation continued. “Khat is pretty expensive, right? It seems like the youth here spend quite a bit of money on it, as well as alcohol, marijuana, cigarettes...”
He laughed at the truth in my words. “Ya, it's not so good.” He replied.
By now a small group had gathered around. All the idle youth came to listen to what we were discussing. I looked at the group that was forming, and thought it might be a good chance to pitch an idea to them.
“Guys,” I said, “If you all work together, I think there is tremendous potential to save money and start projects. Perhaps we can reduce the use of drugs, and put the rest toward saving. What do you guys say to joining together and starting a youth group?”
In all honesty, this group of idle youth represented the very blight of this truck-stop town. Their constant drug use causes their poverty and unruly behavior, and their promiscuity facilitates the spread of HIV and other STIs. They embody the very social maladies that most abhor. And because of their behavior, they are often marginalized by community leaders and many others in the community. These youth did not have just monetary poverty, I saw in them a poverty in a sense of purpose and direction. I thought I might try to reach out to them as no one else cared to do. I thought I might be a catalyst for their change.
So we formed a group of motorcycle-taxi drivers. We met weekly, writing minutes for each meeting, drafting a constitution, and electing leaders. They were enthusiastic, contributing to the constitution and the group's rules and regulations. But while we elected leaders, I realized a crucial fact about these youth: they did not trust each other. When they unanimously elected me as treasurer, I understood that they did not trust each other enough to put their own money into any one of their peer's hands. Trust among co-workers and group members is a key element to any success, and their ubiquitous mistrust of each other worried me.
But here was the reality: for nearly a year now I have been watching these young motorcycle-taxi drivers throw away their money on drugs and prostitutes. At the end of the week they are left with naught but a an empty pocket and a mouthful of complaints about their own state of poverty. They talk about how life would be so much better if they had some money. They each dream of owning their own motorcycles one day. I approached them with the answer to one part of small business: a business plan. Here was the plan.
“You all rent your motorcycles, right? Wouldn't it be better to own your own instead?”
They all nodded in excited agreement. I continued.
“There are 15 of us. If we save 50 shillings per day, it will take about 100 days to buy our first motorcycle. That first motorcycle will be given to one of our group members. They will then pay rent toward our group savings so we can purchase another. With that savings, we will be able to get another in 76 days. Then, with both of those motorcycles paying group rent, we can purchase the third motorcycle in 58 days. And the next in 46 days. And so on. If we follow this model, we can all be owners of our own motorcycle. What do you all think?”
They nodded vigorously.
I smiled at how receptive this group was at saving money together. This was the most challenging part of the business plan, yet it seemed to be unanimously agreed upon.
But my positive sentiments lasted for just moments. One of the members voiced his opinion, “Why can't we just write a proposal and ask for money from your country so we can just get motorcycles for free?”
Everyone thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement. “Yes, that would be much easier,” said another member. “Let's do that.”
I sighed deeply. The availability of donor funding in developing nations breaks a fundamental concept of how business is done in the United States: saving and building capital, borrowing against an interest rate, and then running a business with a debt to pay. Despite the donor funding I still advocate savings. Saved money is different than regular money. Saved money has the value of one's own time and hard work attached to it, so therefore one's own care. Projects which have one's own money invested are much more likely to succeed. His suggestion was like poison to the progress of our group, but revealed the lack of trust and lack of discipline amongst them.
The group was stuck. They were all loath to save money together, so our meetings began to lack substance. Each consecutive meeting brought fewer members - only the ones who still had some hope that free motorcycles would be on the way showed up - until the group faded away completely. The opportunity for these youth to change was just a sweet fragrance on a passing wind. I was left with just the bitter thoughts of what could have been.
As I was making my usual stroll around my truck stop town, one of the members from our dissolved group came up to me and said, “Ever since we started that group, I have been saving on my own. Already I have quite a bit saved to buy my own motorcycle. I am trying to start my own group to continue this project, so if I get some others, please join us. If I don't get others, I will save my own money and eventually purchase my own.” His words were like sweet music. All of the time I thought I had wasted, all of the words I thought had fallen on deaf ears- this young man redeemed it all. I just stood there smiling genuinely at him. It was worth the effort.
“So why do you use this stuff?” I asked, motioning to his handful of khat, a natural stimulant which causes insomnia and mouth cancer after extended use.
“Do you know the way it makes your penis stand?” He said vulgarly. “I can pop six times in one night. I keep going and going...you know...even until the girl cries for mercy.”
He looked at me with an ugly smile; the khat stuffed into his mouth protruded unattractively beneath his lower jaw. “You know pop, right? You get it?”
He said the word 'pop' in English, but the rest in Swahili. Though I am still learning the language, there isn't a good translation for the word, “ejaculate.”
“It causes impotence you know, if you use it too much.” I said plainly. “It will make it so your penis cannot stand anymore unless you use more and more of the drug.”
The kid stared at me shocked. He was obviously a bit concerned about the welfare of his future penis. His friend who had been listening in on the conversation had a worried expression as well, but he spoke up, “It is only if you use the poor quality khat, if you are using the higher quality stuff nothing like that (impotence) will happen to you.” He spoke as if trying to convince himself of the safety of the drug, trying to justify his constant use of it.
I sighed at the futility. Their use of khat was symbolic of the general mentality among the youth: live for the day, don't worry about the future. Yet this mentality is detrimental to one of the fundamental concepts of business: saving money. In a culture where most property is communal, inflation is drastic, and death rates are high, there are plenty of economic and social incentives for not saving. A famous Swahili Proverb: “Haba na haba hujaza kibaba” or “Little by little fills the kibaba measure” reflects the importance of saving, but those sweet words of wisdom are too easily forgotten.
Our conversation continued. “Khat is pretty expensive, right? It seems like the youth here spend quite a bit of money on it, as well as alcohol, marijuana, cigarettes...”
He laughed at the truth in my words. “Ya, it's not so good.” He replied.
By now a small group had gathered around. All the idle youth came to listen to what we were discussing. I looked at the group that was forming, and thought it might be a good chance to pitch an idea to them.
“Guys,” I said, “If you all work together, I think there is tremendous potential to save money and start projects. Perhaps we can reduce the use of drugs, and put the rest toward saving. What do you guys say to joining together and starting a youth group?”
In all honesty, this group of idle youth represented the very blight of this truck-stop town. Their constant drug use causes their poverty and unruly behavior, and their promiscuity facilitates the spread of HIV and other STIs. They embody the very social maladies that most abhor. And because of their behavior, they are often marginalized by community leaders and many others in the community. These youth did not have just monetary poverty, I saw in them a poverty in a sense of purpose and direction. I thought I might try to reach out to them as no one else cared to do. I thought I might be a catalyst for their change.
So we formed a group of motorcycle-taxi drivers. We met weekly, writing minutes for each meeting, drafting a constitution, and electing leaders. They were enthusiastic, contributing to the constitution and the group's rules and regulations. But while we elected leaders, I realized a crucial fact about these youth: they did not trust each other. When they unanimously elected me as treasurer, I understood that they did not trust each other enough to put their own money into any one of their peer's hands. Trust among co-workers and group members is a key element to any success, and their ubiquitous mistrust of each other worried me.
But here was the reality: for nearly a year now I have been watching these young motorcycle-taxi drivers throw away their money on drugs and prostitutes. At the end of the week they are left with naught but a an empty pocket and a mouthful of complaints about their own state of poverty. They talk about how life would be so much better if they had some money. They each dream of owning their own motorcycles one day. I approached them with the answer to one part of small business: a business plan. Here was the plan.
“You all rent your motorcycles, right? Wouldn't it be better to own your own instead?”
They all nodded in excited agreement. I continued.
“There are 15 of us. If we save 50 shillings per day, it will take about 100 days to buy our first motorcycle. That first motorcycle will be given to one of our group members. They will then pay rent toward our group savings so we can purchase another. With that savings, we will be able to get another in 76 days. Then, with both of those motorcycles paying group rent, we can purchase the third motorcycle in 58 days. And the next in 46 days. And so on. If we follow this model, we can all be owners of our own motorcycle. What do you all think?”
They nodded vigorously.
I smiled at how receptive this group was at saving money together. This was the most challenging part of the business plan, yet it seemed to be unanimously agreed upon.
But my positive sentiments lasted for just moments. One of the members voiced his opinion, “Why can't we just write a proposal and ask for money from your country so we can just get motorcycles for free?”
Everyone thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement. “Yes, that would be much easier,” said another member. “Let's do that.”
I sighed deeply. The availability of donor funding in developing nations breaks a fundamental concept of how business is done in the United States: saving and building capital, borrowing against an interest rate, and then running a business with a debt to pay. Despite the donor funding I still advocate savings. Saved money is different than regular money. Saved money has the value of one's own time and hard work attached to it, so therefore one's own care. Projects which have one's own money invested are much more likely to succeed. His suggestion was like poison to the progress of our group, but revealed the lack of trust and lack of discipline amongst them.
The group was stuck. They were all loath to save money together, so our meetings began to lack substance. Each consecutive meeting brought fewer members - only the ones who still had some hope that free motorcycles would be on the way showed up - until the group faded away completely. The opportunity for these youth to change was just a sweet fragrance on a passing wind. I was left with just the bitter thoughts of what could have been.
As I was making my usual stroll around my truck stop town, one of the members from our dissolved group came up to me and said, “Ever since we started that group, I have been saving on my own. Already I have quite a bit saved to buy my own motorcycle. I am trying to start my own group to continue this project, so if I get some others, please join us. If I don't get others, I will save my own money and eventually purchase my own.” His words were like sweet music. All of the time I thought I had wasted, all of the words I thought had fallen on deaf ears- this young man redeemed it all. I just stood there smiling genuinely at him. It was worth the effort.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Funny Questions
In college I had a friend from Israel. His name was Guy. He taught me how to say things in Hebrew like, “You have beautiful eyes,” and “I put you in the little pocket.” The former phrase comes in handy anytime I am wooing a nice Israeli girl, and the latter is apparently a taunt you can say if you are defeating someone soundly at some game or sport. Nevertheless, because he was the first Israeli I have ever known, I naturally had tons of questions to help me get to know his country. I would ask, “Guy, have you ever seen a computer before you came to America?” to which he would respond, “Yes, but I have never used one. There is only one in Israel, and it is broken now.” Or similarly, “Hey Guy, do they have cars in Israel?” And he would cleverly respond, “No. Only camels.” Some of the questions I asked were silly, meant to imply a sense of economic superiority between our two countries, but I still enjoyed his answers.
Now that I am in Kenya, I get to feel what it is like to have everyone around me curious about my culture and country. And attached to this curiosity comes a plethora of questions. I generally find these questions awfully amusing, especially because I understand to some extent the reason for them. Below are my top six favorite questions I have been asked so far.
6. Is wrestling real?
Why it makes sense: Hulk Hogan, The Undertaker, Ray Mysterio. The first time I watched these guys in action I was near 10 years old. And I was enthralled. 'How could they endure so much pain?' I thought to myself. And it very much appeared real to me. When they hit each other with chairs, those chairs get noticeably dented, and when they pummel each other to the ground by a pile-driver the ring makes a booming sound. But if one would think it through, getting thrown down head first by a man as big as The Undertaker is instant death, no matter how strong your neck is.
5. All Europeans know English, right?
Why it makes sense: Even though most everyone is aware that Europeans speak a plethora of languages (like French, German or Italian), it is assumed that all Europeans speak English. Just like in Kenya, everyone has a mother-tongue they learn growing up, and then they learn Kiswahili and English in schools. “French” or “German” are seen as “mother-tongue,” while English is seen as the “Swahili” equivalent. Most Kenyans' exposure to Europeans are that of tourists, and for tourists it would be imperative to speak at least a bit of English to get around. There are plenty of European countries that do not speak much English (Spain, France), but those who do not speak the language would generally not find themselves on a safari in Kenya.
4. How is you?
Why it makes sense: For many Kenyans, English is their 3rd language. But it is the language taught in schools. Still, people tend to speak Swahili or mother-tongue to each other, so English is not frequently heard. The question “How is you?” usually comes from those who have had some schooling, enough to understand that for the verb “to be”, “is” is the singular and “are” is the plural. By following this rule, it makes sense if you are asking a single person “How IS you?” instead of “How ARE you?” and be deceived into thinking that you are using proper grammar. It is only later in those school years that one will learn that English is the language of many many exceptions.
