Africa: Reflections and Narrative Story

I typed this up shortly after returning from Kenya and Tanzania, but hadn't posted it here yet. Enjoy:



We touched down in Nairobi around 9:30 pm. After traveling most of the way alone, I had been joined by Ely, a fifth-year biomedical engineering student, in London. She would become my travel partner for the rest of the trip. As we waited for our bags to come around on the carousel, I thought about the things that could have broken or fallen out along the way. An hour or so later, I found that I didn't need to worry about it, because the luggage never came anyways.

Before the months of planning that went into this trip, before I began to allocate my monetary resources, I made sure that I had the mental resources to get the most out of my time in Africa. Dambisa Moyo's Dead Aid informed me that conventional aid models have failed to alleviate poverty and in many cases, have made conditions worse. Paul Polak's Out of Poverty taught me to learn everything about the context, leverage notions of ownership and entrepreneurship, and that designing for the developing world without speaking to my "market" face to face is an exercise in futility. The Bottom Billion, by Paul Collier hit me in the face with a lot of economic data that may or may not have been ingested by my brain. Perhaps most importantly, though, my peers who had made similar travels warned me to expect everything to go wrong, so that I might be pleasantly surprised if nothing does.

We phoned the man who would be picking us up and driving us about for the next day or so, Gabriel, who had been waiting outside. We hopped into the 90's compact sedan and Gabriel phoned the advisor of the Engineers Without Borders group we would be meeting in Otho Abwao, a village of about 500 in western Kenya. Immediately the phone was handed to me without explanation, and I was informed in a familiar American accent that not only did the solar pump and several panels required for the implementation of the Otho Abwao water system not arrive in the village, but I would need to travel to the supplier in Nairobi tomorrow morning and raise hell to try to get them. I was laughing, but the man on the phone was not. Shortly, I was not either.

We got some much needed rest at the Mennonite Guest House, and I woke up naturally at 6:30 AM, as I would continue to do for the whole trip.

Nairobi is hot, dusty, but an unmistakably modern city. The drivers on the roads continually bulldogged their way around aggressively, but when someone cut us off, Gabriel let them in, because we were doing the same thing. When we arrived at the supplier's headquarters, we met a man by the name of Mr. Nawir. I postured to intimidate, but predictably failed. Instead, I pulled a 180, and asked for a tour. After all, I had things to learn, and the equipment was held up in customs, so any efforts on my part would have been fruitless anyways. I immediately understood why I had been asked to take the yoke rather than the obvious choice of Ely, who had been to the region for several months before. Everyone we spoke to together always seemed to address me. The culture is male-dominated, only noticeably in the city, but profoundly in the villages. Throughout the trip, even when Ely was doing all the talking, technical questions would often be directed to me, at which point my mouth would awkwardly fall open, and I would turn and gesture to her.

Gabriel drove us to the airport to inspect the carousel after the last British Airways flight. Along the way, he explained why he was blowing through multiple red lights:

"We can be ambushed or hijacked while sitting at a red light"

I asked if that actually happens or if it's just the news blowing things out of proportion, to which he replied, "It is common." Gabriel's English was pretty good, but I'm not sure he meant exactly that, or rather, I hope not. Fortunately we found the bags sitting in the middle of the baggage claim when we arrived, and had to slow to a stop for a small group of Zebra to cross the road on the return trip. Obviously, I was floored by this.

We gracefully rose the following morning at a bleary 5:00 to try to make up for lost time. The "Easy Coach" was our means of transportation for this leg, bouncing us energetically over the nearly 200 miles to Otho Abwao. The roads in this part of Kenya at least are riddled with doze-inhibiting potholes, and a plethora of speedbumps. Along the way we passed countless small aggregations of colorful storefronts, selling everything from Coca-Cola to computer parts. I found it continually inspiring that even in remote places with much more precarious road conditions than this street in Kenya, the indomitable resourcefulness of the entrepreneur still stocks the shelves, even if the product is delivered by a bike with a crate and a bungee strap.

We passed through Kericho, where massive tea plantations stretched across the highlands. I later learned from Treehugger.com that Lipton gets much of its tea from these fields, and employees make around $4.00 a day. With benefits, their wage exceeds the national average three-fold.

After staying on the bus longer than we should have, we were picked up in Kisumu by the family that we would be staying with, the Akulos, and one of the engineers, sitting in the passenger seat. The van made a quick stop at a market for Mrs. Akulo to pick up some mangoes. The engineer in the front seat with a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses on asked me, "Is this chaotic enough for you?"

I glanced out the window at the colorful, flourishing market and replied, "Looks pretty serene to me."

It was exciting to arrive in Otho Abwao, finally feeling like I was where I needed to be. One of the first things I noticed was that a foot-pump had already been installed in a bore-hole in the center of the village, which was surprising to me. Accepting an invitation, I hopped up and began to pump clean water up from the water table. It came out in quick spurts of pressure relative to the depression of the pedal. The pedal itself was too small for a grown man to use two feet, so the motion quickly becomes tiring and repetitive. Sometimes I would come down to see two children jumping up and down on the machine, filling water buckets or "jerry cans," often surrounded by a group of other children. Not only did the device provide safe and sanitary water, but the location had appeared to become an impromptu social gathering spot. The solar pump would be installed in the place of this foot-pump, and upon asking I found that the engineers nor the village had any plan for what to do with the original pump, which I found a bit disconcerting.

Myself and the group of seven engineers laid some HDPE pipe in the trenches that had been dug by the residents of the village. At one point I had the brief opportunity to dig (read: hack) away at the "soil," which was unbelievably dense. I had to ask if I was breaking up rocks, at which point I was assured that that was just the consistency of the dirt during the dry season. Digging the hundreds of yards of trenches required by the EWB-designed system was truly an impressive feat of perseverance.

Nearly everywhere we went, a veritable entourage of children followed the "mzungu," as they called us. We had fun taking pictures and showing them to the kids while we worked. One little girl even helped us as we passed along parts of the assembly. At one point I diverged from the group to take some photos of the cistern at the nearby school. Half of the school appeared to be made out of bricks, while the other half was constructed like a typical house out of sticks and sisal with mud and dung packed onto the walls. As I knelt down to take the picture I heard a squeal from behind me, and a group of three children that had been following us crowded together to be in the picture. I snapped the shot and showed them the picture, which induced a fit of giggles. One of the little boys had a piece of notebook in his hand.

"Do you go to school here?" I asked.
They nodded.
"How do you like it?"
They stared blankly.
"What are you learning?"
More blank stares. I extended my hand and he gave me the sheet of paper. It was filled with neatly printed numbers, although I do not remember exactly what kind of math it was. I had to smile, because I was impressed, but also because you couldn't pay me to do the math on that page without throwing up first. The only thing I could think to do that they would understand was to nod enthusiastically and say "good!"
The little girl in the group scrambled to pull out her homework too, which she handed to me. I did the same thing, at which point they started giggling again, mimicking me, "good, good." I wasn't sure if they thought I was an idiot or just liked the sound of the word, but I had to laugh too.

Africa: Reflections and Narrative Story (Part II)

Most of the children in Otho Abwao had clothes that were in relatively good condition, as well as sandals, although not all. They seemed to be pretty healthy and certainly had a great deal of energy. Perhaps my favorite find on the trip was a ball that some of the boys would kick and toss around. It had been made out of scraps of plastic and tied together with twine created from the fibers inside the abundant sisal plants.

At night in the village we would typically take bucket-showers. I eventually learned that postponing showering until the morning can be a pretty brisk experience, since the water we used was drawn from a 55-gallon bucket outside the latrines/bathroom. I slept on a mattress with a mosquito net suspended over it, which was quite a luxury in the area. I was informed that no part of my body should be touching the net, because the mosquitoes could still bite you this way.

The air inside the home was thick and hot, but the windows were left open to allow the breeze to waft intermittently inside. I would sometimes end my night by writing. Under the mosquito net with my self-powered LED lantern, listening to the foreign sounds of the east african insect orchestra, it felt like I was in a vast cocoon of otherworldly stimuli.

