It was midday Friday in East Africa, the hot equatorial sun oppressively cast its heat on the small truck-stop town. A group of teenagers sat idly near their motorcycles at the public transport stage, chewing khat and waiting for customers. As I walked by they hailed me down, wondering if I needed a ride. I stopped and sat next to one of the youth, greeting him in the local slang. A conversation ensued.
“So why do you use this stuff?” I asked, motioning to his handful of khat, a natural stimulant which causes insomnia and mouth cancer after extended use.
“Do you know the way it makes your penis stand?” He said vulgarly. “I can pop six times in one night. I keep going and going...you know...even until the girl cries for mercy.”
He looked at me with an ugly smile; the khat stuffed into his mouth protruded unattractively beneath his lower jaw. “You know pop, right? You get it?”
He said the word 'pop' in English, but the rest in Swahili. Though I am still learning the language, there isn't a good translation for the word, “ejaculate.”
“It causes impotence you know, if you use it too much.” I said plainly. “It will make it so your penis cannot stand anymore unless you use more and more of the drug.”
The kid stared at me shocked. He was obviously a bit concerned about the welfare of his future penis. His friend who had been listening in on the conversation had a worried expression as well, but he spoke up, “It is only if you use the poor quality khat, if you are using the higher quality stuff nothing like that (impotence) will happen to you.” He spoke as if trying to convince himself of the safety of the drug, trying to justify his constant use of it.
I sighed at the futility. Their use of khat was symbolic of the general mentality among the youth: live for the day, don't worry about the future. Yet this mentality is detrimental to one of the fundamental concepts of business: saving money. In a culture where most property is communal, inflation is drastic, and death rates are high, there are plenty of economic and social incentives for not saving. A famous Swahili Proverb: “Haba na haba hujaza kibaba” or “Little by little fills the kibaba measure” reflects the importance of saving, but those sweet words of wisdom are too easily forgotten.
Our conversation continued. “Khat is pretty expensive, right? It seems like the youth here spend quite a bit of money on it, as well as alcohol, marijuana, cigarettes...”
He laughed at the truth in my words. “Ya, it's not so good.” He replied.
By now a small group had gathered around. All the idle youth came to listen to what we were discussing. I looked at the group that was forming, and thought it might be a good chance to pitch an idea to them.
“Guys,” I said, “If you all work together, I think there is tremendous potential to save money and start projects. Perhaps we can reduce the use of drugs, and put the rest toward saving. What do you guys say to joining together and starting a youth group?”
In all honesty, this group of idle youth represented the very blight of this truck-stop town. Their constant drug use causes their poverty and unruly behavior, and their promiscuity facilitates the spread of HIV and other STIs. They embody the very social maladies that most abhor. And because of their behavior, they are often marginalized by community leaders and many others in the community. These youth did not have just monetary poverty, I saw in them a poverty in a sense of purpose and direction. I thought I might try to reach out to them as no one else cared to do. I thought I might be a catalyst for their change.
So we formed a group of motorcycle-taxi drivers. We met weekly, writing minutes for each meeting, drafting a constitution, and electing leaders. They were enthusiastic, contributing to the constitution and the group's rules and regulations. But while we elected leaders, I realized a crucial fact about these youth: they did not trust each other. When they unanimously elected me as treasurer, I understood that they did not trust each other enough to put their own money into any one of their peer's hands. Trust among co-workers and group members is a key element to any success, and their ubiquitous mistrust of each other worried me.
But here was the reality: for nearly a year now I have been watching these young motorcycle-taxi drivers throw away their money on drugs and prostitutes. At the end of the week they are left with naught but a an empty pocket and a mouthful of complaints about their own state of poverty. They talk about how life would be so much better if they had some money. They each dream of owning their own motorcycles one day. I approached them with the answer to one part of small business: a business plan. Here was the plan.
“You all rent your motorcycles, right? Wouldn't it be better to own your own instead?”
They all nodded in excited agreement. I continued.
“There are 15 of us. If we save 50 shillings per day, it will take about 100 days to buy our first motorcycle. That first motorcycle will be given to one of our group members. They will then pay rent toward our group savings so we can purchase another. With that savings, we will be able to get another in 76 days. Then, with both of those motorcycles paying group rent, we can purchase the third motorcycle in 58 days. And the next in 46 days. And so on. If we follow this model, we can all be owners of our own motorcycle. What do you all think?”
They nodded vigorously.
I smiled at how receptive this group was at saving money together. This was the most challenging part of the business plan, yet it seemed to be unanimously agreed upon.
But my positive sentiments lasted for just moments. One of the members voiced his opinion, “Why can't we just write a proposal and ask for money from your country so we can just get motorcycles for free?”
Everyone thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement. “Yes, that would be much easier,” said another member. “Let's do that.”
I sighed deeply. The availability of donor funding in developing nations breaks a fundamental concept of how business is done in the United States: saving and building capital, borrowing against an interest rate, and then running a business with a debt to pay. Despite the donor funding I still advocate savings. Saved money is different than regular money. Saved money has the value of one's own time and hard work attached to it, so therefore one's own care. Projects which have one's own money invested are much more likely to succeed. His suggestion was like poison to the progress of our group, but revealed the lack of trust and lack of discipline amongst them.
The group was stuck. They were all loath to save money together, so our meetings began to lack substance. Each consecutive meeting brought fewer members - only the ones who still had some hope that free motorcycles would be on the way showed up - until the group faded away completely. The opportunity for these youth to change was just a sweet fragrance on a passing wind. I was left with just the bitter thoughts of what could have been.
As I was making my usual stroll around my truck stop town, one of the members from our dissolved group came up to me and said, “Ever since we started that group, I have been saving on my own. Already I have quite a bit saved to buy my own motorcycle. I am trying to start my own group to continue this project, so if I get some others, please join us. If I don't get others, I will save my own money and eventually purchase my own.” His words were like sweet music. All of the time I thought I had wasted, all of the words I thought had fallen on deaf ears- this young man redeemed it all. I just stood there smiling genuinely at him. It was worth the effort.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Funny Questions
In college I had a friend from Israel. His name was Guy. He taught me how to say things in Hebrew like, “You have beautiful eyes,” and “I put you in the little pocket.” The former phrase comes in handy anytime I am wooing a nice Israeli girl, and the latter is apparently a taunt you can say if you are defeating someone soundly at some game or sport. Nevertheless, because he was the first Israeli I have ever known, I naturally had tons of questions to help me get to know his country. I would ask, “Guy, have you ever seen a computer before you came to America?” to which he would respond, “Yes, but I have never used one. There is only one in Israel, and it is broken now.” Or similarly, “Hey Guy, do they have cars in Israel?” And he would cleverly respond, “No. Only camels.” Some of the questions I asked were silly, meant to imply a sense of economic superiority between our two countries, but I still enjoyed his answers.