3. Do all Asians know Kung Fu?
Why it makes sense: Jet Li, Jackie Chan. The Oriental countries have an oligopoly on Kung-fu films, and since people here are exposed to these films they see hoards and hoards of Asian-looking people fighting martial-arts style. Quite a fair assumption I would say. Based on the news in America, I assumed all Africans were starving and there were stampeding wildebeest every morning and evening.
2. If you have big hair, does it take more of your body's nutrients?
Why it makes sense: Kenyans generally have very short hair. Not only is it culturally appropriate to be clean-looking and shaved, it is ingrained in Kenyan's very DNA for short, curly hair. Along with this, many people in the rural areas are farmers, so they are very familiar with the way crops grow. It is a fundamental concept that as plants grow bigger, their roots get bigger and they demand more water and more of the soil's nutrients to continue healthy growing. The way plants grow in the earth is strikingly similar to the way hair grows on someone's head, so it is a very reasonable assumption that hair would take more nutrients as it got bigger.
1. Why do the Europeans like pies so much? And why do they think it is funny when they throw pies into other people's faces?
Why it makes sense: Pies are rare here. If you can find one, they are very expensive, perhaps the equivalent to 7 or 8 full meals. It is unlikely that many Kenyans have tried pies, but if they had tried a pie, it would instantly clarify the question “why do Europeans like pies so much?” The answer: Pies are delicious. As for the second question: “why is it funny to be pied in the face?” It is almost difficult not to appreciate the comical nature of having a creamy pie thrown into an unsuspecting face. Even the phrase “a pie to the face” sets me giggling. But it is an absolute sin to waste food here, especially something as valuable as a pie.
I'm sure if my old friend Guy read this post, he would enjoy the way the tables have turned on me in the "question-answer" game we played back in college. If only they get that one computer fixed in Israel..
Now that I am in Kenya, I get to feel what it is like to have everyone around me curious about my culture and country. And attached to this curiosity comes a plethora of questions. I generally find these questions awfully amusing, especially because I understand to some extent the reason for them. Below are my top six favorite questions I have been asked so far.
6. Is wrestling real?
Why it makes sense: Hulk Hogan, The Undertaker, Ray Mysterio. The first time I watched these guys in action I was near 10 years old. And I was enthralled. 'How could they endure so much pain?' I thought to myself. And it very much appeared real to me. When they hit each other with chairs, those chairs get noticeably dented, and when they pummel each other to the ground by a pile-driver the ring makes a booming sound. But if one would think it through, getting thrown down head first by a man as big as The Undertaker is instant death, no matter how strong your neck is.
5. All Europeans know English, right?
Why it makes sense: Even though most everyone is aware that Europeans speak a plethora of languages (like French, German or Italian), it is assumed that all Europeans speak English. Just like in Kenya, everyone has a mother-tongue they learn growing up, and then they learn Kiswahili and English in schools. “French” or “German” are seen as “mother-tongue,” while English is seen as the “Swahili” equivalent. Most Kenyans' exposure to Europeans are that of tourists, and for tourists it would be imperative to speak at least a bit of English to get around. There are plenty of European countries that do not speak much English (Spain, France), but those who do not speak the language would generally not find themselves on a safari in Kenya.
4. How is you?
Why it makes sense: For many Kenyans, English is their 3rd language. But it is the language taught in schools. Still, people tend to speak Swahili or mother-tongue to each other, so English is not frequently heard. The question “How is you?” usually comes from those who have had some schooling, enough to understand that for the verb “to be”, “is” is the singular and “are” is the plural. By following this rule, it makes sense if you are asking a single person “How IS you?” instead of “How ARE you?” and be deceived into thinking that you are using proper grammar. It is only later in those school years that one will learn that English is the language of many many exceptions.
3. Do all Asians know Kung Fu?
Why it makes sense: Jet Li, Jackie Chan. The Oriental countries have an oligopoly on Kung-fu films, and since people here are exposed to these films they see hoards and hoards of Asian-looking people fighting martial-arts style. Quite a fair assumption I would say. Based on the news in America, I assumed all Africans were starving and there were stampeding wildebeest every morning and evening.
2. If you have big hair, does it take more of your body's nutrients?
Why it makes sense: Kenyans generally have very short hair. Not only is it culturally appropriate to be clean-looking and shaved, it is ingrained in Kenyan's very DNA for short, curly hair. Along with this, many people in the rural areas are farmers, so they are very familiar with the way crops grow. It is a fundamental concept that as plants grow bigger, their roots get bigger and they demand more water and more of the soil's nutrients to continue healthy growing. The way plants grow in the earth is strikingly similar to the way hair grows on someone's head, so it is a very reasonable assumption that hair would take more nutrients as it got bigger.
1. Why do the Europeans like pies so much? And why do they think it is funny when they throw pies into other people's faces?
Why it makes sense: Pies are rare here. If you can find one, they are very expensive, perhaps the equivalent to 7 or 8 full meals. It is unlikely that many Kenyans have tried pies, but if they had tried a pie, it would instantly clarify the question “why do Europeans like pies so much?” The answer: Pies are delicious. As for the second question: “why is it funny to be pied in the face?” It is almost difficult not to appreciate the comical nature of having a creamy pie thrown into an unsuspecting face. Even the phrase “a pie to the face” sets me giggling. But it is an absolute sin to waste food here, especially something as valuable as a pie.
I'm sure if my old friend Guy read this post, he would enjoy the way the tables have turned on me in the "question-answer" game we played back in college. If only they get that one computer fixed in Israel..
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Racism
My collection of short stories on racism.
Marriage
“So, will you marry here?” He asked me out of nowhere. I wondered why he cared, because he definitely wasn't asking for his own benefit.
“I don't think so,” I responded.
“You wouldn't marry one of us, would you? You wouldn't marry a baboon.” He said quickly, partially in jest. It was difficult to pick up on his meaning because his words took me by surprise.
“Baboon?” I repeated, my head turning slightly and my eyes narrowing to show my confusion.
“Yes, we are baboons. Look at our skin. We look like baboons.” He replied, still smiling. Though I picked up on his playful tone, I still burned with anger. This mentality that Africans are less than their lighter-skinned brethren makes me sick, and any hinting toward it, whether serious or in jest, makes me respond in kind.
“Baboons are hairy, aren't they?” I stated as I rolled up my right pants leg. Despite my anger, I continued with his jocular disposition.
He nodded in agreement.
“Look.” I said, motioning to my leg. “I have quite a bit more hair on my body than you. It seems I resemble a baboon much more than you do.”
He laughed as if in agreement, but there was no knowing if any of my words got through to him. It was the best I could do with my limited Swahili. Times like this make me ache to have more command of the language so I can delve into this deep-rooted stereotype and fight to dispel it.
Childhood Myths
“Do you know why African's palms and soles of their feet are white, but the rest of their body is not?” my 9-year old neighbor girl asked me.
“No, I don't know. Tell me.” I said.
“Long ago when the world was made, humans came from the mud. They came across some very hot water. Some put their whole bodies in the water, and so they came out white. But the Africans tested the water first with the bottom of his feet and thought it too hot, and again with the palms of their hands, but quickly pulled them out again. That's why our feet and hands are white and our bodies are not.”
It was a cute story, especially coming from my neighbor. But the story implies that dark skin is the same as dirt, or that white skin is cleaner or somehow pure. Where had she heard it? School? Who perpetuates stories with underlying messages of degradation towards one's own race?
Perhaps I am reading too much into a simple childhood story, but the stereotypes are deeply rooted in the minds of both young and old. While talking with one of the primary school teachers who lives next door to me, he told me plainly, “We Africans, we think you Wazungu are so much civilized and so very knowledgeable.” Yet this primary school teacher speaks three languages, and has welcomed more guests over for tea or dinner in a month than many of us Wazungu invite over a lifetime. It seems he is far more civilized and knowledgeable than most Westerners I know.
A Bicycle Ride
There is a certain word in Swahili which refers to all foreigners, or rather all white people. This word is “Mzungu.” To the locals, it is not at all meant to be derogatory; it is in fact meant to be exalting. Some of the connotations associated with this word are: money, sophistication, technology, education, opportunity. But depending on how it is used, this word to me is flagrantly offensive.
As I was riding my bicycle home I heard some familiar shouts. “Mzungu! Mzungu!” she yelled, nearly in my ear as I road slowly by. “Carry me on your bicycle, so that I can say that I have been carried by a Mzungu.” She requested. It is not uncommon that I carry people on my bicycle from time to time, so I told her that I would carry her on a short stretch of road because I was near my home. She enthusiastically climbed on the back, and began to shout, “Look, I'm being carried by a Mzungu!!” I replied emphatically, “Listen, I am not a Mzungu, I am a human just like you. My blood and yours are the same color.”
“I'm being carried by a Mzungu!” She screamed again. It was obviously her first time getting a ride by a foreigner. I sighed deeply as I arrived home, hoping my words had some impact on her deeply imbedded prejudice.
A core goal for the Peace Corps is cultural exchange between Americans and the host country nationals. One of the purposes of this cultural exchange is to provide a living example of someone from a western country, so they may see first hand how our lives are not so much different than theirs. We eat the same food, poop in the same hole in the ground, and pray for the rains together. These efforts are put forth in order to dispel the stereotypes associated with westerners, or at least show that not all westerners fit in to the stereotype of wealth and superiority.
Church
I am a regular at the local church in my village. The messages are all in Swahili, so for me it is more of a language workout instead of a spiritual experience.
About a month ago, the pastor kicked off the service by inviting the announcement lady to the front to give announcements. She was going on about how the church's new goal was to purchase some chairs made for children, because these large wooden pews make it difficult for the children to sit comfortably. While the announcement lady continued jabbering on about different requests and events, I looked around the church and saw it filled with empty pews. I thought to myself how this church already had quite the number of seats and space, especially compared to other churches in the area where the members bring their own stools to sit on (or find a place on the floor) during service. After the lady finished, the pastor looked up at the few of us in the pews and specifically called me out, saying, “Did Mwadime understand all of that?” (Mwadime being my local name). The pastor's words took me by surprise, and I responded to him in Swahili, my voice a little bit shaky. Already it was awkward that the pastor and I were having a conversation in the middle of service, like a teacher quizzing his student on a language exam in the middle of class. I replied, “Yes I have understood. You are wanting chairs for children.” He seemed to be satisfied with my response and he continued on with the service.
I took a few moments to reflect on the events that transpired. Never before had he asked or seemed to care if I understood anything that was going on in the church, though this time he was very concerned. But why the announcements? Isn't it more important that I understand the spiritual message he is giving instead of the weekly calendar of events? Then I realized, he saw me as a donor that would provide the finances for those chairs that he was asking for. And nothing else.
Again, I felt sick inside. It has been close to a year living here. I have been a regular at his church. Yet still I am just a source of funds in his eyes. Will I ever blend in and be treated like everyone else? Does it take two years? Ten? A lifetime? Maybe never. And to be perfectly honest, if it weren't for this special treatment I get from many of the people around, I could see myself living in this village for the rest of my life.
An African
I was sitting on the steps in my nearest town just reading as two small girls passed me by. One of the girls exclaimed, “Mzungu!” both in surprise as well as to beckon my attention. I looked up at her, then I looked around and asked her puzzlingly, “Mzungu yuko wapi?” or “Where is the Mzungu?” She looked at me confused, and the finally the other girl grabbed her and said, “This person isn't a Mzungu, he is an African.” Upon hearing those words, I felt my very soul smiling. I never knew such a simple comment could be so refreshing.
As those girls passed by later, I overheard her saying to her friend, “That African is still here.”
Marriage
“So, will you marry here?” He asked me out of nowhere. I wondered why he cared, because he definitely wasn't asking for his own benefit.
“I don't think so,” I responded.
“You wouldn't marry one of us, would you? You wouldn't marry a baboon.” He said quickly, partially in jest. It was difficult to pick up on his meaning because his words took me by surprise.
“Baboon?” I repeated, my head turning slightly and my eyes narrowing to show my confusion.
“Yes, we are baboons. Look at our skin. We look like baboons.” He replied, still smiling. Though I picked up on his playful tone, I still burned with anger. This mentality that Africans are less than their lighter-skinned brethren makes me sick, and any hinting toward it, whether serious or in jest, makes me respond in kind.
“Baboons are hairy, aren't they?” I stated as I rolled up my right pants leg. Despite my anger, I continued with his jocular disposition.