Unfortunately, I'm quite a restless sleeper, and every morning found that only about 1/5 of my body was covered by the mosquito net, the other 4/5 naturally being covered by mosquito bites. The first night I had passed out at a reprehensible 8:45 PM, so the little bastards had plenty of time to find the tastiest bits.

Breakfast generally consisted of chapatti and jam, and a lunch and dinner of rice, vegetable mchuzi, and some type of meat, whether it be chicken, mutton, or beef. I also relished in a little gem I discovered called Peptang Chili Garlic sauce, which made everything better, even though it was already quite delicious. Mrs. Akulo had the resources to hire some exceptionally kind women to cook and clean for her, one of which I later interviewed for her unique perspective.

In the afternoon, two of the engineers and I headed up the hill to meet with a group of people from the neighboring village. The temperature hovered around 80 in the afternoons. After spending three months sitting in various chairs in upstate New York, I had no shortage of perspiration. The setting for our rendezvous would be a giant church, which had been funded by a man from Tampa. We waited outside the church as people steadily filtered in. We noticed the existence of a very large rainwater cistern next to the church, and asked Joshua, a man who would act as our translator for the day, about it. He said that it had been built along with the church, in the mid-nineties, and was no longer functional. When we pressed him about it, he said that the pipe leading down to the tap, which was also visible, was too narrow and had become clogged. There was a brief silence, and then Ely asked what we were all thinking: "Has anyone tried to unclog it?" Joshua laughed and essentially repeated his answer to our previous question.

"Couldn't a couple of men take a day or two to try to fix it?"
"The pipe is buried much too deep," was the response.

I thought that this was an interesting insight. Even though water is incredibly scarce, and as a man would soon tell us "it is the thing that is killing [him]," attempting to repair the otherwise viable cistern did not seem to be an option. Based on first-hand empirical evidence and several books on the subject, I think this could be indicative of several things, but is most certainly at least one of them:

1. One mechanical error, design flaw, or output shortcoming can result in abandonment or non-adoption of a given technology, in favor of traditional methods. This phenomenon has been observed outside of Africa as well, most ostensibly in Central America.
2. When something is donated, no one assumes ownership, and thus the responsibility for maintenance is never assumed in a classic example of Garrett Hardin's "tragedy of the commons."
3. As a result of decades of colonialism and virtually indiscriminate aid practices from western civilizations, an overall sense of dependency has been created.
4. The men may simply not have enough time and energy to expend because of their daily responsibilities in obtaining the necessities for survival.
5. They do not have access to the necessary tools.

Soon an old man with a fedora cap and a cane approached us. We were informed that this man was known as the bishop, and that he had roused himself from bedridden illness to come meet with us. He shook our hands vigorously, and led us inside to his office, or whatever you might call it. We sat down in the chairs arranged around the small room and the bishop, through Joshua, thanked us for what we had done. When the bishop spoke, he spoke with dramatic gesticulation: clutching his heart and pantomiming as if he were wrenching the heavens from the sky and casting them about the room. In fact, I was quite convinced at several points that he was completely pissed off at us, but the translation always turned out to be something benign.

When the assembly had filled out, we entered the room, confronted by an anticipating audience of adults, about half men and half women, automatically segregating themselves to their respective gender group. What followed was a very unfortunate state of affairs which was not fair to either of us.

Our presence in the meeting was to gain the necessary information to apply for a project on the village's behalf. Apparently the word had been spread that we would begin implementation of a similar project following the Otho Abwao implementation, so hearing that we were only in the very first stages of the application process and we could not make any guarantees, the people were understandably agitated.

It's an unfortunate circumstance to try to resolve when you want to help. Telling the group that we would certainly be returning with a water distribution system designed specifically for them may give them hope in the short term, but if the application was rejected, they would find themselves waiting in vain. If we tell them we can make no guarantees, we look like petty bureaucrats and the people may be temporarily incensed, but they will have realistic expectations. Rightly, I think, we chose the latter. There was some very tangible tension, but they were clamoring to help when Ely told them we could get started on gathering health information immediately (regarding the incidence of water-borne disease).

That night I glimpsed some lightning on the horizon and I wished that we might wake to find there had been a downpour. The land desperately needed the moisture, and I would have loved to have seen how the village reacted. Alas, we had no such luck.

The following morning the EWB group packed up their things and left after a breakfast of chapattis and juicy mango, leaving Ely and I the only mzungu in the village. I have to admit, I didn't do an incredible amount of work toward the implementation of the water system, due in part to the fact that we simply arrived much later. Regardless, I felt a sense of freedom which I indulged by wandering around the village with Ely, poking and prodding at vegetation, asking questions and generally entertaining my unbridled curiosity. At the end of our wandering, we had to pass behind an old woman's house, who was asleep in her yard. A radio next to the cloth she laid on played colorful tunes while her head rested on a rock.

Ely had created an agenda for herself, which involved teaching a lesson about germs to the children in the school. I had no predetermined plan, and thought it might be fun and educational for myself, so we split up the lesson between the two of us and headed down to the school.

We stepped through a gate into the dry and cracked dirt of what might have been a playground. Some of the children craned their heads to look at us through the windows. I sometimes wondered what I might have looked like from their perspective - my bed-head crammed into a brown cap, forcing my hair to stick straight out from beneath it like a great stringy mane with a goofy pale face in the middle.

Soon we were standing in front of the remarkably attentive class, delivering our lesson with the aid of some nasty pictures of bacteria. Earlier we briefed the teachers on the agenda, and had encountered an interesting dilemma that I still don't fully understand. The younger children did not know enough english to understand us, so the teachers would translate into Luo. Apparently because there was not a proper translation, at least not that the kids would understand, whenever the teachers spoke about germs, they would use the word for "dirt." So, when we told the children that "when you play in the dirt, you can get germs on your hands," the teacher may have very well translated it in the "mother tongue" as "when you play in the dirt, you can get dirt on your hands." Overall though, the teachers seemed to do a great job of explaining everything, even the concept of microscoping magnification. To reinforce the retention of their lesson, they would repetitively ask for the class's input, to which they would promptly recieve an answer from the class in unison. When we were finished talking, we asked for questions. Ely went outside for a moment to take some pictures through the window, and a girl stood up and asked me how many liters of water she should drink in a day. Naturally, I stuttered a bit and looked to Ely, who swooped in with decisive grace to salvage my credibility.

We then moved on to the younger kids, grades 4-8 I believe, where we gave a more simplified version of the lesson. This time when we asked for questions, a little girl at the front of the class posed one to us. In fact, I may not have known it, if the teacher didn't call attention to her. The girls were often more shy than the boys. When she spoke it was barely audible, and as she did so, she shrank lower and lower in her seat, until she had literally crawled beneath her desk. The teacher laughed, and appeared to reassure her. I don't exactly recall what she asked, but it was nice to see that she was returned to her seat by encouragement rather than scolding.

As we left, I turned to see a little girl in a torn dress shuffling alone about the yard. Some things are just hard to wrap your mind around. Ely told me that, because of HIV, many of the children are orphans, and the sharp decline in attendance over the years that we'd witnessed in the school records betrayed a harrowing message that I had previously failed to understand: The insidious multitudes of disease conspiring against the futures of so many children.

She went on to tell me a story about a girl whose family could not afford to buy her shoes to conform to the dress code, or rather, uniform, for her school - she was denied the ability to take classes. Every school we had driven by had had a uniform, and I wondered how many kids were denied education for similar arbitrary infractions.

We returned to the Akulos' home, and after lunch I interviewed one of the housekeepers, named Judy. At one point, we were talking about applications for the fibers of the sisal plants, and she excused herself to go retrieve a basket. When she returned, she held an intricate basket of green, yellow, and magenta woven fibers. I pawed the bag curiously, examining every side, and expressed my admiration for the craft. She later gave it to me as a much-appreciated gift. I must admit, though, I felt a bit uncomfortable, because not only would it see better utility in Otho Abwao, but I really didn't do anything to deserve it.