Now that I am in Kenya, I get to feel what it is like to have everyone around me curious about my culture and country. And attached to this curiosity comes a plethora of questions. I generally find these questions awfully amusing, especially because I understand to some extent the reason for them. Below are my top six favorite questions I have been asked so far.
6. Is wrestling real?
Why it makes sense: Hulk Hogan, The Undertaker, Ray Mysterio. The first time I watched these guys in action I was near 10 years old. And I was enthralled. 'How could they endure so much pain?' I thought to myself. And it very much appeared real to me. When they hit each other with chairs, those chairs get noticeably dented, and when they pummel each other to the ground by a pile-driver the ring makes a booming sound. But if one would think it through, getting thrown down head first by a man as big as The Undertaker is instant death, no matter how strong your neck is.
5. All Europeans know English, right?
Why it makes sense: Even though most everyone is aware that Europeans speak a plethora of languages (like French, German or Italian), it is assumed that all Europeans speak English. Just like in Kenya, everyone has a mother-tongue they learn growing up, and then they learn Kiswahili and English in schools. “French” or “German” are seen as “mother-tongue,” while English is seen as the “Swahili” equivalent. Most Kenyans' exposure to Europeans are that of tourists, and for tourists it would be imperative to speak at least a bit of English to get around. There are plenty of European countries that do not speak much English (Spain, France), but those who do not speak the language would generally not find themselves on a safari in Kenya.
4. How is you?
Why it makes sense: For many Kenyans, English is their 3rd language. But it is the language taught in schools. Still, people tend to speak Swahili or mother-tongue to each other, so English is not frequently heard. The question “How is you?” usually comes from those who have had some schooling, enough to understand that for the verb “to be”, “is” is the singular and “are” is the plural. By following this rule, it makes sense if you are asking a single person “How IS you?” instead of “How ARE you?” and be deceived into thinking that you are using proper grammar. It is only later in those school years that one will learn that English is the language of many many exceptions.
3. Do all Asians know Kung Fu?
Why it makes sense: Jet Li, Jackie Chan. The Oriental countries have an oligopoly on Kung-fu films, and since people here are exposed to these films they see hoards and hoards of Asian-looking people fighting martial-arts style. Quite a fair assumption I would say. Based on the news in America, I assumed all Africans were starving and there were stampeding wildebeest every morning and evening.
2. If you have big hair, does it take more of your body's nutrients?
Why it makes sense: Kenyans generally have very short hair. Not only is it culturally appropriate to be clean-looking and shaved, it is ingrained in Kenyan's very DNA for short, curly hair. Along with this, many people in the rural areas are farmers, so they are very familiar with the way crops grow. It is a fundamental concept that as plants grow bigger, their roots get bigger and they demand more water and more of the soil's nutrients to continue healthy growing. The way plants grow in the earth is strikingly similar to the way hair grows on someone's head, so it is a very reasonable assumption that hair would take more nutrients as it got bigger.
1. Why do the Europeans like pies so much? And why do they think it is funny when they throw pies into other people's faces?
Why it makes sense: Pies are rare here. If you can find one, they are very expensive, perhaps the equivalent to 7 or 8 full meals. It is unlikely that many Kenyans have tried pies, but if they had tried a pie, it would instantly clarify the question “why do Europeans like pies so much?” The answer: Pies are delicious. As for the second question: “why is it funny to be pied in the face?” It is almost difficult not to appreciate the comical nature of having a creamy pie thrown into an unsuspecting face. Even the phrase “a pie to the face” sets me giggling. But it is an absolute sin to waste food here, especially something as valuable as a pie.
I'm sure if my old friend Guy read this post, he would enjoy the way the tables have turned on me in the "question-answer" game we played back in college. If only they get that one computer fixed in Israel..
Now that I am in Kenya, I get to feel what it is like to have everyone around me curious about my culture and country. And attached to this curiosity comes a plethora of questions. I generally find these questions awfully amusing, especially because I understand to some extent the reason for them. Below are my top six favorite questions I have been asked so far.
6. Is wrestling real?
Why it makes sense: Hulk Hogan, The Undertaker, Ray Mysterio. The first time I watched these guys in action I was near 10 years old. And I was enthralled. 'How could they endure so much pain?' I thought to myself. And it very much appeared real to me. When they hit each other with chairs, those chairs get noticeably dented, and when they pummel each other to the ground by a pile-driver the ring makes a booming sound. But if one would think it through, getting thrown down head first by a man as big as The Undertaker is instant death, no matter how strong your neck is.
5. All Europeans know English, right?
Why it makes sense: Even though most everyone is aware that Europeans speak a plethora of languages (like French, German or Italian), it is assumed that all Europeans speak English. Just like in Kenya, everyone has a mother-tongue they learn growing up, and then they learn Kiswahili and English in schools. “French” or “German” are seen as “mother-tongue,” while English is seen as the “Swahili” equivalent. Most Kenyans' exposure to Europeans are that of tourists, and for tourists it would be imperative to speak at least a bit of English to get around. There are plenty of European countries that do not speak much English (Spain, France), but those who do not speak the language would generally not find themselves on a safari in Kenya.
4. How is you?
Why it makes sense: For many Kenyans, English is their 3rd language. But it is the language taught in schools. Still, people tend to speak Swahili or mother-tongue to each other, so English is not frequently heard. The question “How is you?” usually comes from those who have had some schooling, enough to understand that for the verb “to be”, “is” is the singular and “are” is the plural. By following this rule, it makes sense if you are asking a single person “How IS you?” instead of “How ARE you?” and be deceived into thinking that you are using proper grammar. It is only later in those school years that one will learn that English is the language of many many exceptions.
3. Do all Asians know Kung Fu?
Why it makes sense: Jet Li, Jackie Chan. The Oriental countries have an oligopoly on Kung-fu films, and since people here are exposed to these films they see hoards and hoards of Asian-looking people fighting martial-arts style. Quite a fair assumption I would say. Based on the news in America, I assumed all Africans were starving and there were stampeding wildebeest every morning and evening.
2. If you have big hair, does it take more of your body's nutrients?
Why it makes sense: Kenyans generally have very short hair. Not only is it culturally appropriate to be clean-looking and shaved, it is ingrained in Kenyan's very DNA for short, curly hair. Along with this, many people in the rural areas are farmers, so they are very familiar with the way crops grow. It is a fundamental concept that as plants grow bigger, their roots get bigger and they demand more water and more of the soil's nutrients to continue healthy growing. The way plants grow in the earth is strikingly similar to the way hair grows on someone's head, so it is a very reasonable assumption that hair would take more nutrients as it got bigger.
