Before coming to Peace Corps I worked part time at a liquor store. Once, while filling shelves of expensive boxes of liquor, the bottom of a box fell out as I was lifting it, causing many of the glass bottles filled with Hennessey to shatter at my feet. The pungent odor of cognac hit my senses immediately. I looked down to see my sandals completely soaked, and the shiny glass bits besieging my vulnerable feet. As I carefully maneuvered my way out of the danger, I chuckled at the irony of how many would dream of bathing their feet in expensive liquor. It was probably the most expensive bath my feet will ever experience.
But luxury, and extravagance are not new to the American culture. As an example, the supermarkets carry an assortment of inventive options for proper foot and body care, from “french roasted” coffee-scented soaps to pumice stones with real diamond dust mixed in (if not, then it's coming soon). I would not be surprised if I went back to America to see an AXE commercial advertising “Lust” – its new foot fragrance – which will undoubtedly have women reflexively humping your feet at the slightest whiff.
But in my village, the fragrance is that of the soil. Potent animal dung and fresh green leaves mix together with the smell of charcoal or wood-smoke, and people of all ages perfume their feet with this natural scent. When in bloom, flower pedals fall from the trees and bless their fragrant odor upon the earth. Small children come home after a hard day's play up to their knees in dried dirt, and grandmas walk for miles upon the dry, dusty road unshod. When the rains come, children playfully dip their muddy feet in puddles and continue on their way.
I also remember my shoe collection in America. I had a specific pair for everything: basketball, tennis , road-cycling, short-distance triathlon, long-distance triathlon, workout, hiking, swimming (sandals). Then there was the fuzzy-and-comfortable for indoor use only, “stylish-but-casual” for social outings, and unforgettably a couple pairs of converse.
Each shoe had a specific purpose. I could stand 3 inches taller and jump 4 inches higher in basketball with the proper shoe. My short-distance triathlon shoe saved me ¾ of a second every mile, and with swimming fins and paddles I could beat my Polish swim coach Bart Kizerioski in the 50m freestyle. They have shoes with tall heels for girls with height insecurities, shoes with wheels for skater kids, and squeaking, comic-book-themed kids shoes, so when they walk you always know where they are.
Many people here stand on naught but their soles. Their feet develop hard callouses that could bear even the hottest of coals, perhaps better than the rubber on the bottom of the shoes we buy. Many Kenyans can run barefoot for miles over gravel, hot sand, and uneven terrain, and still dance to their favorite worship songs when they reached home. They do not have the luxury of support a pair of running shoes have to offer, they are not afforded that extra advantage.
But it is not really about the lack of a pair of shoes. It is the inequality of resources available to people across the world. Contrary to me, my neighbors never took Kumon (advanced Asian math), Karate, or Science Camp growing up. Inside their humble homes isn't a piano, a video-game learning device, or calcium-rich, fortified cereals. Just by virtue of being born, I have had the luxury of all those learning aids. Where would I have been without them? What is it like to have never worn shoes in your entire life?
It tears deeply at my inner being to reconcile the idea of “fairness” across all people on this Earth. It is my moral obligation to aid those who started with less than I, that they may have a “fair” chance at wealth and prosperity? Should I pity those who were born with less, and should I envy those who were born with more? The most common answer I receive to these questions when I have the audacity to ask them aloud is, “Life is unfair.” I guess that is one way to stop thinking about things that bother me.