In the afternoon, we were to finish our makeshift lecture circuit with the adults, which, appropriately turned out to be mostly women. Seats and benches were set up in the back yard, and, much like at the church, our audience filtered in one at a time. I'm still a bit skeptical, but at one point as a beaming old woman approached us, Ely told me that she was over 100 years old. She certainly looked old, but not quite as frail as I would expect someone of that age to look.

After what seemed like an hour, we asked if we should begin or wait a bit longer. The women suggested we wait another fifteen minutes.

It was a funny scene. Ely and I sat in front of the slowly growing crowd, and for the most part no one talked. Everyone stared about and seemed content to sit and wait in the shade provided by the two great trees at our backs, blossoming with vibrant blue and purple flowers. The sky was clear and the temperature comfortable, and from time to time a light breeze would blow through. I picked up seed pods from the ground and broke them into bits in a fidgety way, and was amused to see that I wasn't the only one doing something of the sort. I thought that someone who abides by a strict, quickly-paced schedule would lose their mind here, and was glad to not be one.

Once the group had sufficiently filled out, we talked with them about ways to keep from contaminating containers, and other general topics around the concept of sanitary water. Ely was presented a gourd as a gift from one of the women, who explained that it could be used for drinking soup or water, but could also be painted and hung for decoration.



Afterwards we retreated to the porch, where Mrs. Akulo, who was usually very blunt, asked, "Can I make for you, some popcorns?" We graciously accepted, and relaxed for the remainder of the night, trying not to dread the travel to Tanzania that awaited us the next morning.

When that time came, we had breakfast, packed up, and loaded our few things into the Akulos' mid-sized Toyota SUV. Both Mr. and Mrs. Akulo accompanied us the relatively short distance to Katito on the characteristically bumpy roads, at one point coming to a dead stop because of a cow loitering in the path. When we arrived at what, to me, looked basically like an intersection, the couple got out and helped arrange a ride for us. I had no idea exactly what we were in for, but we most assuredly would have been ripped off without their help.

We would be taking a matatu to the border - a 14-person van that is operated by a driver and a guy who hangs out the door and shouts after potential fares, who I'll call the "hawker." Each of the matatus are decorated differently by their owners, and the one we were soon being ushered into was called "The Roots," as indicated by a big green decal on the front window. The hawker slung our bags on the roof and hastily tied them up with some rope that extended into the cab. The interior had obviously seen a lot of use, but I had definitely seen worse conditions in some that we had passed. The floorboards were bare and covered in dirt, but the seats were well in tact and there was a truck speaker rigged just above the windows in the middle of the driver's side.

In a stroke of unbelievable luck, a family friend of the Akulos by the name of George was taking the same matatu to the same destination, and would come to act as our advocate throughout the many miles to the border at Isibania. Shortly after we clambered in, we took off at a pace that may have exceeded reason. After a few stops, we moved to the back with George where he would intermittently drop some knowledge on me about our surroundings, which was a great bonus.

Much like semi-truck drivers, we would crawl up hills and rocket back down them without using the brakes. Like so many things I'd experienced and would come to experience in my journey, the ride required that I surrender to fate. If we were to be crushed into a neat little package of flesh and metal, it was simply going to happen.

From Katito we traveled through Sondu and Oyugis, beginning the ascent into the Kisii highlands, where we had to switch to another matatu. George took some issue with the driver in what I assume was Swahili, and our fare was arranged to continue with the other. We followed the direction of our new hawker, pointing with his fistfull of Kenyan shillings. Ely crawled in the back and I joined two others in the first row behind the front. My knees were crammed against some sort of console and I soon had to smash farther over so that George could occupy the six inches of seat to my left. After a bit longer, and just as my legs were losing all feeling, the passengers in the front exited, and George and I moved to the front. Before I got in, I mentioned Ely, and George seemed to rethink the configuration, beginning to climb out. The matatus rarely stop for more than a few seconds, and the driver hit the gas to make his point, so we climbed in. I don't think I saw a single party get in or out with the vehicle fully stationary.

The Kisii highlands are much more lush and are home to acres and acres of sugar cane. I soon found myself enjoying the ride more than I could help feeling guilty for, my elbow out the window and the wind on my face. I saw some interesting stuff - bustling outdoor markets, endless fields, and a couple of women in otherwise traditional dress, one wearing a Ramones T-shirt, and one wearing a shirt with "BEAT USC" emblazoned across the front of it in huge letters. I had to laugh at the driving technique, when, after I was quite sure we would plow into the back of a bicyclist on an otherwise empty road, we overtook him with a gap of no more than a foot.

Eventually, more and more people poured in, and at one point, in the 14-person van there were 20 adults, one live chicken, two babies, and a man hanging off the side.

Africa: Reflections and Narrative Story (Part III)

We hurdled through several more towns in our multi-ton sardine tin. First Rongo, which marked the end of the highlands, then Awendo, and finally Migori, which was a well-populated town. It was here especially that having George with us would pay off.

Apparently some drivers will only take you a short distance and then ask for more cash, and some go to the wrong place entirely. We were pushed and pulled in various directions in a crowd vying for our business. Eventually, once we were inside the Matatu George had selected, the crowd subsided, and only much-less aggressive people selling pineapple or ice would come by the van.

Before departing for the border-town of Isibania, we picked up a few more passengers, including a man with dreds who smelled distinctly of fish and cigarettes. The hawker, who initially had told us we'd pay 50 kshs for each of us caught sight of the bills in the pocket of my notebook, and said "1000 each, for luggage." I knew that he knew he was bullshitting us because he erupted into a wide grin when he asked, despite himself. I asserted that we'd paid the price and wouldn't pay more, but we might have still been screwed if George hadn't chimed in. The man resumed his post at the door, visibly displeased.

Soon after we took off, we were flagged down for a police checkpoint, at which point I started sweating bullets. I wasn't sure whether to look placid and cooperative or assertive and confident. As he walked over to the side of the van and began to talk to the hawker, I think I settled on "confused and possibly insane," in trying not to betray my worry about the fact that the man I'd just spurned was laughing it up with a cop with a giant rifle. I definitely heard "mzungu" a few times, America was mentioned, and I'm almost positive the officer said, "they are very far from America." But it could have just been my nerves playing dirty tricks. Either way, to my relief we were soon allowed to pass.

The van continued to fill up, and, though it didn't seem quite as full as last time, since all the seats were occupied, the last fare to get in did so through the driver's door. The driver allowed him to situate himself, and then proceeded to jump in and essentially sit on his lap.

Arriving in a vehicle, we were required by law to stop in a particular area of Isibania, probably 1/4 mile from the border. Before we could even extricate ourselves from the van, our bags were already loaded onto bicycles, their owners urging us to let them deliver the bags. Like in Migori, there wasn't just one person who wanted our business, and they could get really aggressive - not afraid to put their hands on us. To be honest, I'm not sure exactly why we wouldn't just let one of them push the bike alongside us to the border, but I guess maybe people have taken off with the bags before. In any case, George was fighting them off like a horse swatting flies with his tail. I had to literally force my way through the crowd, having been virtually pinned against the hatch of the van, and sweeping my bag off the bike, the three of us took off in a fast-paced walk.

Our rowdy escorts naturally followed us along the road to the border. Occasionally a few would drop off, and two new men hop in. At one point a little boy showed up to our right, eating a potato like an apple. Every time I denied help from someone, he would appear just ahead of me and say, "Good thing, he was thief." I was so amused by him disappearing and reappearing whenever I looked away to respond to someone, that upon probably the fourth time he'd done so, I had to ask, "Well which one is not thief??" But he just grinned and disappeared again.

At the border, Ely and I were so grateful to George that we wanted to give him something for potentially preventing the derailment of our plans. We only had 1000 ksh bills, and obviously we weren't going to ask him for change, so as we said goodbye I slipped it in his hand. I was truly grateful and, after a short amount of protest, he was ecstatic. I was relieved because I thought he might be insulted.

