Universalism is Dead?

Decaying Vacation

2010-07-03T07:02:00.000-07:00

While Kisumu town has a cheery and organized vibe – much like the small towns I visited in South America – the beach resort we stayed at was hardly a romantic getaway.

I liked Kisumu the moment we got off the matatu. At least ten young guys – boys, really – circled around us with their bicycles ready to take us wherever we needed to go. The station had style, spunk and stamina: music blaring, tilapia grilling, vehicles churning, and hundreds staring. In my very first day in my undergraduate African Politics course Professor Reno showed us a picture of an African minibus station. The picture contained several minibuses bumper to bumper in no lines or order. “But everybody knows the system, and you will always end up where you need to go,” Professor Reno told us.” “This is Africa, and it works.” We called the resort, hired a tuk-tuk (or motor rickshaa), and headed to Lake Victoria.

We should have stayed in Kisumu.

We stayed at a decaying resort on the shores of Lake Victoria. The perfect place for a horror film. “Stop it, you’re freaking me out,” my girlfriend told me when I mentioned that.

The resort looks like it has not been worked on for at least ten years. Broken down vans and boats sat in front, with dozens of sleeping dogs nearby. A boy mowed the grass, but it remained overgrown. Dozens of African masks and sculptures littered the eating area and common rooms – some spilled over, some rotting, others creepily staring back at you. We were the only guests there, and a team of at least ten Kenyans were ordered to take care of us. Steven was in charge, and the guy with the white hat silently stood near the water. Quietly thinking to himself.

The Indian owner had a fu manchu mustache and smoked a cigarette, “Welcome,” he said to us kindly. Two younger men intently watched the World Cup, while a third man sat behind the cage guarding the money and the alcohol. The bottles looked like they had not been touched in years. Three fish tanks sat in the dining room full of filthy Kenya lake water. A scary looking fish barely fit the tank, struggling to get out.

We sat on the deck and watched the sun go down. “Rarrrrr” we heard a large, strange moan. A family of hippos – father, mother, and child – stood less than 50 meters away. “Wow. We could not have had a better welcome for you,” the owner replied. His sister added, “We don’t usually see them this early, this is great!”

We forgot our hunger, exhaustion and anger at being here for several minutes and enjoyed the spectacle. “At night, the Hippos used to come up near the rooms,” the owner explained to us, “That is why we got the dogs. To keep them away.”

Now I understand the sign that appeared at the entrance of the resort: “Warning: Please be aware of wild animals and reptiles, as disturbing them may lead to serious injuries. And the Management does not hold itself responsible. Management.”

Kenya’s version of an insurance policy.

My adviser hates that Africa is associated with animals. He despises the Lion King and cannot stand that people still use the term ‘jungle’.

But on this night, the hippos were our saving grace.

At night, we could not sleep. At one point we thought we heard a hippo outside our door. Then the dogs went crazy. Cars drove by at three in the morning, awfully close to our cabin. My girl woke up at 7 am thrilled to take a hot shower. She pulled back the shower curtain and a big pile of sand littered the corner of the shower. Termites.

We never should have left Kisumu town.

"Wow. You Have a lot of work to do."

2010-07-03T06:53:00.000-07:00

“During the post-election violence the Luos did not go after the Kikuyus in Kisumu,” Salaam shouted loudly at us. “They went after the shops of the Indians.” In the third-largest city in Kenya, Indians own 70 percent of the shops in the town center. When public order broke down in 2008, the poor town dwellers went after the people to whom they felt the most anger: the Indian shop owners who were paying them “peanuts.”

“There were so many, looting and taking everything from the shops,” Salaam told us as he gave out a hearty laugh, as if it was all a big, funny joke. “Even the policemen joined in!”

Mob mentality, with some serious anger and perceptions of injustice mixed in.

The history of Indians in Africa is a fascinating one. Hundreds of thousands came to work on the railroads and other colonial projects around the turn of the 20th century. Mahatma Gandhi spent several important years of his life in South Africa where he crafted his strategy of nonviolent resistance. Idi Amin expelled the Indian community when he ruled Uganda with an iron fist. During the Banda Dictatorship in Malawi, the government expelled all Indians from their land, preventing them from owning farms. Instead, they bought all the businesses in the city center. Today, they dominate the town and city centers and black Malawians work for them. A similar story in Kisumu, which allowed us to have the best vegetarian thali I have had since Delhi.

Raj’s Hotel and Sweets lies next to the colorful Hindu Temple – the nicest and fanciest building in town.

I asked Salaam if the Indians fled during the violence. “Sure,” he responded, “But they all came back. They have land and businesses here, and they were not just going to take off and leave.”

For dinner, we went to an Indian-style choma: Kenyans barbecuing chicken tikka while the Indian family stood behind the cash register, collecting every shilling. We ordered our desert for take-away, paid the hefty price of 950 shillings and walked to the front counter for plastic forks.

“20 shillings,” the young Indian man replied. I told him that we just spent a fortune there and simply wanted two forks for our desert. “You must pay. This is just how we do it.”

~~~

The minute we met Salaam, he asked us where we are from. America, we told him. “Ahh, Obama” he replied, excited. “He is from 40 km from here.”

We asked him when he would return to Kenya. “The last time Obama was here,” he replied, “he said he would not return until Kenya got rid of corruption.”

It might be a long time until Obama returns to Kenya.

For Salaam, the new constitution might offer solutions to Kenya’s long-standing problems. “We have so much here in Kenya,” he told us, distressed. “But we have such bad management. The ministers are so incompetent – many don’t even have an education. They just received their positions as a gift. Salaam hopes that the new constitution will end this political gift-giving, and provide a structure where ministers will be more accountable to the people. “If they don’t perform,” Salaam continued, “they will be out of a job.”

Since traveling to Cuba in high school, and every trip I have taken since, I have wondered how much government performance matters in politics. Does it matter for the stability of young democracies? Do poor people and other marginalized communities play an important role in national politics? If so, how? When does a government need to perform for its citizens and when does it not?

I have visited several places where government performance – or providing goods and maintaining order – is terrible, yet the government proceeds, unabated. And continues to get re-elected.

I cannot get my old professor’s comment out of my head, “Unfortunately, poor, marginalized and other ordinary people don’t matter a whole lot to the question of whether a government performs and is accountable to its people.” I remain unconvinced.

Salaam hopes that the new constitution will lead to more political accountability. He explained, “It’s all about good ministers who manage the country competently. In 2004 we had a minister named Michuki who was in charge of Roads and Transportation.” Kenya’s transportation system was a mess: the roads were terrible, the matatus were run by thieves, and the vehicles were terribly unsafe. According to Salaam, the minister fixed it. He made sure that all the vehicles were registered and regulated, official routes were labeled on the vans, and he invested heavily in new roads. He even made sure all matatus had seat belts in the front seat.

“Matatus didn’t operate for a whole week in Kisumu while this happened,” Salaam explained. “But people were so happy. They were sick of the way it was, and things are much better now.”

I asked what the one thing Kenyans want now from the government. “The police need to be better,” he responded. Everybody is afraid of the police, and all the corruption starts from them.”

Sure, electricity and toilets would be nice, but for Salaam, public order is essential. Perhaps the state does matter after all, but I still do not see any NGOs working on reforming the police force. That would be too political.

“The new constitution will bring better ministers,” Salaam mentioned again. “And then Kenya will be better and safer.”

The ‘Yes’ campaign should have taped him. He makes a good spokesman.

~~~

“The belief here is that women are users of land but not owners,” Sandra told us.

Sandra works for a small community-based organization in Kenya’s Western Province, where women are at the center of land issues in the region.

Women’s land ownership has become an especially potent issue with the rise of the AIDS epidemic. Several men have died of the disease, and the wives are often blamed of killing the man. The man’s family takes the land, and the woman is left with nothing.

“When we talk about corruption,” Sandra mentioned, “it’s not just up there, but it begins at the family level.” She explained that it was not an ethnic problem, or a titling problem, but a family problem. Land-grabbing happens within the family. “Parents are dying at such a tender age, and their children if they are under 18 do not have a Kenya id card, meaning that they cannot own land. Thus a cousin or somebody else takes the land.”

Corruption as the new family value. This phenomenon is similar to the story that Daniel Jordan Smith tells in his fantastic book Culture of Corruption which explains how corruption in Nigeria is experienced and created in people’s everyday life. He further describes the ways in which corruption is weaved into the fabric of a society.

But Sandra made sure to highlight that it was not their culture that was the problem, but rather the desperate circumstances in which people find themselves. “Land-grabbing in this area is a poverty problem,” she strongly pointed out.

But it is also a registering issue: It is too expensive. Most small farmers in the area cannot afford the necessary 6,000 shillings to officially register plots of land. And they are not educated in the process to do so. “The constitution has not considered the common man,” Sandra explained to us. “They do not know how much the man or woman on the ground has to pay. They must lower the price to process the land.”

This was a much different story than what the government land officer in a nearby town told us about the process: “It is easy. You come here. Pay the money. And you will have your title. Simple.”

Sandra disagreed. She told us how the woman who just came to see her has been trying to secure her land title deed for eight years.

“It gets to the point where women just do not know what to do anymore,” Sandra concluded. “They end up surrendering the entire process.”

~~~

On our final stop, my girlfriend explained to a district officer one of things she is trying to accomplish in her dissertation. “I am trying to understand the relationship between land and violence,” she said, “and I want to contribute a general theory that can capture many of the land and conflict issues across the country.”

The officer bluntly replied, “Wow. You have a lot of work to do.”

A Lonely American

2010-06-27T05:39:00.000-07:00

Last night, I was a very lonely American. The United States lost to Ghana, and all of Africa went crazy. I turned off the TV and went to bed to the sounds of screaming and vuvuzelas.

The entire continent now is watching, rooting for, and has its hopes with the Black Stars of Ghana. For once, the country is getting its due.

African countries are often compared with South Korea as an example of how she has underperformed economically and politically while Asia has had immeasurable success. President Obama even stressed this in his speech to the Ghanaians last year. “Countries like Kenya had a per capita economy larger than South Korea’s when I was born,” he explained. “They have badly been outpaced. Disease and conflict have ravaged parts of the African continent.”

Yesterday, South Korea lost in the round of 16 and was eliminated, while Ghana beat the most powerful country in the world and will play in the quarterfinals. And it was no fluke.

While countries like Kenya have struggled with violence during elections, Ghana has had relatively peaceful national elections – with transfers of power – since the 90s. Yesterday, Ghana was the first African team to make it to two straight rounds of 16 in World Cup history. And they are not two-hit wonders: their under-20 team won the World Championship last year, signaling that Ghana is here to stay.

I thought about last year when I was in Ghana and President Obama visited the country. The entire capital city of Accra shut down for the 21 hours that he was there. Describing the terrible traffic during the day, one Ghanaian called it “Obama Traffic.” Hawkers yelled, “Obama biscuits. Come buy Obama biscuits.”

Most Ghanaians were thrilled that Obama chose their country as the site of his first sub-Saharan African visit as President. They designed kenti cloths with his face on it, political parties printed thousands of shirts with his picture emblazoned across the front, and hundreds of animated supporters greeted him at the airport. “Akwaaba (welcome) Barack Obama and Family” billboards spread the whole country, and the tro tro talk of the day was about why Obama chose Ghana. Ghanaians were surely proud of their democracy.

While Ghanaians remain in awe of America’s President, they were hardly in awe of the Americans on the soccer pitch. If anything, the Ghanaians were the more skillful team. Nothing like football to level the playing field.

France and Italy didn’t even make it out of the first round. South Korea faltered. South America looks as dangerous as ever.

Nobody even cares about today’s England-Germany match.

While Ghana shines on.

Democracy, Development, and Devolution in Nakuru

2010-06-26T02:49:00.000-07:00

“We are moving from one stage to another,” the Rift Valley Provincial Commissioner explained to us about the new constitution. “We cannot stay in the same stage forever. We have been in Lancaster for far too long.”

The Lancaster House conferences were the meetings between 1960 and 1963 where the Kenyan constitution and independence was negotiated between the British and selected Kenyan elites. The legacy of the constitution has had disastrous consequences for social class formation after Independence, privileging certain groups of people over others. This, in turn, has led to violent political conflict, especially during elections. On August 4, Kenyans will vote in a referendum that could bring the country a new constitution – attempting to solve the deep-seated, structural conditions once and for all.

For the Provincial Commissioner, the new constitution is a sign of progress, a sign of moving beyond the horrific British colonial legacy. A stage of democratic growth.

For a group of young, well-educated Kenyans from the central Rift Valley, the new constitution is a cop-out. “You’re telling me, after all this fuss and years spent negotiating, this is the best they could do,” Samuel muttered in disbelief. “There is no mention of youth empowerment. This is supposed to be a people-driven process!”

Samuel fumed, “This constitution tells us nothing about how land disputes will be solved, and who should actually receive the land. Ancestral homelands? That is way too ambiguous. What does that even mean?”

The Provincial Commissioner was brought forth to discuss the draft constitution with this group of youth. As a peace initiative of the provincial government (with funding from international NGOs like World Vision and UNDP, of course), a group of 10 people met in the Provincial headquarters and talked about the document.

The commissioner was unlike any politician we had met in Kenya. His tie said it all: faded, with Mickey Mouse insignias printed throughout. He very well could have been a pediatrician. Much different than the bling-bling ministers that roam the streets of Nairobi. He knew the draft constitution well, and had examples of different groups and episodes to suggest how the document would help. He soundly and calmly countered Samuel’s claims.

“Conflicts have been here for time immemorial,” the commissioner explained. “We must look at ways in which the constitution is directing us. Society must be regulated. You cannot just be allowed to roam around. That is why we need government.” Although not ideal, he stressed that the constitution is the best attempt to regulate society and prevent conflict. Perhaps most importantly, the commissioner stressed the attempt to de-link land from politics.

Samuel didn’t buy it, and once again stated how the youth had been overlooked in the process. “There is nothing in this constitution to suggest how the youth will benefit from government. This is the same old story.”

~~~

While Nakuru is the fourth largest city in Kenya, it feels much more like a small town. It has the same street names as Nairobi – Kenyatta Avenue, Moi Avenue, and all the other usual suspects – but 3 million less people.

As in most small African towns, the minibus station is the center of industry and excitement; the epicenter for importing and exporting tourists, goods, and second-hand gadgets. Hustlers roam with nothing better to do. Young boys with no jobs, no homes and no families pick at the piles of garbage. A group of them burn it, while they smoke pieces of rolled up newspaper. Not sure what is inside. A few teenagers dance to the music blasting, entirely unaware of their surroundings. The glue that they recently sniffed has done the trick. “Welcome to our grocery” a man came up to the window of our vehicle selling cokes, biscuits and afia – Kenya’s Sunny D: sweet, tangy, and terrible. A man sold knives. Another wallets. A third belts. A woman had key chains, flashlights, and other “dangles” – everybody wonders if they sell any of this stuff.

Africa’s one-dollar store.

Since 2003, when Kenya implemented its new decentralization policies, small towns like Nakuru have had mini-resurgences. Residents hope that the promises of devolution in the new constitution will further develop the town.

“For so many years, all the money went to Nairobi,” a deputy director in the provincial Ministry of Lands told us. “But now they are starting to develop other areas. The CDF, LATF, LASDAP – there are so many different initiatives to put money in the hands of local communities.”

Interestingly, the devolution and decentralization policies span beyond monetary resources, and include professional and expert resources as well. For example, bureaucrats who have spent most of their lives working in Nairobi have been transferred throughout the country.

“I lived in Nairobi for many, many years,” the deputy director told us. “But I am so happy to be out here. I prefer the solitude of my rural homeland.” He explained how this has been the case with many of his colleagues, and how he thinks it is only going to be more pronounced with the new constitution.

The contemporary case of Kenyan ruralization.

For once, the development of Nakuru is not just about tourism. While it does have one of the largest game parks in the country, it also has a growing middle class, emerging agricultural industry, and lots of home grown talent.