While I was walking by the school compound, I looked down and noticed the red clay covered in different sized footprints. I stopped and marveled at the imprint of each clearly defined foot: the five toes proportionally cascading in size and the arch leaving the normal foot distribution. I smiled as I imagined how each print was formed, how the children may have danced and played, laughing together in the afternoon sun, each of their bare feet like a rubber stamp, imprinted lightly on the earth. Perhaps it beats growing up with a Playstation 4 and spending your childhood days on a couch in front of a brightly-lit television screen. Sitting on the couch, wealthy kids' feet wont even touch the floor; their soles hanging worthlessly in midair without imprinting upon anything their existence.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
Monopoly
Two dice tumble across a sturdy board. Upon landing these dice cause a golden hat to move forward some spaces and then abruptly stop. Baltic Avenue has not been purchased yet, and the owner of this golden hat loves the color purple. $60 is exchanged for a deed card, and the dice are rolled again and again. The golden hat then finds itself on a large square space written, “GO” with an “→” symbol pointing it again in the correct direction. The owner of the golden hat collects $200.
I own that golden hat. And my financial matters are simply a game. In many ways, I am living the game of Monopoly.
First, because I make $200 a month. Each month is like a full trip around the Monopoly board, and each month I have enough to sustain myself. But $200 a month? That would be a day's salary for many people in America, or much less. And if I calculate how much I am working (“working”) or doing work related activities, it sums to 6 or 7 days out of the week. Essentially, I get paid $1 per hour. It's no wonder they call us Peace Corps Volunteers. But $200 a month? How can anyone live on that?
So here's how the prices break down.
Food – especially in the rural areas, food is astoundingly cheap. Outdoor markets offer the cheapest prices for produce, and these markets are made up of groups of mamas either sitting on the floor with their produce laid out for sale, or standing with their wares piled on a rickety stand. For 12 pennies, you can buy 3 small mangoes, 4 small bananas, or a large avocado. And this is relatively expensive to what people's budgets allow. For 35 to 45 pennies, you can buy a kilogram (2.2 lbs) of kale, spinach, or a kilogram of corn flour. That quantity of vegetables and flour will be enough for three hearty meals. But if you want fancier foods like wine, cheese, chocolate, or peanut butter, larger supermarkets sell them at American prices.
Clothes – these can be purchased or hand-made for cheap prices as well. A pair of used but quality slacks can be anywhere from $2 to $7, and hand-made, African-style shirts are between $4 to $6. A while back, I purchased a very nice, collared, tuxedo dress shirt for 25 cents at a Kenyan auction (Kenyan auctions start high and proceed to lower prices until someone says they will buy). The shirt, in my opinion (and hopefully my future wife's opinion as well), is nice enough to be married in.
Transport – This by far is the most expensive thing relative to other living costs. To go just 10 kilometers down the road (6 miles) the fare is 60 cents. Though it sounds like a small sum of money, one trip could comparatively purchase enough food for 3 meals, and you still have to pay for the fare to return home. A 100 kilometer trip on paved roads will be about $3.25 one way.
Electronics – These are available in Nairobi, but only for American prices. Cheap, China-made rip offs are often a choice buy for those on a tight budget, but unfortunately they break relentlessly.
When I learned about how people in impoverished countries lived on “less than a dollar per day”, I was shocked and appalled that such a thing could exist in our world. Admittedly, less than a dollar per day would be suffocating even in my village, but it would not be entirely unmanageable. And I am making 7 dollars a day. The $200 per month is more than enough.
Second, living in the village is amazingly similar to being “In Jail” in Monopoly. It seems everyone is moving and progressing around you, building houses or going bankrupt, but you are stuck in a place where you receive no income, have very few costs, and cannot ever leave. Land is plentiful in the village, and mud houses can be constructed at a low price. Mortgage payments, insurance, taxes, electricity, monthly fuel payments...these are all non-existent. People make their way by living off the land. Transportation costs are so restrictive, the poorest can literally never leave. The impoverished have essentially been born inside Monopoly's “Jail” and will serve a life's sentence there. But as for me and my golden hat, I spend all my time on the “Just Visiting” sliver of the “Jail” square in Monopoly. I quickly make my rounds to pass “Go” with some necessary travel, and make my way back again. Unfortunately I will never truly know the stuffy smell of the Monopoly jail cell like many of the villagers whom I have grown to care for.