At the immigration office, I was annoyed to find that the Tanzanian visa had been raised from 50 to 100 USD. But, what are you gonna do? I coughed it up.

We turned to see a giant Coca-Cola stand shaped like a bottle, like a great shining beacon, standing 20 feet tall at the other side of the road. Ely and I bought some cold(!) cokes, and sat on the curb to enjoy them, which we did to the fullest extent. Soon Josiah Kawira, one of the founders of the Shirati Health Education and Development organization (SHED), arrived in a nice grey Toyota crossover pickup, which I later found out had been donated by Dan Oerther and Village Life Outreach Project (VLOP).

After greetings had been exchanged, we set out on a wide dirt road he called the "superhighway," and I watched as the scenery became more and more green in comparison with the bleak vegetation of southeastern Kenya. Here any remnant of modern materials seemed to have disappeared, in favor of relatively consistent but widely dispersed mud and thatch homes. Many were built in a circular shape, which I had not seen in Kenya.

As we approached Shirati, where we would stay for the next three nights, we picked up some kids who were walking back from school, and they piled in the truck bed. It would have been quite a far walk, as we reached the town in probably 15 minutes, although maybe less. In town we picked up Sara Kawira, Josiah's daughter. She was around the same age as Ely and I, and had braided hair and an American accent. I introduced myself and the two girls talked, Ely having lived in Shirati for six months before.

Passing through the town, we finally reached some beautiful flat property with a sturdy, modern house on it. Getting out of the truck, I took a look around. The grass was relatively abundant and several big trees dotted the area. A little boy in a bright green cap enthusiastically pushed a tonka-style truck around the yard, making exceptionally loud engine noises. I soon learned his name was Asubuhi, Kiswahili for "morning." The cap on his head was apparently to protect the scar of a burn that had covered half his scalp when he was a baby in Nyambogo. The Kawiras had helped to send him to Cincinnati Shriners for treatment, and he had been living with them since, to my knowledge.

Sara picked up the keys to the SHED hostel from inside the home, and we walked across the lawn to where it stood. Like the rest of the buildings on the property, it was a sturdy one-story with a row of hedges below the windows and a "security light" on the corner. She opened a screen, then a metal grate, and unlocked the door behind it. Inside was a kitchen, living room, and a long hallway with bathrooms on one side and bedrooms on the other. At the end of the hall was a large master bedroom with it's own bathroom. Ely deliberately and insistently chose a room with two twin beds, because it was the room she had stayed in during her work with sand filters in the past. So, I dragged my stuff down the hall to the master bedroom.

The bathrooms were set up for showers, but the electricity had been knocked out and there was a shortage of water in the tank. So, I cut the top off our water bottles, and Sara retrieved some water in basins to dip our bottles into, and we took showers that way, which I had become accustomed to anyways. After dressing we gathered at the home with Josiah, Sara, and Asubuhi, where we had an excellent meal of rice, beans, and meat. As usual, Ely and I were exhausted after eating, and, after attempting to restore electricity to the hostel, we passed out.

I awoke as I usually did around 6 AM, and resumed my daily ritual of unsuccessfully trying to sleep for another 30 minutes. A group of people were singing somewhere in the distance, although not loud enough to have kept me from sleeping. Around 6:30, though, an unbelievably loud insect, which Sara later referred to as the "fire alarm" bug, arrived outside my window and sealed the deal on my continued rest. If you've ever heard one of the newer fire alarm systems with the flashing white lights and uninterrupted high-pitched buzz, you'll understand what I mean. I had to literally exit my room because it was so loud.

After a tasty breakfast, we prepared some cheese sandwiches for lunch and met the man who would act as our translator, Killian. We bought some water bottles in the town and continued on our way, soon turning off the "superhighway."

If the roads in Kenya were rough, the roads leading to Nyambogo were absolutely brutal. I never came across a paved road in Tanzania, but the path into the village became so narrow that we had to roll up the windows to avoid a slap in the face from the branches reaching out to us from either side. They scraped along the car like nails on a chalkboard, and the road beneath us had been ravaged my runoff in the rainy seasons, as well as offering some pretty sizable rocks for us to navigate between. It was more like whitewater rafting than driving.

Soon we arrived at the center of town, where, glad for the opportunity to be still and on my feet, we got out of the truck, and tried to lose my "sea-legs," if you will.



We were introduced to Veronika, a woman in a beautiful dress and matching head wrap, topped off with some knock-off Adidas Superstars. I can't recall her title, but she was an influential person in the village. We moved inside to her small office to begin the proceedings. It was a typically constructed room with the most questionably constructed benches I'd ever seen. I fought the urge to swat at the flies that buzzed regularly about the room. Three men joined us from outside - Nyambogo's water committee, who sported matching VLOP t-shirts. They informed us of their continued work with the sand filters Ely had helped to create, and we stated our intentions of interviewing families about water use. We would also be recording GPS points, to get an idea of the size and topography of the community.

We took a short walk uphill, where we stood on some rocks in order to get a view of the whole village. The water committee pointed out the edges, and then our translator related the details to us. This resulted in a lot of:

"You see that hill? The one behind it."
"Not those roofs, but those."

After a while we had a general picture, and suffice it to say that it is an extremely large and widely dispersed village of over 3,000 residents.



We continued to the first family we would be interviewing, which was preceded by a ritual mimicked at every successive visit - The family would set out chairs in the shade for everyone to sit in, and Killian would introduce us. The man of the house emerged and shook our hands. His clothes were torn to rags, and like most others out beyond the city center where our car was parked, his skin was cracked and extremely dry. We soon found that the procedure for the interviews would progress very slowly. Essentially, Ely would ask a question from our survey, Killian would relate it, the entire group would all talk in Kiswahili, and then the women, seated on the stoop outside their home, would answer the question. At least, it seemed that way to us.

We found that the trek to water was an hour both ways, there were hours of queuing up to fill up jerry cans, and at least ten minutes to fill one bucket at a time. At one of the later visits, we spoke to a woman who had already made the trip 4 times by 2:30 PM.

After our first interview, Ely asked if one of the committee members could draw a quick map of the village on a piece of paper in her notebook. This turned into an extremely long affair, as the men huddled around the notebook, pointing in various directions and intermittently sketching. I enjoyed the opportunity to drink in the surroundings. We sat in the shade of a big tree, and the hill that it's roots stretched into tapered off quickly, presenting a remarkable view of the landscape. We all sat still and silent, and Killian even dozed off, his head propped up with his arm slung over the back of the chair. Finally, it seemed the men were content with their map, so we continued on.

We met several more people before I began to think about the cheese sandwiches in the truck, which had to have been quite moist and hot in the ziploc bags...and not in a good way. Although we had a pretty well-defined agenda, Killian insisted we stop by a homestead where Asubuhi's grandfather lived and requested our presence. Apparently in his gratitude to Josiah, and probably to Ely as well, he had killed a chicken and cooked it up. As we took seats around a table in the shade, a girl of about thirteen placed it in the center. She then came back with some water for us to wash our hands, and afterwards Ely and I discreetly used some hand-sanitizer under the table. Along with the chicken was some brown ugali, made from cassava and millet, which had a crusty outside and chewy inside. It was meant to be dipped into the broth which we spooned into our bowls. I was advised against eating the broth, but seeing Josiah and Killian enjoying it, I tried it anyways. The combination didn't have much flavor, but the chicken was delicious. I even had the distinct pleasure of orange Fanta in a glass bottle to compliment the meal.

We visited several more families, eventually stopping among some banana trees, where an old woman sat on an "african chair" as Killian called it - a small, low stool. A bundle of millet was laid out to dry before her, and chickens pecked at it interestedly. A toddler with a swollen belly watched us take seats around the woman, and an older boy stood next to the adjacent house. A ragged looking dog emerged from the trees and began to sniff the millet, and the woman feebly swung a stick at it. The older boy took that as his cue and swatted the dog sharply with the stick and the dog yelped loudly, loping away with the boy chasing after it and swatting it. Killian told us that the woman had recently lost several family members - daughters, if I remember correctly.