He nodded in agreement.
“Look.” I said, motioning to my leg. “I have quite a bit more hair on my body than you. It seems I resemble a baboon much more than you do.”
He laughed as if in agreement, but there was no knowing if any of my words got through to him. It was the best I could do with my limited Swahili. Times like this make me ache to have more command of the language so I can delve into this deep-rooted stereotype and fight to dispel it.
Childhood Myths
“Do you know why African's palms and soles of their feet are white, but the rest of their body is not?” my 9-year old neighbor girl asked me.
“No, I don't know. Tell me.” I said.
“Long ago when the world was made, humans came from the mud. They came across some very hot water. Some put their whole bodies in the water, and so they came out white. But the Africans tested the water first with the bottom of his feet and thought it too hot, and again with the palms of their hands, but quickly pulled them out again. That's why our feet and hands are white and our bodies are not.”
It was a cute story, especially coming from my neighbor. But the story implies that dark skin is the same as dirt, or that white skin is cleaner or somehow pure. Where had she heard it? School? Who perpetuates stories with underlying messages of degradation towards one's own race?
Perhaps I am reading too much into a simple childhood story, but the stereotypes are deeply rooted in the minds of both young and old. While talking with one of the primary school teachers who lives next door to me, he told me plainly, “We Africans, we think you Wazungu are so much civilized and so very knowledgeable.” Yet this primary school teacher speaks three languages, and has welcomed more guests over for tea or dinner in a month than many of us Wazungu invite over a lifetime. It seems he is far more civilized and knowledgeable than most Westerners I know.
A Bicycle Ride
There is a certain word in Swahili which refers to all foreigners, or rather all white people. This word is “Mzungu.” To the locals, it is not at all meant to be derogatory; it is in fact meant to be exalting. Some of the connotations associated with this word are: money, sophistication, technology, education, opportunity. But depending on how it is used, this word to me is flagrantly offensive.
As I was riding my bicycle home I heard some familiar shouts. “Mzungu! Mzungu!” she yelled, nearly in my ear as I road slowly by. “Carry me on your bicycle, so that I can say that I have been carried by a Mzungu.” She requested. It is not uncommon that I carry people on my bicycle from time to time, so I told her that I would carry her on a short stretch of road because I was near my home. She enthusiastically climbed on the back, and began to shout, “Look, I'm being carried by a Mzungu!!” I replied emphatically, “Listen, I am not a Mzungu, I am a human just like you. My blood and yours are the same color.”
“I'm being carried by a Mzungu!” She screamed again. It was obviously her first time getting a ride by a foreigner. I sighed deeply as I arrived home, hoping my words had some impact on her deeply imbedded prejudice.
A core goal for the Peace Corps is cultural exchange between Americans and the host country nationals. One of the purposes of this cultural exchange is to provide a living example of someone from a western country, so they may see first hand how our lives are not so much different than theirs. We eat the same food, poop in the same hole in the ground, and pray for the rains together. These efforts are put forth in order to dispel the stereotypes associated with westerners, or at least show that not all westerners fit in to the stereotype of wealth and superiority.
Church
I am a regular at the local church in my village. The messages are all in Swahili, so for me it is more of a language workout instead of a spiritual experience.
About a month ago, the pastor kicked off the service by inviting the announcement lady to the front to give announcements. She was going on about how the church's new goal was to purchase some chairs made for children, because these large wooden pews make it difficult for the children to sit comfortably. While the announcement lady continued jabbering on about different requests and events, I looked around the church and saw it filled with empty pews. I thought to myself how this church already had quite the number of seats and space, especially compared to other churches in the area where the members bring their own stools to sit on (or find a place on the floor) during service. After the lady finished, the pastor looked up at the few of us in the pews and specifically called me out, saying, “Did Mwadime understand all of that?” (Mwadime being my local name). The pastor's words took me by surprise, and I responded to him in Swahili, my voice a little bit shaky. Already it was awkward that the pastor and I were having a conversation in the middle of service, like a teacher quizzing his student on a language exam in the middle of class. I replied, “Yes I have understood. You are wanting chairs for children.” He seemed to be satisfied with my response and he continued on with the service.
I took a few moments to reflect on the events that transpired. Never before had he asked or seemed to care if I understood anything that was going on in the church, though this time he was very concerned. But why the announcements? Isn't it more important that I understand the spiritual message he is giving instead of the weekly calendar of events? Then I realized, he saw me as a donor that would provide the finances for those chairs that he was asking for. And nothing else.
Again, I felt sick inside. It has been close to a year living here. I have been a regular at his church. Yet still I am just a source of funds in his eyes. Will I ever blend in and be treated like everyone else? Does it take two years? Ten? A lifetime? Maybe never. And to be perfectly honest, if it weren't for this special treatment I get from many of the people around, I could see myself living in this village for the rest of my life.
An African
I was sitting on the steps in my nearest town just reading as two small girls passed me by. One of the girls exclaimed, “Mzungu!” both in surprise as well as to beckon my attention. I looked up at her, then I looked around and asked her puzzlingly, “Mzungu yuko wapi?” or “Where is the Mzungu?” She looked at me confused, and the finally the other girl grabbed her and said, “This person isn't a Mzungu, he is an African.” Upon hearing those words, I felt my very soul smiling. I never knew such a simple comment could be so refreshing.
As those girls passed by later, I overheard her saying to her friend, “That African is still here.”
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Free Shirts
There are few things in this world better than a free shirt. The shirt could be unfashionable, ill-fitting, and itchy, but because it is free, it warrants no social repercussions. Out of all the shirts I own, the free ones are usually the ones I tend to like and wear the most. I have all kinds of free shirts from different events I've been to: Cal football games, triathlons, and swim meets. Or the shirts I get as gifts on birthdays or Christmas, with some ridiculous saying written on them. Yet to my surprise, these kinds of free shirts often find themselves quickest to be donated. Walk-a-thons for leukemia awareness (a deep purple always), blood drives, international woman’s day: these are all highly popular candidates for the donation box.
And they all come to Kenya.
I approached a teenager and read his shirt out loud, “Donde Esta Mi Cerveza?” with small English letters in the corner reading, “Where is my beer?”
“I think it is German.” He said, as I finished reading the small English writing.
I smiled amiably and felt it necessary to correct him. “Nope! It's Spanish. It's the same language the team from Barcelona speaks.”
“Ohh!” He exclaimed, as if very excited to learn the true language of the shirt he probably had for years. I mistook his enthusiasm to mean he wanted to know more about Spanish, so I continued breaking down the sentence to him, telling him exactly which word meant what. I was excited to read Spanish, the language I spent so many school years studying, but the teenager did not even feign interest and immediately changed the subject of conversation.
In general, Kenyans who wear these donated shirts have no idea what they are supporting. I remember one shirt worn by an older lady, clearly written, “BEER DELIVERY GUY” in all capital letters across the front. And I promise she was not going for the comedic effect. On another occasion I noticed a grandma wearing a shirt with huge bold letters, “Eat. Sleep. Play.” with a picture of an American football on the front. She obviously has no idea what sport she was endorsing (especially since it was “American” football) but her lack of knowledge didn't dampen her precious, nearly toothless smile. Another mama wore a shirt stylishly written, “Geek Squad,” and I bet none of those Best Buy employees on the “Geek Squad” knew that a 45 year old Mama who has never seen a computer in her life was a big supporter of theirs.
But my favorite so far is a very fast walking old man who I pass by every morning. He looks very grisly and determined whenever I see him, as if he had just lost his cow and was now desperately searching for it. Once he was wearing a very faded pink shirt that read, “Official Heartthrob” in playful, girly letters. The “o” in “throb” was in the shape of a heart, and the middle of each letter looked to have one of those reflective glittery gemstones. This shirt did not at all dampen his grim morning look.
What these shirts do for me is remind me of the people from back home. I saw a mama cooking who was wearing an “Auburn” shirt, and it reminded me both of my old swim coach and a girl I used to like. Whenever I see people wearing Pittsburgh Steeler gear, I instantly think of my father and how excited he would be to see a Kenyan “Steeler” fan. When I first arrived to Kenya, I saw a motorcycle driver wearing a hat that read “Cal,” and I reflexively blurted “Go Bears!” at the sight of paraphernalia from my Alma Mater.
I cannot help but think of home when I see references to California or Los Angeles. These shirts pop up at me like scribbled memoirs written of my childhood and stuffed in the pockets of different pairs of my pants – Mickey Mouse, Anaheim stadium, San Diego – all these places resonating with colorful memories. And I'm certain that many of the Kenyans wearing these shirts wonder why I feature a huge smile as they pass me by.
But the most nostalgic moment I have had over a piece of clothing happened in Mombasa. I saw a skinny teenager wearing an NJB (National Junior Basketball) jersey that was from Diamond Bar, California. Diamond bar is literally 12 miles north of where I grew up. And I played in NJB growing up! I could have very well played against that very jersey as 10-year-old. Perhaps I guarded the same boy who wore that jersey – and now I meet up with this garment of clothing 15 years later on the other side of the world.
I have come to find that clothes hold a certain sentimental value. I would consider myself a minimalist, and every so often I sort through my things for donation or recycling. But I must admit, when it comes to some items of clothing, as worthless as they are, I manage to return them to my wardrobe. I still have swimming shirts from 1994, and because I thought it was cool to wear baggy, extra-extra-large shirts back then, some of them still fit. If I weren't so sentimental about my clothing, I might have had a chance to come across one of my very own shirts here in Kenya.
And they all come to Kenya.
I approached a teenager and read his shirt out loud, “Donde Esta Mi Cerveza?” with small English letters in the corner reading, “Where is my beer?”
“I think it is German.” He said, as I finished reading the small English writing.
I smiled amiably and felt it necessary to correct him. “Nope! It's Spanish. It's the same language the team from Barcelona speaks.”
“Ohh!” He exclaimed, as if very excited to learn the true language of the shirt he probably had for years. I mistook his enthusiasm to mean he wanted to know more about Spanish, so I continued breaking down the sentence to him, telling him exactly which word meant what. I was excited to read Spanish, the language I spent so many school years studying, but the teenager did not even feign interest and immediately changed the subject of conversation.
In general, Kenyans who wear these donated shirts have no idea what they are supporting. I remember one shirt worn by an older lady, clearly written, “BEER DELIVERY GUY” in all capital letters across the front. And I promise she was not going for the comedic effect. On another occasion I noticed a grandma wearing a shirt with huge bold letters, “Eat. Sleep. Play.” with a picture of an American football on the front. She obviously has no idea what sport she was endorsing (especially since it was “American” football) but her lack of knowledge didn't dampen her precious, nearly toothless smile. Another mama wore a shirt stylishly written, “Geek Squad,” and I bet none of those Best Buy employees on the “Geek Squad” knew that a 45 year old Mama who has never seen a computer in her life was a big supporter of theirs.
But my favorite so far is a very fast walking old man who I pass by every morning. He looks very grisly and determined whenever I see him, as if he had just lost his cow and was now desperately searching for it. Once he was wearing a very faded pink shirt that read, “Official Heartthrob” in playful, girly letters. The “o” in “throb” was in the shape of a heart, and the middle of each letter looked to have one of those reflective glittery gemstones. This shirt did not at all dampen his grim morning look.
What these shirts do for me is remind me of the people from back home. I saw a mama cooking who was wearing an “Auburn” shirt, and it reminded me both of my old swim coach and a girl I used to like. Whenever I see people wearing Pittsburgh Steeler gear, I instantly think of my father and how excited he would be to see a Kenyan “Steeler” fan. When I first arrived to Kenya, I saw a motorcycle driver wearing a hat that read “Cal,” and I reflexively blurted “Go Bears!” at the sight of paraphernalia from my Alma Mater.
I cannot help but think of home when I see references to California or Los Angeles. These shirts pop up at me like scribbled memoirs written of my childhood and stuffed in the pockets of different pairs of my pants – Mickey Mouse, Anaheim stadium, San Diego – all these places resonating with colorful memories. And I'm certain that many of the Kenyans wearing these shirts wonder why I feature a huge smile as they pass me by.
But the most nostalgic moment I have had over a piece of clothing happened in Mombasa. I saw a skinny teenager wearing an NJB (National Junior Basketball) jersey that was from Diamond Bar, California. Diamond bar is literally 12 miles north of where I grew up. And I played in NJB growing up! I could have very well played against that very jersey as 10-year-old. Perhaps I guarded the same boy who wore that jersey – and now I meet up with this garment of clothing 15 years later on the other side of the world.
