American children are pampered, protected, and sheltered from all things dangerous and intrusive. American toys have become soft plastic instead of durable metal, you can probably purchase rubber bumpers to put on sharp corners of your home to protect your baby from painful collisions, and choke-warning labels are soon to be slapped on every small piece of produce in the supermarket. Children are given no responsibility, and are baby-sat by the television when mommy poops out.
Children are quite different in Kenya. If you are a baby in Kenya, you are coddled by mommy and given breast milk at the slightest whine or whimper. But as soon as you can walk, you can be beaten with a stick. Babies at the age of 2 can play with sharp objects without their mothers' objection. Children at age 4 are annoying; I hate children at age 4. Children at the age of 6 are expected to help sweep and clean. Children age 8 must help draw water from the wells and carry it home by bicycle or on their head. Children age 10 can take care of three cows or a small herd of goats. Age 12-- they drive motorcycles.
A little while ago, I walked outside my living compound and saw my favorite little child playing with something shiny. As I approached, I realized he was holding the blade of a knife that had lost its handle and he was swinging it around every so often. The mother was busy sewing not 3 feet away from her dangerously armed child, and as she looked up to greet me she must have read the look of astonishment on my face—my exaggerated large eyes and frozen demeanor. She looked down at her playing child, then looked up again at me. Then quickly she appeased my shocked expression by calling her young child and taking the knife from him. The little boy is almost 2 years old.
In all of the big cities, there is a store called “Nakumatt” which is essentially like a large Walmart, except with much higher prices relative to Kenyan money. Inside this large super-mart, you can find just about anything, from comfortable sofa sets and ping pong tables to traditional charcoal stoves and simple wooden spoons. Also, since it is a necessity for people to have machetes and other sharp tools, this store obviously carries them. And all manner of dangerous weaponry is placed on the bottom shelf. If “Nakumatt” were picked up and placed anywhere in America as it is, within the first minutes of its grand opening it would have a host of screaming mothers at the “customer care” counter as well as several lawsuits. But here in Kenya, the bottom shelf doesn't mean “for kids,” and it would be no big deal if a child picks up a machete and swings it around a bit in the store. But if you think about it, it makes sense to place sharp objects lower to the ground...in case of earthquake.
A little while ago I spotted a young boy walking toward a motorcycle. Then, to my vague curiosity, he climbed upon it and with all his weight, repeatedly pushed on the kick-start. After the motor was running, he stretched his lanky arms upward and gripped the handles, set his bare feet down on the foot-rests and motored away, a crescent of his head peeking out above the motorcycle's dashboard. I thought to myself, “Interesting that the parents of this 11-year-old child would trust them with such an expensive asset”.
Here in the rural areas, most financial assets are stored in livestock. If a villager has two cows (and one is good for milking), then that villager is wealthy. Goats and chickens also mark some degree of wealth, and the more you have the better off. There are different types of goats, chickens and cows, but for the most common of all three I would say their value ratio is: 1 cow = 6 goats = 42 chickens. And children around age 10 are tending to these herds of cattle all by themselves, with a large stick held high in the air. These children walk the cattle for miles down the road to reach watering holes and to graze on communal land. To think of the American equivalent to this: imagine allowing your 10 year old child to take care of your 401-K, or your day-to-day stock market transactions. And without your supervision.
Kenyan children..are they overworked? Is it a violation of some international child-labor laws? Or are they simply well-equipped for the difficult life ahead? If they are smart, the children will have children as soon as they can, so they wont have to work anymore.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Peace Corps Goggles
Since I was 5 years old, I saw the world through brown, Swedish-designed goggles. They protected my eyes from the blinding sun and the stinging chlorine. These goggles also protected my pride, especially when I cried in them during difficult swimming sets as 12-year old girls were lapping me. I wore these goggles throughout my workouts, and even during the times I wasn't swimming-- since a huge white streak-mark permanently tanned my face. They marked my identity as a swimmer if the bleached hair and sterilized smell of chlorine did not give me away first.
After the summer of 2008, I officially hung those goggles up. Though I now wear a different type of goggles. They are called Peace Corps Goggles and they are quite a trip. I imagine them to be like a pair of beer goggles, distorting your vision, skewing your judgment and messing with your senses, but these PC goggles are permanent. They can't be taken off after a long night's sleep and a morning's headache.