1. Why do the Europeans like pies so much? And why do they think it is funny when they throw pies into other people's faces?
Why it makes sense: Pies are rare here. If you can find one, they are very expensive, perhaps the equivalent to 7 or 8 full meals. It is unlikely that many Kenyans have tried pies, but if they had tried a pie, it would instantly clarify the question “why do Europeans like pies so much?” The answer: Pies are delicious. As for the second question: “why is it funny to be pied in the face?” It is almost difficult not to appreciate the comical nature of having a creamy pie thrown into an unsuspecting face. Even the phrase “a pie to the face” sets me giggling. But it is an absolute sin to waste food here, especially something as valuable as a pie.
I'm sure if my old friend Guy read this post, he would enjoy the way the tables have turned on me in the "question-answer" game we played back in college. If only they get that one computer fixed in Israel..
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Racism
My collection of short stories on racism.
Marriage
“So, will you marry here?” He asked me out of nowhere. I wondered why he cared, because he definitely wasn't asking for his own benefit.
“I don't think so,” I responded.
“You wouldn't marry one of us, would you? You wouldn't marry a baboon.” He said quickly, partially in jest. It was difficult to pick up on his meaning because his words took me by surprise.
“Baboon?” I repeated, my head turning slightly and my eyes narrowing to show my confusion.
“Yes, we are baboons. Look at our skin. We look like baboons.” He replied, still smiling. Though I picked up on his playful tone, I still burned with anger. This mentality that Africans are less than their lighter-skinned brethren makes me sick, and any hinting toward it, whether serious or in jest, makes me respond in kind.
“Baboons are hairy, aren't they?” I stated as I rolled up my right pants leg. Despite my anger, I continued with his jocular disposition.
He nodded in agreement.
“Look.” I said, motioning to my leg. “I have quite a bit more hair on my body than you. It seems I resemble a baboon much more than you do.”
He laughed as if in agreement, but there was no knowing if any of my words got through to him. It was the best I could do with my limited Swahili. Times like this make me ache to have more command of the language so I can delve into this deep-rooted stereotype and fight to dispel it.
Childhood Myths
“Do you know why African's palms and soles of their feet are white, but the rest of their body is not?” my 9-year old neighbor girl asked me.
“No, I don't know. Tell me.” I said.
“Long ago when the world was made, humans came from the mud. They came across some very hot water. Some put their whole bodies in the water, and so they came out white. But the Africans tested the water first with the bottom of his feet and thought it too hot, and again with the palms of their hands, but quickly pulled them out again. That's why our feet and hands are white and our bodies are not.”
It was a cute story, especially coming from my neighbor. But the story implies that dark skin is the same as dirt, or that white skin is cleaner or somehow pure. Where had she heard it? School? Who perpetuates stories with underlying messages of degradation towards one's own race?
Perhaps I am reading too much into a simple childhood story, but the stereotypes are deeply rooted in the minds of both young and old. While talking with one of the primary school teachers who lives next door to me, he told me plainly, “We Africans, we think you Wazungu are so much civilized and so very knowledgeable.” Yet this primary school teacher speaks three languages, and has welcomed more guests over for tea or dinner in a month than many of us Wazungu invite over a lifetime. It seems he is far more civilized and knowledgeable than most Westerners I know.
A Bicycle Ride
There is a certain word in Swahili which refers to all foreigners, or rather all white people. This word is “Mzungu.” To the locals, it is not at all meant to be derogatory; it is in fact meant to be exalting. Some of the connotations associated with this word are: money, sophistication, technology, education, opportunity. But depending on how it is used, this word to me is flagrantly offensive.
As I was riding my bicycle home I heard some familiar shouts. “Mzungu! Mzungu!” she yelled, nearly in my ear as I road slowly by. “Carry me on your bicycle, so that I can say that I have been carried by a Mzungu.” She requested. It is not uncommon that I carry people on my bicycle from time to time, so I told her that I would carry her on a short stretch of road because I was near my home. She enthusiastically climbed on the back, and began to shout, “Look, I'm being carried by a Mzungu!!” I replied emphatically, “Listen, I am not a Mzungu, I am a human just like you. My blood and yours are the same color.”
“I'm being carried by a Mzungu!” She screamed again. It was obviously her first time getting a ride by a foreigner. I sighed deeply as I arrived home, hoping my words had some impact on her deeply imbedded prejudice.
A core goal for the Peace Corps is cultural exchange between Americans and the host country nationals. One of the purposes of this cultural exchange is to provide a living example of someone from a western country, so they may see first hand how our lives are not so much different than theirs. We eat the same food, poop in the same hole in the ground, and pray for the rains together. These efforts are put forth in order to dispel the stereotypes associated with westerners, or at least show that not all westerners fit in to the stereotype of wealth and superiority.
Church
I am a regular at the local church in my village. The messages are all in Swahili, so for me it is more of a language workout instead of a spiritual experience.
About a month ago, the pastor kicked off the service by inviting the announcement lady to the front to give announcements. She was going on about how the church's new goal was to purchase some chairs made for children, because these large wooden pews make it difficult for the children to sit comfortably. While the announcement lady continued jabbering on about different requests and events, I looked around the church and saw it filled with empty pews. I thought to myself how this church already had quite the number of seats and space, especially compared to other churches in the area where the members bring their own stools to sit on (or find a place on the floor) during service. After the lady finished, the pastor looked up at the few of us in the pews and specifically called me out, saying, “Did Mwadime understand all of that?” (Mwadime being my local name). The pastor's words took me by surprise, and I responded to him in Swahili, my voice a little bit shaky. Already it was awkward that the pastor and I were having a conversation in the middle of service, like a teacher quizzing his student on a language exam in the middle of class. I replied, “Yes I have understood. You are wanting chairs for children.” He seemed to be satisfied with my response and he continued on with the service.
I took a few moments to reflect on the events that transpired. Never before had he asked or seemed to care if I understood anything that was going on in the church, though this time he was very concerned. But why the announcements? Isn't it more important that I understand the spiritual message he is giving instead of the weekly calendar of events? Then I realized, he saw me as a donor that would provide the finances for those chairs that he was asking for. And nothing else.
Again, I felt sick inside. It has been close to a year living here. I have been a regular at his church. Yet still I am just a source of funds in his eyes. Will I ever blend in and be treated like everyone else? Does it take two years? Ten? A lifetime? Maybe never. And to be perfectly honest, if it weren't for this special treatment I get from many of the people around, I could see myself living in this village for the rest of my life.