By the next interview I was becoming a bit restless and distraught because I couldn't think of the questions I needed to ask, or my shame would not permit me to think of them. I came to rural Africa to look for what was missing - what needs the people had - the problem was that if everything is missing, where does one begin? At the same time I had to remind myself that pity and shortsightedness have resulted in so many failures in the past, so I had to keep my designer wits about me - immersion, but not submersion.

Anyways, to clear my head I excused myself from the meeting and walked towards one of the nearby committee members who had spoken to me before. He had picked a lime off a tree and was eating it.

"Could I try one of those?" I asked.
"You want to try? Do you know what it is?"
I looked closer, but, before I could respond, he said, "It is a lemon," and handed it to me at the exact moment he started digging in his nose. I peeled off a section and tried it - probably due to the fact that it was not yet ripe, it left a terribly persistent bitter taste in my mouth.

One of the pieces of advice that I gleaned from a book I read about designing for developing countries was not to make assumptions. Sometimes the questions that seem obvious can hide cultural differences or other insights, although it must take some practice, because our translator had a good laugh at my expense a couple of times. For example, I asked, "Why do you carry water on your heads?" (Because they can't carry it with their arms) "Why do you grow flowers?" (Because they look nice). You get the idea.

After quite a few interviews, we headed back to the village center. Upon reaching it, a little boy of about 4 or 5 ran up and grasped my hand from my side. At first I thought he wanted my attention for something, but I looked down to see him staring straight ahead. So, I walked with the group with the little boy in tow. They turned down an alleyway and into a house, and I said "OK, I have to go this way now," releasing his hand. I entered into the building and was told that we were now in the village chairman's house. Apparently he was sitting in front of the window, but I couldn't see his face because of the back-lighting. Ely told me that he had told her and another girl that they should marry him the last time they met. I wondered if he was serious or not. One of the committee members distributed cokes, and though I was full of sugar from the Fanta, I accepted. For the most part, the African men talked amongst themselves.

We navigated the bumpy road back, having discovered the cheese sandwiches predictably mushy, the bag condensating on the inside. The road caused us to crush them continually, until we got smart and put them between us on the floor.

Rice and beans was waiting for us when we arrived home. Josiah and I had an interesting conversation about the American media and recent middle-east conflict. It's always interesting to hear the opinions of people outside the states, especially with regard to our institutions. In our after-dinner comatose state, I seized on the opportunity to try some sweet chai tea, which was nice, but not really my style.

We took a shower, and, after having discussed seeking out some night-time activity and showering up, we snuck out of the hostel. We traveled down a dirt path to the superhighway, where we eventually approached a figure standing in the road. I was secretly apprehensive, but it turned out to be a friend of Sara's. The four of us came to a building with a sign on the front that read "The Green Villa." I'm not entirely sure why it was in english. We entered an alley on the side of the building and walked into the back. The building itself was small and resembled painted mud-bricks, but in the back there was a large outdoor patio kind of area. It was fenced in with what looked like split lengths of bamboo, and divided into big booths with thatched roofs, leaving an open middle area.

A waitress brought some plastic chairs to the back booth and we sat around a circular table while she took our orders, which Sara took the liberty of conducting. The waitress returned with four packets of Zed, a pineapple flavored liquor in a pouch, along with three sodas and glasses. The scissors that accompanied the pouches were broken and rusted, so I opened them with my knife, and we mixed the first round with Fanta. The bar had only a few people in it, the majority seated in the middle section facing toward a tiny TV, which looped a tape of Luo music videos.

We went through three rounds of the Zed cane spirits, the second of which I mixed with Coke, which tasted horrendous. Just as we were beginning to buzz, Sara's friend presented a gift that he had brought - a tub of roasted(?) termites. A drunk man who had been taking turns between lingering and dancing repeatedly asked me for handfuls of the insects, to which I obliged, interested that someone could enjoy them so much. At one point the girls left, leaving me with Sara's friend. It was my understanding that he didn't speak any english, so I was surprised as I was vibing to the music and heard him ask, "You like it?"

I turned to him, looking confused.
"The music."
I replied in the affirmative, and asked, "You know english?"
"Little," he said, making a gesture that indicated his response. I made some asinine comment, and he tried to understand, but eventually he threw up his hands and smiled.

When Sara returned, she passed along a message from him, which was: "Luo girls know how to shake it."

I walked outside to the "bathroom," which was just that: outside. I looked up at the sky, the upbeat tunes and voices drifting through the fence and imagined that the sky looked somehow different, so far away from anywhere I'd ever been before.

Finally, after switching to Tusker, an East African beer, I decided it was time to try the termites. Sara told me they taste a bit like potato chips. I went straight for three of them, thinking it was likely to taste better than one, and less obviously a termite. The tougher exterior gave way as I chewed, releasing the still-mushy inside, which is not one of my favorite sensations. The flavor, though, was not bad. The potato description was pretty apt, despite a kind of acrid aftertaste that you would expect from an insect.

Eventually we paid our bill and began the walk home. As we neared the SHED property, small lights were visible just below the horizon, dozens of them. I asked Sara what they were, and she said that they were boats on Lake Victoria. It was quite a spectacle.

Once we got inside, we were immediately confronted by a nasty cockroach in the middle of the hallway, about three inches long. I smashed it with a rock, which was a much more comfortable experience than smashing one with my bare foot, which I had done the day before.

The next day we awoke to some more eggs and chapatti, and jumped in the truck to go back to Nyambogo. We tried unsuccessfully to sleep in the back seat, until we arrived to conduct more interviews. One of the women we interviewed had just had a premature baby, and it was so tiny that its arms were practically no bigger than my finger. She bounced the baby on her lap with an enthusiasm that made me cringe - wondering if this frail baby should really be shook like that. It wore a permanent expression of bewilderment on its face.

We took a walk down to a couple of water sources, where we conducted some tests. The turbidity was so high that the water was totally opaque. A woman washed her clothes in the pond, laying them out on nearby bushes. It kind of made me wonder what the point was, when the water is this dirty. But then, it certainly didn't make sense to allow the cattle to drink from the same pond they retrieve drinking water from, either. If it's the only water available, it's the water you use for everything.

At the end of the day we met in one of the committee members' homes, where we were again served food. The man thanked Ely for the work she had done, particularly with the sand filters.

On the ride back, I finally fell asleep for a moment, but awoke to a loud sound and what sounded like swearing. I found out that we had hit a chicken. I don't think we killed it.

In Shirati we did some shopping for buckets to make sand filters, eventually settling on one vendor. Josiah opened up the SHED office and retrieved some kind of burner. We sat on the ground, heated up a bicycle spoke in the burner, and poked holes in the lids of the buckets. Someone fetched us some sand in a wheelbarrow, and Asubuhi immediately jumped on top of it and continued to jump until sand spilled off the side. I brought over a window screen in an attempt to divert his attention, which worked, and he helped us strain sand through it to get the filters started.

After dinner and another trip to the The Green Villa, we packed our things in preparation for the next day when we would travel to Burere, and then on to Isibania.

We woke a little late, but still had breakfast in Shirati before mounting up for the drive to Burere. In the truck on the way, we stopped because we spotted some monkeys on the rocks. I had previously stated that if I could see some monkeys in the wild, my trip would be complete, so obviously I was extremely excited. Killian corrected us, saying they were babboons. Just as good though. A man was stalking around the underbrush, and Josiah waved him over to the car to ask what he was doing. I saw he had a slingshot in his hand, and apparently he was going to try to kill the monkeys because they were tearing up his fields.

We pulled into Burere and parked at a newly constructed dispensory, which carries medicines, but cannot provide the treatment one would recieve from a doctor. We met with a round of gentlemen, including the chairman of the village, who Killian gave the front seat in deference to his title. We traveled along the dirt roads leading to the school where some of UC's architecture students focused a project around recently. Much like in Nyambogo, the roads became increasingly impassable, until at one point the branches extended too far into the road for us to pass through. The whole group got out of the truck and spent half an hour hacking away at the mess with a machete. Even after we could clearly pass through, they were still chopping away. While they wrestled with the foliage, a congregation of kids appeared at the car window, peering in. Seizing the opportunity, I pressed my face against the glass and blew on it. Most of the kids were sufficiently amused and ran off, but a couple stood by with a quizzical look, apparently not entertained by my performance.

