Born into Religion, Ignorant of the Path?

I don’t usually open myself up like this. Especially about things I don’t know that much about, like the topic of this post. But I do know myself, and the questions that have been raised from my past experiences.

After visiting four countries focused on four major religions – Islam in Bangladesh, Buddhism in China, Hinduism in India, and now Christianity in Mozambique – I’ve seen how people and cultures have been transformed by and, specifically in the cases of India and Bangladesh, governed by the ethos of the dominant religion. The pervasiveness of religion has engulfed me. Abroad, people take their faith more seriously than Americans take the NFL, American Idol, and credit cards combined. I experienced an 8-hour Hindu dowry proceeding in India, which was only after extensive preparation, including careful purchasing of gifts, blessings, and song. If that was the dowry, Shiva only knows how long the wedding was. In Bangladesh I wanted to kill myself every time the public morning prayer blared right outside my window at 5am, but I know all the faithful Muslims were up performing their duties. In Mozambique I’ve been continuously impressed by all the Christians AND Muslims who can recite The Bible better than me.

I put out all these anecdotes to suggest that the intensity by which these cultures zealously follow their religions is praiseworthy, though the origin elicits questions. (And as a side note, I certainly don’t consider duration of ceremonies or numbers of prayers as the definition of religious intensity) If you’re reading this post right now, chances are you are BOTH American and Christian. That’s where I’m going with this. If someone asked me why I am Christian, the answer I wish I could give is that Christ died for my sins and that I am trying to follow the example set by him here on earth. The answer that probably gets more to the root is that, quite simply, I grew up in the US. My parents, family, and friends were and still mostly are Christian; I was baptized before I was cognizant of what was going on; and at an age when Power Rangers was still too violent for me, I was ushered into Vacation Bible School (which was awesome by the way, at least until I got a bit older and it was kind of awkward).

All this happened before I really even knew other religions even existed. My first substantial perception of Islam was that their holy book was instructing people to ram planes into buildings. Only later did I learn that the root of religion's name means “peace”. But by then, Christianity was cemented in my head as “the right way.”

But which religion is “the right way”? If you’re talking to the screen, “Come on Rob, Jesus is the only way”, I’d bet there are a billion Chinese who’d argue otherwise. And even if there is one right way – we don’t have to agree on which one – does that mean that the geographic lottery of birth has more to say about the post-mortem outcome of our soul than the intensity by which we praise Jesus, Buddha, Allah, or whoever? Of course, you can pick up a copy of any of the religious texts to compare, but how many people actually do this? I’d suggest the social and cultural forces are just too strong to compel the majority of people. My translator here in Mozambique, Mussa, is currently reading The Bible cover-to-cover to compare to the Qur'an, the book of his previous religion. This is laudable, but he has had to take great lengths to hide this and lie to his parents to accomplish this. His mother thinks he’s reading it for the English practice, so she bought him The Qur'an with English translation. Families, and cultures, don’t take these things lightly (see Bangladesh-India, the Gaza strip, and essentially the entire Middle East).

For me, my religion is something I’m now uncertain about. I’ve posed the above dilemma to many people, including pastors, but have never really received an answer that satisfied me. Though I wouldn’t be so crass to suggest that all religions are the same, I do think there is a lot in common that I’m trying to incorporate into my life. While by denomination I am a Methodist, I think to call myself a Christian would be a disservice to the faith. So right now, I’m simply trying to live my life in a good way and have the greatest positive impact on those around me, whether that is socially, culturally, or mentally. In high school, I was ardently religious, but in college the piles of homework left until the last minute on Sunday became an easy excuse out of church. While my faith has faded, I consider myself a much better person today than ever before. Today, I’m less judgmental, more open-minded, and seek social goals rather than monetary goals. And, (I think) I’m just a more fun person to be around…one of my friends is going to throw that one back in my face.

I don’t put out this post to attack Christianity, religion, or your beliefs, but rather to explain where I am in my faith journey and to invite anyone to suggest sources of information or inspiration.

