Question Authority...But Not Your Mom

On the back of our old Ford Taurus used to be two bumper stickers. On one side of the license plate read “Question Authority,” on the other “…But Not Your Mom.”  I’m pretty sure these were two completely different stickers (placed at different times?), but they made quite the statement read together. And throughout the years, I think the message stuck with me. It was on the basis of abiding by this patched-together moral code that I got myself into trouble here in Kenya.

I recently attended a meeting with representatives of the Ministry of Fisheries in order to plan this big event, World Fisheries Day. It was supposed to be planned in partnership between IFP and the government. However, as time went on we realized that the ministry was essentially hijacking our event and calling in to question our contribution to the planning and even our very validity as an organization. It was my hope that my boss, who had skipped most the previous meetings, would finally stand up for our organization and defend our position as a valued member of the team.

Instead, the ministry once again walked all over us. The chairman of the meeting was a man I will affectionately call Fat Mike (I normally refrain from rude comments about people’s weight, but here, weight directly corresponds to salary and authority. You will also come to see that my use of “affectionate” is sarcastic, and offending this man is not a top concern of mine). Anyways, Fat Mike had only come to one previous meeting, but since he was the most senior rank in the room, it was protocol that he would run the show. This in itself didn’t really bother me. What bothered me was the fact that based on his position at the head of the table, he found it acceptable to insult, interrupt, or generally belittle whomever he pleased.

I kept it together most of the meeting as Fat Mike dominated the meeting and reversed the decisions the rest of the team had made months ago. My blood did begin to boil when he asked us what IFP was willing to pay the government for the “publicity” we would be getting from the event (the very same event that IFP had spent the last 3 months planning and organizing with little support from the ministry). After I heatedly shot that idea down, Fat Mike then told us we should cancel the workshop IFP had planned so IFP could give the money we raised to fill the gaps the ministry failed to contribute for. My boss was timidly and incompetently explaining the nature of the government/NGO partnership and our financial situation when Fat Mike interrupted him and changed the subject completely. My boss let it slide like nothing had happened, but it was more inconsiderate condescension than I could take. It was somewhere in the midst of this conversation that the Ford Taurus proverb rose to the surface.

A few things I learned from my mom: Everyone deserves respect. Treat others how you want to be treated. Women are more than just disproportionately skinny Disney princesses in need of saving by some man. Being assertive is better than being passive-aggressive or just passive. And of course, by nature of the bumper sticker she stuck on the back of her station wagon, question authority. 

So back to the story. After Mr. Chairman cut off my boss, I stopped Fat Mike and asked him to let my executive director finish. Needless to say, the chairman didn’t appreciate this gesture. Apparently it was ridiculous and inappropriate for me to request the same respect for me and my boss as the ego at the front demanded for himself. From here, it devolved into a spat between the egotistical government man and the improper American bitch (excuse the language). Fat Mike asked me if I was going to respect him. I told him I would respect him if he respected me and my boss. He didn’t respond well to this one. He told me I could either respect the "chairman" or I could leave. I felt like I was a troublemaker in middle-school being sent to the principal's office. Red-faced, I stood up, told him that I was happy to leave because I didn’t care for his hierarchical BS, and rushed out of the room.

I waver between pride and embarrassment for my reaction. In retrospect, storming out of the meeting and leaving my colleagues behind to deal with the wreckage was rather unproductive and a bit immature on my part. I missed the rest of the meeting and I had to wait outside with nothing to do. Yet, it was high time someone stood up to this man.  I doubt he has ever been called on his BS, especially by a woman. I'm glad to have been the one to do it.

I learned later that the standard protocol for dealing with egotistical jerks with superiority complexes in Kenya is to "act like an ostrich" and just keep your head down in the sand (direct quote from a junior staff member). While the picture is amusing, it is sadly descriptive of the national psyche. Reflecting on the excitement of the standoff, I found myself contemplating the impact of this mentality on the functioning of the country.

As I’ve mentioned before, Kenya is rife with corruption. It is also an incredibly male chauvinist society. I can’t help but think that a good deal of this comes from the inability of women to stand up against the word of a man and the unwillingness of the public to question their leaders. The fact that in a meeting as small as ours, we had to address “Mr. Chairman” and ask for the right to speak to our colleagues makes me wonder what sort of pecking order exists at a higher level. In the recent past, Kenyans have made great strides towards fighting for democracy. However, they also suffered tremendous horrors two years ago when the challenging of disputed election results devolved into a blood bath along ethnic lines. What will it mean for this nation to learn to question authority while keeping in mind all those important lessons about respect and dignity we learn from our mothers?

Vermin

It is the middle of the night and I'm wide awake. I woke up with a mosquito buzzing in my ear. After trying to kill it by slapping frantically around my head, I conceded to getting up and turning the lights on. Then, I sat for a good five minutes on my bed with in the harsh light waiting for it to come back, While waiting, scanning the walls, I started hearing other noises--like the mouse that lives in my room, and a giant fly buzzing around. Having no success with the mosquito, I turned my attention to the fly (trying as quietly as possible to jump around my room swatting it with my book). No luck, he's too fast. 