I have come to find that clothes hold a certain sentimental value. I would consider myself a minimalist, and every so often I sort through my things for donation or recycling. But I must admit, when it comes to some items of clothing, as worthless as they are, I manage to return them to my wardrobe. I still have swimming shirts from 1994, and because I thought it was cool to wear baggy, extra-extra-large shirts back then, some of them still fit. If I weren't so sentimental about my clothing, I might have had a chance to come across one of my very own shirts here in Kenya.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
By The Numbers
May 26th, 2010. I was on a plane headed for Kenya, with a lay-over in Switzerland. It has been exactly a year since I have left America. In honor of this one year anniversary, I would like to share some numbers and statistics of my experience so far. Here they are:
6 – The number of living chickens hanging upside down on bicycle handles (3 on each side), no doubt headed towards the market for selling.
7 – The record number of full grown people I have seen riding a motorcycle.
35 (2) – The record number of full grown people being carried by a 14-seater matatu (2 babies). The matatu broke down, and as we all got out of the vehicle (I was one of the 5 people standing on the outside door), I realized there were also 8 chickens inside.
Over a dozen – single exposed breasts I have seen from breast-feeding mothers.
6 – the total number of times I have swam in a year.
3 – the number of times I would sometimes swim in a single day.
47 – dead cockroaches I found in my room after two weeks absence.
Infinity – living cockroaches in and around my pit latrine.
60 – the most kilometers I have ever run in one week's time.
60 – the average kilometers I would swim each week for many consecutive weeks of my life.
3 – The number of items I can cross off my bucket list (1. swim in the indian ocean, 2. dream in another language, 3. be on both northern and southern hemispheres of the world at the same time)
1 – The number of strawberries I have eaten.
36 – letters and packages I have mailed, also the number of our starting group.
5 – The number of languages I am greeted in on a daily basis (Kiswahili, English, Taita, Duruma, Kamba)
1500 – liters of water I have used total in 10 months of being at my site. This doesn't include my water use when I travel to Nairobi or other cities, but it comes out to about 5.5 liters per day.
365 – The number of days I have been outside America.
426 – approximate number of days I have left until my service is through.
1 – times I have sincerely longed to be home.
0 – times I have regretted my decision to join the Peace Corps.
6 – The number of living chickens hanging upside down on bicycle handles (3 on each side), no doubt headed towards the market for selling.
7 – The record number of full grown people I have seen riding a motorcycle.
35 (2) – The record number of full grown people being carried by a 14-seater matatu (2 babies). The matatu broke down, and as we all got out of the vehicle (I was one of the 5 people standing on the outside door), I realized there were also 8 chickens inside.
Over a dozen – single exposed breasts I have seen from breast-feeding mothers.
6 – the total number of times I have swam in a year.
3 – the number of times I would sometimes swim in a single day.
47 – dead cockroaches I found in my room after two weeks absence.
Infinity – living cockroaches in and around my pit latrine.
60 – the most kilometers I have ever run in one week's time.
60 – the average kilometers I would swim each week for many consecutive weeks of my life.
3 – The number of items I can cross off my bucket list (1. swim in the indian ocean, 2. dream in another language, 3. be on both northern and southern hemispheres of the world at the same time)
1 – The number of strawberries I have eaten.
36 – letters and packages I have mailed, also the number of our starting group.
5 – The number of languages I am greeted in on a daily basis (Kiswahili, English, Taita, Duruma, Kamba)
1500 – liters of water I have used total in 10 months of being at my site. This doesn't include my water use when I travel to Nairobi or other cities, but it comes out to about 5.5 liters per day.
365 – The number of days I have been outside America.
426 – approximate number of days I have left until my service is through.
1 – times I have sincerely longed to be home.
0 – times I have regretted my decision to join the Peace Corps.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Betty Crocker
Since I've lived in Kenya, I have only been cooking for myself. Nearly everything I cook is from my local open-air market with fresh fruits, vegetables, and legumes. Corn and wheat flour, spaghetti noodles, and other things I find in the larger supermarkets or small storefronts. I cook a small array of dishes, from spaghetti with home-made tomato sauce, tortillas with guacamole, coconut rice and beans, or the local dish of fried kale and “ugali.” I cannot say I am much of a cook though, since I prefer quantity over quality and healthy over delicious if I had to choose. Luckily I have access a variety of spices, so if I somehow go wrong in the cooking process, I douse my meal with my local favorites.
Cooking here is quite a process. It takes me nearly half an hour just cutting the onions, tomatoes, and other vegetables, or peeling carrots and potatoes with my knife. If I am pressed for time, I usually opt to cook the “ugali” and fried kale, because once the vegetables are cut it is just 15 minutes until the food is ready to eat.
This past Sunday for lunch I had run out fresh food to prepare myself, so I shuffled through my storage box for something to eat. With luck I found a packet of “Betty Crocker” instant mashed potatoes, and another packet of instant gravy. I flipped the packet and read the directions which instructed me to boil water and add the contents, then stir for one minute. The gravy sauce packet actually took less time than that. After 2 minutes had passed, I had a steaming, creaming plate of mashed potatoes and gravy.
I chuckled to myself at how quickly it all happened. Being used to at least a half-hour's preparation before any meal, I felt like I somehow cheated. I even looked around my empty room, as if searching for confirmation that the food was ready. I decided I should share some with my neighbors as a cultural experience, showing them the empty packets and telling them that this is how American food is.
I was astounded at the taste. Despite the assurance from Betty Crocker herself that the mashed potatoes were “REAL” as written on the package, the taste was so foreign to me still. Just as one can taste the difference in aspartame or some other synthesized, non-calorie sweetener compared to the real granules of sugar, the packaged food instantly betrayed itself to my senses. I had become so used to real unadulterated foods, I found myself loath to finishing the instant potatoes and gravy. But I did finish them; there are starving children in Africa.
What I realized out of this was not the taste of Betty Crocker's mashed potatoes, but the lifestyle Americans lead that should require instant packaged foods, microwaves, and infomercials that can sell you a “Slap-chop.” Everything Americans do has to be expedited if possible, so that we can do more activities and be more productive throughout our day. Yet here in Kenya, I find myself living completely perpendicular to the fast-paced American life, and I am often frustrated at how I wait long hours for transportation, or how cooking takes a huge chunk of my evening. But the reminder of my American lifestyle made me a little bit sick inside. It seems we want so much out of every minute of our day that we miss many of the subtle flavors in life. We want our crops to grow bigger and tastier, our lines at the grocery store to be shorter, and our fast-food to be faster. I am beginning to think that maybe it's okay to live a little bit slower. Maybe it is okay to take the time to metaphorically cut your vegetables and prepare your food in such a way to make Betty Crocker turn her nose up: both in defiance of your boycott on her instant-mashed potatoes and at the enchanting aroma of your original, heavily spiced creations.
Cooking here is quite a process. It takes me nearly half an hour just cutting the onions, tomatoes, and other vegetables, or peeling carrots and potatoes with my knife. If I am pressed for time, I usually opt to cook the “ugali” and fried kale, because once the vegetables are cut it is just 15 minutes until the food is ready to eat.
This past Sunday for lunch I had run out fresh food to prepare myself, so I shuffled through my storage box for something to eat. With luck I found a packet of “Betty Crocker” instant mashed potatoes, and another packet of instant gravy. I flipped the packet and read the directions which instructed me to boil water and add the contents, then stir for one minute. The gravy sauce packet actually took less time than that. After 2 minutes had passed, I had a steaming, creaming plate of mashed potatoes and gravy.
I chuckled to myself at how quickly it all happened. Being used to at least a half-hour's preparation before any meal, I felt like I somehow cheated. I even looked around my empty room, as if searching for confirmation that the food was ready. I decided I should share some with my neighbors as a cultural experience, showing them the empty packets and telling them that this is how American food is.
I was astounded at the taste. Despite the assurance from Betty Crocker herself that the mashed potatoes were “REAL” as written on the package, the taste was so foreign to me still. Just as one can taste the difference in aspartame or some other synthesized, non-calorie sweetener compared to the real granules of sugar, the packaged food instantly betrayed itself to my senses. I had become so used to real unadulterated foods, I found myself loath to finishing the instant potatoes and gravy. But I did finish them; there are starving children in Africa.
What I realized out of this was not the taste of Betty Crocker's mashed potatoes, but the lifestyle Americans lead that should require instant packaged foods, microwaves, and infomercials that can sell you a “Slap-chop.” Everything Americans do has to be expedited if possible, so that we can do more activities and be more productive throughout our day. Yet here in Kenya, I find myself living completely perpendicular to the fast-paced American life, and I am often frustrated at how I wait long hours for transportation, or how cooking takes a huge chunk of my evening. But the reminder of my American lifestyle made me a little bit sick inside. It seems we want so much out of every minute of our day that we miss many of the subtle flavors in life. We want our crops to grow bigger and tastier, our lines at the grocery store to be shorter, and our fast-food to be faster. I am beginning to think that maybe it's okay to live a little bit slower. Maybe it is okay to take the time to metaphorically cut your vegetables and prepare your food in such a way to make Betty Crocker turn her nose up: both in defiance of your boycott on her instant-mashed potatoes and at the enchanting aroma of your original, heavily spiced creations.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Environmentally Friendly
People are bad for the environment. Centuries of economic development have pioneered the raping of the Earth's natural resources, from clearing away dense forest for agriculture and infrastructure to digging in every place imaginable for oil and combustible fuels. But these days, environmental protection has been a popular discussion topic. Words like “Ecological Footprint”, “Climate Change”, and “Greenhouse Gases” have infiltrated our vocabulary like Chinese-made goods and services. Nowadays both individuals and corporations alike are urged to reduce their negative impact on the environment by “going green” and negating their carbon footprint upon the world. Websites offer carbon-footprint calculations, which estimates the level of “tonnage of carbon dioxide” you emit per year.
I am quite aware that developed nations pollute a great deal more than developing ones, and so I decided to compare my lifestyle from America to how I live now by using one of these online carbon footprint tests. It asked questions concerning the car I drive, the flights I've taken, my household electricity & gas usage, my culinary habits, my purchasing & recycling habits, and a list of other miscellaneous subjects. Here's how it turns out:
Car
In the year before I came to Kenya, I would drive 60 to 80 miles a day going to and from work, running various errands, or visiting certain people, and I would often make those trips all alone. Now I walk and bike everywhere, or take public transportation if the place is too far. Even public transportation vehicles are packed to the maximum carrying capacity. In Southern California, you qualify for the “carpool lane” by having just 2 or more people in the car. Kenya redefines “carpooling” by carrying 30 passengers (and often chickens and goats) in a 14-seat van.
Water
I remember back in college our swim team would have 20 showers running full blast for a good 15 to 20 minutes as we relaxed under the massaging pressure of the hot water. And this would happen twice or even three times per day because of multiple swim practices. Gallons and gallons of water were used from our swim team alone. Now I use 1.5 liters of water to bathe. Perhaps I shouldn't admit to this so openly, but often I will bathe every other day. On a given day, I can use a total of 6 to 10 liters of water for cooking, cleaning, bathing and drinking. That is about 2 flushes of a toilet.
Food
In America, I would eat meat for at least two meals a day. Processed foods, candies, and anything that traveled for 100 miles or further to my supermarket, I was very likely to purchase. But in Kenya, I have given vegetarianism a try (it is really hard to preserve meats and cheeses with ridiculous-hot temperatures and no refrigeration) and all my food comes less than 10 kilometers away.
Recycling
I've always hated plastic bottles and things, and believed firmly in recycling back in the States, but here in Kenya, I take recycling to a whole new level. I reuse everything until it disintegrates here. If I buy a loaf of bread, I reuse the flimsy plastic bag it comes in when I go to the market so the mamas do not have to use one of their own bags for the vegetables I purchase (not only do these mamas save a quarter of a shilling, it gets me talking with them about how plastic materials are bad for the environment). Hefty grocery bags from the bigger supermarkets are like valued gems to me, and they get well used before they are discarded (burned).
Energy
I have two lights in my home. Both have energy-saving light-bulbs in them, and I use one for maybe 3 hours every night. I do have a socket for powering/charging things, and I usually use my computer for a couple hours daily. I have a reading light that is charged with a solar cell. My current net energy use is marginal at most, and it's actually not too different from how I lived back in the states.