The 6 Month Mark

Today marks 6 months since I took that debauchery-filled first class trip on Etihad Air after spending a night on the cold, tiled floor of JFK airport with my bags tethered to me. The time has flown by. I could go on about everything I’ve learned relating to poverty, but you’ve already read most of that and it would probably bore the majority of you anyway. Instead, I’ll list a few random comments/things I’ve learned about myself and other countries in general. But first, before I do that, I want to thank everyone who has supported me up to this point: those who have donated money, people who have given me great contacts, locals who have provided me with amazing guidance while in my target country, and all my friends and family who keep me in the loop enough so that I don’t come back completely socially awkward. I also want to stress how much I appreciate the comments and the lively debates they create. I enjoy the learning. Oh, and I suppose I owe that Michael Keegan guy some thanks as well. I can’t do this without you all. Anyway, on to my thoughts:

Bashing your own country helps. Forget complimenting my country, bash your own! There’s few things that bring me closer to a person than when he or she bashes his own country. Like when my friend Zhang complimented my laptop and explained how Chinese computers were complete garbage – I wanted to go have a beer with him. I think it shows a sense of open mindedness, a willingness to accept one’s (country’s) faults. Americans could take a hint here. So, following this example, I’m more apt to propound the US’s faults, for example our terrible health care system or deterioration of the family unit, than to brag about our successes. When I tell people I’m from America, they often say (insert Borat accent) “#1 country!” I tell them, “Sure, something like that. But really it’s a boring place.” (which it is on an everyday level…you know things will probably go as planned…in India, for example, you might get one thing done during an entire day because of some freak marriage parade in the street or stranger taking you to his house in the slums…not that those happened to me…)

You’re more likely to regret the things you didn’t do than the things you did. Like any good college senior I put this adage to good use last year. However, I think as post-grads a lot of us (myself included) tend to forget this. We take fewer chances. Things are less interesting. I’ve fallen back to this default on occasion during my trip, but I keep pushing myself to take chances. And it doesn’t have to be big things either. Just yesterday I broke the ice with a Kenyan couple who I’d seen for days at my hotel but never talked to. We ended up chatting for a good while, and later that night they invited me dinner, where we enjoyed pasta while nit picking all the things we find ridiculous about Mozambique. It was great fun.

The availability of toilet paper = level of development of a country. One easy way to judge the standard of living in a country is the check a stall in the nearest public bathroom. The more often you find TP, the more developed a country is. If even the company or NGO office doesn’t have any two-ply, then by God do not drink the water. Chances are you are in a really backwards place. There should be an index to measure this – I bet it would roughly in line with GDP per capita. You could even break it down to quality of TP, like number of ply, softness, etc.

Staying with the bathroom realm, finding a public toilet is like finding an oasis in the desert. It’s a beacon of hope. I say hope because even if you find it, you may have to attempt to sneak in (for example, at Pizza Hut), it may be closed down or locked, or you might be asked to pay when you don’t have any money on you. But at the end of the day, as long as it’s not #2, pretty much anywhere will do.

Does sarcasm exist abroad? I still find myself asking this question. I don’t know. My foreign language skills aren’t strong enough in any country to pick up on it if it does in fact exist, but I don’t think it does in Asia. Asian humor, from what I can tell, is over-the-top-not-funny humor. I think Africa might have a fighting chance. People in Mozambique seem to have a drier sense of comedy. Anyone have an idea?

I miss my family and friends more than I thought I would, and I feel closer for it. To be sure, I’ll hate my brothers within a week’s time of being home, but right now my ears are itching to hear one of their tasteful “that’s what she said” jokes after every sentence at the dinner table (or maybe that was my friend Matt).

I’m more excited about my travels now than I was even at the beginning. This is a bold statement, because anyone who talked to me before my trip would tell you that I would have tried to get a pilot’s license if it would’ve put me overseas any quicker. As geared as I was then, my excitement has only escalated. Assuming some freak accident doesn’t drain my bank account, not only do I not plan on coming home in under a year of travel, it could be a good bit longer. I think I’ll be riding this out as long as I can.

