Kenyan Volunteers

June 15, 2007
I flew to Kenya to begin my placement as a math teacher at an orphanage.

This is about the volunteers I met.

When you volunteer in a foreign country, you put yourself in a position to meet some truly wonderful people — many of whom are fellow volunteers.

Everybody’s there for a different reason. Some are there because they want a summer to travel and figured, hey, why not help others in the process. Some are there because they have optimistic aspirations to change the world. And some, well, some aren’t really sure why they’re there — only that it feels right to be there.

These volunteers come in all shapes and sizes. Many are third-year undergraduates, looking for a summer off before hitting the books one last time. Some are fresh out of high school. Some are in their 30s, 40s, and 50s. Doctors and businessmen, scientists and construction workers. Spiritual or faithfully religious. Studious, quiet, or shy. White collar, blue collar, and collars of all different colours.

But there’s usually one common link between these people. One common aspect that makes it so, for the most part, everybody manages to get along.

You see, deep down, these people, they’re all good people.

People with good hearts.

And that’s what makes them wonderful.

As foreigners in a strange land — we stuck together. Walked together, worked together, and ate together.

But most of all, we talked together.

It was fun. Frivolous and inane, but — like when we were young and spent our summer nights at camp — everybody enjoyed themselves silly. We talked about our favourite movies and our favourite music. Embarassing encounters. Politics. Celebrities.

You know, stuff that reminded us of home and the fact that the rest of the world doesn’t actually stop when we’re in Kenya.

Of course, the truly magical thing was that Kenya had brought us all together: half a dozen young adults of different temperaments, different backgrounds, and different beliefs. It’s hard to imagine another situation that would have united us.

There was Daniel from the University of Missouri: spiritual, religious, and contemplative. The two wonderful and inseparable ladies Heather and Amanda from Widener University, both of them sassy and quick to smile.

There was Brett — manic and slightly deranged Brett — a construction worker from Oregon who nevertheless got along famously with the others. Jenny, the Johns Hopkins undergraduate with the easy going charm. Ari, Vanen, and Brianna, the trio of 30-something friends who still managed to fit in with the rest of us.

And then there was Matt.

Matt was likable, curious and kind.

You’d think I’d say more about Matt — but surprisingly, no more need be said.

Matt was like that. Uncomplicated.

So one day, Matt brings home a pair of plain white shoes, vigorously haggled from the local market.

Along with a black permanent marker and a roll of masking tape, he shakes the shoes emphatically in my direction.

“I’m thinking about checkering these shoes black,” he said.

“Huh?”, I said.

“Yeah. It’s gonna be awesome”.

That evening we had dinner with the host family: A creamy ragou, with potatoes and a garnish of beef, drowned in a spicy sauce. Eaten with a mound of ugali and chapati on the side — it was the true staples of any Kenyan diet.

Afterwards, we sat around and chatted amongst ourselves. Matt however, sat there and silently worked on his shoes. First, he meticulously taped the shoes with the masking tape. Then, he coloured each cell with the black marker.

When he finished and held up his creation for all to see, we oohed and ahhed appropriately.

“What a brilliant idea!”, we said.

“I should market these,” he said.

“They’re one of a kind!”, we agreed.

Months Later…

By now, we’d all separated.

I hadn’t been in contact with any of the others — too wrapped up in my own affairs to bother, but I was meaning to write about them. When? I dunno. Later. When I had time.

One afternoon however, I found myself shopping at Primark, a well known clothing retailer in the UK. Think Walmart, but with lower prices and criminally cheap goods.

I stumbled into the footwear section and, as my eyes swept across the endless rows of trainers, loafers, and slippers — I did a double take. There, at the end of the rack were — you guessed it — Matt’s shoes.

No, they weren’t like Matt’s shoes. They were his shoes.

So what did I do? What could I do? Matt was a gazillion miles away, doing — well, doing whatever he did — and he’d never know. But I tell ya, it’d break his heart to see this, it really would.

So I took a picture and returned home to write this article.

But none of this is really about Matt and his spotted shoes. You know that, don’t you? It never was.

This is about the people we meet. Or rather, the people we don’t.

Think about it. How many people pass through our lives without a second glance? Without a second word? Maybe hundreds in a day. Thousands in a week. Millions in your lifetime.

The girl at the supermarket who distractingly bags your groceries. The boy at the bus stop who listens to his iPod. The people at the office. The people at the gym. The list goes on.