An African
I was sitting on the steps in my nearest town just reading as two small girls passed me by. One of the girls exclaimed, “Mzungu!” both in surprise as well as to beckon my attention. I looked up at her, then I looked around and asked her puzzlingly, “Mzungu yuko wapi?” or “Where is the Mzungu?” She looked at me confused, and the finally the other girl grabbed her and said, “This person isn't a Mzungu, he is an African.” Upon hearing those words, I felt my very soul smiling. I never knew such a simple comment could be so refreshing.
As those girls passed by later, I overheard her saying to her friend, “That African is still here.”
Marriage
“So, will you marry here?” He asked me out of nowhere. I wondered why he cared, because he definitely wasn't asking for his own benefit.
“I don't think so,” I responded.
“You wouldn't marry one of us, would you? You wouldn't marry a baboon.” He said quickly, partially in jest. It was difficult to pick up on his meaning because his words took me by surprise.
“Baboon?” I repeated, my head turning slightly and my eyes narrowing to show my confusion.
“Yes, we are baboons. Look at our skin. We look like baboons.” He replied, still smiling. Though I picked up on his playful tone, I still burned with anger. This mentality that Africans are less than their lighter-skinned brethren makes me sick, and any hinting toward it, whether serious or in jest, makes me respond in kind.
“Baboons are hairy, aren't they?” I stated as I rolled up my right pants leg. Despite my anger, I continued with his jocular disposition.
He nodded in agreement.
“Look.” I said, motioning to my leg. “I have quite a bit more hair on my body than you. It seems I resemble a baboon much more than you do.”
He laughed as if in agreement, but there was no knowing if any of my words got through to him. It was the best I could do with my limited Swahili. Times like this make me ache to have more command of the language so I can delve into this deep-rooted stereotype and fight to dispel it.
Childhood Myths
“Do you know why African's palms and soles of their feet are white, but the rest of their body is not?” my 9-year old neighbor girl asked me.
“No, I don't know. Tell me.” I said.
“Long ago when the world was made, humans came from the mud. They came across some very hot water. Some put their whole bodies in the water, and so they came out white. But the Africans tested the water first with the bottom of his feet and thought it too hot, and again with the palms of their hands, but quickly pulled them out again. That's why our feet and hands are white and our bodies are not.”
It was a cute story, especially coming from my neighbor. But the story implies that dark skin is the same as dirt, or that white skin is cleaner or somehow pure. Where had she heard it? School? Who perpetuates stories with underlying messages of degradation towards one's own race?
Perhaps I am reading too much into a simple childhood story, but the stereotypes are deeply rooted in the minds of both young and old. While talking with one of the primary school teachers who lives next door to me, he told me plainly, “We Africans, we think you Wazungu are so much civilized and so very knowledgeable.” Yet this primary school teacher speaks three languages, and has welcomed more guests over for tea or dinner in a month than many of us Wazungu invite over a lifetime. It seems he is far more civilized and knowledgeable than most Westerners I know.
A Bicycle Ride
There is a certain word in Swahili which refers to all foreigners, or rather all white people. This word is “Mzungu.” To the locals, it is not at all meant to be derogatory; it is in fact meant to be exalting. Some of the connotations associated with this word are: money, sophistication, technology, education, opportunity. But depending on how it is used, this word to me is flagrantly offensive.
As I was riding my bicycle home I heard some familiar shouts. “Mzungu! Mzungu!” she yelled, nearly in my ear as I road slowly by. “Carry me on your bicycle, so that I can say that I have been carried by a Mzungu.” She requested. It is not uncommon that I carry people on my bicycle from time to time, so I told her that I would carry her on a short stretch of road because I was near my home. She enthusiastically climbed on the back, and began to shout, “Look, I'm being carried by a Mzungu!!” I replied emphatically, “Listen, I am not a Mzungu, I am a human just like you. My blood and yours are the same color.”
“I'm being carried by a Mzungu!” She screamed again. It was obviously her first time getting a ride by a foreigner. I sighed deeply as I arrived home, hoping my words had some impact on her deeply imbedded prejudice.
A core goal for the Peace Corps is cultural exchange between Americans and the host country nationals. One of the purposes of this cultural exchange is to provide a living example of someone from a western country, so they may see first hand how our lives are not so much different than theirs. We eat the same food, poop in the same hole in the ground, and pray for the rains together. These efforts are put forth in order to dispel the stereotypes associated with westerners, or at least show that not all westerners fit in to the stereotype of wealth and superiority.
Church
I am a regular at the local church in my village. The messages are all in Swahili, so for me it is more of a language workout instead of a spiritual experience.
About a month ago, the pastor kicked off the service by inviting the announcement lady to the front to give announcements. She was going on about how the church's new goal was to purchase some chairs made for children, because these large wooden pews make it difficult for the children to sit comfortably. While the announcement lady continued jabbering on about different requests and events, I looked around the church and saw it filled with empty pews. I thought to myself how this church already had quite the number of seats and space, especially compared to other churches in the area where the members bring their own stools to sit on (or find a place on the floor) during service. After the lady finished, the pastor looked up at the few of us in the pews and specifically called me out, saying, “Did Mwadime understand all of that?” (Mwadime being my local name). The pastor's words took me by surprise, and I responded to him in Swahili, my voice a little bit shaky. Already it was awkward that the pastor and I were having a conversation in the middle of service, like a teacher quizzing his student on a language exam in the middle of class. I replied, “Yes I have understood. You are wanting chairs for children.” He seemed to be satisfied with my response and he continued on with the service.
I took a few moments to reflect on the events that transpired. Never before had he asked or seemed to care if I understood anything that was going on in the church, though this time he was very concerned. But why the announcements? Isn't it more important that I understand the spiritual message he is giving instead of the weekly calendar of events? Then I realized, he saw me as a donor that would provide the finances for those chairs that he was asking for. And nothing else.
Again, I felt sick inside. It has been close to a year living here. I have been a regular at his church. Yet still I am just a source of funds in his eyes. Will I ever blend in and be treated like everyone else? Does it take two years? Ten? A lifetime? Maybe never. And to be perfectly honest, if it weren't for this special treatment I get from many of the people around, I could see myself living in this village for the rest of my life.
An African
I was sitting on the steps in my nearest town just reading as two small girls passed me by. One of the girls exclaimed, “Mzungu!” both in surprise as well as to beckon my attention. I looked up at her, then I looked around and asked her puzzlingly, “Mzungu yuko wapi?” or “Where is the Mzungu?” She looked at me confused, and the finally the other girl grabbed her and said, “This person isn't a Mzungu, he is an African.” Upon hearing those words, I felt my very soul smiling. I never knew such a simple comment could be so refreshing.