And, today also marks the day before my 23^rd birthday, so if you’re still feeling thirsty after New Year’s, tip one back for me!

"Stop complaining and just do something."

The quote above was taken from Gerson, one of the most inspiring individuals I've met in a while and one who really had some interesting thoughts on romanticizing the poor. Gerson works in Gurue with CLUSA, which is trying to ramp up soybean production with farmer associations (soybean is important for poultry feed), and I was able to tag along for a few days. Gurue, by the way, was called by Gerson's boss "the Garden of Eden", and he wasn't far off. But man is it rural.

There's only one paved road and late night entertainment consists of Laurentina beers and a plate of chicken at the only restaurant open after dark.

Anyway,Gerson has a lot of experience in development, on the ground and in management, so he had unique insights into what is actually happening in both arenas. His attitude is one of put up or shut up. He's sick of aid organizations talking, advertising, and getting so little done. Riding through the villages you notice the pervasiveness of aid organizations by the signposts at every corner. But you won't see any signs for his organization because they're not looking to be flashy - they just want to get stuff done.

After I really dug deep, Gerson - shy about his accomplishments - admitted that although he has only been here 10 months, he has already legalized nearly every farmer association (the number escapes me but it's something like 150). Why this wasn't done before baffles him - rather, it was just a bunch of farmers together with no legal status. At a recent meeting of local NGOs, a World Vision official said he wanted to do some work making sure all of the associations were actually legalized. The certification has been done, let's move on to bigger issues, Gerson says. He believes World Vision is looking to certify one or two associations and then claim it was an equal partner to CLUSA. This, Gerson says, is how a lot of development work gets done, or rather reported.

And he hears the same excuses, things like "It's Africa man, you can't change it." This is echoed not only by foreigners, but also by Mozambiqueans, citizens, and the government. The civil war is another common cry. Gerson argues that it's not a problem of the war or even an endemic African problem. Rather, he sees it as a problem with attitude. He said, "The war was over 16 years ago and still they use it as an excuse. I mean, come on, do something. Stop complaining and just do something." We talked about how there was so much untapped opportunity in the country, from tourism to agriculture, and why people were just sitting on their hands.

What I like about Gerson is that he doesn't get romantic about the poor. He stays practical. He's only willing to help those who are willing to help themselves, yet he understands when something goes wrong because of a factor outside of a farmer's control. And he only comments on things he has knowledge on, so when he refused to give an answer on a few topics, it made me feel more confident in his other opinions.

I also see a lot of me in him. I like how he works at the intersection of management and field work - probably a direction I'm headed if possible. And even at the bewilderment of his family and friends, who wonder "what are you doing in the bush?", he is committed to bettering his country. He's not yet looking to settle down like most locals: I asked when Mozambiqueans get married, to which the 29-year-old responded, "By now, I should have two kids." And also just like me, he can't cook. His game plan is to just throw things into a pot, entire tomatoes and onions without even dicing, and hope for the best. The dinner he made for me when I was over was pretty decent though, but then again I go for quantity over quality. He shared that when he had a big donor over one night at his boss's request, instead of cooking he ordered Chinese take out, topping it off with a roll of toilet paper in the middle of the table for napkins. It was funny because I wouldn't have done any different. But hey, don't get romantic, stay practical, right?

LabourNet Article Featured on NextBillion

Hey everyone, I'm excited to announce that NextBillion recently featured an article I wrote about whether the poor are creative entreprenurs or rather wage earners. It's a bit like the post I did earlier on LabourNet, but with a few different directions. Big thanks to my mom (the punctuation Nazi) and Jes "I love to pick on everything Rob does" Gagnon. I appreciate the criticism. You can check out the article here.

