Monday, October 4, 2010

Do You Cause More Harm than Good by Giving TOMS Shoes to the Poor?

After returning from a two-year tour with the Peace Corps I have only been home in New York for three weeks, and over the course of these three weeks at least a dozen people have told me to check out this new brand of TOMS Shoes and their “One for One” campaign – leading me to believe that this is the new trendy thing in humanitarianism. If you haven’t heard the pitch already;
In 2006, American traveler Blake Mycoskie befriended children in Argentina and found they had no shoes to protect their feet. Wanting to help, he created TOMS Shoes, a company that would match every pair of shoes purchased with a pair of new shoes given to a child in need… Blake returned to Argentina with a group of family, friends and staff later that year with 10,000 pairs of shoes made possible by TOMS customers.
Now in its fifth year of operations, TOMS has given away more than 1 million alpargata shoes to children and adults in Argentina and more impoverished, even more trendy Third World societies where the poor go shoeless such as Haiti, South Africa, Rwanda, Ethiopia, Guatemala, Kentucky, Louisiana and Mississippi. Blake does not consider himself to be just another businessman selling a product to make a profit, but as the CEO of a “movement”.
After all, an Argentinean alpargata shoe is not just a fashion choice to impress your Williamsburg hipster friends with your awareness of the oppressed indigenous peoples of the world. So their Birkenstocks were made by high-paid union workers and their Chacos were manufactured with limited carbon footprints – that’s so bourgeois! But if you buy a pair of TOMS Shoes for yourself, you’re directly helping the poor because Blake is going to give another pair to a child running barefoot through the rubble-strewn streets of Port-au-Prince!



The way the TOMS system works is very straightforwardly the way that it is advertised. Similar alpargatas of comparable quality sell for a retail price of $20 to $25, so when TOMS sells their shoes for $38, $44 or $54 the consumer is essentially buying one for the price of two. So yes, TOMS is giving half of their shoes away to the poor, but its not like those donations are coming out of corporate profits - all of the charity is paid for by the Western consumer. TOMS Shoes is profiting from both the shoe the wealthy Western consumer buys for his- or herself and TOMS Shoes is profiting from the second shoe the wealthy Western consumer buys for the person in need.

All through the promotional materials, Blake Myscoskie lays out the case that his shoes are not mere fashion items but humanitarian supplies necessary to promote health and education;
A leading cause of disease in developing countries is soil-transmitted diseases, which can penetrate the skin through bare feet. Wearing shoes can help prevent these diseases, and the long-term physical and cognitive harm they cause.
For those Westerners who have never stubbed their toe, Blake explains how the shoeless suffer from mundane ailments;
Wearing shoes also prevents feet from getting cuts and sores. Not only are these injuries painful, they also are dangerous when wounds become infected.
Furthermore, the lack of children wearing adequate footwear impedes education;
Many times children can’t attend school barefoot because shoes are a required part of their uniform. If they don’t have shoes, they don’t go to school.


Blake seems to have an adequate understanding of the importance of wearing shoes in the developing world. Though I feel the need to elaborate upon one particular “soil-transmitted disease” to which the One for One media implicitly refers: hookworm. If you talk to any doctor familiar with tropical diseases, they will tell you that there are many reasons why one should always wear shoes outdoors; ants, snakes, scorpions, ascariasis, schistosomiasis, rusty nails, broken glass, splinters, etc. But if there is one danger that a doctor is going to cite as a reason to wear shoes in the tropics, it is probably going to be hookworm.


The hookworm is a parasitic nematode which lives in the bodies of carriers and the soil, or to be more precise, in soil soiled with fecal matter. There are many species of hookworm which inhabit different kinds of mammals. People who walk barefoot around places where pigs and humans shit freely are prone to stepping in dirt teeming with larvae of the hookworm species Ancylostoma duodenale or Necator americanus which prefer to reside in our digestive tracts. The larvae need a host in order to feed so they penetrate the skin – usually the underside of the foot. Hookworm larvae then migrate under the skin through the vascular system and into the lungs, and from there they crawl all the way up to the trachea where they are eventually swallowed. The larvae then travel down through the esophagus and the digestive system until they finally reach the intestine where they mature into adult hookworms and grow to a size of 5 to 13 millimeters. Once female hookworms have reached reproductive maturity they can lay as many as 30,000 eggs a day – or 15 to 54 million eggs over the course of a single worm’s lifetime. Hookworm eggs pass through the host’s feces, and once they hatch a pig will eventually lay in the muck or a barefoot child in Nigeria will walk through a schoolyard without adequate latrines… and the life cycle of the hookworm continues…

Hookworm causes a host of physical symptoms among its human hosts, including nausea, fevers, painful diarrhea and anemia. Children born to mothers who were also incubating hookworm eggs in their intestine tend to suffer from low birth weight and prematurity. And I am inclined to assume that Blake Mycoskie’s One for One campaign is referring to hookworm when it invokes the “long-term physical and cognitive harm” caused by diseases incurred by barefoot-walking poor people; after all, hookworm is by far the most widespread ailment which causes cognitive harm which could be prevented by wearing shoes. Especially if contracted at a young age, unwitting hookworm hosts become increasingly more unwitting as the natural development of their brain is retarded and their cognitive abilities either level off at early childhood or they pointedly regress. This is among the many reasons why adequate sanitation and hygiene is so vital for improving education in the developing world, because when children are shitting all over the schoolyard and walking barefoot across the contaminated soils at least a quarter of the student body will probably contract hookworm and become neurologically incapable of learning.

Accordingly, one must understand that the combination of people walking barefoot, inadequate sanitation infrastructre and open defecation is one of the primary reasons why all of the above symptoms are so pervasive in the developing societies of Africa, South Asia, Latin America and Oceania. It is estimated that 576 to 740 million people are afflicted with hookworm worldwide; a stunning majority of 198 million are estimated to reside in sub-Saharan Africa (about a quarter of the total population of 800 million). If you haven't digested that statistic thoroughly enough, that means that - in addition to Down Syndrome and Klinefelter's Syndrome and general malnutrition - as much as a quarter of sub-Saharan Africans might be suffering from some degree of mental disability because they have been walking barefoot in fecal matter.

However, after a thorough reading of all of TOMS Shoes’ literature, I could only find indirect allusions to and one single fleeting mention of what is perhaps the gravest reason why anyone who walks around in the tropics should not walk barefoot. The sole explicit mention of hookworm I can find in the entire plethora of One for One materials is presented in such a way – buried in a misleading post titled “Let’s Talk About Podoconiosis” – that the symptoms of hookworm can be easily confused with this very completely different disease that is only related in that it can also be prevented by wearing shoes.

The One for One campaign explains the relevance of shoes to public health by focusing on podoconiosis – an illness which causes the grotesque swelling and deformity in the feet and legs properly known as elephantiasis.

Not to be confused with lymphatic filariasis – the elephantiasis-causing disease caused by parasitic worms transmitted via mosquito bite – podoconiosis is the significantly more obscure elephantiasis-causing disease found almost exclusively in certain populations of people who walk around barefoot over red clayish soils associated with volcanic activity and thereby rich with the alkali silicon dioxide. Repeated absorption of alkalis into the skin causes the lymphatics to form fibrous tissue and block and for the femoral nodes to enlarge; eventually the skin of the infected area swells with fluid, and it becomes thicker, nodular and rough like the skin of an elephant (hence “elephantiasis”). Podoconiosis disables its victims to such an extent that they cannot work and it disfigures them in a way that they are usually shunned as social outcasts.

Since the environment for this disease exists only in remote mountainous areas, podoconiosis is found almost exclusively amongst isolated subsistence agriculturalist and pastoralist societies in places like Sudan, Kenya, Uganda and especially Ethiopia. In certain pockets of the Ethiopian Highlands where the soils are particularly rich with volcanic alkalis and the traditional farmers and herders walk around their fields barefoot, as much as 6 percent of the population is thought to suffer from podoconiosis. It is very difficult to conduct an accurate census in these parts of the world where such a significant part of the population migrates with the seasons or is properly nomadic, so compiling reliable statistics on this particular disease is a rather arduous task; nonetheless, epidemiologists estimate that anywhere from 500,000 to 1 million people worldwide currently suffer from podoconiosis.