Finally the men piled back into the truck and we continued to the school. Part of the building was made of large, pale bricks, while the other part was smaller, crumbling reddish brick. The point where the two met left an open gash down the middle, and cracks and scars traveled across various vertical lengths of the walls. A whole classroom on one side had collapsed and remained unrepaired. I walked around taking pictures, occasionally seeking out Killian with a question. An old broken truck wheel mounted on a pole was particularly puzzling to me, and I soon found out that it was the school bell, to be struck with a stick.



I walked up the hill a bit to look at the latrines - their walls seemed well in tact, but the roof on one was almost completely blown off despite a myriad of rocks and sticks piled atop. After we had scoped out all the classrooms, we got back to the car for our trip to the border.

Isibania seemed a flurry of activity compared with the destinations of the past few days. Josiah dropped us off after helping to arrange tickets for the night bus to Nairobi, and we were left with several hours to kill. Four, if I remember correctly. We sat in the station for a bit before confronting the sun again to walk up and down the sides of the street that ran through the town. On either side was an array of colorful storefronts selling a diverse selection of products. The ground was dry and dusty and it felt good to have the freedom and confidence to walk around a semi-urban place as two mzungu. We spotted two bars and decided to create a miniature bar crawl out of the time we needed to kill. Our first stop was the Paparazi Bar. I walked onto the porch that was surrounded by latticed wood and a big Tusker banner. Ducking inside through a sheet, I saw that there were a few people sitting at tables facing each other, and a shelf at the back which displayed several beverage choices. After awkwardly standing in the middle of the room and scanning around, I wasn't sure who to order from, so I just held up two fingers to the people who were already looking at me and asked for two Tuskers. A woman got out of her seat and returned with two warm bottles, and Ely and I went back out to the porch to sit in two chairs we had seen there.

We were soon faced with the inevitable: finding a bathroom. Since it didn't appear that there was one inside the bar, we returned to the bus stop, and asked for the key to the choo. The man behind the desk searched around for about five minutes before telling us he couldn't find one. He said something to one of the other employees, and came out from behind the desk, saying there was one across the street at the hotel. As he escorted us across the street I was impressed at the pains he was taking to deliver us to the bathrooms, which weren't terribly close. We walked into an alley, and then into a side alley, which opened up into a larger alley with a latrine at the end. It was an odd scene. The man said something to a woman standing outside with a young boy, and the boy walked into the side door of what looked like a house and emerged with a set of keys, which he handed to the man, who handed them to us. Then the boy went over and sat next to the latrine while we took turns using it, finally returning the key to the boy.

Continuing our bar crawl, and resolving not to trouble that many people the next time the need arose, we got another Tusker at a place with a name like Bakida Bar. Eventually we got a little nervous that we were going to miss the bus, and we finished our time-killing at the bus station. Around 7pm the bus arrived and we threw our bags underneath and climbed in. It was a lot like the "Easy Coach," although all the seats were filled this time. We found two near the back and sat down. The joints on the chairs were so loose that the man in front of me practically had his head in my lap, but I assumed I would be sleeping too, so it wasn't really an issue. Once we started moving, a teenage boy in front of Ely's seat turned around asked where we were going. He was returning to school in Uganda. He saw my headphones and asked us what type of music we liked. I told him I liked reggae, to which he was surprised, and quizzed me on some artists. He then proceeded to tell me he didn't like reggae at all, and began talking to Ely about hip hop, which was his their mutual preference.

Believe it or not, the bus ride into Nairobi trumped all of the preceding transportation in sheer discomfort. The road felt like it was made of giant gravel and the bus sailed through potholes, creaking and bouncing, and driving rain onto us from the leaking window. If we nodded off for a moment, we would awake the next to a 'BANG' and a the whole bus would shudder, finding another pothole. I would not have been the least bit surprised if all of the screws on the bus simultaneously popped off and the whole thing fell apart like in a cartoon.

At one point we stopped. Looking outside, I couldn't see any sign of civilization, so it wouldn't be one of the routine stops. People that apparently had heard what was going on were filing out of the bus, so Ely and I followed suit in our curiosity. We were in an area with some pretty dense vegetation, tall grasses and a forest on either side 100 feet ahead. By this time it was dark. We followed the procession up several cars ahead and arrived upon the scene of a crash between two cars. One was facing toward us on the side of the road, the front face smashed in, and the other was on its side across from it. A crowd of people had just pulled a woman from her car, who was bawling uncontrollably. There were no police or EMTs, and it didn't appear that we would wait for any. The crowd of people that had emerged from the cars behind the wreckage were clearing off all of the debris from the road. An entire windshield, bits of metal and glass, books and papers, all being swept aside by the milling crowd. After the road had been sufficiently cleared off, everyone got in their respective cars and we drove on as if nothing had happened.

When we arrived in Nairobi it was morning, but still dark out. We retrieved our bags and slumped into the bus stop, which was at least 50 times bigger than the one in Isibania, and completely packed. Finally we got the chance to fall asleep on our bags for a bit before Gabriel had to physically wake us up. We purchased a day room at the Mennonite Guest House, took a (hot!) shower, and napped for a bit.

We were fortunate enough to be in Nairobi for the 1-hour window of opportunity allotted for visitors to the Elephant Orphanage, so we had Gabriel pick us up and take us, arriving at around 11 o' clock. We entered the orphanage and continued to the back, where there was a large congregation of tourists and schoolchildren gathered around to see a group of baby elephants. The EWB group had time to pull off a mini-safari on their way back to Nairobi, so I was glad for the chance to see some native wildlife, even if in captivity. I was even more excited to have the chance to see something they hadn't: a baby rhino.

After cautioning the audience against spooking the rhino, they brought it out in what looked like a cape, which was amazing. It was a black rhino, of which there are only a few hundred in existence, but it was premature, and thus smaller than it should have been, and had been abandoned by its mother. Against the handlers' warnings, the younger members of the audience could not contain their admiration for the little guy. It was relieved of it's cape/blanket like a boxer entering the ring, and came over near where we were standing, where the British woman who was introducing all of the animals initiated a mud and dirt bath. The little rhino received it like a dog getting a belly rub - kicking its legs and rolling around with joy.

After the elephant orphanage, we had only one more thing to accomplish before our departure for the states: buying gifts at the "Zebra Market."

The scene was kind of like an indoor flea market, although everything but the wares was outside. The process was a lot of fun, and I had the chance to hone (read: christen) my haggling skills, as the initial prices quoted are always absurdly high, by any standards. It was, however, exhausting, because whenever we stepped into an alley, there were droves of merchants vying for our attention, and by the halfway point in our perusing, much of the objects were the same.

Finally, we picked up some parting samosas, and were dropped off the airport. I had a flight to Paris, a six hour layover, a flight to Chicago, and a flight to Covington to look forward to. The trip itself was an incredible adventure, and an invaluable learning experience. But I also discovered just how much I still have yet to learn, if it's possible to discover such a thing. Not that I necessarily wanted to end this with a quote from an '80's dancehall band, but in the words of UB40,

"Every hour of every day I'm learning more.
The more I learn the less I know about before."

Stop Lying to Yourself

I just finished reading (well, listening to) Stefan Molyneux's On Truth: The Tyranny of Illusion last night. While the author's style seems a little tedious at times, bordering on redundant, it may simply be because I am very often exposed to his work, and thus it feels like he's beating me over the head simply because that's what it takes for most people to truly grasp the shocking evils disguised as normalcy.

The theme of the book, though, made me think about this presidential election, which was a big pain in my ass. I started out with the Ron Paul crew, and following his defeat in the primaries, quickly grew accustomed to the futility of statism by listening to Molyneux's podcasts. Consequently, when the time came to vote on the President, I was a card-carrying Voluntaryist, and glad to be rid of the soul-crushing lesser-of-evils game.