And, of course, a bustling matatu station.

~~~

We interrupted Samuel, Winston and Maureen’s prayer session at the Merica Hotel in central Nakuru. While most of the customers’ eyes were glued to the television watching the England-Slovenia game, the three of them were singing psalms and drinking tea in the back.

The Merica Hotel is the nicest hotel in Nakuru and the hangout for rich ex-pats, aspiring politicians and big men themselves. Every large African city has a spot like this, and its arrival on the scene in 2003 put Nakuru on the map of importance.

One of the first questions Samuel asked us earlier after the discussion of the constitution was, “Are you a Christian?” He seemed disappointed when we told him no. “Well, there is still time,” he quickly responded.

We spent the first thirty minutes talking about religion until Maureen left to go home. The conversation immediately shifted to politics. Samuel and Winston asked us what we thought of the constitution.

“Something needs to be done,” my girlfriend responded. “And the constitution is far better than the current one.” She explained how the current constitution leads to a situation where land is the most important form of patronage. In theory, the new constitution will change this so that land is no longer used as a political resource.

“Of course the constitution is not everything,” I added. “But it is a start, and only so much can be asked of a piece of paper. Just because it is not perfect, does not mean that it should be rejected. Politics is inherently about conflict – not consensus – and nobody said democracy would be easy.”

Samuel was sick of the “baby steps” argument, and was not having any of it, “This constitution does not tell us anything about how we should govern our country. It simply creates more problems and gives us no clear way to solve them.”

One of his main concerns was that the shift from districts to counties was going to lead to massive instability. “People will lose their jobs, and now people will have to travel farther to get their services provided to them. We have districts now, why do we have to change them to counties?” He did not agree with the conventional wisdom that the new constitution would empower local communities.

Mostly, he did not trust that the politicians of the country would be able to handle the massive overhaul. And, while devolution was an important part of the constitution, the disbursement of money to the county level – rather than the more immediate district level – was insufficient. It would not pass into the hands of the youth. “What are these counties, anyway?” he complained. “Who will be in charge of them?”

“For this country to succeed, we need both peace and development,” Winston said. “We cannot have peace without development and we cannot have development without peace. And the youth must be at the center of this project.” The statistics are stunning: two-thirds of Kenyan residents are under 25 years old. The majority of the country is youth.

“The youth have not been part of the process. The devolution will not help the youth,” Samuel interrupted. “We need individual economic empowerment.”

I asked Samuel what “individual economic empowerment” is. He responded, “The youth of this country have nothing to do. So when a politician comes with an ‘opportunity’ or a little bit of cash, they jump on it.” In other words, the youth are taken advantage of by the more powerful politicians.

“So they need jobs and money,” I said, still unsure of what he meant by ‘empowerment.’ This is the new buzz word in developing countries today: empowerment. If you write a grant proposal, your project must ‘empower’ people. If you are a politician, you must ‘empower’ your community. Just like the word ‘sustainable’ in the 1990s, every political and social circle has adopted the term – without really knowing what it means. It remains ambiguous and overused; yet, it is a source of optimism for aspiring leaders like Winston and Samuel.

“The youth must have jobs and money, and the constitution does not provide any of this,” Samuel replied. I tried to think of a constitution that does provide the right to a job, and I could not think of any. Not even South Africa, who has one of the most progressive constitutions in the world.

“What about Cuba?” Winston asked me. “They seem to have done something right.”

“When I was in Cuba,” I told him. “I had a friend named James who had to decide whether to be a doctor or a bartender. He chose to become a bartender because he could make more money. Not only more money, but enough to get by. If he became a doctor, he feared that he would have no livelihood.”

He had secured a job, but I am not sure how empowered he felt.

Samuel mentioned the success of America’s constitution. He was impressed that it has withstood such a long period of time.

“Our country almost came crumbling down during the Civil War,” I reminded him. “It was not until 1965 that all blacks got the right to vote.” While the constitution offered important guidance, some of the most important developments in American politics occurred on the streets and the battlefields, not the courtrooms. This is making democracy work.

While we were exhausted, Samuel and Winston could have talked for hours. “While you are Americans and non-Christians, the one thing that we have in common is that we are all humans. This is the beautiful thing about language – we can all sit here and talk and learn from one another.” Of course, they had to learn English to do so.

I told him that on our next trip we would do this again in Swahili. Samuel said that it is not necessary. But, he continued, “Maybe you will be Christians by then.”

Mathare Undocumented

2010-06-19T01:51:00.000-07:00

“You will make many friends here,” Chris told me as we walked through Mathare, “Because you don’t have a camera.”

Although not many white people visit Mathare, the ones that do bring cameras. They want pictures. The changa (illegal alcohol) brewers are afraid that they will be exposed. “Tell them you are a doctor if anybody asks you,” Chris told me. The others just don’t want to be bothered.

A group of young men walked by, and made a joke about me being an mzungu (white man). One of them asked me where I am from. “America,” I responded. He then asked me how I find Kenya. “I love it,” I told him honestly. He seemed pleased. I asked him the same question.

“This place is crap,” he seemed upset. “The government is so corrupt. They don’t do anything for us – they just steal.”

The big news of the day is that the electricity company came in the morning to disconnect the lines that had been illegally connected. They came a few days ago but the residents resisted, and would not let them through. Today, they came with police. The residents were nowhere to be seen: they fear the police in Mathare.

The MP of the slum was well-liked, but now that she is part of the ‘No’ camp, she probably will not be re-elected. The councilors do not matter much, and most residents do not even know their names.

We walked on one of the wider roads in Mathare, and piles of rocks had been recently piled there to rebuild the road. “The councilor brought these,” a shop owner told us. But no road was being built. Chris told me that eventually they would sink into the ground, making the road stronger. The councilor would then brag about all that he brought to the community. Rocks.

But the MPs bring the toilets, with fancy signs painted by downtown Nairobi sign-makers. The national MPs still have the symbolic authority – they are the symbolic Big Men in town.

The big men still must pay off the gangs. Not because they have moral authority – nor any real authority – but because they have guns. And because they live there. A year ago Russia burned down a group of houses over a dispute that started between some of the wives of the leaders. Hundreds of shacks burned. They were paid off by the slum elders right in broad daylight. Everybody saw it happening. The gang leaders took their 20,000 shillings and fled upcountry. One by one, they are coming back.

I asked Chris if he knew who the gang members are. “Everybody does,” he told me. “It is not a secret.”

Meanwhile, a group of turkeys picked at the pile of garbage, while a huge pig grazed on the little bit of grass in the slum. “That is the biggest pig I have ever seen,” I told Chris, and he laughed. A large group of women gathered at the water pipe and did their laundry. Two men with empty jerry cans jockeyed for position to fill up their bottles. Then they charge three shillings for 20 liters. The men began screaming at each other, as one cut the other in line. Just like the fights that break out on the floor of the Chicago Board of Trade. The women quietly laundered their clothes.

The pipe spews water non-stop, and it is free. While residents are supposed to pay for water in Nairobi, this water point is the lucky well that never stops. “Water should be free,” Chris told me. “There is no reason people should have to pay for it.” On the other side of the slum, Nairobi Water Company has taken control, and they institutionalized paid water points. The residents are not happy.

“How are you, how are you?” a group of schoolchildren yelled at me. “Good,” I responded. “How are you?” They stood dumbfounded.

As we walked through Mathare, we began talking about the new constitution. Chris is hoping that it will help Kenyans. “The government today does not care about the youth,” he told me. “They only care about themselves.” He is hoping that the new constitution will bring change, and focus attention on the youth of the country. I asked him what he meant by youth. He responded, “Those under 35 years old.” While so much attention is paid to the category of “youth” in Africa, it remains an ambiguous term. For Chris, it is solely age. For others, it represents those who are unmarried without a job. For many, it is a class distinction.

In his autobiography, Nelson Mandela writes, “A man is not a man until he has a house of his own.” For Mandela, it is about property and ownership. But he also needs a woman – or women – to live with.

In Mathare, the youth struggle to keep their homes. Few of them have any formal title, and ownership itself is a disputed concept.

We stood for a few minutes quietly in the area where the houses were burned down a year ago. You could not even tell that the disaster took place. The houses were reconstructed, and the structures were complete. Title or not, these were their homes.

“Let’s go,” Chris told me. “The World Cup is on.”

Politics of Speculation

2010-06-14T02:24:00.000-07:00

A somber mood filled the bus today. Silence. You could hear a pin drop, and the diesel motor churn. The silence was broken as we drove past Uhuru Park. The entire bus shifted their heads to the scene, where yellow crime tape marked off the roads and Kenyan army sergeants with big guns guarded the surroundings.

Then everybody started talking. It was times like these I wish I knew Swahili.

“Bloody Sunday” the headline for The Nation read. Five dead, over 70 people injured at a rally held by the ‘No’ camp of the constitution. On August 4, Kenyans will vote for a new constitution and the ‘No’ camp – also called the ‘Reds’ – is against the passage of the new set of laws.

I walked into the Assistant Town Clerk’s office at Nairobi City Hall and asked him about what had happened.

“This is normal in Kenya,” he responded, startled that such an event was on my mind. Business as usual at Nairobi City Hall.

The international news agencies felt the same way. Ethnic violence in Kyrgyzstan. Somali children carry guns. Iraqi blast hits city. The Kenyan attack barely made the regional page.

Business as usual.

~~~

Last night, however, the blast was breaking news. At 7 pm we were celebrating Ghana’s World Cup victory over Serbia, the first victory for an African club at this year’s Cup. Bringing euphoria to the African continent. Pride.

Somehow, the subject of Uhuru Park came up. “I love it,” I stated emphatically. My girlfriend and I loved walking through park. She loved seeing the schoolchildren on the boats. It reminded her of Central Park. For me, it was the sign of city life. Public space. Something I have not seen much of in African cities.

“It’s so sketchy,” our friend Melissa replied. “So many weird men just hanging out there. Creepy.”

Twenty minutes later KTN disrupted their daily programming for a breaking news update: two explosions in Uhuru Park, a grenade tore through the crowd.

The event was supposed to be peaceful. It was led by pastor’s and was on Sunday, for God’s sake. Plus, Kenya was supposed to be past this – supposed to have learned from the tragedy of 2007-8.

“Never again next time,” as a Kenyan intellectual said at the recent (Re)membering Kenya event.

Simon, our taxi driver was visually shaken. His sister called him and hour before to make sure he was okay. Just checking up on him. She is a nurse, and was working at Kenyatta National Hospital, where the victims of the blast were taken. “Four dead” she told him. She would not be going home anytime soon. The nurses would be working overtime.

The blogosphere was heating up. The KTN facebook page included: “4 all those sayin that it was a plan by Ruto n church leaders can u pliz write ur comments on a piece of paper 1st b4 putting it as a comment coz mayb u jst realiz u av commented with al stupidity in it.” “Poor fellow kenyans mai kondolenses.” “This must be a devilic work of YES camp!” “the terrorist tactics & blame game begins... is it Muslim fundamentalists, Yes camp, No camp, Maybe camp (read Yes/No camp)...? Who, we may never know, & their motives might actually deliver the opposite of what they intend!” “@Abuzaki we are going 2 search 4 u. Ur comments are fueling religious hate. We have evidence to catch and prosecute u. Watch out.” “I cn't rule out the work of radical Islam, no govn or christian can do such shit. Ppl somali is just near and big fear.”

In the cab, Kumbi joked, “Perhaps it was the ‘Yes’ camp making it look like the ‘No’ camp making it look like the ‘Yes’ camp.” While we laughed, anything seemed possible.

~~~

The “least important” secretary at City Hall was outraged. “This is demonic,” she told me. “The person who did this is not a real person. He is evil. The authorities must get to the bottom of this."

Meanwhile, the question of the day continued on the streets of Nairobi. Who did it? Was it to instill fear or garner sympathy? Was it the ‘No' camp or the ‘Yes' camp?
The debate raged loudest at the newsstands. Up the street from City Hall, six men were in a heated argument.

“Why would a ‘No’ person instigate this?” the youngest gentleman claimed. He was wearing a flashy, pinstripe suit with a bright purple tie and matching handkerchief. His cuff links sparkled, and he looked like either a hip hop producer, pastor, or politician. “They want to instill fear [he suggested of the ‘Yes’ camp], delegitimate us, make it hard for us to have our meetings.”

A gentler, older man responded. “We as Kenyans have nothing to gain from all of this. There are bad people on the ‘No’ side and bad people on the ‘Yes’ side. We just have to get to the bottom of this.”

“The ‘No’ people just want attention,” a third man chimed in. “This brings attention to their cause.”

A man with a flappers-era hat joined the circle and replied, “All of you are pointing fingers, speculating on who did this and who did that,” he fumed, as if he was above it all. “We should be praying for the injured and grieving for the lost ones' families.”

Everybody nodded, and it was quiet for barely five seconds. Then the men were back at it.

The flashy, young gentleman seemed to be practicing for a campaign speech, as he propped out his belly, “You are all entitled to speculate,” he told the group of men, who must have been 20 years his elder.

The entitlement of speculation – this is the one right that all Kenyans have.

The man continued, “We are all Kenyans. The constitution is not a political document, it is not a government document. It is a ‘National’ document.”

“Rubbish,” the eldest man said cynically. “Any document that tells us how to live, what land is ours, and how to govern is inherently political. Everything is political!”

One man, who silently stood in the corner and didn’t say a word through the entire conversation – nor did he show any type of emotion – vigorously nodded his head.

Suddenly, a man angrily turned to me and demanded, “What good have the Americans ever done to us? Whenever the Americans come, bad things happen.” Of course, he was referring to Joe Biden’s visit a few days earlier. “Things were fine before all of you came. I wonder what deals he made with the politicians. It’s the Americans' fault.”

“Come on,” one of the men interrupted. “This is a Kenyan problem. We always screw things up.”

The other man was not done. “What good has the white man done to us? First it was slavery, then colonialism. Now the Americans! Our politicians are just sycophants. Obama is not our president. He is just like all the rest. He is just…” and his voice trailed off into a climactic “Oomph.” Then he walked away angrily.

The flashy gentleman’s phone rang and he answered it and walked away. The quiet man continued eating his breakfast. A woman walked by and paid 35 shillings for a newspaper.

The day continued as usual.

Slum Upgrading 2.0

2010-06-12T23:42:00.000-07:00

It took us twenty five minutes to find the political science department at the University of Nairobi. First, we asked the young pair of girls. “Over there” they told us. Of course, they were wrong. We walked into another building that a gentleman advised us to, and the hallways were barred off. I saw a man through the bars and went up to the gates – as if I were in prison, grasping the bars to get out – and asked where the department of political science is. “Over there” he told us, pointing to the direction from which we came.

We finally found the department, but all the office doors were locked. Makes sense, considering school is out of session because of petty politics that led to a massive student boycott. The hope is that school will resume after the referendum.

The “real” department of politics was much more accessible. Or, at least, open.

We walked right into the Ministry of Lands. Sure, they asked for my passport, but my girlfriend’s outdated school ID did the trick. Even for me.

The staircases were packed. Off to meetings. Or to eat. Where most of the “work” gets done anyway. Lunchtime.

After stops on the first few floors to ask about available data (none of which seems to be available), and being told that the person to talk to was “at lunch” we finally found a Deputy Minister several floors up.

Bolton is quite the gentleman. He sat behind a big desk, and seemed delighted to speak with us. He was most excited about the department’s new project: Slum Mapping. He spoke very slowly and enunciated each phrase, after which he would give out a big, hearty laugh. He made sure to make it sound as if he were giving out classified information. He told me of the Kenyan Slum Upgrading Program and the World Bank’s Informal Sector Upgrading projects, as if I have never heard of important institutions. He continued, “We have a meeting at 2 o’clock today to discuss these urgent matters. That is why I know so much about what is going on in the slums.”

I asked him if he knew about the latest service delivery projects being carried out in these areas. “No,” he responded, “But I have a friend who does.” I asked him if he had access to the slum maps. “No, but I have a friend who made the maps.”

“Very few people will share the information that I am sharing,” he told us, rather pleased with himself. “They have such big egos. It’s people like me who have a lot of interest in statistics, and I can share them with you.” If he only had the information.

Bolton explained how people “know” certain things but will not share it. But Bolton is different – he will.

“I have made so many PhDs happen” after we thanked him for helping us. “I will only help you.”

Lesson Number One when dealing with Kenyan bureaucrats: Make them feel like a Big Man.

“You’re the man,” I told Bolton as I left, forgetting that he is 30 years my elder. But he liked it, and gave me a long fancy handshake, similar to the ones I used to do at summer camp. I felt like I was part of his club.

Bolton may have had the big desk and the flashy suit, but the World Bank calls the shots. I asked Bolton why certain slums were designated for slum upgrading. He answered that the World Bank have certain criteria. “But,” he continued. “The World Bank wants us to work together.” The World Bank led the 2 o’clock meeting. I asked him what the Ministry’s role in the project is.

“We provide the base map specifications,” Bolton responded. Kenya provides the slums. The World Bank provides the money. And the manpower. And even the “land tenure.” This was the process of formalizing the informal.

Gloria, who worked with the Ministry of Housing, was able to fill in the dots of the resettlement scheme. Everything is called a “scheme” in Kenya, dating back to the postcolonial resettlement “schemes.” A genealogy of the word would be extremely helpful. The pilot slum upgrading project was now being done in Kibera. People from Soweto East village of Kibera have been temporarily moved to high-rise temporary structures while permanent houses are being built in the village.

I asked Gloria why Soweto East was chosen. “Most of the villages have a big NGO presence. They have already been approached by many,” she said, enunciating the word ‘approached’. “They have already been promised services. Been lied to. Soweto is still new. Still fresh.”

Of course, it is also in Kibera, less than 20 minutes from City Center in the city’s largest slum. It is also on the West side of town.

“As the government, we have to have political goodwill,” she told me. “We have to negotiate to the last man. If you promise security of tenure, then the people are more receptive. We have done that.”

Gloria’s explanation of the process highlighted how political the process in fact was. In my conversation with international NGO representatives and development workers, slum upgrading was always described as apolitical. “We are just trying to help poor people,” one NGO leader told me. “We don’t want to involve ourselves in politics.” She continued that her funders would not approve.

But the process Gloria was describing was entirely political. They had to convince the councillors and MPs. They had to sweet-talk the chief. And they had to promise the people title. Something only the State could provide, because it was officially government land. The State must be involved for the slum upgrading to work. And it was the political promise of the land title that mattered most.

Gloria was proud of what the program was accomplishing. “New homes for slum dwellers,” she told us. “A better life.” Hopefully.

If the University of Nairobi were open maybe they could tell me if this is in fact the case. But they are not.

Kenya's Detroit

2010-06-11T06:38:00.000-07:00

“I would not trust any Kenyan with money,” Jeff told me. “Not even me.”

Jeff was expelled from school because he could no longer make his school payments. An organization that he worked for was paying his fees, but the accountant was embezzling the funds. While a part of him was visibly disappointed, things always seemed to work out. “There are people with disadvantages and no opportunities,” he told Brian earlier. “Then there are those like me with disadvantages but make their own opportunities.” Jeff was sure that something would work out.

I liked him from the very start. When Brian told him that he was going to meet a friend with the same name, Jeff replied, “Good. My clone.”

I found a Kenyan I could trust.