Finally, even the denominations of money are surprisingly similar to Monopoly money. Monopoly has 1's, 5's 10's 20's 50's 100s and 500s. Kenyan money has all the same denominations, except with “1000s” as well. With a “1000” shilling note, you will feel beyond wealthy in the rural village. Even in Monopoly, if you had a 1000 shilling note, you could purchase both Park Place and Boardwalk, and still have enough for “Income Tax” should you be so unfortunate to land on that space. I remember as a child my sister and I would play “house” or play “supermarket”, and we would use Monopoly money as our currency. If we used American prices with Monopoly denominations, it would be an awful chore to get change for a $2 gallon of milk when you pay with a $500 Monopoly note. But to some degree, this is how I feel when I use Kenyan money.
I don't mean to sound condescending, but the stakes are simply lower here. If you wanted to invest in a plot of land or build a school, the costs are not going to break the American bank account. Still, there are plenty of Kenyans who are much wealthier than many Americans, and it is not impossible to “live a good life” when it comes to physical comfort and matters of money.
I have always thought the freeways in America, especially at night, are like the veins and arteries of the country's economy. The stream of red or white tail lights carry supplies from place to place, carry workers to their jobs, and carry travelers to different markets. In some places the lanes are 10 wide; our economy pulses vigorously with life and strength. But here in Kenya, there is but one main paved road that cuts across the country, and this road is two-lanes. Transportation infrastructure is a firm indicator of economic status, and this feeble road displays the long process of development that Kenya will eventually undergo. And the numbers support this claim: Kenya's GDP accounts for 0.160% of America's GDP. Yet this crowded two-lane highway hosts many trucks and buses which must pass each other by using the other side of the road. Because of this dangerous restriction, vehicles using this road come remarkably close to head on collisions, and often one can see an overturned semi-truck on the side with streams of people like ants gathering the spilled materials. These overturned trucks remind me of burst blood cells, and the double-lane road is such a constricted passageway for these carriers to pass through. These ruined trucks remind me just how fragile the economy is here in Kenya, like a growing child who suffers from anemia. But development is on the way, and perhaps somewhere down the line every family in Kenya will have enough to afford the game of Monopoly, so each child can play it on a board instead of live it with their lives.
I own that golden hat. And my financial matters are simply a game. In many ways, I am living the game of Monopoly.
First, because I make $200 a month. Each month is like a full trip around the Monopoly board, and each month I have enough to sustain myself. But $200 a month? That would be a day's salary for many people in America, or much less. And if I calculate how much I am working (“working”) or doing work related activities, it sums to 6 or 7 days out of the week. Essentially, I get paid $1 per hour. It's no wonder they call us Peace Corps Volunteers. But $200 a month? How can anyone live on that?
So here's how the prices break down.
Food – especially in the rural areas, food is astoundingly cheap. Outdoor markets offer the cheapest prices for produce, and these markets are made up of groups of mamas either sitting on the floor with their produce laid out for sale, or standing with their wares piled on a rickety stand. For 12 pennies, you can buy 3 small mangoes, 4 small bananas, or a large avocado. And this is relatively expensive to what people's budgets allow. For 35 to 45 pennies, you can buy a kilogram (2.2 lbs) of kale, spinach, or a kilogram of corn flour. That quantity of vegetables and flour will be enough for three hearty meals. But if you want fancier foods like wine, cheese, chocolate, or peanut butter, larger supermarkets sell them at American prices.
Clothes – these can be purchased or hand-made for cheap prices as well. A pair of used but quality slacks can be anywhere from $2 to $7, and hand-made, African-style shirts are between $4 to $6. A while back, I purchased a very nice, collared, tuxedo dress shirt for 25 cents at a Kenyan auction (Kenyan auctions start high and proceed to lower prices until someone says they will buy). The shirt, in my opinion (and hopefully my future wife's opinion as well), is nice enough to be married in.