Travel
The trip to and from Kenya from Los Angeles was an ecological killer. Just in a round trip ticket I accounted for more than half of my total emissions for two years (2.66 tons of carbon dioxide).
Over its lifetime an average tree can sequester or absorb about 1 ton of carbon dioxide. Americans emit an average of 20 tons of carbon dioxide per year. Because trees don't begin to be much use in negating carbon dioxide until they reach adolescence, 6 trees need to be planted for every ton of carbon dioxide emitted (and each tree must survive for its lifespan). Therefore, Americans should plant 120 trees per year on average to wipe their carbon footprint clean.
The going rate of a ton of carbon on the open market is about $5.50. Instead of emitting the 40 tons of carbon dioxide I should have by living in the states, I am at a grand total of 5.7 for the two years I'll be living here. It doesn't sound like all that much, but the U.S. Government gets an average environmentally-based financial benefit of $188.65 for just me, and I can imagine similar figures for every other Peace Corps volunteer.
But the average Kenyan has a footprint of 0.31 tons per year. Even excluding my flight here and back, I emit three times more than the average for this country.
When I lived in America, there is such a disconnect between being responsible with the use of resources and the effect it has on others. But here I see a little bit more clearly how I am impacting the lives of others. As an example, water is a major problem where I live. The roads are constantly filled with people carrying their water for long distances. Groups of mamas walk together with their 20 liter jerry can on their head, talking to each other to keep them cheerful. Grimacing young boys wheel bicycles with 60 liters strapped to the back (20 gallons) uphill through sandy patches of road. In light of this, I find it difficult to waste even a drop of water. If the rains come, it is all hands on deck for me, as I put out every basin and pot that I own to catch the drops of rain from my corrugated iron roof. Though I am able to get water at the nearby school, I conserve as much as possible because I know that the more I draw water from the school, the less others will have. And generally speaking, the more resources I use, the more of a strain I place on resources as a whole. The longer I live here, the more convicted I feel of the decadence I used to live. It makes me reevaluate how I want to continue living should I get back to the states.
I am quite aware that developed nations pollute a great deal more than developing ones, and so I decided to compare my lifestyle from America to how I live now by using one of these online carbon footprint tests. It asked questions concerning the car I drive, the flights I've taken, my household electricity & gas usage, my culinary habits, my purchasing & recycling habits, and a list of other miscellaneous subjects. Here's how it turns out:
Car
In the year before I came to Kenya, I would drive 60 to 80 miles a day going to and from work, running various errands, or visiting certain people, and I would often make those trips all alone. Now I walk and bike everywhere, or take public transportation if the place is too far. Even public transportation vehicles are packed to the maximum carrying capacity. In Southern California, you qualify for the “carpool lane” by having just 2 or more people in the car. Kenya redefines “carpooling” by carrying 30 passengers (and often chickens and goats) in a 14-seat van.
Water
I remember back in college our swim team would have 20 showers running full blast for a good 15 to 20 minutes as we relaxed under the massaging pressure of the hot water. And this would happen twice or even three times per day because of multiple swim practices. Gallons and gallons of water were used from our swim team alone. Now I use 1.5 liters of water to bathe. Perhaps I shouldn't admit to this so openly, but often I will bathe every other day. On a given day, I can use a total of 6 to 10 liters of water for cooking, cleaning, bathing and drinking. That is about 2 flushes of a toilet.
Food
In America, I would eat meat for at least two meals a day. Processed foods, candies, and anything that traveled for 100 miles or further to my supermarket, I was very likely to purchase. But in Kenya, I have given vegetarianism a try (it is really hard to preserve meats and cheeses with ridiculous-hot temperatures and no refrigeration) and all my food comes less than 10 kilometers away.
Recycling
I've always hated plastic bottles and things, and believed firmly in recycling back in the States, but here in Kenya, I take recycling to a whole new level. I reuse everything until it disintegrates here. If I buy a loaf of bread, I reuse the flimsy plastic bag it comes in when I go to the market so the mamas do not have to use one of their own bags for the vegetables I purchase (not only do these mamas save a quarter of a shilling, it gets me talking with them about how plastic materials are bad for the environment). Hefty grocery bags from the bigger supermarkets are like valued gems to me, and they get well used before they are discarded (burned).
Energy
I have two lights in my home. Both have energy-saving light-bulbs in them, and I use one for maybe 3 hours every night. I do have a socket for powering/charging things, and I usually use my computer for a couple hours daily. I have a reading light that is charged with a solar cell. My current net energy use is marginal at most, and it's actually not too different from how I lived back in the states.
Travel
The trip to and from Kenya from Los Angeles was an ecological killer. Just in a round trip ticket I accounted for more than half of my total emissions for two years (2.66 tons of carbon dioxide).
Over its lifetime an average tree can sequester or absorb about 1 ton of carbon dioxide. Americans emit an average of 20 tons of carbon dioxide per year. Because trees don't begin to be much use in negating carbon dioxide until they reach adolescence, 6 trees need to be planted for every ton of carbon dioxide emitted (and each tree must survive for its lifespan). Therefore, Americans should plant 120 trees per year on average to wipe their carbon footprint clean.
The going rate of a ton of carbon on the open market is about $5.50. Instead of emitting the 40 tons of carbon dioxide I should have by living in the states, I am at a grand total of 5.7 for the two years I'll be living here. It doesn't sound like all that much, but the U.S. Government gets an average environmentally-based financial benefit of $188.65 for just me, and I can imagine similar figures for every other Peace Corps volunteer.
But the average Kenyan has a footprint of 0.31 tons per year. Even excluding my flight here and back, I emit three times more than the average for this country.
When I lived in America, there is such a disconnect between being responsible with the use of resources and the effect it has on others. But here I see a little bit more clearly how I am impacting the lives of others. As an example, water is a major problem where I live. The roads are constantly filled with people carrying their water for long distances. Groups of mamas walk together with their 20 liter jerry can on their head, talking to each other to keep them cheerful. Grimacing young boys wheel bicycles with 60 liters strapped to the back (20 gallons) uphill through sandy patches of road. In light of this, I find it difficult to waste even a drop of water. If the rains come, it is all hands on deck for me, as I put out every basin and pot that I own to catch the drops of rain from my corrugated iron roof. Though I am able to get water at the nearby school, I conserve as much as possible because I know that the more I draw water from the school, the less others will have. And generally speaking, the more resources I use, the more of a strain I place on resources as a whole. The longer I live here, the more convicted I feel of the decadence I used to live. It makes me reevaluate how I want to continue living should I get back to the states.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Mombasa
Mombasa. East Africa's biggest port bustles with life. Shirtless young men pull heavy carts of fruit down the streets, while others are spotted resting on a pile of dirt they recently shoveled in the midday sun. Small 3-wheeled taxis zip in and out of stalled traffic and abruptly stop in front of any person standing idly by the road, hoping for a customer. The wide sidewalks are lined with mamas sitting on the floor selling coconuts, mangoes, or papaya, as well as street cooks who turn your head at the sweet smell of their freshly cooked food. Whole fish, seemingly still quivering in remembrance of a recent swim, are sold fresh near the water. The vast Indian Ocean shimmers translucent green until the limits of the horizon. This city is enchanted.
Mombasa is home to Kenya's Swahili tribe (actually from the Arabic word sawahil, which means “people of the coast”), yet among them live large cohorts of Middle Easterners and Indians. Muslim women walk around like shadows in their full black buibui. Swahili women wear fashionable “lassos” with colored patterns and a “Kiswahili Saying” written upon them, and Indian girls blithely stroll together along the streets, each dressed in a different, brightly colored sari. Although I love the people in my community, I welcome the cultural diversity Mombasa has to offer like a breath of fresh air.
The humidity attaches itself to my body like another layer of sweat. As I roam the streets I search for the shaded sidewalks so that I may hide from the sun. The chilled avocado juice sold at the corner of the street looks like a tempting option, no doubt a cup of instant diarrhea for tourists unaccustomed to the germs of Africa. As for me, I quickly down a glass without worry. The seducing aroma of roasted meat wafts from the racks of outdoor cooks, so tempting it can make even a devote vegetarian commit heresy. I have yet to try it.
Tourists who spend a day or two in Mombasa usually opt for walking tours to Fort Jesus and trips to the beach. Tourists may just see a glimpse of Mombasa town before they leave, and they will remember large buildings, nice restaurants, and wide roads. But with just a little bit of adventuring down back alleys, I discover an entirely new picture of Mombasa. Despite the touristy 3 to 8 dollar restaurants, I find the local restaurants with the traditional Kenyan food for just under 50 cents. As I continue down these alleys I see mamas hanging their laundry on lines that cut across the walkways. I greet them as I duck under their dripping clothes, and they return a friendly smile and continue with their chores. A few blocks down I come across a few teenagers playing checkers. After a few words, I find myself playing the next game with a small crowd of youth watching. I won the first game and my opponent won the next two.
When I have spare time in Mombasa, I often find myself in a towering 7-story shopping center—but on the 3rd floor in the fabric section. I much enjoy looking at all the different, beautiful fabrics this store has to offer without the constant heckling the street peddlers give me. As I move through the different isles, I conspicuously reach out and feel the texture of the different materials. All the employees know me now. We often have casual conversations in Swahili, and one of them always tells me that I look exactly like the Arsenal football player Tomas Rosicky, and he writes his name on a small piece of paper along with “Jazz 7” meaning “jersey 7” so I can look him up on the internet. Sadly each time I return home, I forget to complete my end of the deal.
I stroll through the open-air markets filled with spices and produce, and often when sellers yell for my attention with, “How are you? Welcome!” I often return a puzzled look at them and pretend I don't speak English. In Swahili I tell them I am from Spain, and I ask them if they know Spanish. Nobody ever knows Spanish, so this gamble always works to my favor. And my Swahili is good enough now that I can complete transactions and have conversations with people, so I take the opportunities in the market to practice speaking and listening.
Mombasa. After I finish my errands I board a matatu to take me back to my village. As we cross the bridge leading away from town I see sailboats making their way out into the open sea, and palm trees along the shores swaying in the breeze, as if waving me goodbye. The emerald ocean twinkles through the dirty windows of the matatu, beckoning me to come back again. This city is enchanted.
Mombasa is home to Kenya's Swahili tribe (actually from the Arabic word sawahil, which means “people of the coast”), yet among them live large cohorts of Middle Easterners and Indians. Muslim women walk around like shadows in their full black buibui. Swahili women wear fashionable “lassos” with colored patterns and a “Kiswahili Saying” written upon them, and Indian girls blithely stroll together along the streets, each dressed in a different, brightly colored sari. Although I love the people in my community, I welcome the cultural diversity Mombasa has to offer like a breath of fresh air.
The humidity attaches itself to my body like another layer of sweat. As I roam the streets I search for the shaded sidewalks so that I may hide from the sun. The chilled avocado juice sold at the corner of the street looks like a tempting option, no doubt a cup of instant diarrhea for tourists unaccustomed to the germs of Africa. As for me, I quickly down a glass without worry. The seducing aroma of roasted meat wafts from the racks of outdoor cooks, so tempting it can make even a devote vegetarian commit heresy. I have yet to try it.
Tourists who spend a day or two in Mombasa usually opt for walking tours to Fort Jesus and trips to the beach. Tourists may just see a glimpse of Mombasa town before they leave, and they will remember large buildings, nice restaurants, and wide roads. But with just a little bit of adventuring down back alleys, I discover an entirely new picture of Mombasa. Despite the touristy 3 to 8 dollar restaurants, I find the local restaurants with the traditional Kenyan food for just under 50 cents. As I continue down these alleys I see mamas hanging their laundry on lines that cut across the walkways. I greet them as I duck under their dripping clothes, and they return a friendly smile and continue with their chores. A few blocks down I come across a few teenagers playing checkers. After a few words, I find myself playing the next game with a small crowd of youth watching. I won the first game and my opponent won the next two.
When I have spare time in Mombasa, I often find myself in a towering 7-story shopping center—but on the 3rd floor in the fabric section. I much enjoy looking at all the different, beautiful fabrics this store has to offer without the constant heckling the street peddlers give me. As I move through the different isles, I conspicuously reach out and feel the texture of the different materials. All the employees know me now. We often have casual conversations in Swahili, and one of them always tells me that I look exactly like the Arsenal football player Tomas Rosicky, and he writes his name on a small piece of paper along with “Jazz 7” meaning “jersey 7” so I can look him up on the internet. Sadly each time I return home, I forget to complete my end of the deal.