Merry Christmas,

Rob

The Picture that Got Me in a Tussle with the Mozambiquean Police, and Then Some

It’s not every day that you get into run-ins with the foreign police force. But, your chances improve a lot when you can’t speak the local language. Case in point: me. The other day I was up in Nampula, the third largest city in the country but an afterthought of a town. Noticing how I had basically no pictures from Mozambique, I decided to wander around with my camera while buying my lunch on the street. I ran into a vendor named Tony, who asked me for rice. As a rule I don’t give money to able-bodied individuals, but since it was food I decided to help him out. We went on an extensive search for rice, walking up and down the streets.

That’s when I ran into a tall, thick Mozambiquean in forest green pants, light green shirt, and green beret. He rapidly spouted out some Portuguese I didn’t understand and grabbed my camera right from my hand. I was immediately stunned, then pretty angry. I don’t consider myself a stubborn guy, but like anyone else I hate getting pushed around, especially foreigners trying to take advantage of me. I grabbed it back, but he didn’t let go, raising his voice to me. He grabbed my arm and took it off, then explained something to Tony while I stood there fuming. A solid crowd was starting to gather. Everyone was watching – there must have been at least 20 people around.

Tony turned to me and said, in extremely broken English, something about a photo and whether I remembered it or not. I didn’t know what he was talking about. He pointed to my hotel and we started walking until we got to the backside. He pointed to my balcony, and I heard words like “photo” and “President”. Now I remembered: I had taken a picture of the street from my balcony…but it wasn’t of anything important, at least I thought.

He escorted me over to a nice looking whitewashed house with a manicured lawn (you can see it in the picture in question), where three ladies, including one female officer, were discussing. They talked, I heard “President” thrown out there, and one of the women pointed at me. The male officer walked closer to the house, hidden behind some cars in the driveway. I followed closely, with Tony in stow. Some very confusing Portuguese ensued, with mention of “money”. Tony said some very basic English, which sounded like he or the officer was asking for money. I wondered how deep I was going to have to reach into my wallet.

I made one more grab for the camera, and a full tug-of-war ensued (my cousin, who lent me this camera, probably isn’t thrilled to hear this). The three women came over to break up the altercation. “No fighting, no fighting,” they said. Eventually they had the brilliant idea to see the pictures on my camera. They scrolled through until they found the picture above. They looked at it and handed me the camera, as simple as that. Tony and I walked away like nothing had happened.

Baffled by what had just ensued, I brought Tony to my hotel so the clerk could translate. As it turns out, my innocent picture had been of the home of the "President" of the province (or more correctly, the governor). Apparently it was considered a security threat, and any photography had to have clearance. Add this to the fact that it was foreigner taking the picture with a high resolution camera, and there you go. The shot was just too far away, so it was okay. Goodness. I felt embarrassed, angry, and stupid all at once. And I just laughed at myself. Tony and I couldn’t help laughing about it as we walked off. Maybe I should invest some time in Portuguese lessons…

AS AN ADDENDUM: The fun didn't stop there. Tony invited me to his home, to get to which we had to weave through a forest of thatched roof vendors in the city's slums. It looked like every t-shirt the US has ever donated ended up there - shirts like "Northwest YMCA Faith Warriors" or "2003 Pop Warner Cheerleading Championship" were found. And I didn't just get to see his house. Other highlights included beating his friend Larry in foosball 2 games to 1, watching a Tony and Larry partake in a drug deal and then hanging with them as they smoked, and enjoying sodas and peanuts while watching the drunks dance like zombies in this bar or play with their empty gin bottles as they stared into space. But the best part was when I found a large group of locals. They invited me over to try their smoothie-looking home brew. For $0.30 I got a sample from a worn, chewed up measuring cup. It smelled and tasted vaguely like vomit. But, in a matter of seconds I had taken it down, and they laughed hysterically upon seeing the distraught look on my face.