As those girls passed by later, I overheard her saying to her friend, “That African is still here.”
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Free Shirts
There are few things in this world better than a free shirt. The shirt could be unfashionable, ill-fitting, and itchy, but because it is free, it warrants no social repercussions. Out of all the shirts I own, the free ones are usually the ones I tend to like and wear the most. I have all kinds of free shirts from different events I've been to: Cal football games, triathlons, and swim meets. Or the shirts I get as gifts on birthdays or Christmas, with some ridiculous saying written on them. Yet to my surprise, these kinds of free shirts often find themselves quickest to be donated. Walk-a-thons for leukemia awareness (a deep purple always), blood drives, international woman’s day: these are all highly popular candidates for the donation box.
And they all come to Kenya.
I approached a teenager and read his shirt out loud, “Donde Esta Mi Cerveza?” with small English letters in the corner reading, “Where is my beer?”
“I think it is German.” He said, as I finished reading the small English writing.
I smiled amiably and felt it necessary to correct him. “Nope! It's Spanish. It's the same language the team from Barcelona speaks.”
“Ohh!” He exclaimed, as if very excited to learn the true language of the shirt he probably had for years. I mistook his enthusiasm to mean he wanted to know more about Spanish, so I continued breaking down the sentence to him, telling him exactly which word meant what. I was excited to read Spanish, the language I spent so many school years studying, but the teenager did not even feign interest and immediately changed the subject of conversation.
In general, Kenyans who wear these donated shirts have no idea what they are supporting. I remember one shirt worn by an older lady, clearly written, “BEER DELIVERY GUY” in all capital letters across the front. And I promise she was not going for the comedic effect. On another occasion I noticed a grandma wearing a shirt with huge bold letters, “Eat. Sleep. Play.” with a picture of an American football on the front. She obviously has no idea what sport she was endorsing (especially since it was “American” football) but her lack of knowledge didn't dampen her precious, nearly toothless smile. Another mama wore a shirt stylishly written, “Geek Squad,” and I bet none of those Best Buy employees on the “Geek Squad” knew that a 45 year old Mama who has never seen a computer in her life was a big supporter of theirs.
But my favorite so far is a very fast walking old man who I pass by every morning. He looks very grisly and determined whenever I see him, as if he had just lost his cow and was now desperately searching for it. Once he was wearing a very faded pink shirt that read, “Official Heartthrob” in playful, girly letters. The “o” in “throb” was in the shape of a heart, and the middle of each letter looked to have one of those reflective glittery gemstones. This shirt did not at all dampen his grim morning look.
What these shirts do for me is remind me of the people from back home. I saw a mama cooking who was wearing an “Auburn” shirt, and it reminded me both of my old swim coach and a girl I used to like. Whenever I see people wearing Pittsburgh Steeler gear, I instantly think of my father and how excited he would be to see a Kenyan “Steeler” fan. When I first arrived to Kenya, I saw a motorcycle driver wearing a hat that read “Cal,” and I reflexively blurted “Go Bears!” at the sight of paraphernalia from my Alma Mater.
I cannot help but think of home when I see references to California or Los Angeles. These shirts pop up at me like scribbled memoirs written of my childhood and stuffed in the pockets of different pairs of my pants – Mickey Mouse, Anaheim stadium, San Diego – all these places resonating with colorful memories. And I'm certain that many of the Kenyans wearing these shirts wonder why I feature a huge smile as they pass me by.
But the most nostalgic moment I have had over a piece of clothing happened in Mombasa. I saw a skinny teenager wearing an NJB (National Junior Basketball) jersey that was from Diamond Bar, California. Diamond bar is literally 12 miles north of where I grew up. And I played in NJB growing up! I could have very well played against that very jersey as 10-year-old. Perhaps I guarded the same boy who wore that jersey – and now I meet up with this garment of clothing 15 years later on the other side of the world.
I have come to find that clothes hold a certain sentimental value. I would consider myself a minimalist, and every so often I sort through my things for donation or recycling. But I must admit, when it comes to some items of clothing, as worthless as they are, I manage to return them to my wardrobe. I still have swimming shirts from 1994, and because I thought it was cool to wear baggy, extra-extra-large shirts back then, some of them still fit. If I weren't so sentimental about my clothing, I might have had a chance to come across one of my very own shirts here in Kenya.
And they all come to Kenya.
I approached a teenager and read his shirt out loud, “Donde Esta Mi Cerveza?” with small English letters in the corner reading, “Where is my beer?”
“I think it is German.” He said, as I finished reading the small English writing.
I smiled amiably and felt it necessary to correct him. “Nope! It's Spanish. It's the same language the team from Barcelona speaks.”
“Ohh!” He exclaimed, as if very excited to learn the true language of the shirt he probably had for years. I mistook his enthusiasm to mean he wanted to know more about Spanish, so I continued breaking down the sentence to him, telling him exactly which word meant what. I was excited to read Spanish, the language I spent so many school years studying, but the teenager did not even feign interest and immediately changed the subject of conversation.
In general, Kenyans who wear these donated shirts have no idea what they are supporting. I remember one shirt worn by an older lady, clearly written, “BEER DELIVERY GUY” in all capital letters across the front. And I promise she was not going for the comedic effect. On another occasion I noticed a grandma wearing a shirt with huge bold letters, “Eat. Sleep. Play.” with a picture of an American football on the front. She obviously has no idea what sport she was endorsing (especially since it was “American” football) but her lack of knowledge didn't dampen her precious, nearly toothless smile. Another mama wore a shirt stylishly written, “Geek Squad,” and I bet none of those Best Buy employees on the “Geek Squad” knew that a 45 year old Mama who has never seen a computer in her life was a big supporter of theirs.
But my favorite so far is a very fast walking old man who I pass by every morning. He looks very grisly and determined whenever I see him, as if he had just lost his cow and was now desperately searching for it. Once he was wearing a very faded pink shirt that read, “Official Heartthrob” in playful, girly letters. The “o” in “throb” was in the shape of a heart, and the middle of each letter looked to have one of those reflective glittery gemstones. This shirt did not at all dampen his grim morning look.
What these shirts do for me is remind me of the people from back home. I saw a mama cooking who was wearing an “Auburn” shirt, and it reminded me both of my old swim coach and a girl I used to like. Whenever I see people wearing Pittsburgh Steeler gear, I instantly think of my father and how excited he would be to see a Kenyan “Steeler” fan. When I first arrived to Kenya, I saw a motorcycle driver wearing a hat that read “Cal,” and I reflexively blurted “Go Bears!” at the sight of paraphernalia from my Alma Mater.