We see them, of course. But we don’t really see them. Not in the same way.

Not like in a foreign country, where you find yourself connecting with a handful of volunteers. From Australia and Canada, to New Zealand, America, and Sweden. Doctors, businessmen, construction workers, and writers. People you normally would have never befriended and people you would have never related to.

You take these random people, hailing from different parts of the globe and leading different lives and suddenly — when the collection of people passing through your life has been reduced from the thousands to half a dozen — you begin to see what makes them so special.

And although it’s taken a transcontinental trip and a barrel of vaccinations, you finally figure out why these people are so wonderful.

And why you’ll never look at a pair of checkered shoes the same way again.

I was there buying coat hangers.

The total was £1.59, so I gave the cashier £2.09

She fiddled with the change and pushed back a penny, frowning.

“Did I give you too little?”

“No…it’s not that,” she said, “I just can’t take this penny. It’s…Canadian.”

Her emphasis on the word, ‘Canadian’ gave the impression that she was neither impressed by our easy-going charms, nor our prowess for winter sports.

I didn’t have another penny.

“But it looks the same!” I pleaded.

She shrugged indifferently.

“And you know,” I continued, undaunted, “the Canadian dollar is unusually strong these days.”

She shrugged again.

“Think of it as an investment,” I cajoled.

“Sorry,” she said, her tone indicating that she was anything but sorry. “Don’t you have a penny?”

The next customer in line rummaged helpfully in her pockets. “I have a penny for you.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking it, “And in return for your generous donation, you get this shiny, one-of-a-kind, Canadian penn–”

“–No thanks,” she said quickly.

I shrugged casually. Trying to hide my chagrin and disappointment.

I handed the penny to the cashier. Smirking.

“I’m really trying to infiltrate the British economy,” I whispered conspiratorially. “With Canadian pennies.”

She ignored me.

“Yep. One penny at a time.”

Nope. Nothing. Not even a smile.

She handed me 50 pence and my receipt.

“Thanks,” was all she said.

Tough crowd, these Brits. Really. Tough crowd.

the three mugs

In which the author prepares to leave his home of twenty years and reminisces about his past with the help of three, rather unremarkable coffee mugs.

Having garnered a position as a student at a well-to-do university somewhere across the Atlantic, I found myself in the prickly dilemma of having to pack my entire life into two, under-50-lbs suitcases (thank you very much Air Canada) and leaving for England.

Unfortunately, for someone as ‘hobbity’ and fond of comforts as me, knowing what to pack and what not to pack is a monumental task.

Take, for example, my mug situation. Every avid coffee or tea drinker knows that the selection of the proper mug is key.

But actually, a mug means so much more than the delicious caffeinated goodness it may contain. Oh yes. A good mug symbolizes comfort. It represents a good home. And above all else, a good mug tells you a lot about the person holding it.

But with very limited room and weight for my possessions, I have to pick and choose.

Thus, it’s essential that I pick the right kind of mug. A mug that evokes poetic images of my hometown. A mug that subtly hints of my childish and rumbustious upbringing. That pains me with twangs of unrequited love and past heartbreak. And of promising futures.

I have four of them. Four mugs, each with truly revealing, utterly riveting stories. Each symbolizing a different aspect of what I’d like to bring to my new home.

Now one of these mugs — which, if you’re the attentive sort, has been a constant companion throughout this blog (look up), I’ve already decided to bring. And the story, though certainly of interest and certainly revealing, is one I’m not too eager to share. Let’s leave it at that.

And so without further ado, I present to you the three contestants.

The First Mug: Mickey and Pluto

This mug, which has a cartoon picture of Mickey Mouse and the lovable Pluto dozing off was a gift from my parents for one of my birthdays. Knowing them, it was probably bought at a second-hand store.

Of the four mugs, it’s the most unexciting, and uninteresting one.

But it’s a symbol of the warm comforts of home. It makes me remember all those times I spent sipping coffee at home, studying diligently, while constantly being peppered with intrusive interruptions by my mom.

Roz Doyle, from the TV show Frasier once asked, “Why is it so easy to love your family, but so hard to like them?” She hit the question right on the nose, and I’m not sure what the answer is, or even if there is one.

It’s not a mature mug, of course. It’s a childish and homely. But it does brings back comforts of Ottawa and of my suburban home. And that’s why I like it.