~~~

Jeff lived and grew up in Mathare, the third largest slum in Kenya. Having been in Kibera for the past few days, Mathare was a breath of dirty air.

Kibera is a poor Kenyan’s New York City. It has everything. There is a reason a journalist recently titled his book Megaslumming. Kibera is huge, filthy, edgy, violent, and at times disgusting. It is the largest slum in East Africa, with an estimated half million people. There are twelve villages – or neighborhoods – with names like Kangwere, Soweto East, Raila Estate, Silanga and Maikina. Narrow alleyways merge with bigger, bumpy dirt “roads”, hardly suitable for cars. So very few come by, save for the NGO Landcruisers. Most of the roads are plastic garbage bags mixed with dirt. Rainy days are extra grimy. During the post election violence, conflict broke out between the rival political parties, leading to the destruction of homes, several people being killed, and the expulsion of most Kikuyu landlords from their homes. They have been afraid to come back. NGOs are everywhere – there are too many to count.

When a white person says that they work in Kibera, the response is “Wow, good for you.” When a Kenyan tells a potential employer they are from Kibera, they cannot get a job.

Everybody wants to “upgrade Kibera.” The CDC runs a clinic called Carolina for Kibera, one of the best health clinics in the country. Jill Biden visited the site yesterday. Obama brought his family on his last trip. The government – with support from UN-HABITAT and the World Bank – is carrying out its slum upgrading project in Kibera. The settlement sits 20 minutes from the City Center, and five minutes from Prestige Shopping Center. I can rent my executive suite and be there in 10 minutes.

Kibera is romantic. It is situated on a hill overlooking the Nairobi skyline, and the sun sets offering beautiful glimpses of the city. The roofs of the buildings shine a rusted tin, and the sounds of playing children narrate the valley. A famous European artist painted murals on the roofs of several Kibera shacks. The filmmaker of “Run Lola Run” shot his recent fantastical film there. There is a reason Nairobi City Council still claims the land as their own – it is every developer’s dreamscape.

~~~

Mathare – as Brian pointedly called it – is Kenya’s Detroit. Instead of Soweto East, one of Mathare’s neighborhoods is called Kosovo. Instead of slum upgrading, there are CDF projects that have been abandoned. Mathare is situated on the Eastern side of the city, where Africans were forced to live during colonial times. It is like Gotham’s underbelly. While the sun illuminates the Kiberan Hills, it seems to forget the East side altogether. So do most international NGOs, tourists, and the Kenyan government.

The matatu ride was only 10 shillings, and the tote seemed surprise when we tapped his shoulder at the stop for Mathare. It was the same reaction when I was in South Africa and I took the train to Kyaletsha Township and the ticket seller told me, “You’re the only white person I have ever sold a ticket to.”

There is nothing glamorous about Mathare. Brian and I walked with Jeff down the main road, full of shanty bars getting ready for the World Cup. Men stumbled out at 11 in the morning. Drunk. The children’s school outfits were filthy. I looked at some of the laundry drying on a line, and it hardly seemed clean. Dirty – but laundered – second hand clothing.

While Kibera was filthy, the dirt that stuck to my shoes dried like red clay. The Mathare dirt, on the other hand, clouded the air and simply captured the atmosphere like an Oklahoma dust storm. There was no industry in sight, except the illegal beer that is brewed every day, leaving a smell that becomes associated with the slum itself. “Sometimes they even put battery material in the beer to make it brew quicker,” Jeff explained to us as we saw a mini explosion – the result of the chemical reaction that is necessary during the alcohol-making process.

We stood on the third floor of a permanent structure that housed an NGO that gave cameras to slum residents to document their lives. Since the movie Born into Brothels, NGOs like this are all the rave. Giving a voice to marginalized communities through art. Every developing country I have been to has an NGO like this, and even my good friends in Chicago started a similar project in Uganda. If the government will not preserve a safe and creative space for human development, the idea is that somebody should.

It was a wonderful view of the slum. Brian, Jeff, his friend Tyson and I stood there and talked shop. Talked politics. The slum is surrounded by importance, even wealth, but it seems to be decaying, disintegrating to the ground. A perfect instance of slum downgrading.

A river runs through the middle, but there was no water flowing today. A newly built bridge covered the river, funded by recent government money to make the slums safer. Since 2003, the Kenyan government has made illegal settlements an important priority of their development strategy, and hundreds of projects have been funded across the country. The majority of these projects are small, simple public infrastructure projects like footbridges, toilets, and water points.

Tyson explained how most of the Luos lived on the far side of the river, while the Kikuyus lived closer to the main road. Before the post election violence it was much more mixed, but since then the river became the dividing line. Gangs like the Taliban and Russia terrorize the community. Tyson explained, “Russia has only seven members, but they are extremely dangerous. They have guns.”

I asked Jeff if the politicians came into the community. “During election time, but that is it. Then we never see them again.” He explained that there was not even campaigning for the YES campaign (to pass the draft constitution), and that people would not even wear party t-shirts or hats anymore. There are very few political posters or banners. “Since the post election violence, people are extremely scared. They seem to live in fear of what might happen again.” Tell a Mathare resident that democracy is about consensus and they probably won’t believe you.

While most of the buildings are small shacks made of tin, two big buildings stood out, and were only a few hundred meters apart. “Those are the new toilet structures that the government is building us,” Tyson told us. “We may not have any food to eat, but we will have a place to shit.” Tyson has lived in Mathare for twenty years and that is the first thing he has seen the government do for his community. “Fucking toilets.” Oh, and the bridge too. But people don't feel safe crossing it.

But the toilets were not even operational. One was almost completed, and the other was on its final stage. The toilet wars had already begun. The almost-completed structure was currently operated by gangs, and was not registered by the government. It would not have water until this process was complete. The other structure was run by a community organization – or steering committee – and had the okay by the government to begin its operations. But the gang wants to control both structures, and they have been in intense negotiation for quite some time. The area chief has already bought off members of the gang, but the dispute continues.

Meanwhile, people keep shitting in bags and disposing them in public spaces – a process called “flying toilets.”

~~~

Directly across the main road from Mathare is Eastleigh, a predominantly Muslim immigrant community from Somalia and Ethiopia. “The houses there are extremely expensive,” Jeff told us. Multiple-storey flats, mosques, banks and supermarkets line the neatly-organized streets. “Open 24 hours” signs were posted to many of the buildings – a self contained market in the middle of Nairobi. “These people have tons of money – they work very hard. And they have lots of money coming in from the diaspora and from the pirating.”

The dirt roads were wide, and they even had street names and signs. Jeff told us how the businesses wanted to pave the roads, and they even came together and agreed to pay for it themselves. But the Kenyan government would not allow it. They did not want the Somalis becoming too powerful and taking over the city.

My hometown of Minneapolis deals with similar issues, thousands of miles apart.

Nairobi on the Defense?

2010-06-05T01:55:00.000-07:00

City Hall was bustling. Polyester suits staggered through the hallways while workers sat at their desks, role-playing “important”. Keeping the city afloat. Apace.

I had a meeting with Defense, quite the name for the woman who was in charge of public records. Defense. When the gentleman at the archives told me to call her, he told me not to be intimidated by her name. Upon meeting here, she gave me a warm smile and a healthy handshake.

“What can I help you with today?” She asked me kindly.

Above her was a sign that read “My positive job values or virtues.” What makes a good public worker, a good bureaucrat. Then the list: Honesty. Trustworthiness. Loyalty. Courage. Firmness. Steadfastness. Impartiality. Principled Behavior. Hardworking. Just like the virtues of a good Athenian citizen or Roman Statesman.

The virtues of a Kenyan bureaucrat.

I told her I was interested in slums, or informal settlements.

She responded plainly, “Sure, we have those here.”

I silently laughed. No official cover up. No reason to pretend that she didn’t understand. In fact, the newspaper reported a fire in a nearby slum just this morning: 100 shacks burned to the ground. The firemen did their best to respond.

Defense then explained to me the way the city was managed. 16 decentralized departments, like Social Services and Housing, City Planning, Education, Legal Affairs. They had the information I needed – she promised – and advised me to write letters to each director. I asked for their names, and she told me that names didn’t matter. Titles did. Make sure to address them as “Director.”

Defense was very interested in my project and eager to help. She told me of how she used to work in the Archives, and about her Master’s degree at a local university. She had an itch for research. Her eyes glowed when I discussed the puzzles of urban politics – why some urban communities are better governed than others. Why some communities could hold their leaders accountable while others fail miserably. I could tell she wanted to help me, and wanted to know the answers herself. Our time was too short.

