The last week of May, I was fortunate enough to spend a week with Kevin and Halako at their home in Nairobi. Leading up to the trip, I'd dubbed the journey as the "opportunity of a lifetime" to friends, family and colleagues as I couldn't fathom how I'd manage to get to that part of the world otherwise.
Indeed, the week was packed full of new experiences. Eating fish with my hands in a tiny restaurant/shack, cramming aboard crowded matatus, negotiating prices with local artists at a street market, seeing African wildlife, relaxing in serene gardens and memorials. Throw in the climb of Mt Longonot and I had an experience both eye-opening and awe-inspiring. However, upon returning to the United States I was overcome with the realization that it was the little things that really left an impact on me. The day-to-day things.
Kevin and I engaged in many long-winded discussions throughout the week, but a recurring theme was that of "functionality." Kenyans differ from Americans in many ways, but one of the greatest is that in Kenyan culture, whether an item is functional is the biggest factor in determining an object's worth. Clearly, much of American culture tends to bypass functionality as a given and jumps right to style, luxury, and status as premier criteria of worth.
Kevin pointed out that Kenyans crave style, luxury and status as well, but in a nation as young as Kenya, these simply aren't always possible. It should come as no surprise that the things we take for granted in America aren't always a given in Kenya.
I have no savings, plenty of debt from student loans and credit cards, and this laptop on which I type is probably the most valuable thing I own. Yet, as an American tourist gallivanting around Nairobi, I felt as rich as Croesus. Kevin's standard of living is higher than the average Kenyan, however I was amazed that he could exist so comfortably without a refrigerator. Having just moved into an apartment with in-unit washer and dryer, I was confounded by the amount of time it takes to wash clothes by hand. When we hiked through pasture-land at the base of Mt Longonot, we encountered children in the midst of a three mile trek just to get fresh water. Daily living simply takes more work in Kenya.
Before I left for my trip, someone told me that traveling to Kenya would "make you count your blessings that you live in America" and to a certain extent I did. Upon my return, I reveled in washing a week's load of dirty laundry at the push of a button, and getting back to my routine of work, entertainment, and recreational softball leagues. But more than counting my blessings, I found myself questioning where the exact line lies between luxury and excess.
Clearly, Kenyans are a happy people. Kevin joked with complete strangers at a restaurant as if they were close friends. In situations where Americans would be icy and stand-offish, Kenyans are vibrant and outgoing. So to what degree do all these perks, these appliances, which one cannot argue aid in functionality, improve one's life? Do these gadgets and gizmos that shave hours off household chores and other domestic duties really just free up a lot more time to worry and fuss about existential crises?
Most Americans don't need to spend an entire Saturday washing clothes or walking three miles for drinking water. But does this make us happier? Are all these machines that do our daily chores for us really a blessing? Without having to sweat to get things done, I'm left with all this extra time and often I fill it with activities that, in the end, are probably harmful to me. Would some of my anxiety and subsequent time-killing behaviors be alleviated if I had to bust my hump a bit more just to get by?
Halako told me an old Kenyan parable, which I will paraphrase (probably poorly) here:
Long ago, when snakes had legs and millipedes had eyes, a snake came across a millipede. The snake coveted the millipedes' eyes and offered to trade his legs for them. As a result, the millipede was left with extra legs and the snake had to slither on his belly in the dust but he could see. Since that time, the millipede has been walking around, trying to feel where the snake is, and the snake is sliding around looking for the millipede so he can get his legs back.
I don't know if there's any moral to this story, or if its simply myth, but I can make the shaky comparison between Kenyans as the snake and Americans as the millipede. Kenyans don't have as many means and have to endure the dirt and dust, but at least they can see what really matters. Americans have plenty of means, but too often are blind to the path to a happy and fulfilling existence.
Is either the snake or the millipede better off than the other? I'm not really in a position to say, but as a millipede, I must admit I enjoyed the chance to live as a snake for the week.
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