Let’s say that you were looking for a way to reduce the spread of disease in Ethiopia. If you buy a pair of TOMS Shoes it will cost you anywhere from $38 for a pair of Youth Canvas Classics to $79 for a pair of Highlands Botas - plus shipping and handling. Equivalent products cost $20 to $25, so the cost of manufacturing a cheap shoe like this cannot possibly be more than $10 - it's probably closer to $5. The average markup from American shoe retailer to the consumer price is around 40 percent, the average markup from a shoe company to a retailer is around 50 percent. What that means is that even if you're buying two of these shoes, TOMS is making oodles of money on both the shoes you buy for yourself as well as the shoes you buy for charity. Yes, a single pair of these shoes per se is really only worth about $5 - but that figure is only applicable if Blake Mycoskie is manufacturing these shoes and sending them to the Third World himself; but if you buy a pair of Pink Murray Organic Cotton Men's Vegans online for $54 the cost which you pay to give a pair of shoes to Ndugu the Amhara cattle herder is more or less half that - or $27.

If there are 1,000 children at a school in an Ethiopian village, for you to provide TOMS alpargatas for the entire student body should cost about $27,000. I will be generous and assume that these foam-and-rubber-soled, twill and suede-topped shoes will last their wearer an average of 2 years before they inevitably rip, degrade and fall apart to the point that they either no longer serve any protective function or they cannot be worn at all – seeing that these kids will be walking over rough terrain and doing heavy labor in the fields, 2 years is an extremely generous estimate. And I’ll be even more generous and assume that 100 percent of the recipients of these free shoes will be protected from contaminated soil as long as their shoes remain intact and wearable. So by handing out 1,000 pairs of free shoes to the sum total of $27,000, you could theoretically protect 1,000 children from hookworm, ascariasis, podoconiosis and stubbed toes for about 2 years.

Another way to improve public health would be for you to donate to a reputable non-profit on the ground in Ethiopia to build latrines at a public schoolyard so the students wouldn’t have to walk through each other’s feces in the first place. I’ve built a row of latrines at a school in Mali for a total price of $1,969, and I've built latrines in private homes for an individual price of $41 per latrine. Though I have never built a latrine in Ethiopia, my understanding of cement prices gives me no reason to think that the cost of latrine construction there should be all that much more expensive than in Mali. Even if no one ever conducts any repairs beyond superficial maintenance, a decently-built concrete latrine should last for about 25 years. Though it would not protect them from disease transmission outside the schoolyard, a disproportionate amount of disease transmission is concentrated around schoolyards without adequate sanitation - so these $1,969 latrines could thoroughly reduce the chances tens of thousands of children contracting hookworm, ascariasis, giardia, dysentery, cholera and schistosomiasis over the course of a quarter century.

For $1,969 you could give 72 kids in Ethiopia a pair of shoes which will inevitably rip and degrade into rags within a few years – or you could send your money to a Peace Corps Volunteer or Oxfam or Water Aid to build one row of concrete latrines at a school which should last for decades. For the price of sending TOMS Shoes to a school of 1,000 kids for 2 years, you could build 13 latrines at 13 schools to benefit the health of tens of thousands if not a hundred thousand kids over the course of 25 years.

Giving a child in Ethiopia a pair of shoes might very well be a moral thing to do, but when a development agency or NGO is pursuing some sort of public health agenda they have to do these kinds of calculations to determine which of many policy options available to them are worth the expenditure of finite financial resources. If you are going to donate your money to some sort of humanitarian cause, you should do the same kind of math to determine which charity you feel best deserves your money.

Even if cement prices fluctuate and building latrines becomes relatively more expensive, it’s fair to say that – dollar-for-dollar – you could reduce the incidence of disease incredibly more cost-efficiently if you were to stop giving away free shoes and use that money to contribute to the construction of latrines at public schools. Or you could contribute to the construction of a water pump so people don't have to drink unpotable water contaminated with guinea worm. Or you can pay to build a hangar at the clinic so that parents don't have to stand in the blistering sun for hours at a time during polio vaccinations and more kids will get vaccinated. Or you could pay for a village community health organization to get their hands on visual educational materials so they can train illiterate people to recognize the warning signs of tuberculosis. Or you could pay for the training of midwives in a rural village. No matter how expensive constuction materials might become in Ethiopia, the fundamental issue is that money spent on public sanitation infrastructure or education programs is going to be inherently more cost-effective than money spent on personal hygiene products because they last much longer for the direct benefit of a much greater number of people.

If Blake Mycoskie were running a non-profit charity mandated to reduce disease as effectively and as efficiently as he could on a dollar-for-dollar basis, then he would be spending money on sustainable water and sanitation infrastructure or rural health clinics or AIDS education materials in public schools. But he’s not – he’s a shoe salesman. As much as TOMS Shoes considers itself to be a “movement” rather than a mere profit-based firm, let us not forget that they are a shoe company first and a humanitarian aid agency second. And their niche in the galaxy of non-profits and quasi-non-profits-that-are-actually-for-profits is that if you buy a pair of TOMS Shoes, they give a pair to a poor person in Haiti or South Africa. Epidemiological or economic data be damned, their policy is to give away shoes.

But unless you yourself own stock in the TOMS Shoes company, you don't have any vested interest in sending a Tutsi girl a pair of shoes. You can donate to one of infinite charitable causes. Why not pay for her to have clean water? Or a mosquito net? Or a year's worth of antiretroviral treatment?

So what if we assume that podoconiosis is the only disease that you care about, that you are dead-set on contributing to that one particular cause - and the only way to prevent podoconisis is to get more Ethiopian Highlanders to wear shoes? Or let’s even forget about disease transmission and assume that you want to decrease the number of people without shoes as an end unto itself. Does that mean that giving away shoes is the best way to clothe the naked? Not necessarily.

To shed some light on my own point of view, as of late I have developed a strong sense of skepticism towards rich people who aim to improve the lot of the poor by simply giving things away because I have seen firsthand how such acts of well-intended charity can all-too-often result in painful belly flops of failure and can even be counterproductive to its stated goals.

While I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Mali from 2008 to 2010 I lived in a concrete home built by the Christian NGO World Vision to house its own development extension agents (missionaries with secular humanitarian agendas) who lived there from 1988 to 1998. Though World Vision’s personnel had never returned since they closed down operations in Sanadougou in 1998, 10 years later the legacy of their actions remained tangibly apparent. Not only had they built the house I lived in, but they had built a clinic across the street from my house which was full of patients and decently staffed every day. They built a kindergarten which was still used despite the fact that it was falling to pieces. They built a solar pump system which could provide the town with potable water, but it was never managed, never maintained, in need of serious repairs and was for all practical purposes non-functional. They built a library that no one ever borrowed books from. They built a dance hall that was used a total of 4 times in 2 years. And even more durable than their legacy of steel and concrete structures, the well-intentioned NGO had completely distorted the incentive for perfectly rational economic actors to spend their own money to buy shoes for their children.

Every Christmas countless churches throughout the affluent West decide that they should spread their love for all of God’s children by putting together boxes of gifts to send to poor kids in Africa. By May or June hundreds of these boxes of gifts would have arrived in World Vision’s Bamako bureau and eventually a portion of them would make it to Sanadougou and the World Vision agents who lived in my house would go out and distribute these gifts to Christian children in villages around the area. As I have been told by my neighbors in Sanadougou, these gift boxes contained soccer balls for boys, baby dolls for girls, and every gift box contained an age- and gender-appropriate pair of shoes. Depending who was telling the story, I was told that “the White People gave us cadeaux” on various years with occasional differentiations in the contents of the box – my understanding is that the Christian NGO personnel distributed shoes to kids around the village to celebrate a number of Christmases in June.

None of these shoes from Christmases past still existed for me to see in 2008 – even the most professionally child-sewn Nikes could never last a decade’s worth of wear in Africa. The enduring legacy of these well-meaning Christian philanthropists was rather the dog that did not bark; at least part of the multitude of bare feet. In Sanadougou all but the poorest adults would walk around in a pair of shoes, so did most kids 12 or older – those old enough to work in the fields. But the majority of kids younger than that – young enough that they are most susceptible to serious complications of hookworm, ascariasis, etc. – always walked barefoot. Of course, part of this is because many a farmer did not have all that much monetary income to spend on shoes for every single one of his 9, 12, 15, 20 children. But there were also a lot of people who did have enough income from cash-cropping, livestock sales, blacksmithing, carpentry and assorted other trades, people who could most certainly afford to pay for shoes for their kids but decided to spend their money elsewhere.