She walked me to the staircase and stood at the top as I descended back to everyday Nairobi. She walked back to her office and sat back in her chair. She spent the rest of the day stamping the “important” documents that rested on her desk.

~~~

City Hall embodies Nairobi as a city. Organized, but out of date. Educated, but under-utilized. Bustling, but a little bored. A “grasping for more” attitude I haven’t seen in other African cities. A desire for more – a better life – progress, development, and the newest iPhone.

But very cosmopolitan. Wonderful Somali restaurants, full of tall Arab men with their robes, caps, and flashy cell phones. Amazing Ethiopian cuisine that caters to foreigners and Kenyans. Chinese restaurant owned by families that have been doing business in Nairobi for several years. The Westgate Mall could be in Tokyo, and the 3G internet service allows for broadband anywhere in the city.

But behind all of this, Nairobi still has its secrets. The matatus, or minibuses, are still run by the Kikuyu gang called the Mungiki. On our way home from the game reserve last week, we had a shady driver with a huge slash across the back of his head. He harassed every passenger who got on for a ride. And it definitely didn’t help to be white. Every once in a while we get a glimpse of the nasty undertones – how seemingly normal Kenyans could immediately shift into machete haters. There is still a huge fear that the post-election violence of 2007 is brewing under the surface of cosmopolitan life. Each morning the newspaper documents another story of corruption, murders, and sob health stories. Misogynist anti-abortionists still have a healthy voice in the national newspaper.

The paradox of Nairobi is that there is the sense that a better Nairobi awaits, but is still constrained by the past. The big, yellow colonial building still houses City Hall.

Defense comes to work each day and finds her 1950s desk awaiting her. As much as she wants to be on the offensive – create new things, improve her city – she remains “loyal” and “impartial” to the way things are. The way they have always been. Like a good Kenyan bureaucrat.

After all, her name is Defense.

The African Renaissance man: Preacher, Tour Guide, Dreamer, Hustler

2009-07-29T06:53:00.000-07:00

Wisdom has a difficult name to live up to: “The quality or state of being wise; knowledge of what is true or right coupled with just judgment as to action; sagacity, discernment, or insight.”

He was the first man I met in Amedzofe. In Africa, the first person you meet can shape your whole experience. “The person who first takes you through the village is the most important,” a professor friend told me. “That will determine who will talk to you, and how you will be viewed by the villagers.”

I found myself in Amedzofe after a four hour tro tro ride over Lake Volta, through Volta villages via the Ametime Hills. Pure beauty, a part of Ghana that many don’t even know exists. I planned to get off somewhere along the way, but I was not ready to escape the comfort of the front seat, and re-enter the Africa of bargaining for a cheap place to stay amid hustlers who see the white man as a new economic market ripe for exploitation.

We drove to the the German Missionary town of Amedzofe, high up in the mountains, overlooking all of Ghana. The driver dropped me off at the end of the road, and called his friend to meet us and take me to a Guest House. I got out of the van and Wisdom was there to greet me, with a warm smile and a humble handshake. I was excited for my experience to start. Wisdom mentioned that he knew God had brought us together for a reason.

Wisdom and I talked for hours at the Christian African Mission House, the Guest House where I stayed. He knows everything about the area, and told me about the ongoing projects, the volunteers who come through the area to build roads, help at schools, pray with the villagers. About ten years ago a Peace Corps volunteer helped set up a community tourism project. Now the villagers struggle to keep it afloat.

He told me about his American friends, who were his best friends, and now barely write or call him. Of Hillary, who he wanted to marry. “She’s a doctor, and went back to the States and we realized it wouldn’t work,” he told me. He recently married a village woman who he struggles to love. She’s nine month pregnant, and he has already named the baby Chandra, after an American woman who he briefly fell for a few years back.

The next morning I went to church with Wisdom. The day before, he told me that he runs a guest house and is a tour guide. He is also a drummer and dancer. On the way to church, he told me that he is also a preacher. He is one of the leaders of the church. He preaches in English, as a way to sound important, above it all. A man translates his words in the local dialect, and there is a several second delay until the villagers respond.

It is hard to explain church in Africa, mainly because it does not really make sense to most Westerners. First, it is fun. People are happy, dancing, singing, and the smiles on the face are genuine. This church split off from the larger Evangelical Presbyterian because they tried to impose rules on how to pray. No dancing in the aisles, no waving your arms, no singing when you are not supposed to. But that is not how Africans pray, so they split off. For many Africans, church is their only entertainment, and Sundays are social, relaxing, and an important source of satisfaction. Church has legitimacy that political institutions, community based organizations, NGOs do not have, built upon the fear of going to hell. They view the entire institution as a spring towards salvation.

I envisioned a new project of looking at the politics of churches in Africa: when and why they split, how and why people stand up to authority, and how international donors affect the entire process. It could tell us a lot about politics across the continent.

And churches have money. The day I attended church, they raised 650 cedis. One villager told me that he did not have enough money to send his sick wife to the hospital. He begged me for money. He donated 20 cedis to the church that morning.

There were four preachers at the service, and they were all well-dressed in sparkling new suits. They spoke pretty good English, and they were excited to meet me, talk to me, take pictures with me. They were extremely charismatic, and connected with the people in a way that would make President Mills churn; Thank goodness he didn’t have to campaign against them. Many of the preachers had other jobs on the side, like Wisdom, but preaching paid good money. And they could be the Big Man of the community. Churches were an entire market that allowed freedom of expression, association, and mobility. For the preachers, it paid the bills.

Karl Marx was right: religion is the opiate of the masses. But it is also all these people have, and the enjoyment they had at the four hour service could well be worth it.

Wisdom told me of his dream to open an orphanage for children in the area. “I have always been the man who cares for others, and thinks about others first,” he tells me. “I am God-fearing and God-loving, and I want to care for these poor children.” He tells me of his plan to buy land in Ho, paid for by his friend Sara who is a PhD student in the US. Volunteers from the US will help run skills-building sessions and teach computers skills. The orphans will be empowered to set their goals high and be productive members of society. Hopefully they will then have the chance to visit the United States.

The more and more I talked to Wisdom, the more he reminded me of Silas and Mothibi in South Africa. Kofi in Accra. All of these Africans I met were pretty well-educated, but never had the resources to complete the highest levels of education. They entered the tourism industry, learned the basic rules and norms of American and European tourists, and were charming as hell. They could immediately put people at ease, and tourists were so excited to finally meet somebody with whom they could speak freely. Someone who didn’t initially appear to care about money, somebody who even invited them into their home. The stories were eerily similar: they fell in love with white women, showed off their white friends to their village friends as if they “had” something special, and expressed their desire to empower their community through local projects. They all had big dreams.

But they also felt cursed. Silas was accused of rape by a woman in his community; she could not take it that the father of her baby was now dating a white woman. Mothibi had to move to Pretoria where he was not hassled for money. They all expressed these concerns with me, and begged me to “help them.”

On Monday, Wisdom was not his self. For the first time I saw him anxious, not sure of what was happening and what he should do. He told me that his wife was in extreme pain, and he was horrified that something was wrong with his baby. That night, a group of Scottish missionaries came to Amedzofe, accompanied by a Ghanaian preacher from the outskirts of Accra. A city preacher. He asked us to come pray for her, so we went to his village home. His wife was clearly in incredible pain, and Wisdom told of us the problem.

“Ever since we got married, things have not been good for us. I used to be in love with a white woman, and it angered many in the community,” his voice shook. “Then I decided to marry her [pointing towards his wife] and things have not been good since. This other brother was in love with her, and was very angry that I married her. He said that he cast a spell on us, and came over many times to cause trouble. My wife said that the last two evenings she has felt somebody come in during the night and sit on her, as if they were trying to kill the baby. These spirits are real, and they have possessed us and we are scared.”

Wisdom continued, “Please pray for us.”

While village Africans were Christians, they still believed in traditional African spirits, and many are still horrified of witchcraft. George, the city preacher then quietly spoke, “I just want to be clear. We will definitely pray for your wife, but what is more important is that you take her to the hospital tomorrow. She may be sick, may have malaria, and she must be checked by the doctor.”

He then wildly began preaching, “In the name of Jesus, please dispose of the evilness from within. In the name of Jesus, may her baby be blessed with everlasting life and good health. In the name of Jesus, In the name of Jesus.” He grasped her forehead, and the group of missionaries chanted behind him. After five minutes of intense screaming and praying, they just stopped. Wisdom’s wife immediately felt better. The Scottish pastor said, “I can tell she feels more at ease. Is healthier already.”

She remained that way until we left. Then she was in pain the entire night.

On the surface, village life is much simpler, much more peaceful. More serene. I went to bed each night to the sound of the birds chirping, and children laughing in the distance. The Church and the Chief dominate, and the forces of their authority are clearly demarcated. The chief is in charge of land and small disputes, while the church provides a semblance of spiritual order. Local government does not do anything. Local traditions and culture remain intact and important, and constantly adapt to, but also re-form these other institutions. Local communities make these institutions work for them. Whereas contrasting regimes of representation complicate city life, village life appears easily understandable.

Yet hardly comprehensible.

The city preacher tells me about how many people who move to cities leave their car at the nearest town when they return to their village, because they will be expected to bring back lots of money. The jealousy of the villagers will only affect his immediate family. My friend Kofi avoids going back to the village unless he has something new and special to bring. “They just have too many expectations.”

In my interviews in the worst slum in Accra, called Sodom and Gomorrah for its filth and desperation, I ask a resident if he prefers the city to the village. He responds, “Yes, because I do not want to go backward in life.”

Wisdom’s wife did not sleep Monday night; she was in incredible pain. She had to go to the hospital. Wisdom arranged a taxi to pick her up at 8 am Tuesday morning, but it never came. The driver promised that he was “on his way,” but that doesn’t mean much in Ghana. Wisdom paced back and forth, until the Scottish missionaries were kind enough to lend them their vehicle. He was extremely grateful because now he could rush his wife to the hospital, easily, comfortably, and fast.

Wisdom picked up his wife, and four preachers got in the van, all feeling as if it was their duty to make sure the woman was safe, all craving the credit for saving her, making her healthy.

Wisdom’s demeanor then totally changed. “Let’s make money. We can make some money.” He immediately became a hustler, and tried to get as many villagers in the van as possible so they would pay for the ride to town. They squabbled for several minutes over the price, while his wife lay in pain, wanting to be at the hospital already. The van picked people up and dropped them off the entire way, turning the thirty minute ambulance ride into an hour and a half tro tro trip.

The preacher next to me could tell that I was annoyed, worried for Wisdom’s wife. He leaned over and said, “This is just how we do it up here.”

James Town Pride

2009-07-01T08:05:00.000-07:00

“I have lived in James Town my entire life and there is no place like it. It is the center of the city; it is Old Accra,” Kofi tells me about his home. His family has been there for decades, and his father owns one of the few storey buildings in the area, with a wonderful view overlooking the neighborhood. He continues, “I am James Town born and bred.”

James Town has a charm I have not seen in other parts of Accra. People speaking Ga, children running around naked in their own way, a naked dance that is unique to this area. James Town expresses a type of poverty that is not only African, but an urban African that is only understood through the lens of an African city. Malnourished children, obese women, complete overpopulation. Kind of like India in a way: the stench, the colonial buildings, but an aliveness that inspires residents to go on, live on, dream.

But its African-ness, its Ghanaian-ness, spews out of the smelly, open sewers, the music blasting through the speakers, and the horns of the tro tros. The chief’s house up the street creates a semblance of order, while the African women pound their fufu and the youth sit on the corners, on top of run-down cars. All night. It is too much to quantify, to make sense of, to understand, but it makes you want to return. To hear stories. To figure out the “fucked-up-ness” that keeps James Town going.

We sat in a run-down courtyard at dusk, drinking palm wine out of bowls, listening to Ghanaian reggae, and watching the sun set above us. James Town was where it all started: the international slave trade in the 16th century, large migration of the Ga people to the city in the 17th century, and the beginning of the bustling metropolis of Accra. While the rest of Accra seems confused – a mish-mash of Soviet architecture, faux American influence, and the blitz of British buildings, with its own African aroma and flavor – James Town has an identity.

“They are proud people,” an NGO representative told me about the James Town residents, “They feel that the city is theirs. They feel like they have given their land to the capital city.” They have a sense of ownership: a right to the city. The Ga people settled in James Town in the 1600s, and they have been moving to the neighborhood ever since. Many of the housing structures have been in people’s families for decades, and the “family house” is still viewed as a foundation for most James Towners. “It is a safety net for the poor Ga people. There is always the house to come back to when times are rough.”

During the 1940s and 50s, James Town was the center for political independence. Kwame Nkrumah founded the Convention People’s Party at the Paladium, a central structure in the area. The struggle between the CPP and the opposition UGCC was played out in Old Accra, and it was not until Nkrumah won over the people of James Town and its surroundings that Nkrumah paved the way for his presidency. Today, the Ga Mashie district (of which James Town is a part) is considered the political hotbed of the country. The saying goes, “If you win Ga Mashie, you win the National Election.”

James Town exposes a life of endurance, of survival. Survival enlaced with pride, passion, and heartbreak. Of political apathy mixed with political heat. I could just feel the tension, the energy, the "about to break out" but a security that did not come from courts, or even the chief. Perhaps it came from history, from tradition, from somewhere within James Town itself. A mixture of it all. James Town is why I study cities. There is the “urban crisis” and the “emerging economies” that are so prevalent in the literature, the ability to form a new life but also descend into chaos and disorder. The questions just flow, fascinating puzzles are everywhere. It feels alive.

Kofi tells me of the boxers who train nearby, of the comedians who make their start in James Town. The “noisemakers” who create problems and get the public riled up. He tells me how there is a fight between chiefs, and the police had to come in and settle the dispute. Thankfully, it’s quiet now. He tells me about the parties, and says, “You have to come here for the parties. The funerals. This is the place to be.” He grew up here, and he tells me of his life going to school, and then escaping to University of Ghana. He says he could leave Ghana and study in the US or the UK, but he would not want to leave James Town and Old Accra. He does not want to leave home.

He tells me of his daughter, who is three years old. I ask him if she lives in James Town. “Oh no, of course not. I don’t want her growing up here!”

Somewhere in Between

2009-06-20T05:22:00.000-07:00

Hot, hectic and half-working. Sums up Accra nicely.

After a month of no water, my apartment complex finally got running water. Kind of. I stepped in to take a shower, but there was not enough pressure for the water to come out of the shower head. I was left attempting to take a shower with water from the bottom spout, at my knees. As I began washing myself, the light in the bathroom stopped working. But water is water; it still felt like I struck gold.

Meanwhile, I have air conditioning. My apartment is freezing while it is 100 degrees outside. I also have a refrigerator and freezer so my food doesn’t spoil. I just killed the biggest cockroach I have ever seen.

On my way into the main part of town, I pass children sleeping on the steps of businesses. Sound asleep. An old Ghanaian professor once told me, “Nobody is homeless in Ghana. Everybody has a home, a place to come back to. Some people move to the cities to find work, and they end up sleeping on the streets. But don’t be mistaken, they have a home.”

The sewers in the city are all open, filled with garbage, feces and god knows what else. There are taxis everywhere; in fact, I don’t know how all of these drivers are still employed. It seems like there are always empty cabs honking at me, waiting to pick me up, to attempt to rip me off until they realize I have been here long enough to know that a five minute taxi ride is one cedi, not five. They laugh when they realize I’m not a complete fool. The funny thing is, they play the same game with Ghanaians.

I finally found a coffee shop, owned by Lebanese, with wireless internet. It allows me to use a computer that does not have a broken or sticky keyboard, like most of the computers at the other internet cafes. I can have an overpriced cup of real coffee and surf the net, feel connected to my friends in America. As I am about to push “send,” the internet stops working.

I need to print off a proposal, so I walk to another 24 hour internet café to use their printer. “Sorry, the internet is down. Come back tonight,” the clerk tells me. I walk to the café around the corner. Same thing. I return to the café at night to check my email, and the internet is still down.

After my fifth last-minute cancellation of the week, I am stuck in the area around Parliament in my button-down shirt, in need of a beer. I pass the Mali embassy, with a huge fence. On the fence, there are stencils every five feet that say, “Post no bill.” This means, “Don’t advertise here,” and “No vandalism or graffiti” They have to post this on private property in attempt to prevent this. Below these stencils, are the words “Don’t urinate.” I look across the street, and a man steps out of his car and begins to pee. He made sure not to urinate on the side of the street where the sign was.

Everybody has a cell phone, probably two. There are people selling phone credit refills on every corner. If a person is too cheap to spend money on a phone call, they will call you and immediately hang up. You must then call them back. They pick up the phone surprised that you have called.

When I visited the slums, most houses had televisions. All had electricity. I wondered why my expensive apartment was without water, while these slums had pipes that brought water to every dwelling. Kids run around and dance. You know a peaceful and loving culture when the children dance. Especially when they dance naked.

If you want to get anything done in this city, you must have the women on your side. The men make promises; then they break them. But women won’t lie. They are the ones who get shit done. At a restaurant, you simply need to hiss at them. It’s the equivalent of snapping your fingers. But it is not rude here; you simply want your food.

But the food always comes, and it is usually quite tasty.

If only I could find a functioning bathroom when the meal is over; it is always needed.

God Bless Kwasiada

2009-06-15T06:33:00.000-07:00

Accra doesn’t sleep on Kwasiada, or Sunday. It prays. Then parties. “God’s Gift” Hair Salon is closed; “Providence” bar does not service customers. The morning is drenched with Hallelujahs and spurts of rain, while the day is spent watching football, barbecuing, and spending time with family. Then drinking into the wee hours in Osu, Central, or Labone. “Ghanaians work hard, long hours,” a restaurant owner told me. “But on Sundays, they relax with their friends and family.” Even the Nigerian migrants take a day off.

People from all over West Africa come to Accra to work. Sundays are their resting days.

My friends from Gabon came to Accra to learn English. Stepson of the President, Yannick’s brother is now in line to become President of the country. He came to Accra to learn English and get away from it all. Who needs African royalty? He wants to be independent. Become a rapper. His brother Stephan dons a New York Yankees hat, flat rim and all. They rap in French, play pool, smoke cigarettes. Ami, the chick who “hangs around” is from Mali; she’s here to learn English as well. “I want to make lots and lots of money, that’s why I’m here,” she tells me.