I cannot help but think of home when I see references to California or Los Angeles. These shirts pop up at me like scribbled memoirs written of my childhood and stuffed in the pockets of different pairs of my pants – Mickey Mouse, Anaheim stadium, San Diego – all these places resonating with colorful memories. And I'm certain that many of the Kenyans wearing these shirts wonder why I feature a huge smile as they pass me by.
But the most nostalgic moment I have had over a piece of clothing happened in Mombasa. I saw a skinny teenager wearing an NJB (National Junior Basketball) jersey that was from Diamond Bar, California. Diamond bar is literally 12 miles north of where I grew up. And I played in NJB growing up! I could have very well played against that very jersey as 10-year-old. Perhaps I guarded the same boy who wore that jersey – and now I meet up with this garment of clothing 15 years later on the other side of the world.
I have come to find that clothes hold a certain sentimental value. I would consider myself a minimalist, and every so often I sort through my things for donation or recycling. But I must admit, when it comes to some items of clothing, as worthless as they are, I manage to return them to my wardrobe. I still have swimming shirts from 1994, and because I thought it was cool to wear baggy, extra-extra-large shirts back then, some of them still fit. If I weren't so sentimental about my clothing, I might have had a chance to come across one of my very own shirts here in Kenya.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
By The Numbers
May 26th, 2010. I was on a plane headed for Kenya, with a lay-over in Switzerland. It has been exactly a year since I have left America. In honor of this one year anniversary, I would like to share some numbers and statistics of my experience so far. Here they are:
6 – The number of living chickens hanging upside down on bicycle handles (3 on each side), no doubt headed towards the market for selling.
7 – The record number of full grown people I have seen riding a motorcycle.
35 (2) – The record number of full grown people being carried by a 14-seater matatu (2 babies). The matatu broke down, and as we all got out of the vehicle (I was one of the 5 people standing on the outside door), I realized there were also 8 chickens inside.
Over a dozen – single exposed breasts I have seen from breast-feeding mothers.
6 – the total number of times I have swam in a year.
3 – the number of times I would sometimes swim in a single day.
47 – dead cockroaches I found in my room after two weeks absence.
Infinity – living cockroaches in and around my pit latrine.
60 – the most kilometers I have ever run in one week's time.
60 – the average kilometers I would swim each week for many consecutive weeks of my life.
3 – The number of items I can cross off my bucket list (1. swim in the indian ocean, 2. dream in another language, 3. be on both northern and southern hemispheres of the world at the same time)
1 – The number of strawberries I have eaten.
36 – letters and packages I have mailed, also the number of our starting group.
5 – The number of languages I am greeted in on a daily basis (Kiswahili, English, Taita, Duruma, Kamba)
1500 – liters of water I have used total in 10 months of being at my site. This doesn't include my water use when I travel to Nairobi or other cities, but it comes out to about 5.5 liters per day.
365 – The number of days I have been outside America.
426 – approximate number of days I have left until my service is through.
1 – times I have sincerely longed to be home.
0 – times I have regretted my decision to join the Peace Corps.
6 – The number of living chickens hanging upside down on bicycle handles (3 on each side), no doubt headed towards the market for selling.
7 – The record number of full grown people I have seen riding a motorcycle.
35 (2) – The record number of full grown people being carried by a 14-seater matatu (2 babies). The matatu broke down, and as we all got out of the vehicle (I was one of the 5 people standing on the outside door), I realized there were also 8 chickens inside.
Over a dozen – single exposed breasts I have seen from breast-feeding mothers.
6 – the total number of times I have swam in a year.
3 – the number of times I would sometimes swim in a single day.
47 – dead cockroaches I found in my room after two weeks absence.
Infinity – living cockroaches in and around my pit latrine.
60 – the most kilometers I have ever run in one week's time.
60 – the average kilometers I would swim each week for many consecutive weeks of my life.
3 – The number of items I can cross off my bucket list (1. swim in the indian ocean, 2. dream in another language, 3. be on both northern and southern hemispheres of the world at the same time)
1 – The number of strawberries I have eaten.
36 – letters and packages I have mailed, also the number of our starting group.
5 – The number of languages I am greeted in on a daily basis (Kiswahili, English, Taita, Duruma, Kamba)
1500 – liters of water I have used total in 10 months of being at my site. This doesn't include my water use when I travel to Nairobi or other cities, but it comes out to about 5.5 liters per day.
365 – The number of days I have been outside America.
426 – approximate number of days I have left until my service is through.
1 – times I have sincerely longed to be home.
0 – times I have regretted my decision to join the Peace Corps.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Betty Crocker
Since I've lived in Kenya, I have only been cooking for myself. Nearly everything I cook is from my local open-air market with fresh fruits, vegetables, and legumes. Corn and wheat flour, spaghetti noodles, and other things I find in the larger supermarkets or small storefronts. I cook a small array of dishes, from spaghetti with home-made tomato sauce, tortillas with guacamole, coconut rice and beans, or the local dish of fried kale and “ugali.” I cannot say I am much of a cook though, since I prefer quantity over quality and healthy over delicious if I had to choose. Luckily I have access a variety of spices, so if I somehow go wrong in the cooking process, I douse my meal with my local favorites.
Cooking here is quite a process. It takes me nearly half an hour just cutting the onions, tomatoes, and other vegetables, or peeling carrots and potatoes with my knife. If I am pressed for time, I usually opt to cook the “ugali” and fried kale, because once the vegetables are cut it is just 15 minutes until the food is ready to eat.
This past Sunday for lunch I had run out fresh food to prepare myself, so I shuffled through my storage box for something to eat. With luck I found a packet of “Betty Crocker” instant mashed potatoes, and another packet of instant gravy. I flipped the packet and read the directions which instructed me to boil water and add the contents, then stir for one minute. The gravy sauce packet actually took less time than that. After 2 minutes had passed, I had a steaming, creaming plate of mashed potatoes and gravy.
I chuckled to myself at how quickly it all happened. Being used to at least a half-hour's preparation before any meal, I felt like I somehow cheated. I even looked around my empty room, as if searching for confirmation that the food was ready. I decided I should share some with my neighbors as a cultural experience, showing them the empty packets and telling them that this is how American food is.
I was astounded at the taste. Despite the assurance from Betty Crocker herself that the mashed potatoes were “REAL” as written on the package, the taste was so foreign to me still. Just as one can taste the difference in aspartame or some other synthesized, non-calorie sweetener compared to the real granules of sugar, the packaged food instantly betrayed itself to my senses. I had become so used to real unadulterated foods, I found myself loath to finishing the instant potatoes and gravy. But I did finish them; there are starving children in Africa.