I stroll through the open-air markets filled with spices and produce, and often when sellers yell for my attention with, “How are you? Welcome!” I often return a puzzled look at them and pretend I don't speak English. In Swahili I tell them I am from Spain, and I ask them if they know Spanish. Nobody ever knows Spanish, so this gamble always works to my favor. And my Swahili is good enough now that I can complete transactions and have conversations with people, so I take the opportunities in the market to practice speaking and listening.
Mombasa. After I finish my errands I board a matatu to take me back to my village. As we cross the bridge leading away from town I see sailboats making their way out into the open sea, and palm trees along the shores swaying in the breeze, as if waving me goodbye. The emerald ocean twinkles through the dirty windows of the matatu, beckoning me to come back again. This city is enchanted.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
The Price of Virginity
In 2009, a 22-year old American girl named Natalie Dylan put her virginity up for auction online. Her top bid came from a 39-year old Australian at the price of $3.8 million.
$3.8 million.
I couldn't believe that price when I first read it. The article came with a picture, and sure, she was an attractive girl. But $3.8 million? In a single transaction, Natalie undoubtedly became one of the highest paid prostitutes of all time.
I began researching the idea of virginity's monetary value after a recent interview I had with a former prostitute near my town. Her story goes like this:
Her parents died when she was very young, so her aunt and uncle were her caretakers. For reasons unknown to this young girl, her guardians began mistreating her at a young age. Often, she would be beaten by her male cousins without consequence, and she would even go days without being given food to eat. When she would find work washing clothes or carrying water, her aunt would take what little money she earned and say it was payment for all they were providing for her. It came to a point where her aunt stole all her clothing, so she had nothing but the clothes on her back to wear.
The nearby town to where this girl lived is wrought with drugs and prostitution. The town sits on the roadside to and from Nairobi, and many truckers stop for the night to rest from their long day's journey. The daytime bustles with commotion, and the nights with licentious behavior. This young girl sought refuge from her caretakers in this town.
Though she searched desperately for work, there was none to be found for a young, desperate girl. With no money, no food, and with just the clothes on her back, she was running out of time. In her desperate search for work, she came across a woman who told her that if a man wanted to have sex with her, she should charge him 150 ksh, or $1.80. And it was not long before she had an offer.
Soon after she became engulfed in the prostitution business. The quick money and high demand were reason enough to continue with her work, and money provided for the basic needs she so sorely needed. In my discussion with her, she disclosed the whole gamut of the dirty business. Thirty minutes of service would cost $1.80, and for double that time it would be around $4.00. A whole night would cost $15. On a usual night, she would go with 7 to 10 men, and she would still charge full price for the men who didn't come after their allotted time. She was especially afraid of those who wanted the whole night, because then they could do “whatever they want” with the girls. That's why the price is so “high”.
During the interview, the girl cradled her 2-month old baby in her arms. The baby was conceived by a boyfriend who left her. She said that her boyfriend was the only one she had ever slept with without a condom. Still, when she spoke of him, her voice livened and hints of a smile showed upon her face. She partitioned herself emotionally, separating her “work” from her emotional attachment with her boyfriend. The girl was desperate for love and protection, and she gave herself to her boyfriend both physically and emotionally to seek a filler for the thing she had been missing her entire life.
Just love. She was too young to remember the sweet embrace of her parents before they passed away. Never in her life did she have a place to go where she could find people who truly loved her and cared for her. Never had she felt the comforting presence of someone who would sacrifice their life for her. She clung tightly to the fantasy that the boy who got her pregnant would fill that void. The baby she held in her arms was a representation of the trust and openness she extended to only her boyfriend. By having unprotected sex with him, she gave him all of her “virginity,” and with it, all of her trust and love. She just expected the same in return.
In my mind, there is a fine line between love and prostitution. Boyfriends may take their girlfriends out for a fancy dinner and movie, but with sexual expectations in return. Even wives have been known to refuse sex to their husbands if their husbands wont comply to their certain demands. This is prostitution. Prostitution is the bastardization of giving. It turns the selfless, beautiful act of giving into a tool used for manipulation. Even this young girl's aunt and uncle expected payment in return for raising her. It's no wonder she was inclined to this lifestyle.
It broke my heart to hear this girl's story, and I so much wanted to hold her and tell her how much she was still worth.
When my counterpart asked her how she felt during her first time she went with a man, she turned her head down and uttered the word, “bitter.” She was 15 years old. Her virginity was worth $1.80.
$3.8 million.
I couldn't believe that price when I first read it. The article came with a picture, and sure, she was an attractive girl. But $3.8 million? In a single transaction, Natalie undoubtedly became one of the highest paid prostitutes of all time.
I began researching the idea of virginity's monetary value after a recent interview I had with a former prostitute near my town. Her story goes like this:
Her parents died when she was very young, so her aunt and uncle were her caretakers. For reasons unknown to this young girl, her guardians began mistreating her at a young age. Often, she would be beaten by her male cousins without consequence, and she would even go days without being given food to eat. When she would find work washing clothes or carrying water, her aunt would take what little money she earned and say it was payment for all they were providing for her. It came to a point where her aunt stole all her clothing, so she had nothing but the clothes on her back to wear.
The nearby town to where this girl lived is wrought with drugs and prostitution. The town sits on the roadside to and from Nairobi, and many truckers stop for the night to rest from their long day's journey. The daytime bustles with commotion, and the nights with licentious behavior. This young girl sought refuge from her caretakers in this town.
Though she searched desperately for work, there was none to be found for a young, desperate girl. With no money, no food, and with just the clothes on her back, she was running out of time. In her desperate search for work, she came across a woman who told her that if a man wanted to have sex with her, she should charge him 150 ksh, or $1.80. And it was not long before she had an offer.
Soon after she became engulfed in the prostitution business. The quick money and high demand were reason enough to continue with her work, and money provided for the basic needs she so sorely needed. In my discussion with her, she disclosed the whole gamut of the dirty business. Thirty minutes of service would cost $1.80, and for double that time it would be around $4.00. A whole night would cost $15. On a usual night, she would go with 7 to 10 men, and she would still charge full price for the men who didn't come after their allotted time. She was especially afraid of those who wanted the whole night, because then they could do “whatever they want” with the girls. That's why the price is so “high”.
During the interview, the girl cradled her 2-month old baby in her arms. The baby was conceived by a boyfriend who left her. She said that her boyfriend was the only one she had ever slept with without a condom. Still, when she spoke of him, her voice livened and hints of a smile showed upon her face. She partitioned herself emotionally, separating her “work” from her emotional attachment with her boyfriend. The girl was desperate for love and protection, and she gave herself to her boyfriend both physically and emotionally to seek a filler for the thing she had been missing her entire life.
Just love. She was too young to remember the sweet embrace of her parents before they passed away. Never in her life did she have a place to go where she could find people who truly loved her and cared for her. Never had she felt the comforting presence of someone who would sacrifice their life for her. She clung tightly to the fantasy that the boy who got her pregnant would fill that void. The baby she held in her arms was a representation of the trust and openness she extended to only her boyfriend. By having unprotected sex with him, she gave him all of her “virginity,” and with it, all of her trust and love. She just expected the same in return.
In my mind, there is a fine line between love and prostitution. Boyfriends may take their girlfriends out for a fancy dinner and movie, but with sexual expectations in return. Even wives have been known to refuse sex to their husbands if their husbands wont comply to their certain demands. This is prostitution. Prostitution is the bastardization of giving. It turns the selfless, beautiful act of giving into a tool used for manipulation. Even this young girl's aunt and uncle expected payment in return for raising her. It's no wonder she was inclined to this lifestyle.
It broke my heart to hear this girl's story, and I so much wanted to hold her and tell her how much she was still worth.
When my counterpart asked her how she felt during her first time she went with a man, she turned her head down and uttered the word, “bitter.” She was 15 years old. Her virginity was worth $1.80.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Wood U. Rathr
April 1st. My favorite holiday. A day for crafty lies and premeditated deceit, with each prank cordially intended for those you love and think about. In my mind, it is like Valentines Day, except not teeming with cliché. Sadly for me, this holiday is not widely celebrated in Kenya. Should I even dare to put cooked rice at the bottom of all my neighbor's shoes, or walk into my office with an eye-patch, it would compromise my community integration and my general camaraderie with the people here. So instead, I have decided to let my alter ego, “Mr. Rathr” infiltrate my blog-space. Enjoy!
Wood U. Rathr be the fastest onion chopper in the world OR an above-average ventriloquist?
Wood U. Rathr never have a flat tire in anything you drive OR have 16 more minutes per day than everyone else (note: everyone is frozen in time).
Wood U. Rathr have to change your name to “Fanny Mcgee” and always wear a large name-tag OR name (or rename) both your first and last born “Thing One” and “Thing Two”?
Wood U. Rathr have to drink two red-bulls before you sleep Sunday night and take a double dose of melatonin when you wake Monday morning OR involuntarily recite the entirety of Hamlet's famous “to be our not to be” any time anyone says “shake” or “spear”?
Wood U. Rathr wrap your feet in duct tape every Wednesday and go without shoes OR have an irrational reaction to stapled paper if the staple is not perfectly horizontal?
Wood U. Rathr laugh differently every time OR sometimes wake up with Jack Nicholson's voice (and spend the day with it)?
Wood U. Rathr never know the date OR instantly forget what you just ate?
Wood U. Rathr see the world literally black and white OR morally black and white?
Wood U. Rathr be considered one of the greatest Haiku writers of all time OR be an extra of your choice in 4 Johnny Depp movies?
Wood U. Rathr have the hand strength to juice a carrot with slight effort OR own a respectably sized avocado grove in San Diego, California?
Wood U. Rathr be given the market price, in cash, of a bar of gold bouillon but have to carry an actual bar of gold always OR drink only a luke-warm, vitamin fortified tofu broth every March, April, and May, but get free restaurant meals every other month?
Wood U. Rathr have an obnoxiously large signature OR be unable to text or dial cell phones with your thumbs?
Wood U. Rathr have the power to taste a restaurant item just by running your finger over the words on the menu OR have the ability to just once see your future if you had chosen to marry a certain person?
Happy April Fools!
Wood U. Rathr be the fastest onion chopper in the world OR an above-average ventriloquist?
Wood U. Rathr never have a flat tire in anything you drive OR have 16 more minutes per day than everyone else (note: everyone is frozen in time).
Wood U. Rathr have to change your name to “Fanny Mcgee” and always wear a large name-tag OR name (or rename) both your first and last born “Thing One” and “Thing Two”?
Wood U. Rathr have to drink two red-bulls before you sleep Sunday night and take a double dose of melatonin when you wake Monday morning OR involuntarily recite the entirety of Hamlet's famous “to be our not to be” any time anyone says “shake” or “spear”?
Wood U. Rathr wrap your feet in duct tape every Wednesday and go without shoes OR have an irrational reaction to stapled paper if the staple is not perfectly horizontal?
Wood U. Rathr laugh differently every time OR sometimes wake up with Jack Nicholson's voice (and spend the day with it)?
Wood U. Rathr never know the date OR instantly forget what you just ate?
Wood U. Rathr see the world literally black and white OR morally black and white?
Wood U. Rathr be considered one of the greatest Haiku writers of all time OR be an extra of your choice in 4 Johnny Depp movies?
Wood U. Rathr have the hand strength to juice a carrot with slight effort OR own a respectably sized avocado grove in San Diego, California?
Wood U. Rathr be given the market price, in cash, of a bar of gold bouillon but have to carry an actual bar of gold always OR drink only a luke-warm, vitamin fortified tofu broth every March, April, and May, but get free restaurant meals every other month?
Wood U. Rathr have an obnoxiously large signature OR be unable to text or dial cell phones with your thumbs?
Wood U. Rathr have the power to taste a restaurant item just by running your finger over the words on the menu OR have the ability to just once see your future if you had chosen to marry a certain person?
Happy April Fools!
Friday, March 25, 2011
The Lesser Sex
The office was quiet save for the clicking of fingers upon a keyboard. The secretary was busy at work, transposing minutes from a recent meeting onto the computer. Just days before, the secretary discovered that her husband was cheating on her, so the busy work she had in front of her was a welcomed relief from her thoughts. I was in her company, and I sat quietly studying my Swahili book. Our chairman was seated in his usual chair in the next room, shuffling through files or reading the daily paper. Things proceeded peacefully along.