The first thing to go were my taste buds. In America, I remember all my meals with meat and cheese, herbs and spices, caramel-coated popcorn and 37 flavors of ice cream. A standard American recipe would have at least 17 ingredients and 5 spices which you could prepare and then stick into an easy-bake oven so you could preemptively work off the calories with a television aerobics class while it cooks. But in Kenya, the ingredient list for the staple food is:
*Water
*Corn Flour
And I cook this meal for myself 5 times a week. I don't know how, but I simply love it. Together with some fried kale and this meal is something to look forward to each night. I have no other explanation than suspecting that my taste buds are peering through some darkly-tinted Peace Corps Goggles.
In America, I was very used to scantily-dressed women on television and road-side advertisements. 13-year old girls could publicly dress in next to nothing and I would think it was perfectly acceptable. But now this is not the case. If I see a Kenyan girl wearing a pair of tight jeans or if I see bare shoulders, I think to myself that the girl is awfully bold to dress so precariously. As an example, my friend sent me a copy of the “Rolling Stone” magazine the other day with a picture of Lady Gaga with a couple machine guns and a few strips of leather that covered just enough. As soon as I looked at this cover I instinctively shut my eyes and turned my head away from the picture. I was not at all used to seeing so much of the skin of a woman.
As an adolescent, I was awfully picky when it came to beauty. I had a list of criteria that would be scrutinized for any lady who happened upon my path, from skin tone, wrist size, eye color, and vocal melody. It may be shameful to admit, but my sister would often ask me my opinion about a girl she pulled up from “hot-or-not.com” (sorry sister for calling you out on that one), and I would systematically place her through my analysis. But with my brand new set of Peace Corps Goggles, I find myself in a different place. Her feet may be calloused and wrinkled, her hands weathered from manual labor, and her voice low and hoarse—she is beautiful. I see a fat mama carrying a child on her back and a 20 liter jerry can of water on her head—a beautiful lady. It's gotten to a point where I just say to myself, “Is that a woman??...Beautiful.”
These goggles also make me frightened of white people. Whenever I see a tourist I try not to stare too long and walk the other way. White people are like the little ghost demons in pac-man, and I am like the little pac-man, avoiding them at all costs. Especially if I see a white person in my village—I think to myself that they do not belong.
Witnessing physical pain is no big deal anymore, and harsh working conditions, unfair wages, mistreatment of animals...these have all become daily occurrences. I visited a “fair trade” shop where people were paid about 2 dollars for 8 hours of manual labor in a dilapidated shop with poor ventilation. If I were fresh from America, I would scream at the injustice and write a moving book on working conditions in Africa. But after just four months in Kenya I saw that shop and said to myself, “These people have tools to work with and stools to sit on. And these people have jobs! Wonderful. I support them.”
Even the capital punishment used in school systems have given way to the rosy-red tint of my shiny goggles. When I first arrived at site, I remembered hearing the shrill screams of children at the nearby school and I remembered hating it. But now when I walk by schools and children run to the gates and scream, “Mzungu! Give me money! Give me sweets!” and the teacher grabs them and starts beating them with a stick, I think to myself, “Good work, teacher.” One time I actually thanked a teacher for punishing a child when he begged me for money.
It has been just 8 months in Kenya. I have 18 more. And these Peace Corps Goggles can only get darker. I am simultaneously frightened and intrigued at what I will be peering through by the end of my journey.
After the summer of 2008, I officially hung those goggles up. Though I now wear a different type of goggles. They are called Peace Corps Goggles and they are quite a trip. I imagine them to be like a pair of beer goggles, distorting your vision, skewing your judgment and messing with your senses, but these PC goggles are permanent. They can't be taken off after a long night's sleep and a morning's headache.
The first thing to go were my taste buds. In America, I remember all my meals with meat and cheese, herbs and spices, caramel-coated popcorn and 37 flavors of ice cream. A standard American recipe would have at least 17 ingredients and 5 spices which you could prepare and then stick into an easy-bake oven so you could preemptively work off the calories with a television aerobics class while it cooks. But in Kenya, the ingredient list for the staple food is:
*Water
*Corn Flour
And I cook this meal for myself 5 times a week. I don't know how, but I simply love it. Together with some fried kale and this meal is something to look forward to each night. I have no other explanation than suspecting that my taste buds are peering through some darkly-tinted Peace Corps Goggles.