What I realized out of this was not the taste of Betty Crocker's mashed potatoes, but the lifestyle Americans lead that should require instant packaged foods, microwaves, and infomercials that can sell you a “Slap-chop.” Everything Americans do has to be expedited if possible, so that we can do more activities and be more productive throughout our day. Yet here in Kenya, I find myself living completely perpendicular to the fast-paced American life, and I am often frustrated at how I wait long hours for transportation, or how cooking takes a huge chunk of my evening. But the reminder of my American lifestyle made me a little bit sick inside. It seems we want so much out of every minute of our day that we miss many of the subtle flavors in life. We want our crops to grow bigger and tastier, our lines at the grocery store to be shorter, and our fast-food to be faster. I am beginning to think that maybe it's okay to live a little bit slower. Maybe it is okay to take the time to metaphorically cut your vegetables and prepare your food in such a way to make Betty Crocker turn her nose up: both in defiance of your boycott on her instant-mashed potatoes and at the enchanting aroma of your original, heavily spiced creations.
Cooking here is quite a process. It takes me nearly half an hour just cutting the onions, tomatoes, and other vegetables, or peeling carrots and potatoes with my knife. If I am pressed for time, I usually opt to cook the “ugali” and fried kale, because once the vegetables are cut it is just 15 minutes until the food is ready to eat.
This past Sunday for lunch I had run out fresh food to prepare myself, so I shuffled through my storage box for something to eat. With luck I found a packet of “Betty Crocker” instant mashed potatoes, and another packet of instant gravy. I flipped the packet and read the directions which instructed me to boil water and add the contents, then stir for one minute. The gravy sauce packet actually took less time than that. After 2 minutes had passed, I had a steaming, creaming plate of mashed potatoes and gravy.
I chuckled to myself at how quickly it all happened. Being used to at least a half-hour's preparation before any meal, I felt like I somehow cheated. I even looked around my empty room, as if searching for confirmation that the food was ready. I decided I should share some with my neighbors as a cultural experience, showing them the empty packets and telling them that this is how American food is.
I was astounded at the taste. Despite the assurance from Betty Crocker herself that the mashed potatoes were “REAL” as written on the package, the taste was so foreign to me still. Just as one can taste the difference in aspartame or some other synthesized, non-calorie sweetener compared to the real granules of sugar, the packaged food instantly betrayed itself to my senses. I had become so used to real unadulterated foods, I found myself loath to finishing the instant potatoes and gravy. But I did finish them; there are starving children in Africa.
What I realized out of this was not the taste of Betty Crocker's mashed potatoes, but the lifestyle Americans lead that should require instant packaged foods, microwaves, and infomercials that can sell you a “Slap-chop.” Everything Americans do has to be expedited if possible, so that we can do more activities and be more productive throughout our day. Yet here in Kenya, I find myself living completely perpendicular to the fast-paced American life, and I am often frustrated at how I wait long hours for transportation, or how cooking takes a huge chunk of my evening. But the reminder of my American lifestyle made me a little bit sick inside. It seems we want so much out of every minute of our day that we miss many of the subtle flavors in life. We want our crops to grow bigger and tastier, our lines at the grocery store to be shorter, and our fast-food to be faster. I am beginning to think that maybe it's okay to live a little bit slower. Maybe it is okay to take the time to metaphorically cut your vegetables and prepare your food in such a way to make Betty Crocker turn her nose up: both in defiance of your boycott on her instant-mashed potatoes and at the enchanting aroma of your original, heavily spiced creations.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Environmentally Friendly
People are bad for the environment. Centuries of economic development have pioneered the raping of the Earth's natural resources, from clearing away dense forest for agriculture and infrastructure to digging in every place imaginable for oil and combustible fuels. But these days, environmental protection has been a popular discussion topic. Words like “Ecological Footprint”, “Climate Change”, and “Greenhouse Gases” have infiltrated our vocabulary like Chinese-made goods and services. Nowadays both individuals and corporations alike are urged to reduce their negative impact on the environment by “going green” and negating their carbon footprint upon the world. Websites offer carbon-footprint calculations, which estimates the level of “tonnage of carbon dioxide” you emit per year.
I am quite aware that developed nations pollute a great deal more than developing ones, and so I decided to compare my lifestyle from America to how I live now by using one of these online carbon footprint tests. It asked questions concerning the car I drive, the flights I've taken, my household electricity & gas usage, my culinary habits, my purchasing & recycling habits, and a list of other miscellaneous subjects. Here's how it turns out:
Car
In the year before I came to Kenya, I would drive 60 to 80 miles a day going to and from work, running various errands, or visiting certain people, and I would often make those trips all alone. Now I walk and bike everywhere, or take public transportation if the place is too far. Even public transportation vehicles are packed to the maximum carrying capacity. In Southern California, you qualify for the “carpool lane” by having just 2 or more people in the car. Kenya redefines “carpooling” by carrying 30 passengers (and often chickens and goats) in a 14-seat van.
Water
I remember back in college our swim team would have 20 showers running full blast for a good 15 to 20 minutes as we relaxed under the massaging pressure of the hot water. And this would happen twice or even three times per day because of multiple swim practices. Gallons and gallons of water were used from our swim team alone. Now I use 1.5 liters of water to bathe. Perhaps I shouldn't admit to this so openly, but often I will bathe every other day. On a given day, I can use a total of 6 to 10 liters of water for cooking, cleaning, bathing and drinking. That is about 2 flushes of a toilet.
Food
In America, I would eat meat for at least two meals a day. Processed foods, candies, and anything that traveled for 100 miles or further to my supermarket, I was very likely to purchase. But in Kenya, I have given vegetarianism a try (it is really hard to preserve meats and cheeses with ridiculous-hot temperatures and no refrigeration) and all my food comes less than 10 kilometers away.
Recycling
I've always hated plastic bottles and things, and believed firmly in recycling back in the States, but here in Kenya, I take recycling to a whole new level. I reuse everything until it disintegrates here. If I buy a loaf of bread, I reuse the flimsy plastic bag it comes in when I go to the market so the mamas do not have to use one of their own bags for the vegetables I purchase (not only do these mamas save a quarter of a shilling, it gets me talking with them about how plastic materials are bad for the environment). Hefty grocery bags from the bigger supermarkets are like valued gems to me, and they get well used before they are discarded (burned).
Energy
I have two lights in my home. Both have energy-saving light-bulbs in them, and I use one for maybe 3 hours every night. I do have a socket for powering/charging things, and I usually use my computer for a couple hours daily. I have a reading light that is charged with a solar cell. My current net energy use is marginal at most, and it's actually not too different from how I lived back in the states.
