Beggars of Dignity
Although we moved back to Kenya upon our return to Africa in the mid-1980s, my parents would never allow us to consider it "home." Instead, year after year, we made the trip Home to Uganda by car.
Our border crossing was in Busia, a border town between Kenya and Uganda near Lake Victoria. It was the most expedient route since my mother's hometown was only a few miles from Busia. During our border time we'd usually sit and read in the car while my father got temporary registration for our 1980 Toyota Corolla1 which we called "Trisha Toyota" after a Japanese American news anchor we'd watch on TV in California. My mom would spoil us with the treats of her youth, roasted corn and sugarcane, which could be obtained from the dozens of street vendors making their living on the bureaucracy that dictated that all travelers must stop.
On the occasions when we'd see my father moving in and out of the cheap government buildings, some of which were no more than shacks, he'd always have men hovering around him, dressed in their good clothes, trying to assist him with the paperwork necessary to continue our journey. Of course he didn't need their help, but they persisted, pointing out signature lines on forms or the next government clerk he would need to visit.
As I got older and more adventurous, I accompanied my father through the administrative step of the journey. I remember one moment in which he was obtaining temporary car registration for our visit when a man who'd followed us offered us a pen, a red Bic ballpoint pen, with no cover. In the harsh manner of youth I let out a sneer of a laugh at the man who was of no more use to us than his pathetic red Bic ballpoint pen. It was one of those points when all that was wrong with Africa seemed to consolidate and materialize into the absurd. What kind of life is it to wake up in the morning, put on your best clothes, and take a pen into your town, hoping that someone would give you some coins in exchange for its use?
Those seasons of my teenage years have passed and like most, I'm left with a real sense of humility where my pride and skepticism used to fill me. These days I'm somewhat unemployed and each day is a paradoxically long stretch of time that evaporates away from my grasp leaving me, at bedtime, wondering what happened. I try to watch some television but 15 minutes into the world of daytime programming I'm overcome by my conscience. It's not healthy to loaf about on weekdays, watching fat people trying to become thin, or cats stuck in trees. Something is wrong when I catch myself considering the Cortislim infomercial as I'm 20 minutes into it. I convince myself that I need to get up, take a shower, dress in real clothes and go out. I caught myself thinking last week that it was about dignity when the red Bic ballpoint pen came to mind.
In a place with overwhelming poverty and few prospects, it is a form of dignity that makes a person get up in the morning, go through a routine and get out of the door. It's the same dignity that rebels against the couch, talk shows, and waking up at noon on Tuesday. This dignity seeks occupation because, so often, occupation is what stands between the sane and the insane. Without this dignity the mind seems to warp losing not only sense of clarity, but also the senses of propriety and shame.
Recently I heard a woman on NPR who worked for the United Nations with refugees. She said that the worst thing about refugee camps was not crime, lack of sustenance, or post traumatic stress, it was a lack of work. It was boredom and confinement. In some areas, entire generations of people are grown in these environments of listlessness. People in camps are not given the opportunity to dignify themselves by waking up and walking to the border town in their good clothes, helping and begging their way through life.
So I return all these years later to my thoughts of that man, but in his place I see myself. I wake up on the early side of morning and after I've finished my breakfast, I pack my laptop and a few books into a bag. I accompany the morning commuters except my destination is usually a quiet place where I can hang out. At the coffee house they wonder about me and all the time I have, asking what I do for a living (translation: do you have a job?).
In many ways the border man and I are different: I have a laptop from which I can create worlds using semicolons and curly braces, I have an army of books on my shelves, and I usually have a dollar for a cup of coffee. But I can't help remembering him as I get dressed for unemployment2.
1Trisha the 1980 Corolla served my parents for more than 20 years on some of the worst roads in the world. They finally sold her; she never died. People love the 1980 Corolla:
One time I was in a blizzard and the wind was blowing at 90 kilometers per hour, snow was falling and it was minus 38 Celsius. I was on the highway in rural Saskatchewan at 6:00am driving to work. It was absolutely pitch black outside. My winshield iced up and I had only a peep hole. Then, the snow blew such that I couldn't see the highway and before I knew it I hit the ditch. The car sunk in about 1.5 meters of snow. I couldn't even open the driver's door. So I pulled out my emergency winter survival kit, complete with smokes and a touch of Gin, made a phone call and waited the blizzard out. I was in the car for about 4 hours before somebody was able to get me. It ran like a top, it never even stalled. The next day I went back to get it. She started up, I pulled it out with a 4x4 and lifted the hood. All I could see was the imprint of the hood of a perfectly white layer of snow that completely plugged the engine bay. And the thing was running. Not only did it start, but it was running. Go figure???
Then another time, My wife and I hit a torrential downpour in Vancouver and I hit a flooded underpass. I was dodging vehicles that were stalled and gunning it so I'd have enough speed to coast through once the water stalled the engine. The water was higher than all four tires. The beggar never stalled. Go figure???
2Yes G. I will go to the Y; I'll up you and go play some basketball.
9:18:29 AM 
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