Peri rented me my apartment. Classic, professional businessman. He’s Ghanaian, but grew up in the UK. He worked as a teacher for many years, then was an administrator in a few different technical schools and colleges. He moved back to Accra four years ago for business. “This is where the money is now,” he says. “The US and the UK had their days in the sun, the opportunities are here now.”

“With my music you gonna feel alright…everybody wanna dance all night…” Shepherd sang to me as he watched his friends barbecue beef kebabs. His pseudonym is “Shephdon.” His reggae tunes span from “Situation,” where he explains the political situation in Nigeria – full of corruption, false promises, and chaos – to “Who be this guy” where he gently tells us who he is. “I want to be a reggae artist, a big star,” he told me as I sat next to him drinking a beer. He took Sundays off from his grueling job of selling ice cream out of a cart at the market, Monday through Saturday. Shephdon is Igbo, but he lived in Lagos for many years. He loves Nigeria.

He recorded a few singles there, but ran out of money. “I had no money, and trying to become a star there, I could not sink to the level of selling goods on the street. People would have laughed at me. So much shame.” So he came to Accra. He makes 10 cidis a day, on the good days. Barely 8 dollars. On the bad days, he barely reaches five. He gets to Central Accra around 8, and works until 10, then goes to Osu, where the night crowd hangs out and sells until midnight. “I’m just trying to save enough so I can go back, home. I need $1,200 to be able to produce a quality tape that will make me a star.”

I have a house boy too – Appiah. He’s from the north, as so many people in Accra migrate from the less-developed, poorer Northern regions. 17 years old, lives in a small room out back. His English is not very good, but we manage to have broken conversations. “My family lives in a close town, but I am here to work.” I asked him if he goes to school, and he said he finished basic schooling. He would like to continue to college, but it is too expensive. “I need 300 cidis (about $200) a year to pay for school, he told me, “and my family doesn’t have it.” He does my laundry, sweeps and mops my floor; he even ran to get me cooking oil this morning. I give him $4. While he irons my shirt, I sit and read my book.

He had to work on Sunday.

Are Ghanaians afraid of blood?

2009-06-11T09:35:00.000-07:00

“Ghanaians themselves are peace lovers, they talk more than they act,” an officer with an organization that advocates on behalf of slum dwellers told me.

“We talk, not act,” the boy cleaning the owner of my hostel’s Lexus told me in response to why Accra is a safe city. “We fear blood.”

“Ghanaians are just happy, peaceful, democratic people,” my Twi professor who teaches at Harvard lectured to me. “It’s deep in our culture.”

It seems like all the people who I have met who have had interactions with Ghanaians say the same thing. What joyful people. Always smiling. Pleasure to be around. Ghanaians seem to attribute this to their religion. “We are god-fearing Christians,” a woman told me.

It’s hard to argue with this non-violent assessment when on the streets of Accra. Just today, I saw a cocky teenager knock down food from a man selling fried buns. The man jumped off his cycle and started chasing the kid, pissed. A crowd gathered and the kid simply threw some money in the air and fled. Afraid of a confrontation. Everyone else just stood around and smiled.

I remembered constantly feeling uncomfortable and unsafe in South Africa. Jamaican cities were no better. But I have not had a single problem in Accra, and people always just leave me alone, unless I have a question. Then they are more than willing to help.

But Ghanaians are not passive, or non-confrontational. Amartya Sen wrote a book called The Argumentative Indian, explaining that arguing has been part of Indian culture for thousands of years, and that this democratic trait has been well institutionalized in India for many years. He argues that this is one reason democracy flourishes in the country. Could the same be said for Ghana?

It seems like Ghanaians are always arguing about something: the price of the tro-tro, the price of bread, business, directions, etc. And this isn’t just a male quality: men argue with women, men with men, and women with women. Voices are always raised, people get very close to one another, but never is there a physical confrontation. If a woman is involved, the argument ends with the Ghanaian “Umph.” If men, the loser of the argument walks away, still arguing, shouting. Laughter and smiles always seem to break out.

Far and away, people argue the most about politics. Americans learn that during business you never bring up politics or religion. Not the case here. There is always squabbling about NDC versus NPP. People are never content with the government, no matter who is in power, and they let their frustrations flow. Talk radio is the most common outlet to vent, but you don’t even have to call in: go anywhere; you will hear complaints about politics.

It is commonly assumed that this type of political engagement is good for democracy. Everyday citizen engagement tends to spur political participation, which in turn helps hold the government accountable. For “deliberative democracy” theorists, this interaction is the key to a healthy, democratic society. But is this activity really good for democracy?

A researcher at a top democracy think-tank told me, “There are plenty of phone-in shows, but no constructive collective action. This has always been the case in Ghana.” He attributed this to a culture of deference steeped in the deep history of traditional authority, “You don’t question the Chief.” While people are always squabbling and expressing their disillusionment to one another, they have not figured out the proper way to turn this into positive political action and hold their leaders accountable.

But Ghana’s history has not been all peaceful. Kwame Nkrumah imprisoned many political dissidents. There have been several coup d’états. Military leader turned President Jerry Rawlings ruled Ghana with an iron fist. Even during the recent national elections there were many violent skirmishes.

I asked my contact at the organization that advocates on behalf of the urban poor about these clashes. He responded with full honesty, “The problem we have in Ghana is the Northerners. In the South we are peaceful and tolerant.” Ironically, he continued, “It is because they are Muslims. Islam just is not peaceful.” He continued to tell me that these people do not send their children to school, and like to make lots of money and drive nice cars. They don’t care how they make their money, even if it is criminal. “In fact,” he responded, “the Northerners only fight amongst themselves.”

Perhaps it is only the Southern, Christian Ghanaians who are afraid of blood.

Of course, I disagree, but clearly ethnicity and religion still cause deep divisions in Ghanaian society.

Providence

2009-06-09T04:58:00.000-07:00

“Dodoo ho, Dodoo ho,” the man barked at me.

The words sounded familiar, but I had no clue what he was saying to me. It was the way my entire first two days in Accra felt: everything sounded and seemed familiar, but I had no clue what was going on.

Instead of feeling sorry for myself by staying in my depressing hostel and reading Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck, which I would have much rather done, I decided to take a walk. Alone. In the pitch black.

I wanted food, but instead found a bar. I tend to have this problem. The same thing happened in London. Guinness became my dinner.

“Dodoo ho, Dodoo ho,” the man laughed as he urged me to sit down…or leave…or drink…or fight…or talk… I sat down after ordering my beer. Thankfully I did the right thing.

He smiled, very pleased.

“Do you know what I’m saying? Do you know what dodo ho means,” he asked me. I nodded my head no.

“Sit down, relax, take your hat off. Chill.”

Oh, of course. You sure were doing a good job of expressing that.

The bar was called Providence. Typical Ghana.

Ghana’s version of a hole in the wall, neighborhood bar. A bad-ass woman stood behind a screen making drinks for the men. Various colored liquids of hard liquor in unlabeled bottles. An old man hunched over in the corner with his cane and stoic face. Clearly tired, or disillusioned. A group of men arguing over directions. “Go this way.” “No, that way.” Men always know the right way to go. A woman walked in with her husband. He ordered a drink, she sat at a table, lightly smiling. He pulled out a cigarette and walked to the corner to smoke with a friend. She screamed, “Umph, smoking kills!”

Leaving a joint like this always makes me anxious because I have no clue what the bill will be. I could have just drunk a fifteen dollar Guinness or a dollar-fifty one. I was bracing myself for something in between.

It was a dollar-fifty one.

I gave the Auntie two cedis (a little under $2) and she was thrilled. “Please come back. Please come back. You are always welcome.”

I found Providence.

Political Development of African Cities

2009-06-09T04:50:00.000-07:00

African cities have been described as “cities in motion” and “works in progress.” Bare bodies seeking employment, melting pot of Ancient ethnicities, an amalgam of archetypal Africaness amidst a globalizing geography. At Independence, cities were hailed as the modernizing force, the key to spreading democracy and economic growth to the “heart of darkness.” They were considered the engines of civilization.

Today, African cities are considered by many to be “in crisis”: barriers to progress, centers of disease, violence and hopelessness. In fact, the major academic concerns are with fixing, improving, saving and democratizing African cities.

But aren’t all cities “in motion” and “works in progress”? Isn’t that what attracts us to cities in the first place? This leads to a fundamental question: Is there anything distinctly African about African cities?

Cities are important for all the reasons mentioned above, but also for the symbolic power they bring a country. Imagine the United States without New York, France without Paris, England without London. But also imagine Argentina without Buenos Aires, Thailand without Bangkok, and Kenya without Nairobi. What is it about these cities that are so indispensable? Are these “global cities” as Saskia Sassen would lead us to believe, superseding the nation-state and acting independently within the global economic sphere? Or are they intimately connected and dependent upon national political structures in a way that helps determine the trajectory of national governance?

In the next two months I hope to shed light on these questions. By focusing on the African city, I hope to uncover the Africanness of African cities, while at the same time placing these urban areas in a comparative framework. Furthermore, I hope to expose what cities can tell us about national politics. Since Independence, Africa has been understood largely as a rural continent. Agriculture was the economy, rural communities held the culture, and cities were merely a product of the colonial outsider.

But this view of cities is mistaken. First, cities have been important to African political and economic development for many centuries, far before colonialism. Second, Africa is rapidly becoming an urban continent. In 1950, 86% of the population lived in rural areas. By 2000, this number had decreased to 63%. By 2025, the majority of Africans will be living in cities. Finally, the process of urbanization plays a fundamental role in the prospects for democratization. This is because as individuals and families move to urban areas, identities are re-formed, authority structures are transformed, and new economies develop. Thus, the rapid development of urban areas plays an instrumental role in political stability and governmental activity. In the next two months, I hope to show how this process occurs through interesting anecdotes, interviews with ordinary Africans, and observations of everyday life.

Studies of urban Africa typically focus on Nairobi, Johannesburg, Cape Town, Lagos, Dakar, and Cairo because of their large populations and importance for regional economic activity. My focus will be Accra, Ghana because of its newfound place as a sign of optimism for democracy and economic stability in an otherwise politically unstable region. Ghana shares many of the same structural conditions that plague its neighbors: a history of ethnic conflict, dictatorship, coup d’états, economic mismanagement, corruption and extreme poverty. Yet Ghana is unique in contemporary Africa because of its relative success with democratic government. Since 1992, Ghana has had four multi-party elections, deemed free and fair by international observers. While its counterparts like Ivory Coast, Kenya, and Zimbabwe have descended into political disorder and economic instability, Ghana has weathered the storm.

So what is the relationship between increasing urbanization and democracy? Cities have historically been the hotbed for positive growth of civil society and increases in levels of education, both positive indicators of democracy. On the other hand, they bring together thousands of poor migrants with very little rights who are very susceptible to political manipulation by elites. This often acts as a barrier to democratization. Why has Accra been an engine for democratic consolidation whereas cities like Nairobi have not?

I am most interested in the question: Why do poor, ordinary, Ghanaian citizens – who live in the poorest informal settlements or shantytowns with little access to public services, live in squalid conditions, and their lives do not seem to be improving – still have trust in the Ghanaian government? This will help me answer, “How is democracy deepening (or improving) in urban Ghana?”

In order to understand Africa better, I will try to uncover the political development of African cities. By exposing the relationship between local urban governance and national politics I hope to show a little bit of Africa that until now has been understudied. This will help us understand what types of “works in progress” African cities really are.

Happy New Year 2008!!

2008-01-06T17:24:00.000-08:00

What the hell happened this year?

Perhaps nothing. Yet everything.

2007 was the year of sustainability. Al Gore won an Oscar, and then the Nobel Peace Prize for his jeremiad on global warming and calls for investing in sustainable energy. Even Republicans began buying Priuses.

For us, it was the year of "figuring it all out." Life: it ain't so bad after all. It's sustainable. Change may come (and better come) in 2008, but 2007 left us waiting. Hanging on. Hanging in there. Sustaining...

Benazir Bhutto's death capped off the year in dramatic fashion. But before that Marcel Marceau mimed his way to the grave, Jerry Falwell prayed his way to heaven, and Anna Nicole Smith captured our attention the way that Princess Diana's death moved us a few years before. Says something about our world. Kurt Vonnegut, Boris Yeltsin, and Luciano Pavarotti died somewhere along the way. Forgettably unforgettable.

The gap between the rich and the poor continued to grow. As the cliche goes, "The rich keep getting richer, and the poor keep getting poorer." We made sure that we were on the right side.

We finally had good sex. Sober. And it wasn't awkward in the morning. In fact, we spent the whole next day shopping with that person, only to finish the day cuddling. Growing up.

Work started making sense, and the new Xerox copy machine and cubicle move added a new six months of tolerance to our jobs. What we would have done without these perks we will never know.

American soldiers and Iraqis are still dying in Iraq. But it is a sustainable violence. Sustainable number of deaths.

Immigrants, both legal and undocumented continued to bust their asses, trying to make a life for themselves and their families. Washington forgot to take notice. Or it wasn't "politically viable" to act. Let the states sustain our policies. Or lack thereof. As long as those aliens still cook me a damn good Philly Cheese Steak for a dollar.

Next year we will go to law school, quit our jobs, move on with our lives. Next year we will have a new President, one who is "ready for change" and "ready to lead," or "stand[s] for change" or has "true strength for America's future." Next year the Cubs will win the World Series.

But this year we simply sustained.

~~

Happy New Year, and let 2008 rock your world the way you want it to be rocked...

Happy Birthday India!

2007-08-15T13:17:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday India! 60 years old for the largest democracy in the world. Impressive. Stay strong.

Here are some final pictures of Delhi; I ran out of steam towards the end of my trip, but here are some final scenes from the capital of India.

The Taj

2007-08-15T13:12:00.000-07:00

Yes, the Taj Mahal is as spectacular as everybody says it is.

No, it is not overrated.

Yes, it should be one of the wonders of the world.

And it is.

A man built the Taj for his lover.

Lucky woman.

Too bad she was dead.

At least we can enjoy it.

Homesick

2007-08-12T06:32:00.000-07:00

This place finally broke me down. I leave Nicole, and I immediately become the typical American-stressed-out tourist.

I get excited when I see McDonald's and I crave it all day. I go there for dinner.

A manual rickshaa driver comes up to me and says, "Rickshaa? Rickshaa?" I say no. NO. He pipes in, "Where are you going? Where are you going?" I snap back annoyed, "I just told you NO. Its none of your business where I am going."

They ask everything twice here to be doubly irritating.

Immediately, another rickshaa driver hollers, "Hello? Hello?" I call back, "Goodbye."

Yesterday I jumped out of a rickshaa at a brief stop because he had no clue where I was going, even though he did the head nod when I asked him. He continued to ask three other people. He still had no clue. We happened to be two blocks away.

I chewed a driver out for trying to charge me 300 rupees for a 20 rupee ride. Nicole would be proud of me. I still had to pay 40.

As I walked into McDonald's, a semi-urban 20 something in a torquoise "flaming nylon" shirt stopped me, "Excuse me, excuse me, what country? Where you from?" With a clear answer of defeat, I respond, "America."

"I have a friend in America. What's it like?" I tell him coldly, "Just like this (as I point around McDonald's) except without being hassled. He didn't get the point and followed me in. He sat with me throughout the whole time I ate my Chicken McMaharaja Big Mac, with fries of course. He even had a friend that joined us. He had an uncle who had visited New York once.

Good for him.

Even the food is starting to smell like hospital food.

So I have escaped the chaos outside and sit in this basement restaurant drinking crappy Nescafe, eating stale and burnt toast, and writing my complaints on a fucking napkin (because my journal got drenched by the monsoon). And a baby mouse just came up to my toes. I'm dead serious. Classic.

All I want is a dark, rich espresso, toilet paper, hot shower, and a fork.

Home sweet home.

Khajuraho Magnificence

2007-08-12T06:29:00.000-07:00

The most incredible temples I have ever seen: Enormous, intricate, erotic.

How can you beat that?

Asexual India?

2007-08-12T06:09:00.000-07:00

“You, very beautiful. Very beautiful face,” one of the five girls tells me, as she excitedly giggles along with her friends. 13 or 14 year old girls on the train back from school in Kerala had asked me to come sit next to them. Of course, I obliged.

I asked them their names, and they nervously responded, adding a few more words in English to try and impress me. The girls laughed, all trying to capture my attention.

Like 13 or 14 year old girls do. Seemed normal to me. Endearing.

But it seemed very unusual to me in India. Girls approaching men and flirting. Sure nothing was going to happen between us, but you could sense the anxious sexuality of the situation.

Rarely in India did I notice public displays of affection—the way us Westerners define the phrase. Kissing, hugging, petting, holding hands; amongst lovers. But even the subtle flirtations are rare—at least in the way of smiles and eye contact. The flirtatiousness of a big smile is almost nonexistent.

But sex clearly runs rampant. The population tells it all—more than 1 billion people. That’s a lot of sex.

Muketu Sehtu in his book Maximum City calls Bombay “a city in heat.” He describes a sexual culture, albeit underground, which is dominated by sex—the money, power, and excitement that both drives and accompanies it. Sexual pleasure runs rampant.

But to the visual eye, India feels like the awkward middle school boy who wants to make out with his crush behind the baseball bleachers, but doesn’t know how to drag her out there. The sexual desire is there, but he is still uncomfortable with displaying these desires publicly.

I once joked with a friend of mine in college that the Indian girls in our class were “asexual porn.” Beautiful to look at, but for a white, college boy like me, nothing more. She slapped me. But there was some truth to the statement: in India, the subject of sex didn’t even cross into this public discussion, and I wouldn’t even know how to approach the subject. Asexual porn.

The girls on the train displayed the sexual innocence that seemed so lacking in the rest of my experience there. Perhaps it was their age: too young to have to worry about the prospects of marriage (and definitely too young to already feel the burden of it), but old enough to have gone through puberty and feel real sexual desires. They could display these emotions by flirting with me.

Perhaps not so asexual after all.

The Foreverness of Tea

2007-08-12T05:46:00.000-07:00

"My family has been here for more than 36 years working at Happy Valley. My husband works in the factory and the rest of us have all done our fair share in the fields," our tea Dadi (Grandma) Kusum explained to us of her time living on this Darjeeling tea plantation. "I was born in Nepal but came over and have lived here ever since."

Farms, and this plantation was no exception, have always seemed to me to be the greatest source of family tradition. It is a culture, economy and livelihood which directly sprouts from the ground, and will always be a part of a farmer's life. Their world.

The vastness of the tea plantations is immediately felt, and it engulfs you in its still tranquility. All of a sudden, you begin speaking more quietly, thinking that everybody in the whole valley can hear you. Women busily pick away at the crops, and gather in groups with huge bundles of tea on their heads.

You can already taste the flavor of the tea.

Darjeeling Rain

2007-08-12T05:40:00.000-07:00

Three hours up into the hills of West Bengal, sits the peaceful and beautiful hill station of Darjeeling. Known for its high quality tea, Darjeeling was a much needed rest from the rest of India. It has a heavy Tibetan and Nepali population, and has a strong Buddhist influence. Although it was raining the whole time we were there, and unfortunately could not see the Himalayas, it was a welcomed escape from the bustle of Kolkata. We visited a Tibetan refugee center, several Buddhist monasteries, and Happy Valley Tea Estate. After three days of non-stop rain, we were ready to leave.

