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.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Child's Play
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.
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 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.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Dungbeetles and Dragonflies
The sun rises at 6am. The morning dew sticks to the freshly grown foliage, shivering gently in the wind. Multitudes of dung beetles emerge from their hideaways and the dragonflies dip and weave to each gust and zephyr.
Yesterday evening came with dark clouds and the night brought heavy rainfall. The morning air smells crisp and cool, and the ground reveals a dark, fertile clay. Every bare patch of land displays budding sprouts-- the germination of freshly sown fields. Days of labor, hand plowed fields or cow-drawn plows, begin to bear results.
Mounds of fresh cow dung, renewed once again in pungent odor by the rains, lay on the roads. The dung beetles cluster and climb upon these mounds of treasure, shaping pieces into balls and rolling them with their hind legs off the road. The dragonflies flit capriciously, dancing, weaving and making love mid-air in the cool morning. Their translucent wings glimmer for moments with a spectrum of color, and they once again speed away, in search of a more playful breeze.
As the sun awakens and casts it's piercing heat upon the village, the dirt road bustles with life-- herds of cattle wander aimlessly to graze, motorbike taxis carrying people to and fro, and cohorts of matching school children, walking and giggling and fighting together on their way to school. As many go about their day, none stop to notice the adamant dung beetles, furiously balling and rolling their dung from the roads. No school child stops to point at the frolicsome dragonflies, fluttering about.
In America, December brings with it falling leaves and winter chills. Christmas music blares on every radio station, and shops bustle with business. But it is springtime in Kenya; the time for white perfume flowers to bloom and shed from the trees, the time for weddings and animal slaughterings. Time for people to start falling in love.
The dragonflies are whimsical. They shift and move purposefully, then in moments they stop to hover as if struck by an epiphany. They are much more clever than their dung-beetle counterparts; never have they fallen victim to a child's playful swat or the squash of a windshield. The dragonflies are magical.
The dung beetles are foolish. They are drawn toward the fresh dung like Their blundering strides look like those of a man who happens upon a mountain of gold, who ambles slowly toward it in sheer delight. Many of these dung beetles fall victim to the bottom of road tires, heavy cow hooves, or rubber shoe soles. They will die for their dung.
The springtime renews my sense of hope and vigor. I marvel at the stupidity of the dung beetles, but at the same time I admire them for their determination; they so clearly know their goal and set out to attaining it at all costs. And all the while I grow jealous of the dragonflies, that the mates are so in tune to each other they can make love in mid-air, without missing a beat. I draw in a deep, refreshing breath and think how beautiful it must be to be so in tune with the one you love.
Yesterday evening came with dark clouds and the night brought heavy rainfall. The morning air smells crisp and cool, and the ground reveals a dark, fertile clay. Every bare patch of land displays budding sprouts-- the germination of freshly sown fields. Days of labor, hand plowed fields or cow-drawn plows, begin to bear results.
Mounds of fresh cow dung, renewed once again in pungent odor by the rains, lay on the roads. The dung beetles cluster and climb upon these mounds of treasure, shaping pieces into balls and rolling them with their hind legs off the road. The dragonflies flit capriciously, dancing, weaving and making love mid-air in the cool morning. Their translucent wings glimmer for moments with a spectrum of color, and they once again speed away, in search of a more playful breeze.
As the sun awakens and casts it's piercing heat upon the village, the dirt road bustles with life-- herds of cattle wander aimlessly to graze, motorbike taxis carrying people to and fro, and cohorts of matching school children, walking and giggling and fighting together on their way to school. As many go about their day, none stop to notice the adamant dung beetles, furiously balling and rolling their dung from the roads. No school child stops to point at the frolicsome dragonflies, fluttering about.
In America, December brings with it falling leaves and winter chills. Christmas music blares on every radio station, and shops bustle with business. But it is springtime in Kenya; the time for white perfume flowers to bloom and shed from the trees, the time for weddings and animal slaughterings. Time for people to start falling in love.
The dragonflies are whimsical. They shift and move purposefully, then in moments they stop to hover as if struck by an epiphany. They are much more clever than their dung-beetle counterparts; never have they fallen victim to a child's playful swat or the squash of a windshield. The dragonflies are magical.
The dung beetles are foolish. They are drawn toward the fresh dung like Their blundering strides look like those of a man who happens upon a mountain of gold, who ambles slowly toward it in sheer delight. Many of these dung beetles fall victim to the bottom of road tires, heavy cow hooves, or rubber shoe soles. They will die for their dung.
The springtime renews my sense of hope and vigor. I marvel at the stupidity of the dung beetles, but at the same time I admire them for their determination; they so clearly know their goal and set out to attaining it at all costs. And all the while I grow jealous of the dragonflies, that the mates are so in tune to each other they can make love in mid-air, without missing a beat. I draw in a deep, refreshing breath and think how beautiful it must be to be so in tune with the one you love.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