Then, just as I was walking away, another woman came up to me. The Portuguese she said was a blur to me, and realizing that I didn’t understand, she slowed down. She made some arm motions, I heard the words “drinking” and “casa” as she pointed over toward some homes behind her. Then she said, “Me" pointing at herself, something other Portuguese, and then "veinte.” I remember thinking, “She doesn’t look 50.” I soon realized that not only does veinte not mean 50, she also wasn’t talking about her age. As we walked away, Tony chuckled, “She want you.”Ohhhhh – it clicked. He explained, “Here a drinking, then a f***ing.” Wow. Only 20 metrecais – that’s like 65 cents. My first thought was just how unbelievable it was that she approached me, but then I realized how sad it was that she was going to offer herself up for $0.65. This was the going rate – even for a foreigner. I wondered what she charged the locals. I really need to learn some Portuguese.

Can the Poultry Industry Save Mozambique’s Poor?

No. That’s a dumb question to begin with, given that 75% of the population lives on less than $1.25 a day. But it can help a lot of them, which is exactly what TechnoServe’s (TNS) work over the past four years has shown. During my time here, I'm trying to paint a picture of how the effects of an emerging poultry industry are reaching everyone in the poultry industry, especially the poor. I’ll attempt to tell you a bit more about drumsticks and what I’ve seen so far.

If you’ve ever wondered how “development aid”, gets to (primarily African) countries, TNS is one of the conduits. Most people think of development aid as US tax dollars going into the black hole budgets of corrupt African governments. However, some aid is earmarked for organizations like TNS. TechnoServe is unique because it aims to make a broad-based impact across the economy using market-based approaches. It hauls in McKinsey consultants, investment bankers, and anyone else with outstanding experience and gets them to analyze the entire value chain of an industry to see what can be done. I told my friend it's the first time I've felt like the dumbest person in the room at any given time.

Trying to Fill the Void and Failing Miserably

I’m not superhuman. I used to think I was. In college I would brag about how I only went home twice a year and would someday live in China and only come back occasionally. I was grown up, or at least I was trying to give the impression. I wanted to show that I could thrive even without my mom, dad, siblings, and childhood friends. It’s inevitable for families and friends to disperse as the kids get older, but for some reason I wanted to speed this process up. I wanted to prove a point, and I don’t entirely know why. Maybe it’s because I’m independent. Maybe it’s because I’m from a small town. Maybe it’s because I didn’t make the basketball team in 8^th grade.

But here in Mozambique, I realize how wrong I was. I think I heard a statistic somewhere that the Christmas season is when depression and suicide rates are highest. While I’m not depressed and certainly not going to kill myself, this makes sense to me right now. I’m doing my best to recreate the holiday season I miss so much. I’m rocking so much Christmas music that even my mom would be proud; I’m hosting and attending Christmas parties to mingle with other nostalgic Americans; and I’m staying faithful to my PTI podcasts so I can keep current on Tim Tebow crying and the Bowl season.

None of it works. Everything sends little reminders, but doesn’t recreate it. Christmas songs make me crave drives down the “Street of Lights” in our hometown, which my mom forced my brothers and me to go down but which I would give anything to see now. Emails with my college friends about plans for a Mardi Gras get-together brings me right back to senior year in the crowd of the Flaming Lips at Rites of Spring, with the rain and streamers floating down on all of us like confetti at the culmination of one last big hurrah. Even innocently watching Man City beat Arsenal in a Mozambiquean pub reminds me of high school, where I would sit in the freezing cold (okay, Florida freezing cold) and watch my high school buddies (oddly enough all soccer players) beat Bishop Kenny, or any of the other teams on their schedule.

What I’ve found to be semi-successful is to stay busy – physically, mentally, and socially. Every day I rise at 6:20 and pound out a 5-miler. At TechnoServe, I bury myself in my work, arriving to the office by 8:10am, leaving around 6pm, then coming home to work more. That’s if there’s no party going on. Holiday parties are frequent these days, and I haven’t decided if this helps or only aggravates it. But at the end of the day, these are people I barely know. Some of us are becoming good friends, but most of the relationships are fleeting, and when I leave Mozambique I’ll just be another guy to them and they’ll just be another bunch of acquaintances to me. These aren’t the people I really want to be spending my holidays with. Guess ole' Uncle Eddie will have to pull me through.