The frustrating part was all the direct criticism I got from the people around me for not voting - some of my friends actually got angry at me. I never had a very compelling way to quickly argue my case. It's not easy for people like me to "make sense" to everyone in mainstream society, because even if they agree with me, I inevitably get stuck at how to implement my ideology, and they go back to voting for one of the members of the diverse selection of tyrants every election season.

It would be much easier if, as a reaction to injustices all over the world and particularly in the U.S., I became a socialist. Politicians LOVE socialists, whether they say so or not, and most socialists don't look outside the political realm to seek their end. By appealing to the sentiments of socialists, politicians gain control of sectors of various influence and wealth. Furthermore, like most individuals, socialists fail to see the gun in the room (the government), and go straight after the corporations, which are hardly innocent, but couldn't exercise the exploitation they now enjoy without the government as a lead blocker and a safety net.

Here's the thing. It's absolutely insane to think your vote matters, but to get mad at me for not using my vote is a new level of insanity. Let's be clear, though, even though this is a plain fact, I still get it. When I was a Ron Paul supporter I was extraordinarily pissed that more people didn't vote for him. Since then, though, I've been breaking down the absurd illusions that I've entertained for 20-some odd years.

Now, watching people carefully consider who to use their precious vote on is hilarious to me.

If you are like my friends and I, and are not part of any major union, your vote does not matter, and it certainly isn't a virtue or a responsibility, and here are some reasons why:

1. Statistically, clearly, it doesn't matter. Let's be serious, I don't think Swing Vote is ever going to become a reality.
2. Votes get lost, misread, miscounted, who knows, maybe even hacked nowadays.
   
3. Your voting operates under the assumption that the candidate is going to actually do what they say they are going to do (epic fail)
4. There are so many more bought-and-paid-for (so to speak) voters than any well-intentioned "vigilant" citizenry could hope to offset.
   
5. The whole affair hinges on the idea that (basically) whoever wins more votes than the other, is that the "people have spoken" and that's who they want in power. Clearly, everyone else is getting screwed over, because they're now going to be forced to comply with the decisions of the candidate elected.
   
6. The system implies that having a president is a good/necessary thing. This is especially pertinent in that the role of a president is now VERY different than it used to be
   
7. The president can't simply undo all of the evils of a previous administration. Tyrant though he may be, he still doesn't have quite that much power...yet. If he did, he would be a dictator, and we'd be totally fucked. I'm actually not positive that we're not really damn close to this kind of situation.
   

You'd be better off using your time to write your congressperson. What a joke that is.

Anyways, I don't talk about this kind of stuff because I was just that upset by my critics. I bring it up and make a big deal out of it because it's this kind of delusion that perpetuates the sick fantasy of government. It's astounding, and it's all around us. Every new election cycle there's so much hope and resolution, and then we come to find it's the same old shit, but usually worse. Every government program enacted "with good intentions" creates a massive bureaucracy and unnecessary drag on taxpayers. Then when it fails, the answer is always the same: "There's not enough funding" or "not enough oversight," when the program was already funded in an unbelievably inefficient and exorbitant way, and layered in mind-numbing bureaucracy.

It's a joke. It's a fucking joke. But it's the least funny joke in the history of the world.

So go ahead and vote, but do yourself a favor and stop thinking that it's going to make a positive difference, and for god's sake don't come after me thinking I'm going the wrong direction just because the rest of you have been marching off a cliff for centuries.

Why I'm a Voluntaryist, Part I

I've been looking forward to this post for a while. I've named it "Part I," but I don't in reality know if there will be other parts. I would rather do it this way though, instead of covertly editing my post later on.

I am going to number each of my points to make them slightly more digestable, but first, an explanation of Voluntaryism:

First of all, anything that I will be writing is explained better tenfold by Stefan Molyneux of Freedomainradio.com. Second, if you'd like to get a head start, here is the Wikipedia entry for Voluntaryism.

Voluntaryism is an ideological viewpoint that essentially rejects all coercive force. Anything that is not achieved by voluntary means is most definitely NOT justified by the end. Contrary to mainstream ideologies, Voluntaryism is deeply rooted in human nature, morality, and objectivity. It is synonymous with little-l libertarianism and anarcho-capitalism, though both terms have been corrupted by misuse. Voluntaryism necessarily denies the justifications for the state, otherwise known as the government.

That should be good for now - onward!


1. A Voluntaryist system is tolerant of all ideologies, so long as they don't involve coercion.

I feel that one of the simplest ways to explain my position is by saying this: I know what's good for me, I don't know what's good for you. Thus it's important to have the freedom and capacity to pursue curiosity, and a society that rewards responsibility, ambition and cooperation.

If you are a socialist or a communist, you should rejoice if you find yourself in such a society. Feel free to set up your voluntary community of individuals and get your whole "from each according to his ability, to each according to his need" thing going on. But don't think about trying to use force to achieve your goals - because not only is it a crime, but it disproves the validity of your ideology for the millionth time and your own morality as a proponent. Fortunately, the rest of the voluntaryist society will be waiting, with ample opportunity for you to make a good living.

2. There's nothing that governments can do that private industry can't do better, except for the things that shouldn't be done in the first place.

This is not only one of the most important arguments for voluntaryism, but it is also one of the most loaded. It is especially significant because without the state, there is no central banking (and inevitably fiat currency), and without central banking, expensive, devastating, exploitative, opportunistic military campaigns are impossible. Of course, even if such excursions could be funded without government and central banking, private defense companies and the like wouldn't engage in them because of a necessary transparency that they possess and the government (especially the CIA) does not. Even if that weren't the case, it is still much more costly to attempt to steal resources from the developing world than it is to employ people and trade instead, if you can't print your own money.

3. People are required to act responsibly, governments aren't.

If the FDA aaaaaccidentally allows some pain medicine contaminated with HIV circulate among the general populace, what happens? A slap on the wrist, some evasive posturing from official spokespersons, a rotation of leadership? Say Hope Steffie calls the police for help one night and is forcibly strip-searched by six or more cops, all the while pleading for them to stop? Nearly two-hundred people have died from taser use across the United States, and yet cops still go straight for the taser if they have trouble removing a student who asked 'the wrong question' from an auditorium. Thousands of atrocities are committed in senseless wars by people following orders or simply by acting on the dehumanized new shell that military training has equipped them with. Government doesn't have accountability. It's not set up to. Every time something goes wrong, if anything is done, some figurehead is swapped out for a different sociopath, and the cycle continues ad nauseum.

4. Monopolies of force are inherently abusive.

Some argue that power corrupts, I argue that the power structure is already corrupt, and the evils that emerge are simply implicit in its nature. There is no reasonable justification of a monopoly of power like the state and it's forces. If people are mostly bad, a state cannot exist, because it would be populated with all of said bad people who will use this unrivaled power to their own selfish ends. Of course, if people are mostly good, a state simply does not need to exist. Competition is a very powerful tool of balance in performance and accountability, and voluntary association ensures the best quality product at the best possible price.


5. The ideology is founded on morality and empirical evidence of human nature.

For this one, Stefan Molyneux does the best work by far of explaining. The morality part is pretty obvious. Violence and theft are immoral. These are counter-productive to society and damaging to individuals, so obviously it is incorrect, and immoral to create a giant governing body that's existence is the utter reverse of these accepted moral truths. The human nature part is evident to me, but a little more tricky, perhaps.

Mainstream ideologies do not even address morality, they just skim the surface of trite bills and "hot button" topics like abortion. So, in order to illustrate my point, I'll compare two radical ideologies.

Anarcho-syndicalism is the estranged marxist cousin of anarcho-capitalism or Voluntaryism. Both are "radical" "utopian" ideologies. Neither recognize the supposed superiority, and thus justification, of the state, but the two ideology necessitate very different views of human nature. Both seek to deconstruct the state as a first phase. However, anarcho-capitalism takes what is already evidenced by human nature (self-interest), general good nature, and structures society in a way that these can be manifested positively. Anarcho-syndicalism necessitates an additional phase in not only seeking to alter the structure of society, but also seeking to alter human nature. The way I think about it is that anarcho-capitalism takes reality and thinks of the best way to modify it, while anarcho-capitalism takes a fantasy and thinks of a way to make it reality.