The Second Mug: Hillcrest High School

One day, when I’m lying on my death bed, I’m going to revisit the fondest, most memorable times of life. And high school, well, high school will most definitely be on that list.

To me, it’s not strange to admit that my final few years in high school are considered the high points of my existence.

I had everything. I had friends from all types and backgrounds — some of whom have continued to form the core members of my troupe. I was close to many of the teachers, and able to laugh and joke with them as I did with all my friends.

I was academically at the top of my game — in a time where you could be at the top of your game. Homework and school projects were always an output for my creative brand of humour and satire, with many presentations breaking out in song and other variations of silliness.

I was an avid athlete, competitively trained in track and field and at one point, National Capital champion in the triple jump. In gym class, I got to run around like an idiot, playing dodgeball, basketball, or whatever was offered on that particular day.

I was in love. Infatuated and silly. Hopelessly romantic.

But that’s what teenage love is all about, n’est-ce pas?

I was naive and still possessing boundless energy and that youthful outlook on life kids enjoy but never fully appreciate. Most of all, I was coming out of my shell. Sure, I was still awkward, but I was learning. Learning fast.

It’s all gone downhill since then. Not in the typical sense, of course. In many ways, I’m more successful than I ever was. I’m older, smarter, and have a pair of documents that proves to the world I have enough academic training to put the average girl to sleep on a date.

But I’ve lost a lot of the magic.

I’ve lost that balanced, jubilant lifestyle I once enjoyed.

That’s what this mug means to me.

The Third Mug: Overbrook Public School

Almost nobody can tell you anything about Overbrook Public School.

That’s because there is no Overbrook Public School. At least not anymore. It was shut down half-a-decade ago.

But even when there was an Overbrook Public School, it was hardly noticeable.

The school taught kindergarten through grade 6 — which was unusual since most primary schools that bother going up to grade 6 are capable of accommodating grade 7 and 8 students as well. Tiny was not the right word to describe Overbrook.

It was minuscule.

It had about 300 or 400 students and a handful of teachers. Everybody knew everybody and that was that. The gymnasium, I still remember vividly (but not all that fondly); the roof was perhaps 12 feet high, which meant the basketball nets where 7 or 8 feet off the ground. You literally had to lob the ball horizontally, otherwise it would bounce off the roof.

No wonder our school was always creamed in basketball.

Me? I was there from grade 4 to 6, but only because the school offered a unique French Immersion program. The thing is, nothing really happened when I was a student there. I was a pretty normal, run-of-the-mill kid. I was quiet, bright, athletic, but not unusually so. Girls thought I was awkward and a total nerd and geek (oh, how things have changed…), but at that age, they still had cooties and I had little interest in the fairer sex.

So in the end, that’s what this mug — a prize for my Grade 6 speech on Amelia Earhart — represents: my humble, quiet, and terribly unexciting past.

Your see, I have high hopes for some of my friends and acquaintances. I think some of them will go on to lead wonderfully successful lives. Make buckets of cash. Marry beautiful men and women. And then invite me to summer in their waterfront homes and lend me keys to their flashy sports cars.

But wherever we are, whatever we may do, it’s important to remember that most of us come from humble beginnings. Some of us attended tiny, unremarkable schools, and, at least initially, led wholly unremarkable lives.

Because, really, it’s all about the journey.

thighs

…the typical difference between a man’s waist and thigh is about 6-7 inches. For me, the difference is more like 11-12 inches. Almost double.

I’m one chunky bastard.

I think I’d look good in women’s clothing.

Does that sound odd to you?

Probably. Oh, who am I kidding, you probably have your hand hovering over the phone at this very moment, ready to hand me over to the loony bin.

But bear with me. Can you do that? Maybe by the end of this, it won’t sound so odd.

But here’s a (somehow fitting) song by Barbara Streisand that’ll keep you company as we tread on.

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A few posts ago, I mentioned having visited a tailor. His name was Mario and he charged me close to two thousand dollars to make a tux and two, rather ordinary collared shirts.

For a handmade outfit, it’s not extraordinarily expensive. But for a not-even-out-of-school punk like me, who doesn’t have a six digit salary, a rich power-hungry wife, and a Beverly Hills mansion, it’s still a bit of money. A helluva lot.

So why bother?

The problem — like all problems in life — starts at the waist.

It’s a nasty problem and goes both ways — up to my chin and down to my itty-bitty toes.