Suddenly the manager storms in, breaking the office's peace like a rock thrown into a still pond. He comes in with the usual smile and first greets me, asking how the morning was and discussing his concern for the late rains. When finishing with me, he briefly greets the secretary, and then moves into the next room where he showers the chairman with the whole arsenal of salutations, as if they had not seen each other for months. After the long greeting session, the manager returns to the office with a small stack of papers and he tosses them over the secretary's busy fingers. “Type this,” He commanded flatly. The secretary returned his gesture with a deep glower, obviously bothered by the lack of respect in his demeanor. She quietly removed her new stack of work from the keyboard where they blocked her from continuing her current assignment, and as she set it aside her computer, the manager turned to her and said, “And have it done by today.”
Enough. I felt her anger swell, involuntarily moving her to speak. She began like this, “Why do you treat me like this? What have I done to you?” Her voice rose with emotion as she continued, switching languages to her more comfortable Swahili. She stormed into the chairman's office, her recent workload gripped firmly in her hands, and she began to plead her case in front of him. The manager joined them in the next room, and a full argument erupted.
I saw it coming. Tensions had been high for over four months between the two members of this organization, and it was only a matter of time before this verbal confrontation. It started when the manager made sexual advances upon the secretary, but was refused outright. In turn, a passive-aggressive battle to exert his dominance over her ensued.
I could not understand the conversation in the least. As the voices rose in volume, they increased in tempo, spewing long chains of Swahili sentences even a trained ear could have difficulty with. Then, from nowhere I heard the manager break into English, stating, “But chairman, She's a woman. She's a lesser sex. I cannot take her seriously.”
Wow. Up to this time I had never heard a single racist, tribalist, or sexist comment from the manager. I always saw him with an amicable smile and a willingness to please. It was shocking to hear those words spoken from his lips, and the words reverberated in my head.
To say such a thing in a workplace in America is an instant firing, and perhaps a lawsuit.
The reaction from the chairman was almost condoning. It was as if “She's a lesser sex” is a perfectly valid reason to treat someone the way he did. The secretary's frustration manifested into tears, and she stormed out of the office despite the chairman's attempts to console her. The manager emerged from the chairman's office with a grin and an air of victory about him. The muscles in my arms tightened and my fists clenched tight, aching to release themselves upon the manager's contrived smile.
I'm sure if the secretary had one wish, it would be to have her husband stop cheating on her, or at least to not have caught her husband cheating on her. The burden of her personal life was made known only to me and her select friends, none of whom work in the office. And knowing her entire story, I empathized deeply.
For the first time, I felt the tragedy of being a woman in this society. In the secretary's tears I felt a small piece of the heavy weight of subjugation a working woman has to bear in the presence of men; men who were raised with a sense of entitlement over their female counterparts. To be shattered emotionally, to be oppressed openly, and to be culturally obligated to endure, this secretary demonstrated clearly that women here are a far cry from the lesser sex.
Suddenly the manager storms in, breaking the office's peace like a rock thrown into a still pond. He comes in with the usual smile and first greets me, asking how the morning was and discussing his concern for the late rains. When finishing with me, he briefly greets the secretary, and then moves into the next room where he showers the chairman with the whole arsenal of salutations, as if they had not seen each other for months. After the long greeting session, the manager returns to the office with a small stack of papers and he tosses them over the secretary's busy fingers. “Type this,” He commanded flatly. The secretary returned his gesture with a deep glower, obviously bothered by the lack of respect in his demeanor. She quietly removed her new stack of work from the keyboard where they blocked her from continuing her current assignment, and as she set it aside her computer, the manager turned to her and said, “And have it done by today.”
Enough. I felt her anger swell, involuntarily moving her to speak. She began like this, “Why do you treat me like this? What have I done to you?” Her voice rose with emotion as she continued, switching languages to her more comfortable Swahili. She stormed into the chairman's office, her recent workload gripped firmly in her hands, and she began to plead her case in front of him. The manager joined them in the next room, and a full argument erupted.
I saw it coming. Tensions had been high for over four months between the two members of this organization, and it was only a matter of time before this verbal confrontation. It started when the manager made sexual advances upon the secretary, but was refused outright. In turn, a passive-aggressive battle to exert his dominance over her ensued.
I could not understand the conversation in the least. As the voices rose in volume, they increased in tempo, spewing long chains of Swahili sentences even a trained ear could have difficulty with. Then, from nowhere I heard the manager break into English, stating, “But chairman, She's a woman. She's a lesser sex. I cannot take her seriously.”
Wow. Up to this time I had never heard a single racist, tribalist, or sexist comment from the manager. I always saw him with an amicable smile and a willingness to please. It was shocking to hear those words spoken from his lips, and the words reverberated in my head.
To say such a thing in a workplace in America is an instant firing, and perhaps a lawsuit.
The reaction from the chairman was almost condoning. It was as if “She's a lesser sex” is a perfectly valid reason to treat someone the way he did. The secretary's frustration manifested into tears, and she stormed out of the office despite the chairman's attempts to console her. The manager emerged from the chairman's office with a grin and an air of victory about him. The muscles in my arms tightened and my fists clenched tight, aching to release themselves upon the manager's contrived smile.
I'm sure if the secretary had one wish, it would be to have her husband stop cheating on her, or at least to not have caught her husband cheating on her. The burden of her personal life was made known only to me and her select friends, none of whom work in the office. And knowing her entire story, I empathized deeply.
For the first time, I felt the tragedy of being a woman in this society. In the secretary's tears I felt a small piece of the heavy weight of subjugation a working woman has to bear in the presence of men; men who were raised with a sense of entitlement over their female counterparts. To be shattered emotionally, to be oppressed openly, and to be culturally obligated to endure, this secretary demonstrated clearly that women here are a far cry from the lesser sex.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Peace
It is midday in a large, Kenyan town. Matatus, buses and three-wheeled taxi cabs litter the small stage. Above the puttering, idle engines touts scream, “Nairobi? Nairobi!” to anyone who passes by. The peripheries are lined with small, makeshift stands from which mamas sell mangoes, bananas, and fresh-made honey in glass liquor flasks. Suddenly, piercing shouts fill the air – the Swahili word for “Thief!! Thief!!” rings out clearly over the general commotion. The shouts seize my attention and I turn my head to see a fleeing young man and a stampede of pursuers. People pour in from all sides and cut off potential exits for the young juvenile. He flees into a small shop made of corrugated metal, and apparently the shop owner is a friend or acquaintance, because the shop owner prevents anyone else from entering. The shop owner undoubtedly knows the havoc that could ensue inside his shop should he leave the juvenile to the crowd. Slowly the people disperse, and the young man is left with the guilt and shame of all his peers. The swift action of mob justice is incomparable.
The world is a dangerous place. Before coming to Africa, I was certain the entire continent was riddled with civil unrest, unstable political systems, riots, uprisings, and all the other things that are showcased on CNN. Rebellions in Libya are in the Kenyan news these days, and recent conflicts between Egypt, Israel, and oil have flared up. Even Kenya's neighboring country Somalia suffers a constant state of turmoil. Just the other day, a Kenyan school and health facility on Somalia's border had to shut down because bullets were found in and around the area, bullets that were fired in Somalia which flew across country lines.
But Kenya is peaceful. Anyone I speak with about the Kenyan culture always lists their peaceful nature as one of their most valued traits. Though Kenya is very political, the new constitution last August found no serious violence, especially in the rural areas. And as the story above displays, any foul play among this country's citizens is not tolerated.
But apart from nature, peace and safety in my village is unparalleled. I feel safer in my village than I felt in the suburbs of Southern California where I grew up. My neighbors are the most friendly, most caring people I could have hoped for and if it weren't for the small children entering my room and touching all my stuff, I would feel completely comfortable leaving my door wide open while I'm gone. The people take care of each other here, and when they ask “Where are you going?” all the time, I realize it is not because they are nosy or rude but more because they know where to find you should you be needed or should a problem arise. In the village I could send books or packages with matatu drivers, and I have 100% confidence they will reach their destination.
Once I left my guitar with a new friend who was to bring it to me after a short while. After arriving very late, he noticed my anxiety and asked me if I was worried he wouldn't bring it to me. He then assured me that he would not steal, that in fact he could not. And the longer I stay here, the more I realize the truth of his words – the people in my village are unable to steal. The level of safety and peace is inundated so deeply into their culture.
And not just political and social peace. There's a kind of overwhelming serenity that seizes me in the rugged, natural beauty where I live. To the west, massive hills stagger into the distance, gently fading from sight like a visible echo. Vast plains stretch themselves until the horizon and continue beyond, lit brightly by the sun – save for dappled shadows from the puffy low-hanging clouds. In the mornings, the sunlight can pour over the hills, as if to make the trees sing with life and youth. The evenings bring the most inspiring sunsets, as the incandescent sun shares its vibrant colors to the entire horizon. On moonless nights, the Milky Way divides the center of the sky and even the shyest of stars dimly twinkle, as if for the first time. The full moon can come over the hills like a sunrise, soaking in all the starlight and illuminating the entire landscape with its sublime glow. Birds chirp and flit about in the trees, merrily going about building their nests or wooing their playmates. The air is clean and fresh, and with just one full breath I feel like I am satisfied for the day. Often I am stopped on the road by the overwhelming beauty of this place, and in those moments I want to live here forever.
Maybe I will live here forever.
The world is a dangerous place. Before coming to Africa, I was certain the entire continent was riddled with civil unrest, unstable political systems, riots, uprisings, and all the other things that are showcased on CNN. Rebellions in Libya are in the Kenyan news these days, and recent conflicts between Egypt, Israel, and oil have flared up. Even Kenya's neighboring country Somalia suffers a constant state of turmoil. Just the other day, a Kenyan school and health facility on Somalia's border had to shut down because bullets were found in and around the area, bullets that were fired in Somalia which flew across country lines.
But Kenya is peaceful. Anyone I speak with about the Kenyan culture always lists their peaceful nature as one of their most valued traits. Though Kenya is very political, the new constitution last August found no serious violence, especially in the rural areas. And as the story above displays, any foul play among this country's citizens is not tolerated.
But apart from nature, peace and safety in my village is unparalleled. I feel safer in my village than I felt in the suburbs of Southern California where I grew up. My neighbors are the most friendly, most caring people I could have hoped for and if it weren't for the small children entering my room and touching all my stuff, I would feel completely comfortable leaving my door wide open while I'm gone. The people take care of each other here, and when they ask “Where are you going?” all the time, I realize it is not because they are nosy or rude but more because they know where to find you should you be needed or should a problem arise. In the village I could send books or packages with matatu drivers, and I have 100% confidence they will reach their destination.
Once I left my guitar with a new friend who was to bring it to me after a short while. After arriving very late, he noticed my anxiety and asked me if I was worried he wouldn't bring it to me. He then assured me that he would not steal, that in fact he could not. And the longer I stay here, the more I realize the truth of his words – the people in my village are unable to steal. The level of safety and peace is inundated so deeply into their culture.
And not just political and social peace. There's a kind of overwhelming serenity that seizes me in the rugged, natural beauty where I live. To the west, massive hills stagger into the distance, gently fading from sight like a visible echo. Vast plains stretch themselves until the horizon and continue beyond, lit brightly by the sun – save for dappled shadows from the puffy low-hanging clouds. In the mornings, the sunlight can pour over the hills, as if to make the trees sing with life and youth. The evenings bring the most inspiring sunsets, as the incandescent sun shares its vibrant colors to the entire horizon. On moonless nights, the Milky Way divides the center of the sky and even the shyest of stars dimly twinkle, as if for the first time. The full moon can come over the hills like a sunrise, soaking in all the starlight and illuminating the entire landscape with its sublime glow. Birds chirp and flit about in the trees, merrily going about building their nests or wooing their playmates. The air is clean and fresh, and with just one full breath I feel like I am satisfied for the day. Often I am stopped on the road by the overwhelming beauty of this place, and in those moments I want to live here forever.
Maybe I will live here forever.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
My Hair (Religion)
It has been 10 months since I cut my hair. Although it is culturally taboo for men to have long hair, I explain to people that I want to grow it for donation. My father is Italian and has a uni-brow, and my cute Asian mother has the thickest, blackest hair one could ever hope for, so I was doomed from conception with a luscious head of hair. I think the little girl or boy who receives it will be much appreciative.