In Sanadougou’s market a pair of the cheapest, lowest-quality Chinese-manufactured plastic shoe costs 800 francs CFA (~$1.60). The equivalent pair of flip-flops costs 500 francs (~$1). A packet of tea costs 200 francs, a kilogram of sugar costs 450 francs, a cigarette costs 100 francs, and a full motorcycle gas tank costs 2,000 francs – 3,000 if it’s a Yamaha. In a small town like this, phone cards are sold for denominations of 1,000 or 2,000 francs. 500 francs for a pair of flip-flops is not so unaffordable to explain why so many kids in my village walked around barefoot.

Some adults in Sanadougou were very, very poor and could not afford shoes even for themselves – but they could afford to brew three rounds of tea and sugar every night. I’d go to the butigi to buy some matches and there would be Nouhoume sitting in his place as usual enjoying his afternoon cigarette and he’d point at his cracked, broken feet,

“Madu, you have so much money! Why don’t you buy me a pair of shoes?”

“Y’know, Nouhoume, if you forego cigarettes from today until Thursday, on Thursday you will have saved enough money to buy a pair of shoes yourself!”

What really infuriated me was when people would show off to me their conspicuous consumption of top-of-the-line Western electronics that they absolutely could not afford – because it was always shamelessly juxtaposed with the abject want of necessity. In particular I remember this one guy Sori Sogoba; Sori is a 22-year-old who farms millet and peanuts and goes to Bamako every cold season to sell phone cards, and he has a wife and three kids who walk around town barefoot. And he has an iPhone. Just about every time I saw him he would always steer the conversation to “My iPhone is better than your dinky Nokia. Your telephone can’t even play music videos!”

“Yeah, but everyone in my family has a pair of shoes.”

I would try to make the connection between the abundance of unaffordable luxuries and paucity of necessities like shoes and mosquito nets whenever granted the opportunity. And I pissed off a good many people in the process – especially Sori.

He would respond, “Yeah, well, I don’t have to buy them shoes because one day The White People are going to come back and give shoes to the children. My kids don’t have shoes because The White People haven’t come yet!”

In so many inversions, dozens of Malian parents have told me this same sorry excuse on even more numerous occasions. They would always cite the fact that once upon a time the World Vision gift-givers drove around the village in their big SUV and handed out shoes to a couple dozen children every other year or so from 1988 to 1998. The Time That the White People Came and Gave Shoes to the Children is one of the few legends of Sanadougou lore that is recounted over the teapot on a fairly regular basis, and in accordance with their Messianic creed they had every reason to have faith that one day The White People shall return – with shoes, of course. Back in 1997 many of today’s fathers were then among the recipients of the White People’s Christmas gift drive, so it seems only natural that this formative experience has made a lasting impression on their parenting now that they have kids of their own.

Of course this is a completely unscientific survey, but from my casual conversations with dozens and dozens of poor Minianka farmers in Mali, I only have reason to think that a significant number of people were telling me the truth when they told me that they had decided upon the inaction of not splurging 500 francs on a pair of shoes for their child at least partly because of the expectation that The White People would take care of this expenditure for them – and therefore they consider that to spend their own money on shoes would be a waste of 500 francs that could otherwise be spent on… say, five cigarettes. Likewise, I don’t think I’m going out on too far of a limb when I conclude that there exists a significant population of children running around Sanadougou barefoot and contracting hookworm, ascariasis, etc. who are lacking shoes precisely because once upon a time between 10 and 20 years ago World Vision decided to give away shoes for free.

Indeed, it is also quite likely that a number of men who told me that they didn’t need to buy their children shoes because in the past a Christian charity gave away free shoes were just making sorry excuses and that they would have never bought their kids shoes even if this precedent of Western intervention in the local shoe market had never been set. Even so, these men were still able to abdicate personal responsibility for the welfare of their children by citing the (in their minds reasonable) expectation that someone else would do their job for them – because this one time they did.

The incentive problem caused by the free distribution of shoes in Sanadougou seems quite similar to the problem with the free distribution of mosquito nets. As I have written in prior musings, every year the Sanadougou clinic gets a shipment of a few hundred mosquito nets from UNICEF which they give for free to every pregnant mother whom they admit to the maternity. Even though the overwhelming majority of the population is never going to be eligible for one of these free mosquito nets, the fact that some people are getting free mosquito nets allows for an economy in which no one – not even the wealthy and educated who do understand the value of this product and have more than enough money to obtain one by their own means – will ever feel obligated to buy mosquito nets for themselves and for their children. Even though sleeping under a mosquito net is the simplest, cheapest, most cost-effective way of preventing malaria, the knowledge that foreign charities are intervening to help some people obtain a mosquito net for free allows everyone else to completely relinquish any self-determination of their own health and well-being. Once a precedent like this has been established in the collective mind of the tribe, it’s really difficult to undo.

Philanthropic Westerners must understand that even though their intentions in giving might be perfectly benevolent, in practice just giving things away to people can have destructive implications. Before you give to a certain charity or purchase a pair of TOMS Shoes, it is imperative to comprehend that in these parts of the world where people have next to nothing, incentives can work in such ways that the recipients of your aid might adopt behaviors that Western do-gooders simply cannot conceive. I’m not saying that you should not give to charity – all I’m saying is that before you give whimsically to just any humanitarian-sounding cause, first take into consideration that it is possible that your unconditional generosity might just distort incentives to such a perverse extreme that any good that they might have achieve in the short run might be negated by the greater harm that they might cause in the long run.

So should Blake Mycoskie get out of the business of distributing shoes to poor people? Not at all. I do think, however, that he should consider getting out of the business of giving away shoes for free. Blake Mycoskie is a shoe salesman – he should be selling shoes to poor people.

In a study by Population Services International, a campaign to distribute free mosquito nets in Zambia resulted in only 30 percent of all recipients ever actually using their free mosquito net. However, as economist William Easterly describes the effort in culturally-similar Malawi:
PSI sells bed nets for fifty cents to mothers through antenatal clinics in the countryside, which means it gets the nets to those who both value and need them… The nurse who distributes the nets gets nine cents per net to keep for herself, so the nets are always in stock. PSI also sells nets to richer urban Malawians through private-sector channels for five dollars a net. The profits from this are used to pay for the subsidized nets sold at the clinics, so the program pays for itself. PSI’s bed net program increased the nationwide average of children under five sleeping under nets from 8 percent in 2000 to 55 percent in 2004, with a similar increase for pregnant women. A follow-up survey found nearly universal use of the nets by those who paid for them.
If people are still going to buy their $20 shoes for $54, TOMS Shoes should consider tinkering with the current “One for One Movement” and replacing it with some sort of distribution method that aims to decrease the number of people who are shoeless and nevertheless abstain from doing anything that might create a perverse incentive for people to not buy shoes with their own money. Why not try to emulate PSI’s successful Malawi Model? Step up efforts to sell alpargatas directly to Guatemalan and Rwandan and Haitian elites at a price that they can most likely afford – and only after the style catches on amongst the trend-setting upper class reach out to potential middle class and working class and subsistence agricultural class customers and set prices accordingly at levels that each respective class can most likely afford. Sell a pair of alpargatas to the poor for one dollar or fifty cents – a price that is low enough that it is within their price range and yet somewhat more expensive than free.

If TOMS is making profits giving away a free pair of shoes for every pair they sell, I find it difficult to believe that they could run into financial trouble by charging a nominal price for the shoes they now distribute pro bono. The only way that selling shoes to the poor could possibly be detrimental to the company’s bottom line is that a significant number of wealthy Westerners are buying alpargatas solely because of the premise that they are giving a pair to a barefoot kid in Ethiopia. But TOMS Shoes doesn’t even have to abandon the “One for One Movement” – only now, their slogan should be “For every pair you buy, we will sell a pair of shoes to someone in need for only fifty cents.” I find it hard to believe that the class of customers who will buy a pair of shoes because they want to make a political statement with their wallet is going to abandon the TOMS line if they're only selling shoes to the poor at 95 percent off.

Selling a quality product for a profit in places like Ethiopia and Rwanda is nothing to sneeze at. There are already shoes for sale there – the problem is that the only shoes that most people can afford are cheaply-made Chinese shoes that are of poor quality and they do not last through the rigors of farm work and they break too easily. Some people can afford decent shoes, but too many cannot. That is why the world needs entrepreneurs like Blake Mycoskie to devise a successful business model to sell durable shoes to the poor at prices that they can afford.