Travel
The trip to and from Kenya from Los Angeles was an ecological killer. Just in a round trip ticket I accounted for more than half of my total emissions for two years (2.66 tons of carbon dioxide).
Over its lifetime an average tree can sequester or absorb about 1 ton of carbon dioxide. Americans emit an average of 20 tons of carbon dioxide per year. Because trees don't begin to be much use in negating carbon dioxide until they reach adolescence, 6 trees need to be planted for every ton of carbon dioxide emitted (and each tree must survive for its lifespan). Therefore, Americans should plant 120 trees per year on average to wipe their carbon footprint clean.
The going rate of a ton of carbon on the open market is about $5.50. Instead of emitting the 40 tons of carbon dioxide I should have by living in the states, I am at a grand total of 5.7 for the two years I'll be living here. It doesn't sound like all that much, but the U.S. Government gets an average environmentally-based financial benefit of $188.65 for just me, and I can imagine similar figures for every other Peace Corps volunteer.
But the average Kenyan has a footprint of 0.31 tons per year. Even excluding my flight here and back, I emit three times more than the average for this country.
When I lived in America, there is such a disconnect between being responsible with the use of resources and the effect it has on others. But here I see a little bit more clearly how I am impacting the lives of others. As an example, water is a major problem where I live. The roads are constantly filled with people carrying their water for long distances. Groups of mamas walk together with their 20 liter jerry can on their head, talking to each other to keep them cheerful. Grimacing young boys wheel bicycles with 60 liters strapped to the back (20 gallons) uphill through sandy patches of road. In light of this, I find it difficult to waste even a drop of water. If the rains come, it is all hands on deck for me, as I put out every basin and pot that I own to catch the drops of rain from my corrugated iron roof. Though I am able to get water at the nearby school, I conserve as much as possible because I know that the more I draw water from the school, the less others will have. And generally speaking, the more resources I use, the more of a strain I place on resources as a whole. The longer I live here, the more convicted I feel of the decadence I used to live. It makes me reevaluate how I want to continue living should I get back to the states.
I am quite aware that developed nations pollute a great deal more than developing ones, and so I decided to compare my lifestyle from America to how I live now by using one of these online carbon footprint tests. It asked questions concerning the car I drive, the flights I've taken, my household electricity & gas usage, my culinary habits, my purchasing & recycling habits, and a list of other miscellaneous subjects. Here's how it turns out:
Car
In the year before I came to Kenya, I would drive 60 to 80 miles a day going to and from work, running various errands, or visiting certain people, and I would often make those trips all alone. Now I walk and bike everywhere, or take public transportation if the place is too far. Even public transportation vehicles are packed to the maximum carrying capacity. In Southern California, you qualify for the “carpool lane” by having just 2 or more people in the car. Kenya redefines “carpooling” by carrying 30 passengers (and often chickens and goats) in a 14-seat van.
Water
I remember back in college our swim team would have 20 showers running full blast for a good 15 to 20 minutes as we relaxed under the massaging pressure of the hot water. And this would happen twice or even three times per day because of multiple swim practices. Gallons and gallons of water were used from our swim team alone. Now I use 1.5 liters of water to bathe. Perhaps I shouldn't admit to this so openly, but often I will bathe every other day. On a given day, I can use a total of 6 to 10 liters of water for cooking, cleaning, bathing and drinking. That is about 2 flushes of a toilet.
Food
In America, I would eat meat for at least two meals a day. Processed foods, candies, and anything that traveled for 100 miles or further to my supermarket, I was very likely to purchase. But in Kenya, I have given vegetarianism a try (it is really hard to preserve meats and cheeses with ridiculous-hot temperatures and no refrigeration) and all my food comes less than 10 kilometers away.
Recycling
I've always hated plastic bottles and things, and believed firmly in recycling back in the States, but here in Kenya, I take recycling to a whole new level. I reuse everything until it disintegrates here. If I buy a loaf of bread, I reuse the flimsy plastic bag it comes in when I go to the market so the mamas do not have to use one of their own bags for the vegetables I purchase (not only do these mamas save a quarter of a shilling, it gets me talking with them about how plastic materials are bad for the environment). Hefty grocery bags from the bigger supermarkets are like valued gems to me, and they get well used before they are discarded (burned).
Energy
I have two lights in my home. Both have energy-saving light-bulbs in them, and I use one for maybe 3 hours every night. I do have a socket for powering/charging things, and I usually use my computer for a couple hours daily. I have a reading light that is charged with a solar cell. My current net energy use is marginal at most, and it's actually not too different from how I lived back in the states.
Travel
The trip to and from Kenya from Los Angeles was an ecological killer. Just in a round trip ticket I accounted for more than half of my total emissions for two years (2.66 tons of carbon dioxide).
Over its lifetime an average tree can sequester or absorb about 1 ton of carbon dioxide. Americans emit an average of 20 tons of carbon dioxide per year. Because trees don't begin to be much use in negating carbon dioxide until they reach adolescence, 6 trees need to be planted for every ton of carbon dioxide emitted (and each tree must survive for its lifespan). Therefore, Americans should plant 120 trees per year on average to wipe their carbon footprint clean.
The going rate of a ton of carbon on the open market is about $5.50. Instead of emitting the 40 tons of carbon dioxide I should have by living in the states, I am at a grand total of 5.7 for the two years I'll be living here. It doesn't sound like all that much, but the U.S. Government gets an average environmentally-based financial benefit of $188.65 for just me, and I can imagine similar figures for every other Peace Corps volunteer.
But the average Kenyan has a footprint of 0.31 tons per year. Even excluding my flight here and back, I emit three times more than the average for this country.
When I lived in America, there is such a disconnect between being responsible with the use of resources and the effect it has on others. But here I see a little bit more clearly how I am impacting the lives of others. As an example, water is a major problem where I live. The roads are constantly filled with people carrying their water for long distances. Groups of mamas walk together with their 20 liter jerry can on their head, talking to each other to keep them cheerful. Grimacing young boys wheel bicycles with 60 liters strapped to the back (20 gallons) uphill through sandy patches of road. In light of this, I find it difficult to waste even a drop of water. If the rains come, it is all hands on deck for me, as I put out every basin and pot that I own to catch the drops of rain from my corrugated iron roof. Though I am able to get water at the nearby school, I conserve as much as possible because I know that the more I draw water from the school, the less others will have. And generally speaking, the more resources I use, the more of a strain I place on resources as a whole. The longer I live here, the more convicted I feel of the decadence I used to live. It makes me reevaluate how I want to continue living should I get back to the states.
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