But this post has nothing to do with my hair. This post is about Jesus Christ. And money.
The Kenyans are highly religious. When coming to Kenya, I did absolutely no background research, so I assumed the religions were tribal and pagan. I expected people to worship the sun god, and during religious gatherings cut themselves to spill their blood on the soil. Instead, I came to find the normal religions: Christianity and Islam. And Christian missionaries hit Kenya especially hard. I can only guess at how it happened: the shiny beacons of hope and light (white people) came with their money and built fancy churches and gave people money and food if they converted to Christianity. So undoubtedly all the starving people were on their knees in front of murals of Jesus Christ.
So as a result, there is no escape from religion in Kenya. On the coast, Muslim dress-code can be seen on every other woman: the flowing black burka concealing any beauty or sensual body curve which God endowed a young woman (in all honesty, I think those mysterious Muslim women are intriguingly beautiful..though I have no way of knowing). On public buses, often a christian pastor will stand in the front aisle and preach for a full-length, hour sermon and then proceed to gather 'offering' from the bus' customers. Angry-sounding pastors gather up their most grizzly voices and shout from the televisions on Sunday mornings, and everyone's customizable ring tones play the latest popular worship song. So there is no question this culture is inundated with religious symbols and rituals, no debate that people could see a poster of someone in a white robe holding a lamb and not instantly think of Jesus.
But back to my hair. The front of it reaches past my eyes, and the back nearly covers my neck entirely. In addition to my unkempt, borderline culturally inappropriate head of hair, my laziness usually allows my goatee to grow for a month or longer. All of that in combination with my caramel, middle-eastern skin makes me closely resemble a certain messiah-- namely Jesus Christ. To confirm this, when visiting the Christian groups at the secondary school, whispers spread like wildfire among the girls as I walked in, saying, “Anafanana na Yesu!” or “He looks like Jesus!”
And in my village, this is how I am treated. People think I am their Savior, that I have come to alleviate them from their poverty and physical suffering. Just like the Jews expected Jesus to be a great political leader who would save them from the Romans, the people in my village expect something so different from me. But Jesus had so much more in mind. He came to save humanity from themselves, to free people from the burdens of their own corruption.
I realize that it is highly arrogant and borderline blasphemous to compare myself to Jesus Christ. Whether you believe He was truly God Himself, an inspirational hippie philosopher, or a fictional character in a giant storybook, I pale in comparison. But upon reflection, my life here in Kenya draws some parallels to Jesus' life on this Earth. To name a few:
Wherever Jesus walked, multitudes would gather around. His mere words stirred inspiration and excitement among his listeners, his knowledge as a child surpassed that of the church leaders, and miracles sparked from his fingertips. Similarly, wherever I walk, people stop what they are doing and shout greetings and welcomes. With my guitar in hand, children flock and gather, eagerly listening to anything I would play. My computer with its internet capabilities gives me an “infinite knowledge,” and with my fancy camera, it is like I miraculously capture life itself.
So in my village there is no doubt I am special. Just my skin color gives me away as something “different,” “exciting” and “worth looking at.” And people's expectations of me are unbounded. In their minds, I am capable of doing everything. One of those main expectations is that of sourcing money from either myself or my wealthy friends, and putting that money into their pockets.
I came, not to give money, but as a medium for people to better their lives. I came to teach whatever I know and to share my life and my experiences to anyone interested. I came to bring a sense of work ethic and empowerment, that through hard work and struggle their lives may be changed. But people want money. They ask me for jobs even after I tell them I am a volunteer, and they ask me to write proposals for them even after I explain why I cannot. The people here see me with the same misunderstanding the Jews had when they saw Jesus. And because I do not offer money, food, or will not take their baby to America with me when I return, I am just as easily dismissed.
But back to religion. When I first arrived in Kenya, I sat through a three-hour church session where people sat in rapt attention, and danced without reservation during the entire period. I was astounded at their stamina and thought to myself how they must really love God and serve Jesus. But the longer I stay, the more I realize people here who call themselves “Christian” or “Muslim” are not really worshiping God. They worship money. They worship all the things that come with money—comfort, status, popularity, sex. They are just like most Americans.
Televangelists preach here in Kenya about wealth in Jesus' name, and America is revered for their prosperity, often to be claimed as a nation “Blessed by God.” A fine, upstanding “Christian” will just as likely double the price in the market to naïve tourists as would their non-religious countrymen, and public giving ceremonies are held in churches to make sure that the church members are “accountable” for their tithes and offerings.
It's not to say that Kenya is devoid of people who truly love and serve God. In both America and Kenya-and probably every other place-there will be those few who are truly devoted to their beliefs, and truly serve God with their lives. It is always refreshing to find someone like this, who knows what she believes and actually has it change her life.
But the love for money is such a tricky thing. Money simultaneously is the cause of most of the world's problems, yet the solution to many. Money provides opportunity and comfort, security and guaranteed medical attention. Yet money fosters worry and headache, greed and entitlement.
Many people dismiss religion as a social construction aimed as a money-making machine. In many cases I would have to agree with them. But I would find it difficult to judge those members in the churches who humbly give their tithes as foolish. Perhaps they give to a corrupt religious organization, but for those individuals, their giving shows that money is not their object of worship. Such behavior is commendable.
But money and poverty are knotty subjects. I came to the Peace Corps so that I might understand what poverty was really like. Instead, I am discovering that I will never know the true sting of poverty. I will never know what it is like to choose between purchasing water or food for that day or pray fervently each night that the rains should come. How can I judge anyone for loving money, when it has the power to alleviate basic suffering? How can I convict those who struggle every day with the most basic necessities, when money promises a deep breath from poverty's suffocation?
Just as I will never know what it is really like to be poor, Jesus will never know what it is really like to be human. Jesus knew what hunger was, and he very much tested a human's endurance for physical pain. But Jesus never knew sin. Jesus walked in perfection in God's eyes, and through his deliberate decisions he faced temptations and always came out clean. Never did he feel the blight of evil weighing upon his heart, or feel the hot sensation in his cheeks when a particular moral decision contradicted his conscience. And unlike all of humanity, Jesus never needed a Savior.
So as I continue my work in my village, my growing hair continues to be a reminder of my infantile attempt at self-sacrifice, and the understanding of but a few people of my purpose here.
But this post has nothing to do with my hair. This post is about Jesus Christ. And money.
The Kenyans are highly religious. When coming to Kenya, I did absolutely no background research, so I assumed the religions were tribal and pagan. I expected people to worship the sun god, and during religious gatherings cut themselves to spill their blood on the soil. Instead, I came to find the normal religions: Christianity and Islam. And Christian missionaries hit Kenya especially hard. I can only guess at how it happened: the shiny beacons of hope and light (white people) came with their money and built fancy churches and gave people money and food if they converted to Christianity. So undoubtedly all the starving people were on their knees in front of murals of Jesus Christ.
So as a result, there is no escape from religion in Kenya. On the coast, Muslim dress-code can be seen on every other woman: the flowing black burka concealing any beauty or sensual body curve which God endowed a young woman (in all honesty, I think those mysterious Muslim women are intriguingly beautiful..though I have no way of knowing). On public buses, often a christian pastor will stand in the front aisle and preach for a full-length, hour sermon and then proceed to gather 'offering' from the bus' customers. Angry-sounding pastors gather up their most grizzly voices and shout from the televisions on Sunday mornings, and everyone's customizable ring tones play the latest popular worship song. So there is no question this culture is inundated with religious symbols and rituals, no debate that people could see a poster of someone in a white robe holding a lamb and not instantly think of Jesus.
But back to my hair. The front of it reaches past my eyes, and the back nearly covers my neck entirely. In addition to my unkempt, borderline culturally inappropriate head of hair, my laziness usually allows my goatee to grow for a month or longer. All of that in combination with my caramel, middle-eastern skin makes me closely resemble a certain messiah-- namely Jesus Christ. To confirm this, when visiting the Christian groups at the secondary school, whispers spread like wildfire among the girls as I walked in, saying, “Anafanana na Yesu!” or “He looks like Jesus!”
And in my village, this is how I am treated. People think I am their Savior, that I have come to alleviate them from their poverty and physical suffering. Just like the Jews expected Jesus to be a great political leader who would save them from the Romans, the people in my village expect something so different from me. But Jesus had so much more in mind. He came to save humanity from themselves, to free people from the burdens of their own corruption.
I realize that it is highly arrogant and borderline blasphemous to compare myself to Jesus Christ. Whether you believe He was truly God Himself, an inspirational hippie philosopher, or a fictional character in a giant storybook, I pale in comparison. But upon reflection, my life here in Kenya draws some parallels to Jesus' life on this Earth. To name a few:
Wherever Jesus walked, multitudes would gather around. His mere words stirred inspiration and excitement among his listeners, his knowledge as a child surpassed that of the church leaders, and miracles sparked from his fingertips. Similarly, wherever I walk, people stop what they are doing and shout greetings and welcomes. With my guitar in hand, children flock and gather, eagerly listening to anything I would play. My computer with its internet capabilities gives me an “infinite knowledge,” and with my fancy camera, it is like I miraculously capture life itself.
So in my village there is no doubt I am special. Just my skin color gives me away as something “different,” “exciting” and “worth looking at.” And people's expectations of me are unbounded. In their minds, I am capable of doing everything. One of those main expectations is that of sourcing money from either myself or my wealthy friends, and putting that money into their pockets.
I came, not to give money, but as a medium for people to better their lives. I came to teach whatever I know and to share my life and my experiences to anyone interested. I came to bring a sense of work ethic and empowerment, that through hard work and struggle their lives may be changed. But people want money. They ask me for jobs even after I tell them I am a volunteer, and they ask me to write proposals for them even after I explain why I cannot. The people here see me with the same misunderstanding the Jews had when they saw Jesus. And because I do not offer money, food, or will not take their baby to America with me when I return, I am just as easily dismissed.
But back to religion. When I first arrived in Kenya, I sat through a three-hour church session where people sat in rapt attention, and danced without reservation during the entire period. I was astounded at their stamina and thought to myself how they must really love God and serve Jesus. But the longer I stay, the more I realize people here who call themselves “Christian” or “Muslim” are not really worshiping God. They worship money. They worship all the things that come with money—comfort, status, popularity, sex. They are just like most Americans.
Televangelists preach here in Kenya about wealth in Jesus' name, and America is revered for their prosperity, often to be claimed as a nation “Blessed by God.” A fine, upstanding “Christian” will just as likely double the price in the market to naïve tourists as would their non-religious countrymen, and public giving ceremonies are held in churches to make sure that the church members are “accountable” for their tithes and offerings.
It's not to say that Kenya is devoid of people who truly love and serve God. In both America and Kenya-and probably every other place-there will be those few who are truly devoted to their beliefs, and truly serve God with their lives. It is always refreshing to find someone like this, who knows what she believes and actually has it change her life.
But the love for money is such a tricky thing. Money simultaneously is the cause of most of the world's problems, yet the solution to many. Money provides opportunity and comfort, security and guaranteed medical attention. Yet money fosters worry and headache, greed and entitlement.
Many people dismiss religion as a social construction aimed as a money-making machine. In many cases I would have to agree with them. But I would find it difficult to judge those members in the churches who humbly give their tithes as foolish. Perhaps they give to a corrupt religious organization, but for those individuals, their giving shows that money is not their object of worship. Such behavior is commendable.
But money and poverty are knotty subjects. I came to the Peace Corps so that I might understand what poverty was really like. Instead, I am discovering that I will never know the true sting of poverty. I will never know what it is like to choose between purchasing water or food for that day or pray fervently each night that the rains should come. How can I judge anyone for loving money, when it has the power to alleviate basic suffering? How can I convict those who struggle every day with the most basic necessities, when money promises a deep breath from poverty's suffocation?
Just as I will never know what it is really like to be poor, Jesus will never know what it is really like to be human. Jesus knew what hunger was, and he very much tested a human's endurance for physical pain. But Jesus never knew sin. Jesus walked in perfection in God's eyes, and through his deliberate decisions he faced temptations and always came out clean. Never did he feel the blight of evil weighing upon his heart, or feel the hot sensation in his cheeks when a particular moral decision contradicted his conscience. And unlike all of humanity, Jesus never needed a Savior.
So as I continue my work in my village, my growing hair continues to be a reminder of my infantile attempt at self-sacrifice, and the understanding of but a few people of my purpose here.
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