Nevertheless, as the company’s policies now stand, at the moment I remain a skeptic of TOMS Shoes and the “One for One Movement” because I think that its goals are misdirected and that its model does not seem to be cost-effective compared to viable and proven alternatives for reducing disease. I believe that at best this company is selling its customers a bunch of overpriced earth shoes whose expense can only be justified because they come with the satisfaction of thinking that one has made a difference, and at worst they might actually be increasing the likelihood that more children will walk around barefoot. But I also believe that this basic premise of TOMS Shoes is not without hope, and with some structural changes to the way that they do business in the developing world this firm can make a much better long-term, sustainable change in the clothing market which allows for more of the world’s poor to afford a decent pair of shoes.

In the meantime, I think that anyone who is buying one pair of mediocre shoes for the price of two is just wasting their money. If you want to spend your money in a way that helps the world's poor, you might as well just buy another brand of alpargatas for $20 and take that other $34 you would have spent had you bought a pair of TOMS and donate it to Oxfam, Habitat for Humanity, Doctors Without Borders or some other genuine non-profit that is more likely going to spend it on more worthwhile projects that will make a much greater impact.



Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Help Fund Pilar's Nyegen Project!


Though the eponymous hero of this blog can no longer volunteer his own ditch–digging skills, the brave activists of Operation Sphincter Plug continue their valiant effort to rid the world of gastrointestinal disease. Continuing this imperative work in another village down the road from Sanadougou is Peace Corps Volunteer Pilar Lyons of Pine Bush, New York. Pilar is a civil engineer with a special zeal for water and wastewater infrastructure!

Pilar’s village is much smaller than Sanadougou – only about one thousand people; however, it has even more dire sanitation needs. This particular Minianka village lies atop soft fertile soils adjacent to a series of seasonal ponds with a very high water table – only 1.5 meters below ground in some places. Though this is a prime location for agriculture, since the water table is so high and the soft soils are not supported by solid rock, their “traditional latrines” built from mud and logs often rot and collapse while some unlucky person is squatting on top of them. Even worse, the high water table and soft soils mean that the groundwater which feeds this village's wells is particularly susceptible to contamination from the unlined latrine pits; in other words, their drinking water is directly polluted with human fecal matter. Without any means of containing wastewater, raw sewage flows out into standing puddles in the street which serve as fertile breeding grounds for malaria-spreading mosquitoes, as well as filth flies and cockroaches which carry giardia cysts and amoebas into the people's food and drinking water.

Inadequate sanitation in a Minianka village is not just something icky – it is the reason why giardia, dysentery, hookworm and malaria are absolutely endemic in this society, it why two out of every five children die before the age of five, it is why so many adults cannot work in the fields because they are sapped and emaciated by dysentery. Without the monetary wealth to purchase reinforced concrete and plastic tubing necessay to build adequate sanitation infrastructure, these poor Miniankas are mired in a cycle of filth, disease and poverty.

A few months before I packed my bags for Ameriki, Pilar biked over to the mud mansion of Xanadu with two masons from her village both named Daniel Dembele. They came to inspect the many dozens of nyegens and soak pits we had built throughout town. My main man Sidiki Sogoba taught the two Daniels how he assembles proper latrine platforms so that they could apply this trade in their own community. Sidiki doesn't mind the competition, because "We need so many skilled masons in every village in Mali. Even near Sanadougou, we need so much work that I could never do it all."



Now Pilar and the two Daniel Dembele’s are committed to organizing a village–wide sanitation campaign similar to the one which Sidiki and I conducted in Sanadougou. With your help, they would like to build 30 concrete latrines with lined latrine pits to safely store solid waste and a combintion of soak pits and infiltration trenches to safely store liquid waste underground in such a way that it does not directly contaminate the groundwater and it cannot be spread by flies and vermin to indirectly contaminate the food and water. The villagers who would like to participate in the program will have to procure all of the sand, rocks and gravel and either contribute or pay for all of the necessary labor; 27 percent of the total cost. Funds donated through the Peace Corps Partnership will go to pay for cement, rebar, plastic pipes, plastic sheets and a few masonry tools which the town does not have at their disposal.

If you would like to contribute to Pilar’s nyegen project, click here!

Ini’che kosibe kosibe!!!

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

From Here to Modernity

Culturally speaking, the Bamako International Airport functions to serve foreigners. The majority of its patrons consist of German tourists, American diplomats, French NGO personnel and Arab oilmen. There is often a smattering of native-born Malians who somehow got hold of a visa to Spain or Italy years ago and have now returned to see their extended families luxuriating in their remittances. Usually the only kind of Malian residents you will ever see boarding a plane are the Bamakois elite who have salaried careers in government or banking and take in at least 1 million CFA (~$2,000) a month, who speak to their family exclusively in French, who wear stylish suits and closed-toed leather shoes, who are so proudly Western that they are – as Modibo Keita said of Leopold Senghor – “plus français que le plus français des français”.

In a country where the economy is all but defined by subsistence agriculture, travel by air is simply not something that your average Malian can even dream of. Very rare is the Bambara peanut farmer who can save enough cash to buy a $400 ticket to Tunis, a $800 ticket to Casablanca or a $900 ticket to Paris.

As I stepped inside terminal at Bamako International Airport to say goodbye to Mali for the last time, I was greeted by a very unusual sight: actual broussey Malians who were quite obviously leaving Mali for the first time. There was a troupe of 30 Bambara women taking the same flight as me to Tunis en route to their final destination in Mecca. Judging by their simple dresses and head wraps, their general lack of teeth, the facts that their luggage consisted of rice sacks and plastic buckets, these were obviously not the wives of the wealthy Bamakois elite.

As I later found out, some wealthy Muslim somehow paid for these 30 simple village women to embark on the hajj as a grand act of charity. To go on the pilgrimage to Mecca is one of the five pillars of Islam, and it should be one of the defining moments in the life of any Muslim who can afford to do so. Now imagine how exciting such an adventure should be for a simple Bambara woman who does most of her travel by donkey cart, who has maybe traveled on a run-down minivan to Bamako four or five times over the course of her 50 years. And now she is going to Mecca, in Saudi Arabia – by airplane!!!

Just try to imagine how wild an idea this must be for a woman from a society defined by a means of production that has not changed much since the advent of the Iron Age. The sighting of a pankuru – a “jumping boat” – was a very big deal in Sanadougou. As the Minianka villagers tilled their fields with simple iron hoes and picks, every couple of months someone might see a pankuru soar above the clouds across the baby blue sky. It would be the talk of the town for weeks on end. As I the fair-skinned American had obviously taken a pankuru to get there, they would ask me all about the technical matters of aviation:

“How does a pankuru jump so high in the sky?”

“How do people get all the way up to find their seats?”

“How does the driver hit the breaks on the wheels?”

“Where is the road?”

These ladies embarking on the hajj might have bitten off more than they could chew. From the moment they somehow got past the check-in counter, it was obvious that the process of air travel was such a foreign concept entailing such a long series of elaborate rituals for which they had absolutely no point of reference. With much difficulty the Bambara-speaking airport staff was able to guide them through the metal detector and security checkpoints, and even then they were confused and frightened by these strange futuristic plastic wands being waved around their bodies. Once they arrived at the gate – there is only one gate at the Bamako International Airport – they were in the hands of Tunis Airlines.

Once a passenger gets through check-in and security, the next step in boarding an airline usually entails waiting on line to show one’s ticket. There’s not much sense in rushing the gate, because everyone going on to a plane has an assigned seat. Though the broussey women could have only known the protocol of getting onto a Malian bus; a fierce gauntlet elbowing one’s way through a crowd of peanut vendors and beggar children, speed is of the essence because the bus drivers usually sell more tickets than there are seats and those who don’t have to kneel in the aisle, those ticket-holders who can’t find room to kneel are simply out of luck and have to wait for the next bus. So all of the Westerners and cultivated ruling class Africans recoiled in disgust as the group of 30 cut and clawed their way to the front of the line.

Naturally, by the time they clawed their way onto the plane the 30 broussey women on hajj all chose to sit together. However, this posed a problem as 30 other people held the tickets to those very same seats. Technically the French-colonized Malians and French-colonized Tunisians should be able to resolve their differences with a lingua franca, and the Tunisian staff did indeed speak beautiful French – but that meant little to a hoard of illiterate, unschooled housewives who knew little “white people language” beyond “Bo swa”, “Bozu le Blanc” and “Saba saba byen”. Also, provincial Bambaras tend to have a difficult time understanding the concept of other people not understanding what they say in Bambara.