A Personal Reflection

2007-08-11T21:27:00.001-07:00

A lot of people go to India to “find themselves.” Nicole returned to her parent’s homeland to reclaim her Indian roots (or perhaps claim them for the first time). A friend of hers may come to the country after a recent divorce to “get back on track.” Another friend of mine wanted to “feel closer to her natural side” after a few years of monotonous office work. A couple I met earlier this year in Jamaica started their world travels in India after saving up all of their savings—they spent 6 months here, and thus began their new life.

Today at the New Vishnuanthi Temple, dozens of Hindus said their prayers. Students rang the prayer bell, women in their ornate saris and stoic faces placed flowers on the altars. A woman lit a candle in the corner and chanted “Om, Ram…” Over and over. Lost in prayer. But found.

I always feel a special silence in temples. A soothing relaxation that calms the humidity. Shoeless and worry-free.

But that is all. Even at my Jewish temples and synagogues. A relaxing still, but not much else. Pure appreciation of others, and the historical spirituality, but nothing within myself.

I flash back to the times I’ve been moved. At the Women’s Day Celebration in South Africa, honoring the freedom and rights that women have gained. But also celebrating ten years of democracy in the country. The Anti-Globalization march in Chile, filled with rowdy youth and passionate anger. A togetherness that was extremely powerful. And the Anti-War march in Washington D.C., seeking to get our voices heard in resistance to the Iraq War. These events are where I have teared up. Felt alive. Been moved.

I suppose it’s fitting that I will be pursuing my PhD in political science. To me, politics can be powerful, both ideologically but also personally. Almost like a faith. I’ve been giddy all day after receiving my assignment to be a Teacher’s Assistant for my first semester of grad school. Politics in a Multicultural Society. It just feels good.

I sit in one of the holiest cities in India, and struggle to feel the holiness. Not surprisingly, because I’m not Hindu. And not very religious. But it makes me think of what I’m supposed to find here in India. Myself? I feel the overwhelmingness and the frustration of the poverty. The sadness. But also the joy of the people. But perhaps not the political joy that has touched me in the past. That is my challenge. And perhaps I just need to look inside to recalibrate my own expectations first.

I am doing yoga tomorrow.

Holy Varanasi

2007-08-11T21:16:00.000-07:00

I’m not quite sure if Varanasi is a city of life or death. Maybe that’s the point.

I sat on the long steps overlooking the Ganges River. The chai guys are out, alive and well. “Chai? Chai?” a man comes over and asks me. This chai even had fresh lemons that the man would squeeze into the cup. He sat down a few feet away on the holy steps and poured himself some tea. A few minutes later a young boy came up to me and asked me if I wanted some of his chai. I declined. The boy then sat next to the older man—the elder chai guy—and sold him a biscuit. He even poured him some of his chai.

Like father and son. It was their livelihood. They sat drinking their chais together overlooking the Ganges. You know an Indian city is alive and well when the chai guys are out.

In front of all of us, little children ran around in scant clothes. Some children were even naked. Two young boys were teasing a goat, as the animal stuck out its tongue and snarled. Everybody laughed. Tourists walked by and nervously snapped photos. Beggars immediately swarmed them. A group of younger kids, not yet ten, took turns carrying a little baby, and passing her around like a hot potato. Her butt was showing. She pretended to smile. Nicole asked a little friend we met who the baby was. “That’s the beggar baby,” he responded without hesitating.

They had the routine down.

The city was surely alive. Breathing at least.

Earlier in the day, we passed a cremation taking place along the “burning ghats.” The family of one of the bodies watched nearby, playing drums, and chaotically waiting. There were three bodies burning at once.

The bodies burned visibly to all, placed in the middle of what looked like a campfire. Except that the feet were slightly hanging off the side. Men dripping with sweat controlled the fire as they would a bonfire at a block party. I sat on the steps overlooking the scene with Nicole, wondering if those were really bodies burning.

One of the men tended to the fire. All of a sudden he flipped the body, and I could see the whole thing, half burning but still their. His skull. And torso.

Burning.

I recently saw the movie Saw 3 and had a flashback. It felt like a horror movie. Maybe I didn’t want to be cremated after all.

The man rearranged the wood so it was back burning normally. Like nothing had happened. Because nothing did. Nothing out of the ordinary.

It was a holy cremation, the way it’s done. The way it’s been done for centuries.

The city bustled around. The family was still praying, and the market was hopping a few meters away.

Completely alive.

An ascetic with dreadlocks and a biblical beard calmly rocked back and forth with his staff on a nearby step. Men digging ashes dumped them into the Ganges, as if they worked on a production line. The cows poked their heads into a pile of garbage for their afternoon snack.

“Why is it that cities this holy have this much poverty?” Nicole asked confused. It reminded me of Jerusalem where the beggars line up in front of each temple, waiting for an answer. Or food. Or the Vatican, where the ornate architecture and gold drown out the nearby poverty. My mom once complained after visiting the Vatican, “With all of these millions of dollars spent on these buildings, we could feed the world.” Perhaps she was right.

I’m not quite sure where Varanasi, one of the holiest cities in Hinduism, fits into this debate. Except that it breathed a deathly liveliness. Or a lively death.

Nicole said it best, “This place is full of either holiness or holy-shitness.”

And the stench. Burned bodies, sweaty bodies, feces, urine, holiness, garbage, pollution, all filling the humid air. A lively smell that could put you to death.

As we sat on the steps, a severely deformed man came up to me and asked me for money. His torso extended out of his back, and he was hunched over so he barely reached 4 feet tall. “Please, please. To eat.” He sat down next to me and told me the story of how ten years ago he had an accident with a bull. He used to be a businessman and was proud of his travels around India. He kept telling me about visiting Goa. We talked for more than ten minutes and I asked him what he thought of Varanasi. He responded, “It is so holy. It is home.”

Yesterday, a boat capsized in the Ganges. A few tourists I met told us the story, and we were mortified. 10 people died, including women and children. They asked a local about the accident.

The local man shrugged and responded, “Karma.”

Such is life.

Or death.

Pride of the Rickshaa

2007-08-11T20:55:00.000-07:00

The woman sat above the city. Unmoved.

She breathed an air of calm and tranquility that strangely made its way through the surroundings. In a way that was noticed, but not acted upon by the driver, and all the others bustling about. But it was felt.

She was the charm of the rickshaa, the one who was being driven, the portrait of her city. Her clothes radiated and blinded all the passersby, like a laser in their windshield. Her smooth, soft face was the movie amidst a swerving reality.

The driver peddled intensely.

Cars swerved and honked madly.

A group of cows relieved themselves in the middle of the street, and continued eating the pile of garbage when they were done.

The Indian stench perfumed the air.

Screams. And more screams. And even more screams.

Thousands of people crossing the street.

People walking. And arguing. And being.

India.

But it was all a stilled landscape to the woman, who warmed the city with her untouchable smile.

A Favorite City?

2007-08-11T20:52:00.001-07:00

“How can you like a place with that much poverty?” Nicole asked me clearly annoyed.

Hands down, Calcutta is my favorite city in India. From the moment I stepped foot in the city, there was a chaotic charm that engulfed me, as the rain poured outside and the city continued to buzz. It was dark, I was tired, I had no clue where the taxi driver was taking us, and I still stared out the window with that feeling of excitement that a youngster shows when his parents take him to Mount Rushmore for the first time. Welcome to Calcutta, which in new India is now called Kolkata.

But Nicole’s question kept nagging at me, as I felt guilty for liking this city. It was easy for me to appreciate only the good that the city offered: I could take up and leave anytime that I wanted to. I could escape to our homey flat and have Madan, the caretaker at where we stayed cook us up a feast. I could compartmentalize the real Kolkata as a mere “sight to see” or “city to experience,” without being forced to confront the life that millions of Bengalis suffer through each day.

But in many ways, that is what travel—especially to developing countries—is all about. Trying to find the gem amongst the rubble, as a guilty western conscience gnaws at me. Being confused, asking questions, seeing and uncomfortably feeling a different way that people live. And guiltily enjoying it.

I love Kolkata because it’s a city in motion. People are always on the move. And working. While other Indian cities to me revealed a sort of stagnant chaos—movement everywhere that seemed to keep everything standing still—Kolkata was constantly on the move, and getting somewhere (although I admit I have no clue where). Men buzzed around with huge sacks on their head, corner chefs fed the masses, rickshaa drivers busily pedaled, walked and drove, children danced through the streets, and the city embodied each movement. It is definitely not a static city.

The transportation represents all of these different types of movement. It is the only place left in the world with manual rickshaas (definitely seems feudal to me). Cycle and auto rickshaas complete the trio. There is an above ground tram, a subway Metro, plenty of busses, taxis, bikes, ferries, house boats, fishing boats, you name it. I saw individuals in makeshift wheelchairs, and I even saw a beggar with no legs slide across the street with a tiny board on wheels. Anything so as to not stay still.

And the architecture. Sure, it is run-down British colonial, once again making me feel guilty for liking something with such a European influence. But it still had the diversity of colors that will always be India to me. It looked like a city lost in time, kind of like Havana, Cuba, where buildings slowly grew weary and decrepit, but maintained the architectural allure that it always had. The buildings and neighborhoods were a not-so-distant escape from the hustle of the city, and the narrow back streets represented this serenity. There was some quiet in this city after all.

Finally, as a traveler, so much of your experience in a city is defined by where you stay and who you meet. There is no good way to get around this. Kolkata brought us Madan, the caretaker at where we stayed who would end up for me representing the prototypical Bengali: my symbol of Kolkata. I stayed at a friend’s late grandparents’ flat in an intellectual section of the city, tucked away just off of the lively action of Kolkata. It was the perfect refuge: thousands of aging books decorated the dining room, curtains blew in the air to the beat of the ceiling fan, and a canopy bed waited in which to fall asleep.

Madan has lived in this house for 40 years. He came here when he was twenty years old. The late owner was a lawyer, one of the best in Calcutta, Madan told us. He clearly took pride in his old boss, and his face displayed a subtle display of nostalgia. I noticed when he walked around the house the place just didn’t feel quite right without them. Madan loved to cook: he made us sautéed fish, chicken and vegetable curry and a beautiful roasted chicken. He made the best roti. He served the food with the charming Bengali arrogance: he knew it was good. For me, Kolkata would not be the same without him.

In two days, Kolkata entered my list of favorite cities. Along with Havana, La Paz, Santiago (Chile), and Rome. It intrigued me, confused me, saddened me, and moved me. I wondered if I could live there, and I tried to convince myself that I could. But the arrogance of traveling took shape and we had to leave.

And perhaps that is the real reason I could fall in love with the city after all: I could leave Kolkata after only two days.

A Sacred Cartoon

2007-08-11T20:39:00.000-07:00

"Soooooooooo glad you made it to Hampi. How magical??? It's like some sort of Indiana Jones theme park that's been abandoned and gradually people have moved in or something. Yeah, sacred cartoon man! Ha ha ha!!!" my friend who had visited Hampi a few months ago recently wrote me.

Hampi is a sacred cartoon. Straight out of the Flintstones. Centuries old temples amidst enormous boulder fields. Ruins everywhere, with a new world trying to build itself around them. Take the bus station: an open parking lot that happens to have a 14th century wall around it. Crazy. People bathing in the river, and hanging their clothes to dry on a sunken temple. Women busily tending to the rice paddies that are growing in between random old ruins.

And monkeys everywhere.

Embarrassment

2007-08-11T20:38:00.001-07:00

“It was the best purchase I have ever made in my entire life,” I told Nicole after I bought the young beggar a samosa at the New Jalipiguri train station. 3 rupees. Not even 10 cents.

“So you can feel good about yourself for having fed a hungry eight year old?” she answered questioningly.

It was worse than that. Really, I was happy because this little boy, who had come up to me at least five times would no longer bother me.

I bought off the bother, the annoyance.

Trickle Down Bangalore

2007-08-11T20:35:00.000-07:00

Please don’t tell me the trickle down theory works. Just go to India.

Case in point: Bangalore.

More to come later...

India as a Train Station

2007-08-11T20:30:00.001-07:00

The train stations of India act as a microcosm for the entire country. “Chai chai” lanky men hum as they carry around their pot of boiling tea. Women clothed in brightly colored saris struggle with their luggage, some carrying it on their heads, while others drag it along on the ground. Couples seem to be arguing with one another, endearingly showing their strength of love. Clearly, the love is strong in this country.

And the beggars. A teenage girl in rags carrying a sleeping body. Or a dead one. Boys in grey tatters, as if they are straight from a 1930s Depression photo stumble up to you, point to their stomach, and hold out their hand. They don’t say a word.

A family lies on the floor in the corner. In fact, many families. Babies, kids, teenagers, all lying, with transparent smiles. Joking with one another as flies buzz on their faces. They do not flinch. A baby boy in nothing but underwear climbs all over his mother, who is lying down soothing her other child. They must do this everyday.

All of a sudden a cow strolls onto the middle of the platform, casually walking and sniffing the ground. Only Vishnu knows how it got there.

In the corner a man twitches on a bench, clearly fucked up on brown sugar (the heroin version of crack cocaine that is popular in India). A cop walks over to him and yells at him to move; its past eight o’clock and he must move on. He doesn’t go anywhere, and the cop walks away.

Nicole walks over to make a phone call. A man with no eyes tells her that it is 2 rupees. He then watches her the whole time she is on the phone. Eyeless.

A young boy drags his mother through the station, as she continually falls over on him. A six year old keeping his mother up as she is fucked up on something. Perhaps she’s a prostitute. Perhaps mentally ill. She flashes her cell phone. As her six year old son begs for her. She laughs when she grabs a cracker from his hands and eats it. Is she stealing food from her son? Or life?

A middle class family enters the station with shopping bags and lots of luggage. Old school suitcases, the heavy ones that don’t have the easy-to-drag luxuries that are the standards back home. The three kids in their Western dress, jeans and a Quiksilver t-shirt, the mother in her beautifully bright sari and radiant shawl, and the father carrying a briefcase and a look of sureness. He is in a silent state of control.

“What are you staring at,” hisses Nicole to a group of twenty-something men, clearly bored of their surroundings. A beautiful Indian, American, or both walking with an American male with a backpack is clearly strange to them. They get the message after Nicole’s sneer.

The post office worker wheels out the mail, which is bundled together in label-less sacks. No uniform nor labels. Can barely tell its official mail. Maybe its not.

And the stench. The flavor of Indian food and spices mixed with the aroma of thousands of sweaty bodies, bodies that have been rolling around dirty floors, hustling through the overly polluted cities, and have rested little in recent memory.

It is go time. Time to move on to the next location, the next adventure, the next place. But moving on to the next sameness.

To another train station; but the same India.

A Backwater Adventure

2007-08-11T20:27:00.000-07:00

When travelling, you often meet a person in a particular place who ends up defining that place for you. That person often is cemented in your mind as the symbol of that city, town, state, or country. Abu Babu became our Kerala.

Abu Babu took us on a Gilligan's Island-type escapade through the backwaters of Kerala. Known as the Venice of the East, the Kerala backwaters are a mix of large and small canals mixed with vast rice paddies and villages. Common mode of transportation? Canoes.

Abu Babu was barely five feet tall, and he moved around his boat like a chipmunk. Barefoot, and constantly crouching over, Abu Babu was a living Keralan compass: he knew the backwaters as though it were his livelihood. In fact, it was.

Although he didn't speak a word of English, Abu Babu communicated with us by pointing, laughing, and simply taking us where we needed to go. And by holding Nicole's hand--he seemed to enjoy this.

He navigated our boat through the backwaters--narrow lagoons and wide, river-like canals. He brought us to a restaurant for chai, in the middle of the canals and only accessible by boat, where an entire family immediately converged at the sight of foreigners and practiced the two words of English they knew. We awkwardly sat together drinking our chai and watched the Indian love story that was playing on the TV.

We stopped off where a man was up in a tree plucking fruit that is used for the village alcohol. Abu Babu showed us the rice paddies, and kept pointing about something; a nice lost-in-translation moment. We explored a little slab of land that was full of palm trees with bats' nests.

Because it was during the monsoon, the backwaters were flooded and houses were literally halfway underwater. But people didn't seemed to mind; they just made sure that they were in shorts when they exited their house. They were immediately bathing in water.

We passed churches and cemetaries, restaurants and billboards, all amidst this matrix of canals.

After our day-long boat ride, it was a little sad to say goodbye to "our little guy" Abu Babu. He was our backwater experience, and we decided to give him a significant tip to show our appreciation.

We left feeling good, and chatting about how we would always remember Abu Babu.

An hour later, we went to get lunch at a nearby restaurant. Abu Babu was there eating, so we went and sat at his table. After a minute of watching him messily eat his food and trying to comprehend his slurring speech, it was obvious: he was wasted.

So much for our generous tip and our innocent view of Abu Babu and Kerala.

Kerala by Train

2007-08-11T20:25:00.001-07:00

Welcome to Kerala.

After flying into Mumbai, we immediately took a 27 hour train ride to the southwestern-most state in India. Kerala is known for its high literacy rate, which hovers around 91%; this is the highest rate of any state in India. According to Wikipedia, "Social reforms enacted in the late 19th century by Cochin and Travancore were expanded upon by post-Independence governments, making Kerala among the Third World's longest-lived, healthiest, most gender-equitable, and most literate regions. However, Kerala's suicide, alcoholism, and unemployment rates rank among India's highest. A survey conducted in 2005 by Transparency International ranked Kerala as the least corrupt state in the country."

I spent most of the train ride sleeping and recovering from jet lag. But I spent a few hours staring out the door of the train, hardly believing I was finally here in India.

Here are a few snaps from the train.

A Love-Hate Relationship

2007-08-11T20:21:00.001-07:00

It would be unfair and pretentious of me to say I know India, but in the past month I have felt it. To me, India is the head nod. Yes. No. Maybe. Hell no. For sure. What? India is the chai guy. Always there, on time. Always 4 rupees. Just like India, always on time, always the same price. Yeah right!! I love what I hate about this place and I hate what I love about it.

India is a country of unbelievable colors: stunning sari clothed women all in their traditional style, bright flowers decorating the shrines in the temple, and a collage of different fruit feeding the streets. But it is also a country of grays: the soot-colored faces of the beggar children, the ragged clothes of the rickshaw drivers, and the layer of pollution in all the cities.

It is a country that makes me want to say, "I wanna come back." Even though I can't give you a good reason why. It's just so...intriguing. And perhaps...confusing.

It is a country that leaves me angry: Why are so many people living in abject poverty when the economy is growing 10% each year? Why does it seem that people don't respect the public spaces? Are there any functional systems? Why does it have to be like this?

But the chaos warms the place, and adds the not-so-subtle charm that made me want to come here in the first place. The charm that inspires me to travel, learn, experience, live, and hope.

The charm that makes me love India.

Welcome to India: My Trip-Shtick

2007-08-11T19:30:00.000-07:00

Welcome to India.

I spent the past month traveling through India, a country that proved to outdo my bipolarity a million fold. Before my trip, I thought I knew what I was into: I had traveled many times before, and had been to South America, Africa, Asia, and Europe. I have been to rich countries and extremely poor countries. I thought I had this "travel thing" down. Until India. The country redefined all that I thought I knew, until I was left not being able to define anything at all. It is a country beyond confusion, and left me throwing up my hands in frustration.