Transport – This by far is the most expensive thing relative to other living costs. To go just 10 kilometers down the road (6 miles) the fare is 60 cents. Though it sounds like a small sum of money, one trip could comparatively purchase enough food for 3 meals, and you still have to pay for the fare to return home. A 100 kilometer trip on paved roads will be about $3.25 one way.
Electronics – These are available in Nairobi, but only for American prices. Cheap, China-made rip offs are often a choice buy for those on a tight budget, but unfortunately they break relentlessly.
When I learned about how people in impoverished countries lived on “less than a dollar per day”, I was shocked and appalled that such a thing could exist in our world. Admittedly, less than a dollar per day would be suffocating even in my village, but it would not be entirely unmanageable. And I am making 7 dollars a day. The $200 per month is more than enough.
Second, living in the village is amazingly similar to being “In Jail” in Monopoly. It seems everyone is moving and progressing around you, building houses or going bankrupt, but you are stuck in a place where you receive no income, have very few costs, and cannot ever leave. Land is plentiful in the village, and mud houses can be constructed at a low price. Mortgage payments, insurance, taxes, electricity, monthly fuel payments...these are all non-existent. People make their way by living off the land. Transportation costs are so restrictive, the poorest can literally never leave. The impoverished have essentially been born inside Monopoly's “Jail” and will serve a life's sentence there. But as for me and my golden hat, I spend all my time on the “Just Visiting” sliver of the “Jail” square in Monopoly. I quickly make my rounds to pass “Go” with some necessary travel, and make my way back again. Unfortunately I will never truly know the stuffy smell of the Monopoly jail cell like many of the villagers whom I have grown to care for.
Finally, even the denominations of money are surprisingly similar to Monopoly money. Monopoly has 1's, 5's 10's 20's 50's 100s and 500s. Kenyan money has all the same denominations, except with “1000s” as well. With a “1000” shilling note, you will feel beyond wealthy in the rural village. Even in Monopoly, if you had a 1000 shilling note, you could purchase both Park Place and Boardwalk, and still have enough for “Income Tax” should you be so unfortunate to land on that space. I remember as a child my sister and I would play “house” or play “supermarket”, and we would use Monopoly money as our currency. If we used American prices with Monopoly denominations, it would be an awful chore to get change for a $2 gallon of milk when you pay with a $500 Monopoly note. But to some degree, this is how I feel when I use Kenyan money.
I don't mean to sound condescending, but the stakes are simply lower here. If you wanted to invest in a plot of land or build a school, the costs are not going to break the American bank account. Still, there are plenty of Kenyans who are much wealthier than many Americans, and it is not impossible to “live a good life” when it comes to physical comfort and matters of money.
I have always thought the freeways in America, especially at night, are like the veins and arteries of the country's economy. The stream of red or white tail lights carry supplies from place to place, carry workers to their jobs, and carry travelers to different markets. In some places the lanes are 10 wide; our economy pulses vigorously with life and strength. But here in Kenya, there is but one main paved road that cuts across the country, and this road is two-lanes. Transportation infrastructure is a firm indicator of economic status, and this feeble road displays the long process of development that Kenya will eventually undergo. And the numbers support this claim: Kenya's GDP accounts for 0.160% of America's GDP. Yet this crowded two-lane highway hosts many trucks and buses which must pass each other by using the other side of the road. Because of this dangerous restriction, vehicles using this road come remarkably close to head on collisions, and often one can see an overturned semi-truck on the side with streams of people like ants gathering the spilled materials. These overturned trucks remind me of burst blood cells, and the double-lane road is such a constricted passageway for these carriers to pass through. These ruined trucks remind me just how fragile the economy is here in Kenya, like a growing child who suffers from anemia. But development is on the way, and perhaps somewhere down the line every family in Kenya will have enough to afford the game of Monopoly, so each child can play it on a board instead of live it with their lives.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
My Infatuation - Confessions
In my rural village, people know that I am engaged to a beautiful red-headed lady. If any of you who are reading this have followed along, you would know that this is not true. I have made up this marital status to reduce harassment, and to cut off any hope (of a trip to America and emancipation from the suffocating poverty around) from all the willing, eligible women in my village. Before I came, I had it in my mind that no woman here in my village could engage me intellectually, challenge me spiritually, be attractive to me physically, and still be unmarried. Once again I find myself proven wrong.