“Pardonnez-moi, madame, mais quelqu'un d'autre a le billet pour cette place.”

“EHHHH?!?!?! A KANNA MUSO KOROBA TORO!!!! E BE N TOY!!!!”

“Madame, vous devez rester assis dans votre siège attribué.”

“EHHHH?!?!?! N YE NI PLACE SORO FOLO NI N TE TA!!!!!”

The rest of the passengers were held up from boarding for about 10 minutes until a native Malian who had expatriated to France acted as an intermediary between the Tunis Air stewards and the 30 broussey Malian women, showed the latter how a ticket worked and led them one by one to their designated seats. At this point the Mali musow were downright hostile. The airline staff realized that this was going to be a long night.

The flight was scheduled to take off at midnight, but due to passenger troubles we were already quite delayed. At about 12:20, as the plane was sealed and driving into position on the tarmac, not just the broussey ladies but just about every Malian on board whipped out their cell phones to make one last call goodbye before flying off into the wild blue unknown. Of course, dozens of passengers making phone calls can severely disrupt the pilots’ radio communications with the air traffic controllers, so the stewards and stewardesses had to tell the pilot to stop and wait as they proceeded down the aisle and one-by-one explained via miming and gesticulation that everyone had to turn off their phones.

The Malian ex-pat stood up and shouted, “NI HALI MOGO KELEN BE TELEPHONI WULI PANKURU KONO A BE NA PANKURU TIEN NI MOGO BE FAGA!!!!!” - "If anyone makes a phone call in the plane then this plane is going to crash and everyone is going to die!!!!" The cabin was filled with screams and shrieks and at least one broussey woman broke into hysterics about how she was going to die and never see her family again. We had not yet left the tarmac.

During this time I made friends with another surprising broussey Malian seated to my left; a Fulani cattle herder wearing an eye patch. Zoumana explained to me that one day an angry cow charged and gored him in the socket, he went to his village witch doctor who prescribed some homeopathic placebos. Over a few weeks his eye was only getting worse, so Zoumana built up the courage to see the real doctor who told him that the kind of medical attention he needed could only be found in an Arab or European hospital. So over the course of months he sold half of his herd and took out some loans and applied for a passport and visa and eventually raised enough funds to fly to Tunis and back. When I did the math I computed that Zoumana had been suffering from his massive wound for about 6 months, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the chances of his eye looked rather slim.

“May Allah make your pain be gone.”

“Amina”, he concurred. Zoumana told me that he had never been to Bamako before – let alone an airplane to Tunis. He was frightened by the fact that we were flying so high off the ground.

“Don’t worry, you’re only 6 meters off the ground. We’re still just driving around the runway like a car.”

"But isn't the pankuru supposed to drive in the sky?"

“Yes, but first it has to jump really, really fast to get off the ground. You know how sometimes cars can’t get into first gear unless all the passengers get out and push the car really fast? It’s kind of like that – only we’re going to go even faster because the plane is going to make a big fire!”

“WHAT?!?!? A FIRE?!?!”

“No, don’t worry – the fire is just in the engine like in a car. It is going to be all under control.”

As we did finally take off Zoumana was holding onto the armrests so tight that he was shaking. I encouraged him to shut his eye and get some rest, emphasizing how well-trained and experienced the pilot must be.

The rest of the flight went largely without incident – if only because most of the passengers sleep on the red-eye to Tunis. Though it was nonetheless amusing to watch as the first-timers tried to adjust to the ultra-modern airplane from an innocently Malian perspective.

All of the 30 village women made good use of the complimentary eye-folds. They were all wearing them over their mouths. You see, in Mali motorcyclists often buy black-marketed surgical face-masks to protect their mouths from all the dust stirred up along the dirt roads. And superstitious Malians think that sickness is contracted from exposure to the wind. Apparently they thought that the plane traveling at 510 miles an hour was going to churn up a lot of sky dust into the hermetically-sealed cabin.

Traditional Bambara/Fulani culture also collided with mile-high modernity as the food cart came down the aisle to serve a Tunisian meal of chicken and couscous. “I think it is Tubabu rice” one voice explained. The broussey women washed their hands in the plastic cups of water and shoved handfuls of the strange couscous into their mouths and licked their fingers clean. Zoumana made an effort to use Tubabu utensils and struggled to get the couscous to his mouth with the handle of the plastic knife, throwing a mess all over the floor.

Accordingly, some of the broussey Malians must have had difficulty on the other end of digestive track etiquette. All that I will say is that a Bambara villager who has only relieved his- or herself in a mud nyegen - i.e. a hole in the ground - must have been so confounded by the space-age modernity of an airline bathroom stall that… well… they did what they usually do in a mud nyegen. Upon discovering this vivid manifestation of cultural cognitive dissonance, I proceeded to notify one of the in-flight attendants who promptly locked the bathroom for the remainder of the flight.

As our plane began its decent into Tunis, I noticed that one-eyed Zoumana to my left was moaning in agony - it was quite obvious that no one had explained to him how to adapt to changes in atmospheric pressure. So I taught him to hold his nose and blow to equalize the pressure in his sinus and the rest of the cabin. As evinced by the screams and hollers throughout the rest of the cabin, no one had had the initiative - or the language skills - to impart this vital skill to the rest of the first-timers.

You can probably imagine how similar disasters awaited the 30 village women who threw a collective tantrum over the fact that they were being forced to leave the plane without their checked luggage - they thought that the airline had stole it all, and the pitfalls which trapped the multitude of absolutely illiterate passengers who had to write out their embarkation cards, etc.

The one last image which I would like to leave you with was one of the 30 Mecca-bound women who came to the luggage carousel and saw suitcases and boxes coming out one hole and back into another - she must have thought that once a suitcase went back into the wall it was gone for good. And she must have not been able to differentiate her plastic-wrapped rice sack from the other dozens of plastic-wrapped rice sacks, so she ran down the luggage carousel knocking each and every one of them down to the floor. After she eventually found the rice sack she wanted the poor lady realized that she had committed a grave taboo, so she tapped me on the shoulder and grunted and pointed to one of the rice sacks she had knocked to the ground. I grudgingly obliged and lifted it back to the revolving carousel. Then she grunted and pointed to the other three dozen rice sacks she knocked to the floor.

I tried my best to explain to her in Bambara how the luggage carousel keeps on moving in circles until each passenger identifies and removes his or her own bag. "Maybe next time you should sit and let the machine do the work for you."

For those who think I'm being haughty or mean, please understand that I recount these little anecdotes not because I wish to ridicule these poor simple folks, but because I wish to explain to relatively tech-savvy people like you why we have to make our modern ways more easily-understandable and accessible to those who live in mud huts, eat with their hands and exist in a world defined by medieval Iron Age technology. Airplanes are just the tip of the iceberg - the same kind of confusion and frustration and all-too-often outright dismissal often comes when people like Zoumana the Fulani herder are introduced to modern technology that could improve their day-to-day health and standard of living like the water pump, the toilet, the mosquito net and the condom.

The culture shock between simple African villagers and an ultra-modern airport is more than just something which causes awkward scenes of confusion and humiliation - it really is a matter of public safety and national security. Men who have never heard of Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab would probably see nothing wrong with boarding a plane with a box of matches so they can continue their hourly cigarette habit. Women who haven't the slightest idea who Mohamed Atta was might be surprised that they can't bring their knife or knitting needles on board. If a Malian man knows that he will be sitting down for an extended period of time, he is going to want to break out charcoal, lighter fluid, matches and a kettle so he can boil up a round of tea - on a number of occasions, passengers from tea-drinking cultures unaware of the physics of a pressurized cabin have initiated in-flight explosions killing everyone on board. Yes, security technology exists which should be able to prevent such scenarios from occurring in the first place - but anyone who has lived in Africa for any extended period of time would know that technology often fails, humans often err. And just because the airport puts up a poster with pictograms to represent the guns, grenades, nail-clippers and nuclear materials that one must not bring onto a plane, that does not mean that people from an illiterate culture completely bereft of symbolism or figurative language will understand what those pictograms are supposed to mean.