In America, I was very used to scantily-dressed women on television and road-side advertisements. 13-year old girls could publicly dress in next to nothing and I would think it was perfectly acceptable. But now this is not the case. If I see a Kenyan girl wearing a pair of tight jeans or if I see bare shoulders, I think to myself that the girl is awfully bold to dress so precariously. As an example, my friend sent me a copy of the “Rolling Stone” magazine the other day with a picture of Lady Gaga with a couple machine guns and a few strips of leather that covered just enough. As soon as I looked at this cover I instinctively shut my eyes and turned my head away from the picture. I was not at all used to seeing so much of the skin of a woman.
As an adolescent, I was awfully picky when it came to beauty. I had a list of criteria that would be scrutinized for any lady who happened upon my path, from skin tone, wrist size, eye color, and vocal melody. It may be shameful to admit, but my sister would often ask me my opinion about a girl she pulled up from “hot-or-not.com” (sorry sister for calling you out on that one), and I would systematically place her through my analysis. But with my brand new set of Peace Corps Goggles, I find myself in a different place. Her feet may be calloused and wrinkled, her hands weathered from manual labor, and her voice low and hoarse—she is beautiful. I see a fat mama carrying a child on her back and a 20 liter jerry can of water on her head—a beautiful lady. It's gotten to a point where I just say to myself, “Is that a woman??...Beautiful.”
These goggles also make me frightened of white people. Whenever I see a tourist I try not to stare too long and walk the other way. White people are like the little ghost demons in pac-man, and I am like the little pac-man, avoiding them at all costs. Especially if I see a white person in my village—I think to myself that they do not belong.
Witnessing physical pain is no big deal anymore, and harsh working conditions, unfair wages, mistreatment of animals...these have all become daily occurrences. I visited a “fair trade” shop where people were paid about 2 dollars for 8 hours of manual labor in a dilapidated shop with poor ventilation. If I were fresh from America, I would scream at the injustice and write a moving book on working conditions in Africa. But after just four months in Kenya I saw that shop and said to myself, “These people have tools to work with and stools to sit on. And these people have jobs! Wonderful. I support them.”
Even the capital punishment used in school systems have given way to the rosy-red tint of my shiny goggles. When I first arrived at site, I remembered hearing the shrill screams of children at the nearby school and I remembered hating it. But now when I walk by schools and children run to the gates and scream, “Mzungu! Give me money! Give me sweets!” and the teacher grabs them and starts beating them with a stick, I think to myself, “Good work, teacher.” One time I actually thanked a teacher for punishing a child when he begged me for money.
It has been just 8 months in Kenya. I have 18 more. And these Peace Corps Goggles can only get darker. I am simultaneously frightened and intrigued at what I will be peering through by the end of my journey.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Cultural Differences
The differences are many, but here are some of the big ones.
Beauty
The Kenyans are beautiful people in my eyes. The lifestyle is physically demanding. Between the farming and carrying water, the men develop super-hero type figures, and the women are slim, conservative, and mysteriously beautiful. Though, beauty for a woman is to be fat. Big hips, wide buttocks, hefty legs and intricately woven hair. Breasts do not matter in this country. Also for men, fatter is better (and so is hairier). A fat man a basically rich because he can afford to eat enough. Being fat denotes status, that a person no longer works in the fields or has to carry water, and probably has a good-paying, seated job.
In America, beauty is thin. A thin person usually has the knowledge of proper nutrition and the self-discipline to maintain a diet or to work out consistently. Broad shoulders, green eyes, Australian accents, and not too hairy are desirable traits in a man. For women, supple breasts, dark tan, and curved yet slim, are desirable enough. And of course, brainless.
Old People
Kenyan culture respects age. The older you are (and the more of a male you are), the less you work, the fatter you get, and the more acceptable it is to show your bear chest in public (men and women). Family bonds are so important here, and people have children in order to ensure that at they are well taken care of in their old age. I guess I cannot blame them, if I had to poop in a hole in the ground (or in a bush), walk for miles each day to fetch water, take physical beatings at school, and have the rains be a firm indicator of how hungry I will be in the coming months, I also would expect some respect growing old in Kenya. It is an accomplishment to see the ages past 50 in this country.
American culture is different. Aging is bad. Women purchase facial creams and try not to smile too much to preserve their beauty, and men wear fake hair and use Viagra. Old people are seen as “worthless,” or even less, because they no longer contribute to the economy and suck the welfare from the tax-payers. In the busy American life, caring for elderly parents or loved ones is a burden, so many opt for the old-age homes. To make up for all of it, old people get discounts at buffets.