Self-interest often gets a bad rap because of the power-disparities we have created for ourselves through government. In and of itself it is a neutral human-quality, or rather it can be either good or bad. The key is not legitimizing a system where self-interest can be unapologetically abused. When you give someone power, they use it to their advantage. Duh. If anyone thinks that business can be truly exploitative without a little mutual backscratching with the government, you have some reading to do. If you think business is exploitative simply because of the presence of a hierarchy, you have been misled by Marxist rhetoric.

6. It's practical

The practical arguments for voluntaryism have been around for a long time. I'm not going to address them all here because they have been explained many times by far more eloquent authors, even entering mainstream discourse from time to time, but are never heeded. Historically, the closer a society comes to the opposite end of the ideological spectrum, the realm of corporatism, statism, socialism, the more blatant and abhorrent the abuse of power. One needs only look at the most horrific events and despotic regimes of the past century. Not only are socialist and government approaches immoral, but they are terribly impractical. They don't work. In fact, they systematically make the situation worse. For example, right now we are trying to combat problems created by irresponsible lending and spending with irresponsible lending and spending. In trying to alleviate poverty the good ol' government way (throwing money at something), we've not only created disincentives to work, but we've increased debt for future generations by stealing from current ones. In the developing world, this kind of aid can actually create a kind of stagnation in which any local farmers cannot ever hope to compete with intermittently appearing free food.

7. The nit-picky details that people always get hung up on are virtually irrelevant

Since becoming a voluntaryist, I'm continually baffled by the unending and often creative questions that are posed to me as an indication that my ideology might not work. This is, of course, a very healthy practice, and I wish it were afforded for many psuedo-intellectual exercises that it is not. The part that baffles me is that such a violent, half-baked, self-contradictory ideology like Marxism is so socially acceptable and afforded so much benefit-of-the-doubt. Of course, I get it, having embraced moronic ideologies of my own in the past, notably neo-conservatism.

The thing is, though, at the end of the day, what is there to lose? Why be apprehensive to accept the ideology? Combine all of the random events that could happen - the tiny percentage of psychopaths, spontaneous deaths, complications involving road construction with private property, anything you can think of. Now put that on a scale beside the unbelievably violent atrocities you can barely stand to think of resulting from wars, oft-overlooked economic policies resulting in destruction of wealth and savings, sanctions preventing alleviation of sickness and hunger, institutionalized hate and persecution, endless police brutality, political and judicial corruption, incredibly counter-productive prisons and prisoners of victimless crimes such as walking across an imaginary line (Mexican immigrants). Don't forget the environment as well - I mean, they test A-bombs in the oceans for Christ's sake. The latter is going to be pinned to the ground on the scale 'o death 'n destruction. By a long shot. The voluntaryist society may be a little more spontaneous, but a system that rewards innovative thought, dynamic evolution and cooperation creates a better life for everyone. Societies that don't institutionalize violence and teach that it's right when you're wearing a blue costume or work in a white building will tend not to propagate more violence.

For the self-professed socialists, If you're so adamant about socialism, how can you afford a computer? I'm living the legal extent of my ideology, and I'm helping people too. Given the countless failures (and I am very generous to use that term) of socialist theory, how can you in good conscience even argue for it? The reign of Mussolini, Hitler, Pol Pot, Lenin, Stalin, Mao...all those assholes! How many more people have to die before you give it up, seriously?! And you still have the nerve to say that I'm not compassionate. Puke.

If you really hate corporations, the only way to get them on a leash is to cut off their government buddy-system. If you really want a fair life for all human beings, stop letting the government toy with their futures. Advocate programs that emphasize success, not lowest-common denominators. Be charitable, don't force others to be. because at the end of the day, any given person in the government doesn't have a fucking clue what they're doing. And they sure as hell don't care about you.

A Brief Tirade on Degrees and Barriers to Entry

I was talking to a friend of mine today about college and the like, and I actually got a little worked up about something that I will now allow to spill onto the pages of my unsuspecting blog.

I've been told I can get long winded, so if you wanna get to the point, it's at the bottom in bold.

When I first started going to college as an industrial design major, I was 19 years-old, and I had figured out that in my 5-year program I would be 23 by the time I could graduate and become a fully-functional human being. It freaked me out a little, but I didn't sweat it because that's what I had to do. Now I'm 23, and what I didn't take into consideration is that by the time I actually graduate and become financially independent, with a job, I will be turning 24.

Now, this may not be a big deal to some, and I'm probably being a little too dramatic about it, but to someone who has never turned 24 before, it's a little weird.

So then I started to think about the fact that I will have spent almost 24 years in 'preparation.' 24 years! Populations in the past might have been fortunate enough to merely live this long. If I were one of many people who had to pay their entire tuition, I would have several more years of indentured servitude just to pay off the damn loans, either that or I just would not have been able to go into the program I did.

What pisses me off are the standards we've set up for ourselves. The degree is a pre-requisite, and not having it is just an opportunity for discrimination. The attitude is "show me the degree, and then we'll talk." Sometimes it doesn't even matter so much the grades you've recieved, as if potential employers just want to see that you threw a lot of money away to prove you are responsible (what?).

Seriously, the past two, if not three years of my own education have been a joke. I'm not only saying that because the work experience has has given me a different perspective, but simply because we haven't learned a god-damn thing, and if I were supposed to, it certainly didn't make any difference in the outcome of the class. When we return from internships and co-ops, we essentially are made to do the same thing, designing something as students for a real client, except now we're not getting paid for it. Returning to college from working is like going back to high school from college. It all seems so narrowly-scoped and petty.

The first two years? Yeah, totally worth it, virtually no complaints. The last two? Utter bullshit.

So what happened to these guys like Raymond Loewy who come over on a boat with change in their pockets and become one of the most (deservedly) famous designers in the world? Well, now we've got fifteen layers of bullshit and bureacracy built up (and not just in my profession), to where there's no precedent for getting by on sheer skill and hard work anymore. Not, of course, that companies can hire on sheer skill anyways. The experience gained and the pace of things learned at work is out of necessity, and GREATLY overshadows that which can be learned in school.

You might say, like my college (DAAP at University of Cincinnati) alludes to, that in structuring the industry like this, we're ensuring the best, brightest, and most capable become the designers of tomorrow. If I were a mindless leftist drone, I would piss my pants and just start shouting about unfairness. Since I'm not though, I'm going to reasonably suggest why this really is unfair bullshit.

It's like opening a business. Do massive taxes, restrictive zoning laws and convoluted rules and regulations ensure better businesses? I would argue that it ensures more mediocre businesses. For the most part, anyone really willing to make a risk has to already be wealthy enough to be able to fail, which means they won't necessarily work as hard, and all the guys with great ideas that can't scale the giant barriers to entry are totally screwed. Just like the structure of many other instututions of society, risk, ingenuity, passion and conviction take a back seat to bureacratic nonsense. Likewise, giant tuition fees, compulsory dorm residence, stubborn professors, and in some schools an inability to practice in the profession until graduation, screws over all the people who could be great designers, but will never get the chance because the professor is always right, apprenticeship is dead, and working hard toward such a goal is at odds with making enough money to eat.

I'm not trying to say that I'm one of the people with potential getting screwed, I'm saying I think it's bullshit and it makes me sad that if someone thinks they can work hard to break into the industry without a degree, they're going to get laughed out of their next interview. But then, what do I know.

Where I've Been

In an act of consummate boredom, I've decided to map out where I've been for about the past 6 years, mostly so I don't forget, but also just because it's fun. The markers denote places I've lived, while the tacks are places I've visited. Everything is color coded according to where I was living at the time. I now wish I had done it in reverse chronological order, but oh well.

It's a little poorly formatted, but alas:


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