This is my travel journal, an attempt to make sense of--or at least reflect on--my experience in India. It is a mix of a simple travel log, strange anecdotes, raw emotions, imaginary stories, reflection essays, photos, and other confused babble.

I spent the month with my friend Nicole, who had been working in India for the past year. Thank you Nicole for being such a great companion. For one month, we covered a lot of ground, and spent countless hours sleeping on trains and busses.

We started our travels in Mumbai, and immediately made our way down to the state of Kerala (see Kovalam), in the southwestern part of the country. In Kerala, we explored the strange city of Fort Cochin, explored the Kerala backwaters, took a safari and enjoyed the serenity of the tea plantations in Wayanad. We then headed North to Bangalore, where we explored the City Market and the lavish nightlife that the Bangalorean elite look forward to each weekend. Off to Hampi, the sacred Flinstones-esque town filled with ancient temples amidst enormous boulders. We then flew out of Hyderabad on our way East to Calcutta (now called Kolkata) where we witnessed the hustle and bustle of the cultural capital of India. There, our friend Madan took care of us and offered much needed refuge in this chaotic city. Then, we took off into the hills of Darjeeling and attempted to see the Himalayas, but it was raining for the entire three days and we were left settling for the incredible Happy Valley Tea Estate instead. As to ditch the rain, we headed back downland to Varanasi, one of the holiest cities in India. We then escaped to the incredibly preserved and beautiful 10th century temples of Khajuraho, where we added a third travel partner to our duo, an American named Ed. After escaping to Delhi, I finally got sick for the first time and struggled to enjoy the hectic charm of Old Delhi. Enter Rajastan, where I explored the palaces of the bountiful Maharajas. Finally, I made sure not to miss the Taj Mahal, which was as spectacular as it is made out to be. I made a quick return to Delhi, where I did away with my caveman beard and explored the train station with a former "street child." After an exhausting month, back to the U.S. Home sweet home.

So enjoy the commentaries, and as I slowly make more and more sense of my whole experience, or am inspired to jot down all that remains nonsensical, I will continue to add to my trip-schtik. But as for now, here is a start...

Home Sweet Home

2007-07-06T13:10:00.000-07:00

“You fucking gringos drive me crazy sometime. Gringos, go home!”

A second ago, I bought this guy a beer at our neighborhood bar. He was having a bad week. Now he was screaming at me to go home. I looked back at him confused: I was up the street from where I live, the same place I refer to as my “living room.” I was home.

Juan was from Guatemala. He recently moved here and married an American girl who he fell in love with. She was volunteering in Guatemala after she graduated college when she met him. Recently, he just received his certificate to be a woodworker here in the U.S., and interviewed for a job. He was not hired.

“He didn’t hire me because I’m Guatemalteco. Not white.” Juan screamed at me as if I had the answers to his worries. “What is it with this place?” A second before that he was complaining to me that the bartender would not serve him a beer. “It’s because I am Hispanic.”

I tried to calm him down and told him that I think it was because she was busy, and because he was not ordering from behind the bar. Instead, he was waiting in the server’s area, the one place that pisses servers and bartenders off more than anything. Plus, the bartender was Filipina, the other bartender was black, the kitchen staff was a mix of Hispanics and blacks, the customers were mostly Puerto Rican, Mexican, black and white, and the music was some type of African rhythms. “I don’t think your ethnicity has anything to do with it,” I tried to reassure him.

Cultural misunderstanding, I guess.

So I bought Juan a beer.

“Can I ask you one thing?” Juan asked me harshly. “Why is it when you people come into my country, do you take pictures of poor people? It’s so humiliating.”

I thought about it for a second, and realized that he had a point. When I was in Italy, I took pictures of the Romanesque architecture. When I was in Chile, I took pictures of the micros (the busses) and of the street art. When I was in Cuba, I took pictures of the 1950s cars and the parks. In Jamaica, the beaches. But when I was in Swaziland and South Africa, I had hundreds of photos of the people. Ditto Bolivia. And Peru.

Why was it when we visit a country with an abundance of poor people, like countries in parts of Asia, Africa and South America, do we take pictures of the people? As Juan let me know again and again, “the poor people.”

“All the time, you American tourists come into my country and ask ‘Photo? Photo?’ Why do you want photos of us? To demean us?”

I tried to think of some answers. “You know Juan, I think it is because we are taking pictures of a people who look different from us. But more importantly, of a culture that is different from us. A culture that we are trying to understand, and we do this by taking photos. In most cases, we are taking pictures of the same emotions that we have here, and they are brought out in our photos: happiness, enjoyment, pain and suffering. It makes us feel closer to the people that we are visiting—closer to their country and culture, and closer to their lifestyle. It is easy to think that we are taking pictures of them because they are poor, but really we are documenting how similar they are to all of us. ”

“Whatever,” Juan responded, not buying into the explanation.

“Your country came into Guatemala and destroyed our lifestyle. Killed our people. My whole family was murdered by you Americans when you were supporting our dictatorship. Now you come into our country and take pictures like it is all just a game.”

I was stuck. There was nothing I could say to relieve these feelings of anger.

Thank god for the guy next to me. He chimed in, “I grew up in Romania, and my whole family was threatened by the Communists all the time. My uncle was shot in the head when I was 12. Boom. He lived, we fled, and I was able to get to America and grow up happily. Let’s take a shot,” He said to us as he ordered three shots of tequila. “I understand your anger, but you have to make a distinction between the American people and their government. I know that as a democracy, the government is supposed to be a direct representation of the people, but it doesn’t always work that way. Most of the people here are not evil, and probably do not even support the way your people were treated in Guatemala.”

“Fuck you gringos,” Juan yelled again, as if we were stuck in the middle of one, enormous cultural misunderstanding.

Juan’s anger would not seize, and he became irrational. But his feelings are no different than millions of people across the world. People hate the U.S., and unfortunately it is becoming harder and harder to separate U.S. citizens from their government. For normal, disenfranchised people in the world, the U.S. citizens and its government has become one in the same. Scary thought. And these feelings are arising everywhere, whether it is a cultural misunderstanding or not.

Finally, Juan left and went home to his American wife.

Take a Little Time

2007-06-25T09:01:00.000-07:00

“It’s a beautiful day, no thoughts on my mind. We should have done this sooner,” James said to me as we shared an hour of our lives with one another.

We have lived in the same building for a year. James lives with his wife, who would smile at me when we walked out of the building together, but one of those smiles that you would not remember if you had to identify it in a police lineup. I smiled the same way back. James and I would at least say a few words, something like “How’s it going?” and “Have a good one.” Generic responses for generic conversation.

Until today.

We sat in the backyard and our 180 degree separation of lives and history converged. “You know, when I was growing up on the West Side of Chicago as a black man, we were just hoping to get to age 30. I’m not saying this for sympathy or for any dramatic effect. It was the motha fuckin truth. For a kid with no money, the first time we put our hands on that shit we finally felt like something. How old are you?”

I told him I am twenty three. His face dropped. “You’re only 23!! And you’re already in graduate school? Shit, I can’t believe it. I thought you at least were 30.”

“Maybe it’s my beard,” I told him, not exactly sure how to respond.

“Most 23 year olds are college dropouts where I’m from, if they are lucky. And you made it straight through. Damn, that’s good shit.” He could hardly believe it.

It was one of those humbling yet uncomfortable moments, where there was nothing to apologize for, but nothing that could really explain my situation either. “I was lucky, privileged, supported,” I responded, “I had no other issues to worry about except college. That was it. College was my only option.”

“We all got that shit, and not everybody gets through college like that.”

It is true—the majority of college students do not graduate in four years. In fact, only 28% of Americans hold a degree at all. But it was never a question for me. For whatever reason.

“You know, I had a different kind of schooling, and I wouldn’t want it any other way,” he told me, very proud of where he is at today. “I own a barber shop. Once I saw money for the first time, I wanted it. I graduated high school and started working at a bank. That’s the job. I started in the mail room, and before long I was a teller. You can move up in that business if you work a little at it. I could have been a personal banker in five years!”

“But I always loved cutting hair. It is like an art, and I guess I just had it. And my dad knew it. He saw how good I was at it, and he told me to go for it. It was hard for me to give up my banking job, but I knew I had to do it.”

James and I lived in the same apartment for a year, and I knew nothing about him. We left the same door, lived our own lives, and really, there was no reason that I should know him. Different ages, different upbringing, different friends.

Unless I need a haircut.

That’s how we think. What can my new friend do for me. What can I get out of him. I think it’s an American thing: new friends are people who can help you out in some way. Nothing more, nothing less.

So James could cut my hair.

“Being a barber is a special thing. We are everything: an artist, a businessman, a counselor,” he said to me. “I never know who is going to walk in that door and sit in my chair. It could be a man who just got out of prison, a gangbanger, or a prominent businessman. People tell me everything. They are looking for comfort. If their wife just cheated on them, if they robbed the shit out of a liquor store and have a search warrant against them, you name it. I’ve heard it.”

But he is there for them. Like he was there for me today, chatting it up, having a good time. Enjoying one another’s company. The same company that we could have enjoyed a year earlier, had we simply made the opportunity. As the cliché goes, “Life is full of missed opportunities.”

We grew up in different worlds, with what originally seemed different goals and options. And perhaps that is true. But throughout the whole conversation, we kept looking at each other and saying, “Why didn’t we do this a lot sooner.” We should have.

It’s true, if I need a haircut James could cut my hair. But if I need a friend, James is there for me as well.

Baseball Bangers

2007-06-05T07:09:00.000-07:00

“If I got a hundred dollars for every time a teacher would tell me ‘if he doesn’t have baseball he would be a gangbanger,’ I would be a rich man.”

These words drove him crazy.

Its not often you have the chance to meet a man of honesty. A man who dedicates five years of his life to be a volunteer baseball coach, so that he could change lives. Change the game. Use baseball as a means to education.

“You know,” he would tell me. “If these kids want to play baseball, they can get a 2.5. It’s not that hard. You go to class, turn in your assignments, you will get a 2.5.” He sees this as a problem. He gets sick of having college coaches call him up. Ask him what the students grades are, and he tells them that the player is hovering around a 2.1. “Call me when he gets a 2.5,” says the college coach. And slams down the phone. And the conversation ends there. Along with the season.

Welcome to the Chicago innercity baseball league. A lesson of standards and respect.

I met this coach at a local bar. He lived baseball. The season is over, and this coach is still wearing his high school team’s baseball hat and jersey. You could smell the sweat of a long season, a season that ended with a loss. But with pride. Successful. Over.

Tomorrow, the White Sox invited his team to the game versus the Yankees. Front row seats, batting practice with the manager, a chance to meet their idols face to face. Three of these kids may even be there one day. The recent Chicago Magazine article even highlighted this success: three Division one players, staying close to home so that they can play in front of their families. Homegrown in West Chicago. Maybe they will even play for the White Sox one day.

The coach, my new friend, will never forget the legend, who loomed over this team for a devastatingly long 20 years. “I’ll never forget my first year as a coach with this team,” he told me with a subtle hint of nostalgia. “I had been an assistant coach for four games, and we were on the bus, and one of the players started mouthing off about the head coach. ‘This is bullshit,’ the player complained. Another player chimed in, ‘yeah, what the hell.’ The legend overheard, and was clearly annoyed. When the bus pulled up to the field, the team exited the bus. The legend told his assistants to stay put. The team exited the bus, and walked to the field, waiting for their coach—their leader—to lead them. He stayed put, along with his assistants. ‘If they think they know everything, let them coach. Fuck em.’ The team kept looking back, until they realized the coaches weren’t leaving. They were forced to make the lineup on their own. They kept looking back to the bus to see when their leader would finally give in and lead them. He stayed put. The game started, and they were still without a coach. Each inning, they looked back to the bus. Nothing. The game ended. They got killed. ‘I hope they learned their fucking lesson,’ the coach snarled.”

It was a lesson of respect. Of learning from those who know, of questioning an authority that is not supposed to be questioned.

The new coach, my friend, just laughed. “He sure was something,” he said of his old boss.

“I love baseball,” he told me. “I grew up playing the sport, watching it on tv, driving past ball fields and not being able to keep going. I had to stop and watch. It is a part of me. But it’s a game. These kids have to be accountable to their game, their passion, their sport. If I have a student with a 1.9 GPA who can throw, what good is it? They still won’t go to college. They probably won’t make the pros, and what then? We have baseball, we have leverage, and we must use it.”

And he told me the stories. Of how one of his players got an F in his English class. The student went the following day to his teacher, told her that he has a family problem, and she let him redo it. She changed the grade to a C. When my friend the baseball coach went and asked the teacher why she changed the grade, she responded, “He needs to play baseball. Its all he has. If he doesn’t have baseball, he will join a gang.”

He cringed. Again and again.

The coach just instituted a new policy: each player must receive a 2.5 or above to play on the team. The state’s rule is 2.0. There are just too many innercity kids who cannot reach a 2.5, and we don’t want to prevent them from playing baseball. That’s how he says the State sees it, and he’s sick of it. “If they really want to play baseball, they can get a 2.5,” he tells me. “We will help them, support them, but I know they can get a 2.5. These kids are not stupid.” And he had to fight for this rule. Hard. Nobody thought the players could do it.

The low standards drive him crazy. “We are telling these kids that they cannot do it, they cannot make it. Of course if you tell them that, and give them an out, they are not going to succeed. We have baseball, a game of respect. The highest standard they have ever had in their life. Lets use it.”

He tells the story of one of his players. The kid received two Fs in his latest classes and was suspended for the next game. At this game, the player’s father showed up. The father was a prominent preacher in the community. When his son did not take the field, the preacher asked the coach, “Why isn’t my son playing?” “Because he’s been suspended because he got two Fs in his classes,” the coach answered. “He did?” replied the preacher dumbfounded.

The legend built a program based on standards and respect. You didn’t question him, or you worried that he may not lead you and coach your team. So did the new coach, by using baseball as a means to promote higher educational standards and encourage the players to succeed in the classroom. You don’t meet the requirements, you don’t play. If you don’t respect yourself, you can’t lead yourself. Both are lessons in respect.

“Just please don’t tell me they’ll be gangbangers,” said the coach.

Immigration Reform: Saving American Politics

2007-05-24T14:48:00.001-07:00

Immigration reform has the potential to save American politics.

Both the debate going on in America regarding immigration, and the reform bill itself are re-energizing U.S. politics in a transformative manner.

In the past year, thousands of people who have never been involved in politics have taken to the streets to demand for immigration reform. Restaurants closed, streets were blocked off, and businesses shortened their hours, all so that people in America could have their voices heard. Similarly, even anti-immigrant groups are strongly engaging themselves in the democratic process: going to the streets, writing their congressmen, and uniting together.

Everyone is affected.

For the past five years, the Iraq War has dominated our political minds. The war has depleted our economy, divided our nation (and our world), and created an atmosphere of cynicism. Although the beginning of the war saw many protests, these marches were largely ignored by politicians as a bunch of anti-war hippies who were looking to re-create the Vietnam era. Now, the Iraq War has become an inevitable disaster with no foreseeable end in sight.

That said, it would be easy to give up on American democracy today. But thank god for immigration reform.

I had the chance to hear Illinois Governor Blagojevich at a rally to mostly Hispanic immigrants this past weekend. At the rally, I had the same feeling I had in Pretoria, South Africa where I attended an event for National Women’s Day which turned into a grand celebration of freedom. Ditto the event in Santiago, Chile which honored the end of Chilean dictatorship. This rally reminded me of being in the midst of a youthful democracy.

Young democracies have the passion, hope and optimism that bring people out to the polls and choose inspiring candidates. Although they may not have the adequate institutions that a long-lived democracy has, it has the key to any democratic society: wide-spread, mass participation.

If the immigration reform does in fact pass, an estimated 12 million immigrants will join the U.S. political process. Not to mention all of the already documented immigrants who will be further encouraged to get involved in the political process. Not to mention all of the anti-immigrant activists who have been given a new cause to fight against. Not to mention various other minority groups that can ride some of this political steam.

At Governor Blagojevich’s rally, the Illinois Coalition of Immigrant and Refugee Rights brought their Mobile Action Campaign, which focuses on bringing electoral politics to the immigrant community of Illinois. The ICIRR sets up computers at mass political events, and encourages participants to write their congressmen and legislators. The ICIRR assists with all of the logistics. For most of these people, it is the first time they have ever had any influence in U.S. politics.

People care again.

But immigrants are not the only ones who have been re-inspired to get involved in American democracy. Even my Grandma cares. She recently emailed me, “This whole undocumented immigrant situation is sad. Everyone's ancestors were immigrants, documented & un. They should leave these people alone. Who should I write to? With what comments?” Seriously, my grandma wants to get involved!

But immigration reform also affects our institutionalized democracy. Our policy makers in Washington are directly affected. My friend who works for a Senator in Washington, told me that her phones were ringing off the hook when the immigration reform deal was announced. For the next few days.

Senator John McCain, who hasn’t raised a vote in the Senate in weeks, escaped the presidential campaign to announce the reform. For the first time yet, presidential candidates have actually had to take a stand for their beliefs on immigration, issuing statements, amendments, and potential votes that may even set them apart from candidates in their own party. This has not happened with the Iraq War, health care, or other social issues.

Immigration reform has the potential to bring a whole new kind of politics not only to Washington, but to America as a whole. It will bring a young new group of people energized in the political process, and it can help align the institutions in Washington with what is happening on the ground.

Al Gore writes in his soon-to-be-released book that “reason, logic and truth seem to play a sharply diminished role in the way America now makes important decisions” and that the country’s public discourse has become “less focused and clear, less reasoned.” As Michiko Kakutani assesses Gore’s book, she writes that “he diagnose [s] the ailing condition of America as a participatory democracy — low voter turnout, rampant voter cynicism, an often ill-informed electorate, political campaigns dominated by 30-second television ads, and an increasingly conglomerate-controlled media landscape.”

The immigration reform debate and potential legislation is already changing this.

I’ve been trying to think of ways to “American Idol-icize” U.S. politics—make politics as entertaining, widespread, and accessible as the TV show (more people vote for American Idol than they do for the United States presidency). The immigration debate and subsequent legislation may do just that.

Let's Play Ball!

2007-05-18T17:14:00.001-07:00