I have two criteria which must be passed before I even consider dating a Kenyan. They are:
1) Fluent in English
2) The same beliefs
In America, I only have one criteria.
Still, this is Peace Corps, right? I am supposed to be living off the radar, where education, food, and gender equality are all in short supply. Nobody, especially women, should be fluent in English. Therefore, that first criteria should be (and has been) enough until now to disqualify every beautiful face so far. This language barrier has barred every potential suit-tress who has prince charming (me) reflected off her dark corneas and the promise of paradise (America) in the front of her mind.
Until now.
Her first words to me were, “Nice laptop.” And I hardly turned from my small, dimly lit screen. But I did turn; the shock of English words in my ears registered, and what filled my eyes was a small Kenyan woman leaning against a desk, her attention devoted in a book. It was nothing impressive, her face was ordinary, her breasts were slightly too large, a small gap nuzzled itself between her two front teeth, and her hair was brilliantly woven. First appearance? No hint of attraction.
But she spoke English. My first criteria was met. We began talking of all sorts of things, and I would visit often because I gained much insight into the Kenyan culture by our conversations. It was not long until I realized that she fulfilled my second criteria as well.
Just by living in Kenya, I have developed a growing respect for the women. The culture and gender roles force them into all of the household chores, and yet they still have enough cheer to sit around the night-times laughing over stories and roasting maize. Whether it is this strong sense of respect, the astonishment of finding a potential attraction, or the rosy-colored Peace Corps goggles I wear, an infatuation was borne.
I tickled myself with the idea of bringing her to America. I could see us together on a plane back home, the cold cabin has her drape a “Swiss-air” blanket over her, as she affectionately leans against my welcoming shoulder. I imagine taking her to all the places I used to live, where I went to school, and the pools where I spent my afternoons swimming. I would laugh when she struggles with her chopsticks at a Chinese restaurant, and I would hold her close as we watch the dark sky light up with fireworks on the fourth of July. Cotton candy, bumper cars, amusement parks, ice-skating...I would see her experience them all for the first time, and even as I imagine this I smile warmly. I would feel like Aladdin and his magic carpet, showing his princess a whole new world...
But luckily she is in a relationship. Kenyans love their secrets, and it took quite an inquisition to get her to confess. My roommate in college (Justin Pollard the Third) and I would always debate over whether it is appropriate or not to pursue someone who is already in a relationship. I am firmly against it. First, because I wouldn't appreciate another guy making his move on a girl I was dating. And second, I wouldn't even want a girl who would leave a relationship for me. I think it reflects a serious character flaw that she would pick up and leave her relationship for someone else, presumably someone better. What if, again, someone better comes along? Either way, her being in a relationship has quelled my volatile feelings.
There's something I find beautiful about unknown suffering (though if what I feel is considered suffering, it is hardly “unknown” anymore). Never will she know these capricious feelings I have had for her, never will I know how it would have turned out, and never would we have to argue over cultural differences or decided whether it was useful to raise a bilingual child with Swahili in America. Still, I am ashamed that I should have these feelings, or that those fanciful thoughts were not so fleeting that I could seize them from my mind and write them down.
And also I question to myself why I would post something so frivolous and seemingly disassociated with my unique cultural experience in Kenya or the work in my village. Matters of feelings and romance can be the most selfish and self-consuming thing this world has to offer, and once they swell up inside, it's hard to keep from bursting. But besides the pages of my journal, there is no one else to tell. There isn't another American within a 10 kilometer radius from me. As far as my Peace Corps experience goes, I am completely alone. Besides me and the locals in my village, no one else knows how the crops in my village are growing, or hears the singing of children every morning from the school. These feelings I have developed for this local girl made me realize how truly alone I was.
