I first visited Africa when I was 12 years old. My parents took my brothers and I on a five-star safari through the Serengeti National Park in Kenya and Tanzania. Being our Christmas break and their rainy season, the vacation meant afternoon-long detours around endlessly muddied terrain. My mother and I would listlessly sigh inside the immobile Jeep, watching Our MacGyver driver vigorously shovel away brick-mud from the tires. We felt stranded, hungry, and anxious to enjoy the "First-class Adventure Package" that we were promised. But when a loud Kttch! sprung from underneath, we gave into the unpredictability of the African landscape.
Jam! Jam! Our driver waved it was time to go. We would have to travel by foot to the next town for a new axle. I tried to tip-toe on top of the wet red earth, but my new sneakers unavoidably squished and were coated with color. Water seeped onto my cotton socks. Accepting the situation, my eyes floated up: a bed of cocoa extended beyond the horizon, speckled with patches of grass and umbrella trees. A breeze cooled my face. Roads had been washed away with the rain, but black-crested eagles still made their circled routes overhead.
The sun was higher in the sky when we reached "Mosquito Sitting on the Water." Between cement-blocked structures, a town was erected. Children nestled on women's backs, wrapped in colorful cloths. Packs of men heaved sacks of grain from trucks, and old women watched as they shucked corn in the shade. Fearless boys crowded around us, asking for pens or money. Young girls coyly offered beaded necklaces for sale. My dad was already bargaining for a pair of ebony bookends. For an elephant carving, he traded the wool socks off his feet and a dirty bandanna.
A gentle young man led us to his shop. Mohammed was dressed in a clean rugby shirt, baggy khakis secured with a leather belt, and a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap. For shoes, old tires were cut into flat rectangles and strapped onto his feet. Most of the others didn't have shoes at all: they walked barefoot and wore bright cloths, kangas, around their waists and torsos. Mohammed must have been considered wealthy given his western dress, rubber soles, and a shop of his own. I looked down to my feet, the mud now dry. My dirty sneakers didn't bother me anymore.
Mohammed tried to sell my brother Steve a Michael Jordan t-shirt, displayed in a glass case with a Casio watch and old camera. He settled for wooden candlesticks instead, and my mother bought a beaded pendant. Our driver soon reappeared with a new axle in hand and a hired car that would take us back to the deserted Jeep. As we all stood together for a picture, Mohammed posed like a proper military general, towering over my brothers and me. We exchanged addresses and promised that we would send the picture.
Showered and refreshed, dinner felt different that night. When the first course arrived, I slowly picked up my salad fork. The savory taste of tomatoes and bread quickly made me forget the events of the day. My hunger was being satisfied, and the dinner conversation picked up as it generally did. To break a short silence, my brother David attacked with a question: "In terms of wealth, what percentage of the world would you consider ourselves?" He looked only at me. Squirming, "I...I don't know. Top ten percent?" I thought of Mohammed's shoes, my shoes. I felt nauseated with guilt. "Try, top point zero, zero, zero one percent. You have no idea how lucky you are! You think everything is..." My father commanded David to stop and I stayed mostly quiet in thought for the remainder of dinner.
Immersed in the sounds of the New York cabs and nightlife, I often forget my first trip to Africa. I'm hypnotized by street couture, inventive food, spacious apartments, and weekend getaways. I'm surrounded by people who have so much more than I do, and I forget to feel lucky. I forget to appreciate. I forget that I live in Disney World, where food appears in giant warehouses and a college education comes easy. I forget that my single room could house an entire family. I often forget that I was born with opportunities that allow for an irreplaceable kind of freedom.
With my awareness of extreme poverty, I'm presented with a challenge: how can I feel lucky? I know that I am lucky, but how can I fight this middle class sense of entitlement? How can I reconcile the dichotomy between a nation of constitution and a nation of survival?
As my second trip to Africa approaches, I hope to find the common thread that runs through us all, weaving together those who pursue happiness and those who live.