Compound Sentences

For the last several months, I've been making the same joke about the oncoming international move: "Ha ha, I'm pretty sure I have no idea what I've gotten myself into!"  It might have been funny at some point, but I don't think there will be any huge outcry if I kill this particular thigh-slapper by dissecting what makes it (ostensibly) funny.

The root of the humor here, like 80% of the things I say, is self-deprecating.  If I had to pin down a thesis statement, it'd be something like: "Only a complete fool would move to a foreign country without knowing a great deal about that place.  Before you stands one such fool."  And as should be clear from the last few posts, there's a lot of truth to this statement: I did shockingly little research before this, my first time living in a developing country, my first international school post, my first visit to Africa.  As tends to happen, I found myself with very little time to do any reading about these subjects in the weeks leading to my departure...or more accurately, I had a lot of other things I just preferred to do instead of that research.  Karaoke may have been involved.

And cookies.

To put it bluntly, I don't think that decision says a lot of good things about me.  I know that there's only so much preparation that could be done from thousands of miles away, and I've already had a fair amount of experience moving and living abroad.  More to the point, though, it's too late to prepare; I'm already here.

All of this is an incredibly long-winded way of saying "OMG, you guys, SO MUCH has happened in the last week!"  Enough that I'd have a hard time compiling it into one post, so...hell, it's my blog, let's break it up a little bit.  What follows will be in no particular order.  First up: the housing and security situation.

The view from my window.  The constant cloud of red dust and smoke from garbage fires makes for some killer sunsets!

Despite the occasional foibles that I understand are common to housing in developing countries (frequent power outages, mouse problems, unreliable laundry facilities), the living situation here is chock full of amenities.  The internet works great, we have a swimming pool, the geckos are puny and inoffensive, and the compound's guards are friendly and helpful, most of the time.  Yeah, compound.  Guards.

I've never lived on a compound before; the term definitely suggests cults or militias, neither of which really jives with the hippie lifestyle of the kind of tool who still says "jives."  Yet here I find myself, living behind a tall stone wall topped with razor wire, with a front gate manned by guards 24/7.  My place of employment is likewise surrounded by walls, razor wire, and guards, and I have a driver to transport me to school every morning though it's just a 15-minute walk around the local stadium (which is also surrounded by walls, razor wire, and guards).  Everyone here in the school's employ who's here to help the teachers stay safe and happy has been incredibly friendly and welcoming.  So why do I feel like such a schmuck when I cross paths with them?

In a lot of ways, I feel incredibly unsafe being surrounded by such imposing security measures at all times.  It reminds me of some fond memories of my research on Gothicism back in grad school: building enormous castle walls is done to keep out danger, yet those walls are a constant reminder of that danger, and having one's mind filled with the threat of violence gives rise to nightmares when it grows dark within the walls.  The guards at my compound naturally carry some of that baggage with them, like it or not.

More immediately, the walls and guards are a constant reminder of the specter of colonialism that hangs over my life in this country.  It's kind of hard not to think about the fact that I, a white man from a wealthy country, being paid more in a month than most families here will see in a year, am scared and defenseless in this place.  For all my power—to move among countries freely, to find employment at an international school, to have near-constant internet access—I am powerless in my daily life, and I am completely reliant on locals to get through even basic daily tasks.   Being reminded of one's privilege is a good thing, I think, and necessary from time to time, but it's also kind of a punch in the gut.

I'd like to think that I'm contributing something to the community here, that I'm not exactly here to plunder natural resources, but the fact that I'm reliant on the much poorer local people to keep me safe, drive me around, and clean my house is deeply unsettling nonetheless.  It's taking a lot of getting used to.

I think some of what's pulling me up short when it comes to speaking with servants (and I really think that might be the right word) is that the whole institution feels so...well, un-American.  In all the books and movies that I can recall from when I was growing up, bad guys were generally the ones who had servants; the hero tends to do things for himself, sidekicks notwithstanding (and they're more frequently compelled to serve through friendship, not a paycheck).  I don't particularly like the idea of becoming comfortable interacting with servants.

So now, when I find myself interacting with the school or compound guards, I do so sheepishly, even brusquely.  I'm not generally rude, I hope, but I find myself tending to look away rather than smile and make eye contact, nodding rather than asking "Ça va?" or "Comment allez-vous?"

My new coworkers don't seem to have the same problems as I do.  Some of them are unapologetically distrustful of our staff, citing previous thefts, rudeness, drinking on the job, etc..  Some are coldly competent when discussing how to best vet locals we're considering hiring to cook or do our shopping.  Some have no qualms about greeting them with a handshake, a smile, and a "Hey, brother, how are you going?"  (This last happens to be Australian.)

I'm really trying not to keep myself on the rack about this one.  Interacting with people through a new power dynamic is a hard thing, and it's not anything that anyone is born with.  I really think I'm going to make it through the next six months in one piece; let's hope I can leave in June not having made anyone's life harder or more demeaning for having met me.