The aviation industry should try to find ways of making the tools of their trade and the convoluted protocol of ticket counters, security checkpoints, baggage claim and customs more understandable to first-time passengers. Even if they make up a small minority of their total clients, responding to these needy few is imperative to ensure the comfort and safety of all. One way to start would be to have the personnel at the check-in desk ask if their clients are flying for the first time - not to be stereotyping, but a Malian ticket teller can probably spot aviation virgins from a mile away. Institutions like Bamako International Airport - probably most other airports in Africa and the underdeveloped world - should have personnel employed to hold these special-needs clients' hands and walk them from check-in to the departure gate. While waiting in the passenger lounge, they could explain how an airplane works, how it takes off and how it lands, how a pressurized toilet works and how to properly use one without the aid of a plastic teapot. This need not be done in a way that is insultingly patronizing; I would imagine that someone who has never taken a taxi to the airport let alone a plane to Mecca would really appreciate some guidance on how to navigate the strange unknown.

Though at the present such professional airline passenger instructors don't exist. That means that this vital role must be filled by volunteers. So next time that you're taking a plane departing from anywhere in Africa and it's clear that somebody riding with you has never before left Sanadougou, act like you're a Boy Scout and that person who has never ridden a plane before is an old lady trying to cross the street. Be sure to teach them how to equalize their sinuses and fill out their disembarkation card. And most importantly, let them have the window seat - believe me, they will appreciate the view.

Friday, August 13, 2010

A Banna!



As emotionally drained, cynical and pessimistic as I have become over the past two years, saying goodbye to my village was harder than I had expected. I suppose that once you have spent enough time in one place that you know every turn in the road, every person knows your name and you know every skeleton in every last one of their closets (well, if they had closets), especially if there is just one dog living in that place who knows and loves you as their master, even a dump of mud hovels, cesspools and garbage piles like Sanadougou can win a place in your heart with all the affection of home.

To bid adieu I slaughtered a goat and had my host family cook it over rice to feed all of my friends une petite fête. I even boiled a big pot of ginger juice and threw down for a bottle of whiskey for my Christian, animist and laxer Muslim friends to spike their spicy namakuji – after all of these years of hiding whiskey shots alone in the privacy of my gwa, it turned out that Sidiki was the only teetotaler among them.

“American boissons are delicious!” Alu told me “…much more delicious than the rubbing alcohol we usually drink on special fêtes!”

“Oh Alu, if only you had told me earlier we could have gotten drunk and lost our eyesight together!”

In this culture where talking during meals is often shunned, my Malian guests were confused as I stood up during the feast of goat meat and rice to give a little speech. Since the painfully-literal Bambara language does not allow for much rhetorical flourish, I could really only give a run-of-the-mill summation of the work we did together – though I tried my best to paraphrase Ralph Waldo Emerson:

To laugh often and love much:
To win respect of intelligent people
And the affection of children;
To earn the approbation of honest critics
And endure the betrayal of false friends;
To appreciate beauty;
To find the best in others;
To give one's self;
To leave the world a little better,
Whether by a healthy child,
A garden patch,
Or redeemed social condition;
To have played and laughed with enthusiasm
And sung with exultation;
To know even one life has breathed easier
Because you have lived...
This is to have succeeded.

My impromptu translation into this tongue devoid of metaphor or simile was absolutely nonsensical. I left a roomful of men scratching their heads wondering what in damnation I was rambling about. But then Abdoulaye Sogoba – the charmingly wise dugutigi – took the floor to save me from further embarrassment.

“What Madu is trying to say is that he did a lot of big work in Sanadougou. When he came here, this town was filthy. Now this town is still filthy – but it is a little less filthy than when he first arrived.”

The old men gave that thought a few moments to stew. Then they all started to speak up about my deeds – I assume that since Sanadougoukaw referred to me in the third person they were speaking amongst themselves;

“Before Madu came to Sanadougou, my nyegen was just mud and the sewage ran down to the well. But now, my nyegen is cemented and the sewage goes underground. And my well is clean.”

“Madu built soak pits at every nyegen on the road I live on. Now I can walk down the road without stepping in poop!”

Abel the pastor was emphatic; “Madu cleaned up the entire neighborhood of Filablena around the church, so now my church is a clean place to worship."

“… And he built nyegens at the Tonto schoolhouse, so now the girls will be able to go to school!”

“… And now we can do work at le Bureau de la Mairie without having to walk home every time we have to go to the toilet!’

“… And he fixed all the water system so now the robinets work again!”

Karitie recalled my foray into discipline at his Premiere Cycle; “Before Madu came to this town my students were shitting and pissing all over the place. But after Madu chased after the vile defecators and threatened to eat them, they will think twice the next time they try to poop in the schoolyard. They will be scared of being caught and eaten by the crazy white man.”

“Do not forget what he did in the garden”, said Moustapha, “Madu was not even a farmer in Ameriki, but he came here to Mali and farmed in his garden. He made a well and an underground pipe! And he showed me how to grow new squashes with cornhusks and pee! And he gave me a pack of pumpkin seeds so I can grow big Ameriki squashes!”

“But now Madu is leaving, and all of this work cleaning Sanadougou will end.”

“No, no, no! You have it all wrong!” I intoned, “Yes, I planted some seeds and tormented dirty little kids, but I really didn’t do all that much work cleaning up this town. Every time we built a nyegen, you found all the rocks, you found all the sand, you dug all of the holes, mixed all the cement and did all the hardest work! You the people of Sanadougou built 112 nyegens, 96 soak pits, 3 infiltration trenches and 6 top-well platforms! You paid Sidiki to do all the fine masonry! You didn’t need me to improve this town. You’ve had this power all along… you just needed somebody to come here and let you know it!”

“Madu is right” Sidiki said “he did not come here to do things for us. He taught us how to do things on our own.”

The old men murmured amongst themselves for a while in some obscure Minianka that I could not understand. The conclave then turned to me and Abdoulaye translated their deliberations:

“Madu, you must hold onto the voice of Sanadougou. You must always remember that even though you are a Mason in America, in Mali you will always be a Sogoba.”

Sidiki – the master mason – disagreed. “Before in Ameriki, Mason was just your name. When you arrived, while I passed all of my skills on to you, you were but an apprentice. But now a mason is who you are! You are a mason in your own right!”

When I look at Mali the rearview mirror, I feel accomplished in what I have done there. I leave as my legacy a bulk of physical evidence that I once lived in the village of Sanadougou, and my creations should last for a considerable amount of time. And I would like to think that if just one case of giardia is averted, if just one person is spared a painful trip to the nyegen, then I have succeeded.

But the most important thing that I have done here was not the construction of any concrete edifice that without proper maintenance will crumble into dust. I came to this realization long ago while riding on a bush taxi with a troupe of Minianka strangers. I was passing the ride reading a history of the Apollo Program. This endeavor captured the people’s imagination not just because of any tangible achievement but because of its intent; President Kennedy didn’t set the United States on course to send men to the Moon to conduct any military pursuit or to conduct any significant scientific research. What made Apollo 11 such a world-historical event was simply that Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin disembarked from their space shuttle and hopped around on the lunar terrain. What mattered most was simply that they were there.

My Minianka fellow travelers rode this dilapidated bush taxi every week to sell their peanuts to market. They way they stared at this pale-skinned, hairy stranger wearing aviator sunglasses and an Indiana Jones hat, I might as well have been an alien from outer space. “Vous êtes d'où?”, one of them inquired – they assumed that I was French.

“N be bo Ameriki”
, I replied. They understood that I was a peculiar outsider.

“E be mun ke?”, “E be Mali la muna?” they asked. “What are you doing?” “Why are you here?”

“N be yan o la an be se ka sigi yan ni Mali mogo san fila.” – I’m here to live with you for two years; no ulterior motive, no intentions of profit or gain. I just left the land of plenty to live amongst you the poor and sick and miserable as an end unto itself. I don’t intend on necessarily solving any of your problems, I’m really just here to do my thing.

“You white people are very strange.”

And thus I realized that my greatest accomplishment was simply that I disembarked from a plane and hopped around this alien landscape for two years – quite a considerable amount of time. Simply by doing my thing and broadcasting it to the world, I think that the understanding of Mali’s culture amongst the villagers of Vista and Amherst has multiplied a thousand-fold. Seriously, before I went there, how many of you could find Mali on a map? How many of you even knew that Mali was a country? Maybe a number of you even feel a sense of attachment to this far away land.