The thing is, I’m an extraordinarily short guy — only about five feet seven inches. 5′7, assuming I’m standing up straight. 5′7 assuming it’s sunny outside and the weather’s just perfect. 5′7 on a tall day.

I’m also an extraordinarily heavy guy — weighing anywhere from 190 lbs to 195 lbs. In fact, on a heavy day — like Wednesday — I may even be over 195 lbs. Hold the applause, please.

But all these two characteristics aren’t problems by themselves, no. It’s the waist, you see.

And my waist, along with my extraordinarily short stature and extraordinarily heavy weight, is an extraordinarily small waist.

Okay, I’m pulling your leg. It’s not that small.

The problem is that at one end, my waist flares out to a wide back. And at the other, it flares out to even chunkier thighs. Take a look at the following silhouette. I should warn you though, the full chunkiness of my thighs is poorly depicted in this silhouette.

Since I know I’m going to have to answer some silly questions about this (mainly from Dave): No I wasn’t entirely naked for this picture, and yes, I had my boxers on.

Stop laughing.

According to my newfound tailor, Mario, the typical difference between a man’s waist and thighs is about 6-7 inches. For me, the difference is more like 11-12 inches. Almost double. I’m one chunky bastard.

So let me take you through the process of how someone like me would find an ordinary button-down shirt.

First: I’d have to find a shirt that was meant for someone with my relatively short stature — not an unsurmountable task, sure, but the majority of clothes out there are meant for men at least a few inches taller.

Second: Most dress shirts meant for men 5′7-5′9 can’t accommodate my wide upper back and shoulders. This is a pretty big problem.

Third: Chances are, any shirt that can fit my upper back was meant for someone with a much, much larger gut. So I tuck the shirt in? Sure, but the end result is that it tends to bunch up near the waist and it simply looks wrong. So you keep the shirt out? Now I just look like a twat, thanks.

Starting to get the picture? We’re not done yet. Let’s find a pair of trousers.

First: Let’s find a pair that’ll fit those beefy thighs of mine. Got em’? Okay.

Second: Oops, sorry. Those pants were meant for someone with, again, a much bigger gut. Great. So you use a belt to hold it up. But now the fabric around the waist and butt pops out. You end up looking like a dolt, holding up clown pants with a belt.

Fine, so let’s try it in the reverse order.

First: The waist. Easily done. Now put your legs through and what do you find?

Second: Oops, sorry. Those pants were meant for someone with Gluteus Maximus that’s not quite so maximal. Good luck jamming your chunky thighs through that sucker.

So I know what you’re thinking. A problem with no solution?

Hardly.

Let me explain my brilliant idea.

See, the secret (like all secrets in life, mind you) lies with the feminine sex. Quite a few women have slim waists. In fact, their waists expand up to a larger upper back and down to larger hips. This accounts for the large taper you might see in a woman’s shirt and pants.

And so the solution is simple.

Simple, yet genial.

I could — could — spend $1900 to have some hoity-toity Italian tailor make me clothes that fit.

Or I could just wear women’s clothing.

Tada.

Now, you may applaud.

I know what you’re thinking.

You’re thinking, “Who is that unbeareably handsome guy off to the right?”

Look at those eyes!

Those brown, mellowy eyes that just ooze intelligence and…what is that? A kind of gentle weariness and humorous melancholy?

Maybe. But either way, I bet you were so enamored by those eyes, you didn’t even question my use of the word ‘mellowy’.

And that slump!

Oooh baby. That casual slump that somehow manages to tread the fine line between downright coolness and hopeless slack. It’s a slump that says, “Baby, James Dean s’got nothin’ on me”.

What about that smirk?

A subtle smirk that’s probably maddening to most people if it weren’t so suave. That’s the kind of smirk that’ll get you the ladies, I bet. Or get you beaten up in the 8th grade.

But surely that smirk reminds you of someone?

It’s me, duh!

I love it!

Is this what models feel like when a photographer takes their picture and, through a combination of makeup and photoshop produces a product worthy of a magazine cover?

It sorta looks like me, but not really.

Because for one thing, I hardly look that good in real life.

In any case, the reason I look so good is due to my friend and acquaintance, the talented artist, Captain Slug, who grudgingly put his artistic skills to the test on my behalf.

I was sorta hoping for tights and a cape, but I suppose that suit doesn’t look half bad.