A friend once told me an interesting story. When she was in high school, her teacher showed the class an aerial map of a major city. The map designated distinct ethnic groups in different colors. On the map, a large ethnic group lived in a big portion of the southern side of the city, with very little other groups. A large immigrant group lived on the west, along with distinct patches of a few others. The majority population lived in the North. The map showed a city that was incredibly segregated, with a significant amount of diversity, but almost no integration.

The teacher then asked the class what city they thought it was.

"Johannesburg," one student replied, as this was during the time of apartheid.

"Jerusalem," another student answered, remembering the intense schism between Jews and Palestinians.

A third student mentioned Delhi, because the class had just learned about the caste system in India.

"You are all wrong," said the teacher. "It is your very own Chicago.

The students could not believe it, but it was true.

------

This discussion clearly leads us to America’s pastime: baseball.

America's pastime can still bring out the best—and worst, of our country. Today, interleague play begins, reminding us that winter is over, climate change still has a ways to go before it destroys a good game, and Americans still care more about a silly sport than they do about the war in Iraq.

And ironically, a professional baseball team can tell us a lot about our cities and states. Take the Yankees: striving to be perfect, and willing to spend anything to get there and be dominant. Sounds like New York to me. The Minnesota Twins: a smart team which grows homegrown talent that comes back to impress its fans, but has had trouble breaking through in the playoffs recently. A little like Minneapolis: a city that is “up there,” but still often considered flyover country by many. The Milwaukee Brewers: their name says it all. Kansas City: they have a team?

And that brings us to Chicago, which has two teams. The Chicago White Sox head up the Red Line this afternoon to take on their inner-city rivals, the Cubs at Wrigley Field. The trash-talking has begun, those adorning different jerseys jaw throughout the city, and the wind has even picked up to remind us that we do live in the Windy City, regardless of who we cheer for.

But while Chicago has two teams, they could very well have two distinct cities as well, differentiated by the geographic—and thus ethnic, socioeconomic, and racial differences that set the Cubs and the White Sox apart. The South Side versus the North Side. Black versus white. Developed versus underdeveloped. Yuppie versus blue collar. Highly publicized versus the forgotten. And we could go on and on…

Clearly this is oversimplifying the issue, and the complexities of Chicago run far deeper than a black and white divide. But the city has yet to merge the differences between the North and the South sides, and it remains incredibly segregated, just like the aerial map that the teacher alluded to in my introductory story.

Take the education system. This year, 27 Chicago Public School students have been killed. 20 out of the 27 students attended school on the South Side, whereas only 5 on the North Side (2 attended school on the divide). The Chicago Public Schools remain very segregated, especially when you exclude magnet schools. In many ways, the South Side remains a different world from the rest of Chicago, as these deaths show. Gang violence is more common, schools under perform, and poverty is a much larger problem.

When somebody tells me that Mayor Daley is doing great things for the city of Chicago, I ask them, “Which Chicago?”

Yesterday I went to a baseball game between two CPS high school teams. It was played on a neutral field, near downtown, but one team was fully Hispanic, while the other was all African American. It was great to see parents coming out to support their children, and how a game of baseball could bring communities together.

But during the whole game, I could not stop thinking about how it was two teams—albeit ethnic groups—against each other. Like in any game, the fans rallied around their particular team, the teammates supported one another on their own team, and people had a good time. But there was little, if no interaction between the two teams.

And this represents Chicago as a whole today. The Windy City is abuzz with the White Sox-Cubs rivalry, and finally fans from both sides are integrated in the same space. But as I overheard a Cubs fan saying today, “I just hope I don’t have to sit next to a Sox Fan!”

Med School Motivation

2007-05-16T07:55:00.000-07:00

I met a beautiful girl the other day. Cool, smart, great smile, finishing up her second year of med school. Perfect for me.

She’s getting married in two weeks.

I kind of expected it, and in fact was very happy for her. We were chatting at a party with a few other friends, and we started laughing when she told us about the guy she was marrying. Third year med student, good-looking, hard worker, go-getter. Perfect couple. Power couple; all of the good ones seem to marry each other!

A friend, who is a teacher at the Chicago Public Schools, and I laughed about how the doctors were marrying each other. “What the hell, I need my rich doctor!” I joked as we admitted to ourselves that we would have to end up with one another, living a life with salaries that amounted to the doctors’ income tax refund. Oh well, at least we would be happy.

But this recent trend of higher income professionals marrying one another is actually one of the contributors to the rising inequality of the past 20 years. In her great analysis of this phenomenon, Annie Murphy Paul wrote in the New York Times Magazine a few months ago, “Once, it was commonplace for doctors to marry nurses and executives to marry secretaries. Now the wedding pages are stocked with matched sets, men and women who share a tax bracket and even an alma mater.” This prompted economist Gary Burtless’s 2003 analysis which found that a rising correlation of husband-and-wife earnings accounted for 13 percent of the considerable growth in economic inequality between 1979 and 1996.

Another buddy of mine joined our conversation, and we mentioned to him that our friend was getting married. He quickly commented, “Nice! You have such great child-bearing hips.” She smacked him.

I laughed at my friend’s irreverence, wondering if we were really in 2007. I then asked the soon-to-be doctor what kind of doctor she wanted to be when she was all done with school. “Oh, I don’t want to practice medicine. It’s not conducive to raising a family,” she replied. So what do you want to do? “Go into business, or something,” She responded.

What?!! I agree, that being a doctor may not be conducive to being a mother (although I think there are definitely ways to still be a great mother and doctor), and am very sympathetic to these feelings she has. But why are you going to med school then? To meet your husband? And to just casually brush off med school already…?

I know tons of kids who have dreams of being doctors. They enter college, put themselves through pre-med misery, and slave for hours over the MCATs. Because they want to be doctors so they can practice medicine. And they still may not get into med school. I still think being a physician is one of the few true “careers” left, where you can make a life of being a doctor. And to have someone who really doesn’t care about the profession simply do it to do it bothers me, especially when we are in desperate need of passionate doctors.

I admit that I don’t know her true motivation for going to med school, so I may be completely wrong. And I don’t know the pressures that she may have upon her. And I do not know what its like to have the pressures of making a career and being a mother. Plus, I guess this phenomenon is true of any profession out there, and America is a free country. She can do what she wants.

And I suppose she does have great child-bearing hips.

My grandmother thinks that women should not be in med school, because they take a spot of a male doctor. I disagree with her. But med school students, who already know that they will not be doctors, take the place of much-needed physicians.

Northwestern Assault: Bridging the Gap

2007-05-10T15:43:00.000-07:00

I am extremely saddened and upset about last night’s news that a 22-year old woman was sexually assaulted two blocks from Northwestern University. This hit close to home. Not only because I lived within blocks from this assault for two years and attended Northwestern, but also because it reminds me that no matter where you are in the world, it may not be safe.

But this event shows that we as part of the Northwestern community must move beyond viewing Northwestern as a bubble—the safe, elite, academic world that does not exist in connection with its immediate surroundings.

Most Northwestern students have walked through this neighborhood several times, either drunk or sober, without paying any attention to what’s around. For many of us, the only time we even noticed our Evanston neighbors was when we pissed on their lawns—clearly not truly noticing them at all. When students heard Evanston residents complain about the disrespect of college students, the overwhelming response was always, “What did you expect? You are living right next to a college campus. Don’t move here if you don’t like it.”

Northwestern is a bubble, and we like it that way. But this sexual assault highlights a larger problem that is true of Northwestern and many elite colleges across our country: isolationism and unwillingness to be part of the surrounding community.

The Duke lacrosse case is an extreme example of the dangers of a college remaining too isolated from its surrounding community. In this case Duke, the elite university, was immediately placed in direct opposition to the city of Durham when a woman accused three Duke lacrosse players of raping her. An us-versus-them attitude took hold in the city itself, but also across the world where those following the story took sides. The results of the case are now infamous, as the accuser’s allegations failed to prove that a rape took place, but the divisiveness between the school and the community have yet to be healed.

It takes a major story like the Duke lacrosse case or the Northwestern sexual assault to highlight these divisions, but it will take a much longer and sustained effort by the schools and surrounding communities to bridge the gap.

But bridge the gap we must.

Fostering a closer relationship between a college and its surrounding community not only will help prevent these incidents from occurring in the future, but also to educate the students of what is actually happening around them. Another world exists out there!

And communities will certainly benefit by having the college students and institutions engage them: by enhancing research, adding valuable resources, and offering an intellectual atmosphere (and I could go on and on).

Bridging the gap between colleges and their surrounding community may not directly stop rapes and violence. We still need better policing, provide women with the proper resources, and even create more campus housing. But it will awaken us to the realities of the real world, which happens to be only a few blocks away.

Engagement of the Disengaged

2007-05-09T15:28:00.000-07:00

The recent news that 6 men have been arrested in a terror plot against Fort Dix, a military base in the United States is certainly discouraging and potentially dangerous. The men are Muslim, had Jihadist influence, and are immigrants from various parts of the world. Because of these factors, this event has immediately been framed as part of “The War on Terror” by the American media, law enforcement officials, and politicians.

For example, United States Attorney Christopher J. Christie commented, “This is a new brand of terrorism where a small cell of people can bring enormous devastation.” J. P. Weiss, special agent in charge of the F.B.I.’s Philadelphia office added: “We had a group that was forming a platoon to take on an army. They identified their target, they did their reconnaissance. They had maps. And they were in the process of buying weapons. Luckily, we were able to stop that.”

Clearly, we are at war.

But wait. As the story unfolds, it becomes more and more clear that these 6 people had no foreign connections to Al Qaeda or any other terrorist organization. Tony Snow acknowledged this at a press conference this morning. In fact, they had been in the United States for quite some time, and went to public school in Cherry Hill, New Jersey.

To me, Cherry Hill sounds a lot like Littleton, Colorado, where 2 students are infamous for their attack on Columbine High School. In fact, the tapes of the alleged attackers sound very similar to the tapes released of Seung-Hui Cho: angry (specifically towards American society), isolated, and strange. But the Columbine attack and the Virginia Tech “massacre” were not framed within “The War on Terror,” although many may argue that school shootings are a scary form of domestic terrorism.

Nonetheless, whether we are talking about foreign terrorists or domestic school killers, both share a common feature: they are disengaged from their surrounding society and will do whatever it takes to harm it. This is clearly a challenge that needs to be addressed, but it does not fit within the current context of “The War on Terror.”

Framing our challenges solely in the context of “The War on Terror” does not address the crux of the problem of which we are talking: disengagement from American society.

Instead let us start a new mission: “Engagement of the Disengaged.”

A little conversation, please?

2007-05-08T16:46:00.000-07:00

I called a high school college counselor today to notify her of a scholarship opportunity. She proceeded to tell me her school’s procedure for scholarships: 1) they post it on some website, 2) Students are expected to come into the office to pick up applications if they are interested, 3) They have copies of applications in the office (behind some door).

I asked her if they would like a representative from the scholarship organization to speak to her students, and she said no. I asked her if she would distribute the applications to the proper students (the students who would be most interested and were certainly eligible), and she told me "that's not what we do here." I asked her if the foundation could send applications to students or make sure they get them, same answer.

I then asked her if she has ever talked to her students and if she cares about them, and she responded "I'm underpaid." Just kidding, I did not go there. But I could imagine the answer as I frustratingly hung up the phone.

God bless the Online Revolution. Google has become our legos, while Youtube is our Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Entertainment that becomes so much a part of our lives, that it is no longer merely entertainment. It is a way of life (as I sit here and write on my blog). Not only is it the way we do things, but it is the way things are done.

For some people.

We are becoming too reliant on the web for explanations, and much too often simply refer others to “the website.” Many people have a simple question that would take 45 minutes to find on the FAQ section of the website. But most importantly, many people—and I use students at lower-achieving high schools (like the one I called) as an example—simply do not seek out information on a website, especially when they have no clue that information exists there. People need face to face communication, and they need others to reach out to. They also need to reach out to others, and learn the proper ways to do so.

The web can be a great means to an ends—a helpful tool to get somewhere—but it is not the only means, and it is certainly not the ends itself.

Ishmael Beah, Child Soldiers, and Us

2007-05-08T16:40:00.003-07:00

Meet Ishmael Beah. Sierra Leonean, American, political science major, humanist, hip-hop lover, witty, funny, good-looking, one of the guys. Oh, and he also used to be a child soldier. Now he is the author of the book, A Long Way Gone: memoirs of a boy soldier.” It is definitely a book worth reading, to gain an inside understanding of what it’s like to live in the thick of a civil war, and then end up fighting in it.

Beah brings a personal dimension to war, which is often overlooked by the structural problems of the world and of the incredible violence that is reported. When I typically think about soldiers in a war, the following questions quickly pop to the top of my head: Who is he fighting for? Who is he fighting against? Why is he fighting? Then I think about the reasons for the war: Is it for money? Nationalism? Religion? Tribalism? All of these questions are important.

But Beah transcends these questions and brings war to a very simple level. Beah fights because he was placed in a war-torn circumstance. He doesn’t fight for money, or for his country. Not for diamonds or for his tribe. He fights because that is what he had to do to survive at that particular moment. When reading this book, I got the sense that Beah could have been anybody.

I had the chance to recently hear Beah speak. In the discussion that followed, a professor in the audience commented that we had child soldiers in the United States, but that they go by the name of Vicelords, Crips, Bloods, GDs, etc. He was right. And they are just normal kids like all of us.

Which brings me to a funny story that sums all this up. When I went to hear Beah speak, I jumped on the elevator and a beautiful girl walked in after me. We began talking, and we immediately hit it off; we were both going to hear Beah speak. After the discussion, we began speaking again. She asked me what I do, and then she told me that she was an actress. My face dropped. She even said to me, “I am so glad I met you.” This was my lucky day. Finally, we were waiting outside the elevators in one of those awkward “how do we say goodbye moments” and Beah walked by. Beah got on the elevator, and asked her, “You coming?” (They had obviously known each other, or had planned to go out afterwards). The elevator closed and I was left there alone.

Not only is he a normal man like all of us. But he is a stud too.

One Acre Fund

2007-05-06T14:58:00.001-07:00

The One Acre Fund (www.oneacrefund.org) supports local farmers in Africa by providing the essential materials and education to farm successfully in Africa. They subsequently assist with finding a market for the farmers’ crops. In a community in which families are harmed by perpetual hunger, the One Acre Fund empowers the chronically hungry to pull themselves out of poverty. While the One Acre Fund is a non-profit organization, it uses a business model to invest in the families it supports. It sets itself apart from microfinance institutions because it does not hold the families in debt. Instead, it takes a cut of the profits from each harvest and reinvests into other harvests. If a harvest fails, the family is not left in debt; if the harvest succeeds, farmers and the One Acre Fund both benefit. This will create a completely sustainable model in the long term.

Sounds great on paper, right? So how is the One Acre Fund able to succeed with a foreign business model in the local community politics of Africa? According to Youn, “We have actually had a very easy time with local political leaders. This is primarily because we have a contact in the area who grew up in the area and basically went to high school with half the political leadership in the area. We always look for links like this, and will continue to try to find those “key connectors,” and so far have not had any issues.” That said, this promises to be a considerable challenge as the One Acre Fund expands to other communities, and must deal with the political struggles of corruption that plague Kenya as a whole, especially at the local level.

A mixed view of Kellogg

2007-05-06T14:55:00.000-07:00

Someone told me once that there are only two values that are true of all cultures—incest with one’s mother is wrong, and it is essential to bury or dispose of the dead in some honorable way. Let’s add another: when you are done lifting weights at a gym, put your weights back on the rack. My professor in college has traveled everywhere in the world—the Caucasus, everywhere in Africa, Latin America, Australia, and everywhere else—and he said that in all those places, people clean up after themselves at the gym by re-racking their weights. One exception: at Northwestern University, where the Kellogg students leave their weights on the floor for the people who lift after them to clean up.

This is always how I’ve viewed Kellogg students: too arrogant and into themselves to feel they need to clean up after themselves. But over the past year, I have been extremely impressed with Kellogg's willingness to make a difference in the Chicago community and in the world. At the Illinois Education Foundation’s (www.iledfoundation.org), mentoring program, there are 8 Kellogg grads serving as mentors. Yesterday I had the chance to attend the Town Hall meeting of an incredible organization, the One Acre Fund (www.oneacrefund.org), founded by Kellogg alum Andrew Youn. Their Board of Directors consists of all Kellogg students, and their investment council is predominantly Kellogg grads as well. Impressive.

Welcome to Universalism is Dead?

2007-05-06T13:22:00.000-07:00

This blog is inspired by the most challenging and pressing question of our time: where do the global and the local interact?

We are not in a grand clash of civilizations as Samuel Huntington would lead us to believe, nor in a fight of good versus evil as many of our leaders suggest. This is not us versus them. While Thomas Friedman argues that the world is flat, at the same time, the world has never been so rocky. Instead, we are in an era where the local affects the global, and vice versa, like never before.

Global warming, terrorism, poverty, and globalization are all global phenomena, yet they affect local communities and cultures in a dangerous way. Similarly, terrorism no longer terrorizes only its immediate victims, greenhouse emissions do not pollute simply its direct atmosphere, and poverty does not just threaten the poverty-stricken individuals.

Just after the Cold War, it seemed our world was undergoing a swift move towards universalism: a social, political, and cultural—albeit global—order which could be conceived as being true in all possible contexts without creating a contradiction. Democracy won out, the free market globalized, human rights gained momentum, and it was up to the leaders of our nations to push these universal values forward. Clearly, it was not that simple, and framing these issues in this context does no good today. Instead, today’s world poses a stunning predicament: Is Universalism dead?

This blog will explore global issues, which play out in our local communities. It will investigate local activity, which can not be understood without a global understanding. Most importantly, it will grapple with the global and local phenomena that can not be clearly defined as either or.

In third grade, my teacher tried to drill the motto “Think globally, act locally” into the minds of my classmates and myself. It didn’t make sense to me then. But today, you can’t do one without the other.