I thought the mouse was feeding on this bag of maize in my room, so I opened that up, only to be distracted by another mosquito flying around. Turning quickly to chase it around the room, I noticed a GIANT cockroach on my floor. This thing is as long as my thumb and about twice as fat. Frantically I grabbed my shoe. It ran under my bed. And as I'm sitting there trying to figure out how to crush this cockroach corned under my bed without waking up the whole family, there the mosquito is, hovering right in front of my face. I am now forced to prioritize the killing spree--should I go for the giant cockroach (gross!) or the mosquito (an actual threat to both my livelihood and sleep for the night)? I divert my attention to the mosquito, hoping to quickly smash it between my hands and get back to the business of the roach beneath my bed. But I miss, and when I look back, the roach is gone. Great, now even if I get the mosquito, I'll be tortured by the thought of this thing scurrying about unscathed.


Back to the bag of maize. No mouse. I think I was just hearing the mouse-sized cockroach the whole time. Either that, or he made his escape in all the commotion. At some point, I did manage to kill a mosquito. Who knows if it was the one I heard in the first place. The fly is still disturbingly noisy in the midnight silence. And now, I can't sleep. Plus I'm hot from all the jumping about and I'm afraid to open the window and let more bugs in. I love Africa!

Travels of a T-Shirt in a Global Economy

The other day on my way to work, my matatu passed a man wearing a Boulder, Colorado sweatshirt. I chuckled to myself at the reminder of my home state and wondered if the wearer had any idea where Boulder Colorado is. I suspected he didn’t get this on his most recent ski vacation with the fam. It got me thinking about the book Travels of a T-Shirt in a Global Economy that you can hardly make it out of the IPE department at UPS without reading. The book tracks the politics and economics of the lifespan of your average cotton t-shirt. Most of the book speaks of the ridiculous legislation that governs cotton production, t-shirt manufacture, and textile importing in the US. The most interesting part, though, is what happens to your t-shirt after you are done using it. Most of us would assume that after we drop off our black trash bag of unwanted and outdated fashion at the local Good Will, our old t-shirt travels no farther than the vacation it may take with its budget conscious new owner. Wrong. Second-hand stores only sell a fraction of the cast-offs they get dumped at their back door. The ones you actually seeing hanging on the racks are the cream of the crop. Where do the rest go?

Africa! The next time you see footage of the “poor starving child” from some ambiguous African country wearing a shirt with your university’s logo, consider for a moment that it probably wasn’t donated by some do-gooder, but rather purchased at the local market. Here in Kenya, the trade in clothing is dominated heavily by second-hand wear (consequently, many Kenyans tend to sport a slightly 80s-fabulous look). Seeing bales upon bales of used clothing arriving to the market everyday is slightly shocking. How could we rich people discard so many perfectly good items? However, it is also encouraging to see that someone (actually, millions of someones) is making use of our fickle and materialistic shopping habits. Despite the overdose of shoulder pads, synthetic fibers, and screen prints from that 10K you ran in 1998, there are a fair amount of decently new items to be found. The trick is finding them.

This weekend, I thought I’d try my hand at the Kenyan version of a trip to the mall. I realized the last time I bought jeans was nearly two years ago, and they’re starting to wear through. I also was thinking of picking up some professional business wear for when I get back to the states and have to apply/interview for real jobs. Why not get it done at a fraction of the price? So optimistically I set out for Kibuye, Kisumu’s largest open-air market that comes to life on Sundays. As soon as I stepped foot into the chaos, I suddenly remembered that I hate shopping. A Saturday mall crowd is nothing in comparison to the hustle-bustle of this place. And sifting through the bargain racks at Macys is comes nowhere close to navigating stall after stall of reject clothing. At least I didn’t have to worry about the gross humming of florescent lights!

I challenge any one of you thrift store junkies to try your luck at an outdoor African market. This is no Value Village (although, on my most recent trip to the market, I did spot a pair of jeans with a Value Village tag still attached). First, you must bear the beating equatorial sun as you stroll down dirt paths, avoiding piles of smoldering garbage as you go. Shopping around doesn’t work so well since the slightest glint of interest indicates to the Kenyan salesman that you will make a purchase with them. Don’t get distracted. There are endless alleys of people trying to sell you their wares. “I’m selling spoons!” one cries. “Mzungu! Come, come,” another yells as he ushers you towards his stand of plastic wash bins. Don’t get trapped by the roaming hawker offering brightly colored flashlights, key chains, and nail clippers. You might want to pause at the man with the flip-flops made from recycled rubber tyres, but don’t stop for too long, or you’ll never make it out.

Finally, you’ve located the perfect stall of used clothing. Most specialize in something—jeans, blouses, jackets, bags. Now you can take the easy way out and pick your way through the pre-sorted clothes that have already been put on hangers and hung all over the makeshift stalls. These are the nicer items and the price is elevated to correspond (the equivalent of the most expensive outfit placed on the mannequin in the window). Or, you can be brave and opt for the bottomless piles of tops, skirts, pants, underwear, socks, and bras. This is the African bargain bin, and while most of it is there for a reason, there are rumors of hidden gems. Even when you’ve found something you like, good luck knowing it fits. Dressing rooms don’t exist. If and when you’ve finally made your selection, you still have a few minutes of haggling over the price (what probably amounts to 50 cents, but you’ve forgotten this in the intensity of the fight for a “fair” price) before you can leave victoriously.

This time, I did not come out victoriously. My search for cheap, yet stylish, newish jeans was foiled within the first few minutes. The thought of trying on a blazer and long sleeved shirt in 90 degree weather was too much to even consider. But once I gave up on my pursuit to actually buy something, I did enjoy browsing the folds of brightly colored traditional fabrics and wandering through the maze of vegetable vendors.