Western Guilt & Mid-life Crisis in Sub-Saharan Africa

It's now been nearly three months since I could hold my wife and kiss her.  Three perpetually long months since I could enjoy a meal in her company, or just walk with her hand in mine as we stroll along the ocean.  As many brownie points as I may seem to be building for future "get out of jail free" situations, the truth is that I've never truly valued these simple things as much as I do now.  And, to avoid shooting myself in the foot here, I'll add that it's not that I never valued them, I just never knew how bloody much.

From where I'm sitting, perched high upon the virtual soap box that this blog has become, my view of life has suddenly become diametrically opposite.  I crave being home, and I miss all of the luxuries that a western lifestyle brings, but I've come to learn that there is nothing quite so refreshing as finding out your assumptions about life were wrong---and often.

I've been extremely busy this week, and the previous weeks have become nothing more than peripheral blurs.  One of the goals I'm working on with the organization I'm with is to establish the socioeconomic status of the children who attend the school I'm working at.  We do this so that we can determine which children are living in the worst forms of poverty: children living in extreme poverty are lucky to eat once a day, never mind their parents dreaming about sending them to school.  So, once we determine which children are the most disadvantaged, we can send out pleas for sponsorship.  

Part and parcel of this process involves walking through the many clusters of villages in the region, shaking hands and breaking bread as we record the stories of these people's lives.  Thankfully I have one of the teachers (Lydia) accompanying me, otherwise I would quickly become lost and coerced into many meals: the people in these villages have very little, but they would give away their last meal just to let you know that you are welcome.

Lydia and I set out this afternoon under the most oppresive heat I have ever felt; the dry season is quickly approaching, and it promises to be exactly that.  The big African sun bakes any hint of moisture out of the atmosphere, and, if you have any interest in knowing what it's like, I highly suggest turning your oven broiler on high, then sticking your head in it...maybe throw on a toque while you're at it just for the full effect.  

As we walked along the many snaking trails that the villager's bare feet have carved out over the years, I could hear a chorus of children's voices in the distance.  "Muno! Muno! Muno!" they yelled (which literally means "white person").  The children here get extremely excited when they see a white person walking through their village.  Maybe it's novelty or youthful curiosity, but I'm becoming to liken it to playfulness.  As you walk by they will run right up to you and wave, the whole time saying "Hello Muno, how are you?".  Pull out a camera, and they will make all sorts of funny faces as they vie for your attention.  

Anyways, as Lydia and I trekked along the outskirts of the village, I absorbed the moment--much like my shirt did with the ceaseless flow of perspiration from my body.  There was something visceral about this moment, something profoundly awakening.  Incidentally, I'm now working on a book called "The Long Road to Lacor", which is about getting from one place to the next.  It's about the people of Northern Uganda, who have endured 20 years of conflict and who now look to the future with hope.  So, as shamelessly self-promoting as I'm being, watch out for it's release in the next year or so. (I'm crossing my fingers and knocking on wood for a publisher).

Back to my story....

"It is here" Lydia abruptly reported, referring to the home we were to visit.  Looking in the direction Lydia was pointing, I saw a mud hut which bore nothing that distinguished it from the other 50 huts, aside from a potter plant which hung smartly by the entrance.  

"You are welcome" said a voice from the darkness inside the hut.  As we entered, the smell of lunch filled the air.  In the corner of the hut two pots sizzled under a charcoal fire oven, releasing a fragrant mix of smoke and the most inviting smelling food.  Lydia and I were seated on the only two chairs in the hut, while the mother sat on a bamboo mat on the floor.  She warmly shook my hand and called for her daughter who was playing outside.  As her beautiful little daughter joined us, I thanked them for their time and began asking my usual host of questions which are difficult to ask, but must be asked nonetheless.  

"What is the father's name?" I asked.  As Lydia translated, I watched the mother's eyes scanning around the smoke filled air as if hoping an easy answer would reveal itself from the clouded room.  

"He is...gone...just after she conceived this child, he disappeared...he has died" came the translation from Lydia, although judging from her lengthy explanation there was much more to the story.  I watched the mother's eyes go from searching the air for answers to scanning the floor for comfort, and the muddy floor of this hut promised little consolation as I continued with my pressing questions.

"How much income do you make in a month, and how many other children do you have"? Lydia again translated.  The mother's eyes again fixated on the floor.  Her tired face wore lines much like a roadmap does, and they were telling of where she had been, but more so, where she was now: sitting on her own floor being pried with uncomfortable questions whose answers might hopefully provide tangible hope for her daughter.  She stated that she had no income and had 3 other children, one of which had died after being hit by a truck on the way to school one morning.  

A jolt of discomfort hit me as the rice that had been preparing on the charcoal stove strangely boiled over at the same time.  She attended to the stove and went on to describe how she felt that education for her daughter was the most important thing in her life.  On the same day that she had purchased her son's coffin, she discovered that she was pregnant.  She said that she believed that was a sign from God that she should not give up hope, and that her son's memory would not be forgotten.    

Her daughter, Vivian, sat fidgeting with her toes as the interview went on and would look up at me with curiosity every few minutes.  I stuck my tongue out at her each time, but she didn't react until near the end of the interview, when she shyly smiled and finally stuck out her tongue in return.  

We moved on to the next interview in silence.  Myself, because it was shocking and inspired waves of western guilt for having all that I have and still managing to find complaints, and for having to have asked such absurd questions like "how much income do you have?"  Lydia's silence however, was much more comfortable and telling of her experience with such interactions.  She grew up in the same conditions, yet she had become a teacher---herself wanting to start her own school for AIDS orphans someday.

I'm hoping that I'm not inciting a new breed of Western guilt, because that's sincerely not my intention.  I think guilt operates in a space where you tend to think more of yourself than those you're trying to help---it quite literally freezes you in your tracks and is selfish more than anything else.  I've had several discussions with other westerns here, and the vast majority of them seem to be here on some "saving the world" kind of self-gratifying, hyper-socially conscious crusade.  They seem to think that the whole "Africa" thing is about getting photo ops with African babies, singing 'kumbaya' and holding hands in a circle of love---as if doing so will summon a flock of rainbow coloured unicorns who will fly overhead and sprinkle the world with magical love dust...making it all better.

I can't say I haven't myself had my own moments of utopianism...there are some days I wake up half expecting to have a unicorn shit on me from above.  Yet, I'm coming to a place where this experience has become so much more than novelty or curiosity, it has become mid-life playfulness...if I may.  Certainly there is nothing to be "playful" about where the lives of these people are concerned.  However, I would argue that one must be willing to see the world as a child does at times...to step out of their western guilt (or whatever brought them here) and see that these are people not statistics or projects that need "saving."  

As I sit here sipping a bottle of red wine (I had to celebrate, it's Canada Day), I'm not only beginning to feel it's effects, but those of the day just past.  As such, I'm a;kldjflakdjsf;alkdsjf;al   (joking, I didn't just pass out on the keyboard)...I'm going to turn in for the evening and see what the next day brings.  

As always, I thank-you for reading.