Monday, September 11, 2006
Digging Ditches
Today my father’s greatest fear came to fruition; I dug a ditch in Africa. Truth be told it wasn’t a ditch per se; it was actually a latrine, which makes it all the worse. The reason my father fears digging ditches in Africa is not because of some inexplicable phobia of shovels, rather he feared that his son’s education in economics and finance would not be put to good use in the Peace Corps’ Small Enterprise Development program.
Two Christmases ago I was deliberating between to possible options for the future: A financial analyst position with Johnson & Johnson or the aforementioned SED program with the Peace Corps. After making the decision to join the Peace Corps my dad continued the struggle for another month. While watching the news he would note that J & J’s stock had risen two points; he would make off hand comments at dinner about how another Rotarian said Johnson and Johnson was one of the best companies to work for; and best of all, “Santa Clause” gave me medical supplies from my good friends at Johnson and Johnson. After another month passed he faced the facts and realized that I was going to move to Burkina Faso. This realization spurred a new strategy to ensure that my degree was put to good use. Each time we spoke about my impending service he would reassure me that is was perfectly acceptable to quit the Peace Corps if “they had me digging ditches”. This phrasing had always struck me as funny because in all the literature I had received from Peace Corps, the last thing I imagined myself to be doing with the small enterprise development program was, digging ditches. But there I was, eight feet deep in the ground shoveling dirt and the ancient remains from a latrine that had not been used for 15 years. I guess that father does know best.
I was in an eight foot deep hole because of the complex process of hiring people to do work in Burkina Faso. Two men came to my house and said that they could dig a three meter hole for 20 dollars which was cheaper than any other offer I had received. Unfortunately, I took them up on their offer and received what I paid for- a poorly dug latrine at roughly 2 and half meters. They did not finish the job in the day and a half that they said it would take. The rains continued to come and the walls continued to fall making the hole shallower. The younger of the two men would routinely come by my house to reassure me that the latrine digger would come tomorrow.
One Saturday I was so fed up that I told him that he and I would finish the work together. He looked skeptical and slightly perplexed, his facial expressions grew more quizzical as I jumped into the hole and began to dig for three hours straight. We finished the morning with a handshake covered in mud made from sweat and dirt. He then told me something that gave me an inflated sense of national pride. “Never... never would I have looked at you on the street and think that that white person would be able to work like that. There is no way a Frenchman would work in a latrine with me.” Perhaps it is my deep seeded cultural chauvinism that delights in being considered superior to the French or the simpleton like way I am taken in by a heartfelt compliment, but I left that day thinking -
“Gee, we American’s sure are grand, heck - I’ll role up my sleeves and work as hard as anyone to get a job done. We will even work along side a lowly African ditch digger without giving it a second though because we are so humble.” What was worse than my unwarranted bombastic self-conception was the belief that working alongside Arsene had forged some type of mutual respect or even trust.
My Dad should be able to take solace in the fact that this is the first time that I have, in fact, dug a ditch and I have already been here for 13 months. What is more important is that this latrine building should be considered more of home renovation rather than actual work, though it is sometimes tough to clearly delineate the two as work and home are constantly intertwined. This proximity between work and home are closer than they have ever been before as I have moved to what could best be described as my association’s giant shed.
One day I will move back to America and take for granted the wonderful amenities such as running water, washers, dryers, microwaves, ovens, refrigerators, internet and air conditioning but as for now I live in a mud brick house with a tin roof and cement floors. It is pretty Spartan and I miss the amenities. I’ve found that no amenity can compare to a toilet and living without even a latrine is a downright nuisance. This brings me full circle to the glowing pride and trust that I established with the young ditch digger on that fateful Saturday morning. Later in the week we decided on the next step for the construction of the latrine and I needed to buy 80 dollars worth of bricks. He told me he could get the bricks that afternoon as it was a relatively small errand. I handed him the eighty dollars over a month ago and have yet to see the bricks or the money. The complexity of all the events that transpired between my giving him the money and our current juncture would require a blog entry of its own, but here is the abridged version.
Suffice it to say that my patience and trust while overabundant at first have been whittled away with each successive encounter. Three days after I first asked about the money or bricks he assured me he would bring the money tomorrow. As each "tomorrow" passed without money I decided it would be best to have a talk with a more senior community member. Arsene informed me and the senior community member that the money would come by the next Wednesday. That Wednesday passed without money. Another sit down - he told us he had been lying, he spent the 80 dollars, but he can bring the 80 dollars worth of bricks, but that cannot happen until tomorrow. The saddest point of it all is that he had a chance to make a genuine profit and provide for his wife and child – instead he took eighty dollars, got drunk with his friends and hasn’t slept at his house for over a month.
