I have amply illustrated the peeves of being a world traveler, or a world chump. Being exposed to malaria and HIV, the possibility of civil unrest, people who drive cars as if they’re being paid by the accident, and natural disasters the results of which will make Hurricanes Katrina and Ike -by all respect for victims of said disasters - look as entertaining as Katrina and the Waves by comparison are possibilities we need to be aware of day in and day out. Sudden disease or death lurks wherever we go.
Which is not to say there are no perks.
One of them was moving into our new home, a three storied brick house that has made us forget that we ever had apartments the size of sardine cans in Washington or New York. Where do you start? The gate on wheels at the front. The walls surrounding the premises crowned by barbed wire. The multiple rooms with enough space to host an entire circus, plus the animals. The huge balconies that alone could house a small family. The roving patrols who can be reached more quickly than a Congressman on your corporate payroll.
There is a view of the airplanes taking off from the airport - in the opposite direction, so we can enjoy watching them as they soar above the mountaintops like eagles over the canopy of a forest. There is domestic help tending to us and little Axl whenever we choose. There is a washer and dryer, several AC’s, government issued furniture (okay, so that is not necessarily a perk), and water and electricity bills paid for by Joe and Jane P. Taxpayer. How do you like them apples, or, better yet, shrimp cocktails?
In short, let’s just say that it is bigger than anything we are ever likely to have, and that anything short of a lucky lottery draw or a bailout by Congress will never, ever see us live like this in the west.
But let’s flip the coin here and not legally change our names to Vanderbilt and Rockefeller just yet, shall we? Anybody who has ever seen Beverly Hills knows there’s a South Central, and for every Upper East Side there’s a Bronx. What we did not count on was that the Bronx would be next door.
There is a two-storied house, uneven in shape, as if the architect that day had had a few martinis too many. Inside resides a family with five little children (at last count). Whoops, make it six. These kids look like some of the poorest and lowest that I have seen since the big shantytowns of Casablanca - all grime, clothes that haven’t been washed for days, the thousand yard stare you know from Marines, or from people who have seen too much too soon in their lives. They wash their clothes and themselves in a large pan. On the top floor that leads out to the roof, there’s a little coop (for what? Live animals? People?) under the clotheslines. There is little doubt that at some time this family will be asking for help, and I certainly hope we can oblige in any way we can. This is poverty we can’t begin to contemplate in the west.
Across the dirt road that leads to our house is a series of one storied brick buildings covered by corrugated tin roofs, yet further proof that this can hardly be labeled as the ’rich part of town’. Even South Central in L.A. would look like Disneyland to these people. Inside, I can see women weaving baskets. Their wardrobe is a direct contrast to the shiny and colorful garbs flaunted by most women here. Their colors are faded, holes inundate their dresses so regularly, as if they were part of the actual motif. And yet they chat merrily, sipping tea and tending to their work.
If you look over the spiked gate, there are dozens of kids playing on the dirt road, their little clothes a direct reflection of the rags worn by their elders. Too poor to even kick a makeshift soccer ball (one made of socks, old clothes, or weeds) around, they must be extra creative to entertain themselves. No Gameboy or Playstation or Tickle-me-Elmo here, just good old fashioned running around, hide and go seek, your basic sticks and stones replacing the legos and building blocks: physical exercises that will work out their emaciated forms and distract from that rumbling sound in their little guts. And yet their laugh is more authentic than any you will ever see in the west. Is it more desirable to be poor then? Questions.
In the evening, before bedtime, I play with Axl, his little cute fat belly puffed out like the chest of a peacock with all of his plumage. Unlike our neighbors in the Bronx or South Central, he will go to bed on a full stomach. Yet, next door I can still hear children chasing each other up the stairs, using the last bit of daylight before they collapse into their beds (and I kind of doubt they have beds) and wait for the next morning.
Another plane lifts off in the distance. A lot of westerners will wish to be on that plane after they realize what they have signed up here for. I hope I won’t be one of them.
Which is not to say there are no perks.
One of them was moving into our new home, a three storied brick house that has made us forget that we ever had apartments the size of sardine cans in Washington or New York. Where do you start? The gate on wheels at the front. The walls surrounding the premises crowned by barbed wire. The multiple rooms with enough space to host an entire circus, plus the animals. The huge balconies that alone could house a small family. The roving patrols who can be reached more quickly than a Congressman on your corporate payroll.
There is a view of the airplanes taking off from the airport - in the opposite direction, so we can enjoy watching them as they soar above the mountaintops like eagles over the canopy of a forest. There is domestic help tending to us and little Axl whenever we choose. There is a washer and dryer, several AC’s, government issued furniture (okay, so that is not necessarily a perk), and water and electricity bills paid for by Joe and Jane P. Taxpayer. How do you like them apples, or, better yet, shrimp cocktails?
In short, let’s just say that it is bigger than anything we are ever likely to have, and that anything short of a lucky lottery draw or a bailout by Congress will never, ever see us live like this in the west.
But let’s flip the coin here and not legally change our names to Vanderbilt and Rockefeller just yet, shall we? Anybody who has ever seen Beverly Hills knows there’s a South Central, and for every Upper East Side there’s a Bronx. What we did not count on was that the Bronx would be next door.
There is a two-storied house, uneven in shape, as if the architect that day had had a few martinis too many. Inside resides a family with five little children (at last count). Whoops, make it six. These kids look like some of the poorest and lowest that I have seen since the big shantytowns of Casablanca - all grime, clothes that haven’t been washed for days, the thousand yard stare you know from Marines, or from people who have seen too much too soon in their lives. They wash their clothes and themselves in a large pan. On the top floor that leads out to the roof, there’s a little coop (for what? Live animals? People?) under the clotheslines. There is little doubt that at some time this family will be asking for help, and I certainly hope we can oblige in any way we can. This is poverty we can’t begin to contemplate in the west.
Across the dirt road that leads to our house is a series of one storied brick buildings covered by corrugated tin roofs, yet further proof that this can hardly be labeled as the ’rich part of town’. Even South Central in L.A. would look like Disneyland to these people. Inside, I can see women weaving baskets. Their wardrobe is a direct contrast to the shiny and colorful garbs flaunted by most women here. Their colors are faded, holes inundate their dresses so regularly, as if they were part of the actual motif. And yet they chat merrily, sipping tea and tending to their work.
If you look over the spiked gate, there are dozens of kids playing on the dirt road, their little clothes a direct reflection of the rags worn by their elders. Too poor to even kick a makeshift soccer ball (one made of socks, old clothes, or weeds) around, they must be extra creative to entertain themselves. No Gameboy or Playstation or Tickle-me-Elmo here, just good old fashioned running around, hide and go seek, your basic sticks and stones replacing the legos and building blocks: physical exercises that will work out their emaciated forms and distract from that rumbling sound in their little guts. And yet their laugh is more authentic than any you will ever see in the west. Is it more desirable to be poor then? Questions.
In the evening, before bedtime, I play with Axl, his little cute fat belly puffed out like the chest of a peacock with all of his plumage. Unlike our neighbors in the Bronx or South Central, he will go to bed on a full stomach. Yet, next door I can still hear children chasing each other up the stairs, using the last bit of daylight before they collapse into their beds (and I kind of doubt they have beds) and wait for the next morning.
Another plane lifts off in the distance. A lot of westerners will wish to be on that plane after they realize what they have signed up here for. I hope I won’t be one of them.
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