I have two criteria which must be passed before I even consider dating a Kenyan. They are:
1) Fluent in English
2) The same beliefs
In America, I only have one criteria.
Still, this is Peace Corps, right? I am supposed to be living off the radar, where education, food, and gender equality are all in short supply. Nobody, especially women, should be fluent in English. Therefore, that first criteria should be (and has been) enough until now to disqualify every beautiful face so far. This language barrier has barred every potential suit-tress who has prince charming (me) reflected off her dark corneas and the promise of paradise (America) in the front of her mind.
Until now.
Her first words to me were, “Nice laptop.” And I hardly turned from my small, dimly lit screen. But I did turn; the shock of English words in my ears registered, and what filled my eyes was a small Kenyan woman leaning against a desk, her attention devoted in a book. It was nothing impressive, her face was ordinary, her breasts were slightly too large, a small gap nuzzled itself between her two front teeth, and her hair was brilliantly woven. First appearance? No hint of attraction.
But she spoke English. My first criteria was met. We began talking of all sorts of things, and I would visit often because I gained much insight into the Kenyan culture by our conversations. It was not long until I realized that she fulfilled my second criteria as well.
Just by living in Kenya, I have developed a growing respect for the women. The culture and gender roles force them into all of the household chores, and yet they still have enough cheer to sit around the night-times laughing over stories and roasting maize. Whether it is this strong sense of respect, the astonishment of finding a potential attraction, or the rosy-colored Peace Corps goggles I wear, an infatuation was borne.
I tickled myself with the idea of bringing her to America. I could see us together on a plane back home, the cold cabin has her drape a “Swiss-air” blanket over her, as she affectionately leans against my welcoming shoulder. I imagine taking her to all the places I used to live, where I went to school, and the pools where I spent my afternoons swimming. I would laugh when she struggles with her chopsticks at a Chinese restaurant, and I would hold her close as we watch the dark sky light up with fireworks on the fourth of July. Cotton candy, bumper cars, amusement parks, ice-skating...I would see her experience them all for the first time, and even as I imagine this I smile warmly. I would feel like Aladdin and his magic carpet, showing his princess a whole new world...
But luckily she is in a relationship. Kenyans love their secrets, and it took quite an inquisition to get her to confess. My roommate in college (Justin Pollard the Third) and I would always debate over whether it is appropriate or not to pursue someone who is already in a relationship. I am firmly against it. First, because I wouldn't appreciate another guy making his move on a girl I was dating. And second, I wouldn't even want a girl who would leave a relationship for me. I think it reflects a serious character flaw that she would pick up and leave her relationship for someone else, presumably someone better. What if, again, someone better comes along? Either way, her being in a relationship has quelled my volatile feelings.
There's something I find beautiful about unknown suffering (though if what I feel is considered suffering, it is hardly “unknown” anymore). Never will she know these capricious feelings I have had for her, never will I know how it would have turned out, and never would we have to argue over cultural differences or decided whether it was useful to raise a bilingual child with Swahili in America. Still, I am ashamed that I should have these feelings, or that those fanciful thoughts were not so fleeting that I could seize them from my mind and write them down.
And also I question to myself why I would post something so frivolous and seemingly disassociated with my unique cultural experience in Kenya or the work in my village. Matters of feelings and romance can be the most selfish and self-consuming thing this world has to offer, and once they swell up inside, it's hard to keep from bursting. But besides the pages of my journal, there is no one else to tell. There isn't another American within a 10 kilometer radius from me. As far as my Peace Corps experience goes, I am completely alone. Besides me and the locals in my village, no one else knows how the crops in my village are growing, or hears the singing of children every morning from the school. These feelings I have developed for this local girl made me realize how truly alone I was.
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