No amount of charity or development can make someone responsible. I have learned this lesson well- another week has passed, I have no bricks but occasionally he will pass to tell me... “tomorrow”.
Two Christmases ago I was deliberating between to possible options for the future: A financial analyst position with Johnson & Johnson or the aforementioned SED program with the Peace Corps. After making the decision to join the Peace Corps my dad continued the struggle for another month. While watching the news he would note that J & J’s stock had risen two points; he would make off hand comments at dinner about how another Rotarian said Johnson and Johnson was one of the best companies to work for; and best of all, “Santa Clause” gave me medical supplies from my good friends at Johnson and Johnson. After another month passed he faced the facts and realized that I was going to move to Burkina Faso. This realization spurred a new strategy to ensure that my degree was put to good use. Each time we spoke about my impending service he would reassure me that is was perfectly acceptable to quit the Peace Corps if “they had me digging ditches”. This phrasing had always struck me as funny because in all the literature I had received from Peace Corps, the last thing I imagined myself to be doing with the small enterprise development program was, digging ditches. But there I was, eight feet deep in the ground shoveling dirt and the ancient remains from a latrine that had not been used for 15 years. I guess that father does know best.
I was in an eight foot deep hole because of the complex process of hiring people to do work in Burkina Faso. Two men came to my house and said that they could dig a three meter hole for 20 dollars which was cheaper than any other offer I had received. Unfortunately, I took them up on their offer and received what I paid for- a poorly dug latrine at roughly 2 and half meters. They did not finish the job in the day and a half that they said it would take. The rains continued to come and the walls continued to fall making the hole shallower. The younger of the two men would routinely come by my house to reassure me that the latrine digger would come tomorrow.
One Saturday I was so fed up that I told him that he and I would finish the work together. He looked skeptical and slightly perplexed, his facial expressions grew more quizzical as I jumped into the hole and began to dig for three hours straight. We finished the morning with a handshake covered in mud made from sweat and dirt. He then told me something that gave me an inflated sense of national pride. “Never... never would I have looked at you on the street and think that that white person would be able to work like that. There is no way a Frenchman would work in a latrine with me.” Perhaps it is my deep seeded cultural chauvinism that delights in being considered superior to the French or the simpleton like way I am taken in by a heartfelt compliment, but I left that day thinking -
“Gee, we American’s sure are grand, heck - I’ll role up my sleeves and work as hard as anyone to get a job done. We will even work along side a lowly African ditch digger without giving it a second though because we are so humble.” What was worse than my unwarranted bombastic self-conception was the belief that working alongside Arsene had forged some type of mutual respect or even trust.
My Dad should be able to take solace in the fact that this is the first time that I have, in fact, dug a ditch and I have already been here for 13 months. What is more important is that this latrine building should be considered more of home renovation rather than actual work, though it is sometimes tough to clearly delineate the two as work and home are constantly intertwined. This proximity between work and home are closer than they have ever been before as I have moved to what could best be described as my association’s giant shed.
One day I will move back to America and take for granted the wonderful amenities such as running water, washers, dryers, microwaves, ovens, refrigerators, internet and air conditioning but as for now I live in a mud brick house with a tin roof and cement floors. It is pretty Spartan and I miss the amenities. I’ve found that no amenity can compare to a toilet and living without even a latrine is a downright nuisance. This brings me full circle to the glowing pride and trust that I established with the young ditch digger on that fateful Saturday morning. Later in the week we decided on the next step for the construction of the latrine and I needed to buy 80 dollars worth of bricks. He told me he could get the bricks that afternoon as it was a relatively small errand. I handed him the eighty dollars over a month ago and have yet to see the bricks or the money. The complexity of all the events that transpired between my giving him the money and our current juncture would require a blog entry of its own, but here is the abridged version.
Suffice it to say that my patience and trust while overabundant at first have been whittled away with each successive encounter. Three days after I first asked about the money or bricks he assured me he would bring the money tomorrow. As each "tomorrow" passed without money I decided it would be best to have a talk with a more senior community member. Arsene informed me and the senior community member that the money would come by the next Wednesday. That Wednesday passed without money. Another sit down - he told us he had been lying, he spent the 80 dollars, but he can bring the 80 dollars worth of bricks, but that cannot happen until tomorrow. The saddest point of it all is that he had a chance to make a genuine profit and provide for his wife and child – instead he took eighty dollars, got drunk with his friends and hasn’t slept at his house for over a month.
No amount of charity or development can make someone responsible. I have learned this lesson well- another week has passed, I have no bricks but occasionally he will pass to tell me... “tomorrow”.