Time
Kenyans begin their day earlier than sunrise..about 5am. While the sun is up, the time is all the same. There is no difference between morning and afternoon, there are no scheduled meals (except in the schools), and there is hardly any punctuality or efficiency in time usage. A meeting could last 5 hours and it would be the same as a 1 hour ordeal. People sit patiently all throughout, and often the mothers will whip out their boobs to breast feed their children. The best way to go about things is to plan one thing per day, like a meeting with one person, or a trip to the market.
Americans have seized time and wrestled it to the the ground. Each day we plan 12 meetings, eat meals every 3 hours, exercise twice, and still have 4 hours to sit in front of the television.
Elephants
Americans love elephants. We think of those giant, soft-footed creatures as tremendously thoughtful and predictably friendly. To see an elephant in a zoo is as exciting as Iron Man 2. We are awestruck by their tremendous size, and tickled by their lack of jumping ability.
Kenyans hate elephants, especially the rural farmers. They think of those giant, cumbersome creatures as nuisances that damage and destroy. The elephants come on to the farms and eat the maize crops, and trample on all the rest. The people value these elephants when they are dead: for their meat and expensive tusks.
I'm living in Kenya. Yikes.
Beauty
The Kenyans are beautiful people in my eyes. The lifestyle is physically demanding. Between the farming and carrying water, the men develop super-hero type figures, and the women are slim, conservative, and mysteriously beautiful. Though, beauty for a woman is to be fat. Big hips, wide buttocks, hefty legs and intricately woven hair. Breasts do not matter in this country. Also for men, fatter is better (and so is hairier). A fat man a basically rich because he can afford to eat enough. Being fat denotes status, that a person no longer works in the fields or has to carry water, and probably has a good-paying, seated job.
In America, beauty is thin. A thin person usually has the knowledge of proper nutrition and the self-discipline to maintain a diet or to work out consistently. Broad shoulders, green eyes, Australian accents, and not too hairy are desirable traits in a man. For women, supple breasts, dark tan, and curved yet slim, are desirable enough. And of course, brainless.
Old People
Kenyan culture respects age. The older you are (and the more of a male you are), the less you work, the fatter you get, and the more acceptable it is to show your bear chest in public (men and women). Family bonds are so important here, and people have children in order to ensure that at they are well taken care of in their old age. I guess I cannot blame them, if I had to poop in a hole in the ground (or in a bush), walk for miles each day to fetch water, take physical beatings at school, and have the rains be a firm indicator of how hungry I will be in the coming months, I also would expect some respect growing old in Kenya. It is an accomplishment to see the ages past 50 in this country.
American culture is different. Aging is bad. Women purchase facial creams and try not to smile too much to preserve their beauty, and men wear fake hair and use Viagra. Old people are seen as “worthless,” or even less, because they no longer contribute to the economy and suck the welfare from the tax-payers. In the busy American life, caring for elderly parents or loved ones is a burden, so many opt for the old-age homes. To make up for all of it, old people get discounts at buffets.
Time
Kenyans begin their day earlier than sunrise..about 5am. While the sun is up, the time is all the same. There is no difference between morning and afternoon, there are no scheduled meals (except in the schools), and there is hardly any punctuality or efficiency in time usage. A meeting could last 5 hours and it would be the same as a 1 hour ordeal. People sit patiently all throughout, and often the mothers will whip out their boobs to breast feed their children. The best way to go about things is to plan one thing per day, like a meeting with one person, or a trip to the market.
Americans have seized time and wrestled it to the the ground. Each day we plan 12 meetings, eat meals every 3 hours, exercise twice, and still have 4 hours to sit in front of the television.
Elephants
Americans love elephants. We think of those giant, soft-footed creatures as tremendously thoughtful and predictably friendly. To see an elephant in a zoo is as exciting as Iron Man 2. We are awestruck by their tremendous size, and tickled by their lack of jumping ability.
Kenyans hate elephants, especially the rural farmers. They think of those giant, cumbersome creatures as nuisances that damage and destroy. The elephants come on to the farms and eat the maize crops, and trample on all the rest. The people value these elephants when they are dead: for their meat and expensive tusks.
I'm living in Kenya. Yikes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