And if I left anything behind in Sanadougou, I would like to think that it would be the memory of that strange hairy man who lived amongst them and who flouted all social norms and went around sharing honest criticism of the way that we lived. I hope that they remember that it was only a child who told the emperor that he had no clothes, that it was only because that disrespectful punk told the chief of the village and his elder council that they were living amongst their own shit that they embarked on a comprehensive campaign to develop their municipal water infrastructure. More than anything, I hope that I might have taught at least one person the value of deconstructing the way things are – because only then can we have the perspective and will necessary to change it.

Though I might have spent a good portion of my time ragging on this culture and all of its present failings, I hope that you understand that it has not been out of spite. Lovers of law criticize the law because they want to make it more just, lovers of fine cuisine criticize their dinner because they wish to improve the recipe and make it more delicious. People who can call a dump of mud hovels, cesspools and garbage piles like Sanadougou home should tender criticism because they wish for it to one day become a place where gastrointestinal disease is as rare as the Malagasy Giant Jumping Rat, where wholesome food is as abundant as at the Trader Joe’s produce section, and where the Miniankas are so prosperous and healthy that they can live a life defined by music, dancing, and a whole line of brand new fart jokes that will never grow old.

My hopes might be sound fanciful, they might not ever manifest into reality, but there is only reason to keep on trying. After all, the Sun is but a morning star. And tomorrow is another day.









Monday, July 19, 2010

Eating With My Hands

To preclude accusations of “cultural imperialism” the educational philosophy of the Peace Corps is all but one of cultural relativism. We are supposed to teach the people of developing countries about which new varieties of sorghum offer the highest yields, how to start a business and manage their accounts, sometimes we work in the classroom as math and science teachers – but we’re supposed to teach only objective truths and we’re explicitly not supposed to tender criticism of our host country’s indigenous culture. Understandably, few self-respecting nations which have lived through the humiliation of Colonialism – particularly those nations which have suffered under the yoke of French overlords who appointed themselves mission civilatrice and sought to discredit and dismantle the beliefs of tribal heritage – would now petition the United States to come and tell them that their culture is wrong.

However, maintaining a position of absolute political correctness is impossible when the prevailing practices in a given field are in fact objectively wrong. When Malians greet me bo swaat 8 in the morning, when bus drivers have filled their car beyond the legal maximum capacity and tell me to cough up more cash so they can bribe the police, when people ask for leaves from my lemon tree so they don’t feel guilty about not buying real medicine for their child in a malarial coma, it would be a disservice for me to just go along with the prevailing practices of this culture and not criticize the way people live in this country to their faces. Of course a liberal would argue that all of the above are the muddling of Western modernity, so all of this present-day African nonsense can be attributed to the corrupting influence of French colonial rule. But some of the most self-defeating customs which people follow here were established long before there even was such thing as a France, it would be obtuse for thinking people to subscribe to the absolutely non-judgmental broadmindedness of mushy-headed liberalism and tell themselves “it’s not wrong, it’s just different.”


Perhaps the most difficult custom for a mushy-headed liberal to digest is the way that Malians eat – because it is an objective truth that the traditional way of eating is one of the most significant vectors of disease transmission in this society. Malians by and large eat their food with their hands, and so long as they are eating with family or friends they eat with their hands from a single communal food bowl. Most Malian men tend to livestock and spread their manure over the fields, almost everyone wipes their butt all women wipe their children’s with their left hand; somehow or another over the course of the day their hands are likely to come into contact with fecal matter. Hardly anyone ever washes their hands with soap, so when Malians eat with their hands from the communal food bowl they share and consume each other’s fecal germs. Hence the primary reason why giardia, dysentery and all other forms of severe diarrhea are endemic in this culture is the purely cultural factor of how one brings food to one’s mouth.

When I arrived in Mali for Peace Corps Training, the language and cultural teachers collected me and my fellow trainees into groups of six, sat us around big aluminum bowls of zamé: fried rice with chunks of beef, cabbage, hot peppers and onions. The object of our lesson that day was to learn to eat our lunch with our hands. This task was not so daunting for a dedicated multiculturalist such as myself; I had spent a month in Sri Lanka where I learned the Indian subcontinent’s method of folding one’s four fingers into a V-shape to scoop up a mouthful of rice and sauce and pushing it towards one’s mouth with the thumb – the Sri Lankan finger scoop method could be so refined that at the end of a meal an apt practitioner should have their palm perfectly clean. In my prior experience, eating with my hands was something exotic and worldly.

“Exotic” – yes, but “worldly” is not the first word that usually comes to mind as a Westerner watches Malians eating with their hands. Unlike the Sri Lankans and their graceful finger scoop, a Malian is wont to grab a heaping handful of rice with their right hand, squeeze it in their palm, open their mouth as wide as they can and place their palm to their bottom lip as they shove the handful of rice into their gaping gullet, then thrust the entirety of their four fingers deep into their mouth so they can suck off every last drop of sauce. If they are the staple dish of grayish-green millet goop called toh, Malians will cup their hand a little more as they dip the millet goop balls into a separate bowl of sticky sauce made from baobab leaves, dried fish and peanut oil – the sucking of the fingers remains the same. All of this is done as quickly as possible with no conversation between wolfing down handfuls of food, because the faster one eats the more they can consume. After they have eaten their fill, a Malian licks his or her saucy hand clean in a manner not unlike that of a cat preening the fur on their head.

I went with the flow as I tried to integrate into the family of Karitie Sanogo and Durcas Dembele and their Minianka subgroup of the Bambara tribe. I found eating with my hand sloppy, and it was quite impractical if I was eating lunch alone and trying to read a book. But when I sat down with a group of men around the communal food bowl, I thought “When in Rome…” and shoveled away. I feared that eating with a fork or a spoon would set this hairy, light-skinned Jewish boy apart as an even more distinct Other.

Cheap aluminum forks and spoons are widely available at any sizeable market for no more than the price of a small box of tea, so there were some times though when I wondered how Malians had never developed the custom of eating with utensils by their own initiative. On special occasions Durcas would cook spaghetti seasoned with a bit of tomato paste and a heaping volume of peanut oil, and since food here is served directly from the kitchen with no time to cool off people would begin to dig in while the oil on the spaghetti was still scalding hot. The oil would be so hot that even the old men with their thickly-calloused hands would be wincing at the touch. And long strands of spaghetti are not designed to be eaten manually; every time the men around me would reach down for another painful handful they struggled to shove eight inches of floppy, steaming noodles into their mouths – at least half of the spaghetti strands would be dangling out of their mouths as they chewed, splattering hot burning oil all over their faces and all over their clothing. All of the men seemed to be in such pain and discomfort that it was hard to believe that any of them really enjoyed eating this impractical delicacy.

After a few experiences with this nonsense, the third time that Durcas prepared spaghetti I came equipped with a fork and showed them a much more efficient way of twirling it into practical, bite-sized portions. “You see, not long after the Italians learned how to make spaghetti they invented these things called forks so that they could it without burning their hands and making a mess with the sauce.”

“Maybe they eat with forks in Italy” I was reprimanded, “but here in Mali we eat with our hands.”

“Suite yourself” I thought, and twirled my spaghetti with a fork as all the other men in the family continued scalding their hands.

So long as we weren’t eating spaghetti covered in scalding-hot oil, I thought that eating manually from the communal food bowl didn’t have to be a bad thing, for I could use every meal as a forum to inculcate proper hygiene by washing my hands with soap and water and insisting that every man I ate with do the same. This should be no minor formality in a society of people who wash after defecating by sticking their left hand up their asshole, scrape their rectum with an extra-long pinky nail, and then flush their asshole clean with water from a plastic teapot. Malian culture stresses that anal cleansing is to be conducted exclusively with the left hand – “the good hand”, and that one eats with only the hand on the right – “the rice hand”. But all of this business about separating the right hand from the left comes to naught only a few seconds after anal cleansing when Malians “wash” both hands with only water from that same plastic teapot which was up their asshole only moments ago. Before eating from the communal food bowl, they will pass a calabash or tin can full of water around in a circle starting with the eldest so that everyone can mush their left and right hands together in the increasingly-filthy water. In this culture where just about everyone is completely ignorant of modern germ theory, people think this is actually a hygienic practice.

The fact of the matter is that the prevalent Malian “hand-washing” practices is one of the primary reasons why the population of Mali suffers from more giardia and dysentery than almost any other culture in the world, it goes a long way in explaining why 2 out of 5 children in this country die before the age of 5 and why life expectancy is only 45 years for men, 48 for women. If a circle of men are mushing their shitty hands together in the same calabash of water then after the calabash has gone around everyone has the fecal matter of other men on his hands. And if these men are then eating with their hands from the same bowl of rice or toh, over the course of a meal they are most likely consuming each other’s fecal matter. The Minianka village in which I have lived for two years is an unwittingly coprophagic culture, for a person to eat with their hands from a communal food bowl without having adequately washed their hands is to directly subject other people to the consumption of human feces.

I don’t think that it is going too far out on a limb to say that traditional Minianka eating habits are not just distasteful to the cultural norms to which I am accustomed but objectively wrong. Let’s say that I had in my possession a syringe containing Ebola – wouldn’t it be immoral for me to inject it into an innocent bystander and infect them with the deadly virus? Or if someone knew that they were infected with HIV, wouldn’t it be immoral for them to exchange bodily fluids with another person and subject them to that deadly disease? Knowing that the consumption of human feces is a surefire way to make someone sick, wouldn’t it be wrong to furtively slip a fresh stool from a cholera patient into someone else’s milkshake? How about if someone with dysentery wipes their ass with their hand and then puts his hand in someone else’s rice bowl? Even if someone has yet to be diagnosed with a particular malady, in this day and age when (at least in the Western world) people understand how diseases are transmitted it is unambiguously wrong to engage in practices known to spread serious illness. Ignorance might obviate moral culpability, but it does not change the fundamental wrongness of a practice which inflicts harm upon others.

Where the Peace Corps Volunteer comes into the equation to break the cycle of disease and poverty is to simply eat with the people and still live up to our own standards of cleanliness. Accepting the fact that the Minianka villagers of Sanadougou crouch around a communal food bowl to eat with their hands, I made my point of washing my hands with soap before eating and insisting that all the other men eating with me do the same. I even bought this nifty plastic contraption to replace the calabash so that everyone could wash their hands with a clean, non-toilet plastic teapot over a receptacle without dirtying their hands in other people’s filth. I was eating with the Director of the elementary school Karitie Sanogo and two bachelor teachers Lazar Balo and Boubacar Coulibaly – if there was anyone in this society who could understand proper hygiene it should be this literate elite – and even if they preferred to not wash their hands with soap they grudgingly obliged to accommodate this foreigner’s eccentric ways.


That is not to say that I didn’t have any trouble getting my eating partners to wash their hands. Karitie and the teachers were generally cooperative, but they would have guests come to eat from the food bowl on a regular basis. When we passed the soap and water around the circle, guests would usually just rinse their hands with the water and mush them together like usual. I would nag them about the soap, and they would usually retort, “In our country, we don’t wash our hands with soap – we wash our hands with water.”

“I know – and that’s why so many people in your country die from dysentery. In my country, no one ever gets sick with dysentery – it just doesn’t happen because we wash our hands with water and soap.”

Some men simply refused. “SHUBAGAW!!!” they hollered – “evil sorcerers”. Though they publicly identify themselves as Muslims or Christians, the people in Sanadougou cling tenaciously to their animist superstitions; not knowing anything about germs or viruses, they believe that illness and disease come from these evil sorcerers' black magic spells. And according to ancient lore, washing your hands with water protects oneself from such malevolent witchcraft – soap, however, negates water’s protective powers and renders one vulnerable to sorcerers and their evil ways. Grown adults seriously believe in this twaddle, to such an extent that they would raise the tone of the conversation into a shouting match.

“NO!!! I REFUSE to use soap!!! EVIL SORCERERS!!!”

“Evil sorcerers ARE NOT REAL!!! THEY DON’T EXIST!!!

At this point in the conversation, Karitie would look his guest sternly in the eye and lash them in Minianka “If you’re going to eat with the American, you have to wash your hands with soap. Just do it.”

In a society where old men are considered to be a depository of all knowledge and wisdom, people thought it was downright subversive for 24-year-old me to tell a 50-year-old cekoroba how to wash his hands. This went for anyone. Even on the occasion when the chief of the village or the Mayor of the entire Commune would come to eat with Karitie and me, without batting an eyelash I directed the upper crust of society to scrub their hands with soap. And they were duly offended. No one likes to be told that they’ve been eating shit their entire life – let alone by a foreigner half their age.

I ate like this for about a year, getting in fights with Karitie’s houseguests and winning so long as Karitie was there himself to provide the moral support. But on some occasions he would be gone on business and I would be eating alone with the teachers Lazar and Boubacar – neither of which had any desire to be cursed by evil wizards any more than the next guy, they were only washing their hands to humor their boss. One night Lazar looked me defiantly in the eye, mushed his hands in a pot of water and plunged them into the bowl full of rice, “You can’t make me wash my hands with soap.”

“You’re right. And I can’t eat with you, because I don’t want to eat rice with your shit all over it.” I got up and walked home to cook dinner by myself. Durcas was so thoroughly insulted that I had walked away from her afternoon’s work that she gave Lazar an earful; from then on before eating he would dip his hands into the soap dish while casting me the stink eye.

I put up with this shit for quite a while, but after a year of struggling to convince my eating partners about the merits of soap from time to time I would still find myself running to the nyegen with giardia. I was filtering and treating every drop of water that went into my body, so the only way I could possibly be getting giardia was from the food I was eating. I began to watch the other men eating from the food bowl more closely, and I realized that that a lot of them were merely feigning to apply soap; most dinner guests – and Lazar of course – were meekly touching the bar of soap with the tip of their forefinger and calling it a day. Apparently they thought that hand-washing with soap was just some sort of Tubab eating ritual (though it isn’t – we don’t eat with our hands from any sort of communal anything). No matter how many times I tried to explain how soap actually has chemical properties which detach particulate matter from one’s skin and kill the microorganisms which cause diarrhea, they thought that I was just spouting off American mythology equivalent to their own folklore about witches and wizards. No matter how hard I tried, it seemed that science, reason and the moral power of example had no use on these people – and that for me to eat with my hands from a food bowl meant that I would inevitably be eating other people’s feces.

I thought long and hard about this. Eating from the communal food bowl was more than just a ritual in Minianka society. Even though conversation has nothing to do with it, eating together with another person is the most basic social activity which I could partake with another Minianka man as a sign of friendship and camaraderie. To be a part of this society meant eating with the same food as them, to eat from a food bowl with another is to treat them as one’s equal. To eat alone would be interpreted as a strong demonstration that I truly wished to set myself apart from this society.

I called to seek the wisdom and sagacity of my elders, and my dad recounted a conversation we had had when I was a senior in high school driving around New England looking at colleges. I had made a point of checking out schools where Greek life was small to nonexistent, because I didn’t want to be faced with the choice of either joining a fraternity or having no social life.

“Don’t worry about it, Zac, even if you go to Dartmouth or Cornell that doesn’t mean you have to join the Deltas. There are better ways of creating lasting bonds with friends than running some dehumanizing hazing gauntlet.”

“If I did want to join a fraternity, what would I have to do in order to pledge?”

“Let’s put it this way: if you’re invited to join a secret society and you’re told you have to eat a brother’s feces, just say nothing more and walk away. If you have to eat someone’s shit in order to be a member of a society, there can’t be any compelling reason for you to be a part of it.”

Thus I concluded that I could no longer eat from the communal food bowl.

I came to Karitie and Durcas’ house one day with my own plastic bowl and explained that from that day onwards I could only eat alone. They really didn’t know what to make of it – no one had ever done or said anything like this before. I didn’t have the heart to explain to them the real reason why I couldn’t eat from the men’s bowl, I feared they would interpret it as a grave insult and they would disregard anything else I had to say. So I offered a little white lie that my doctor told me I needed to lose weight and that I should start exercising portion control: “It’s not that I don’t like eating your rice and peanut butter sauce, it’s that I love it so much that if you put the whole bowl in front of me I’m going to eat the whole thing!”

But Karitie and Durcas are intelligent people. Eventually they figured it out.

For the rest of the year, guests to their food bowl would make a stink about me eating alone. People would accuse me of being an elitist or a racist; they would ask “You think you’re better than us?” I didn’t want to make a big deal of it, but in regards to the very significant matter of hygiene I certainly did think so – I knew so, it was a fact.

And eventually I realized that since I was eating by myself, and conversation has nothing to do with the Malian eating ritual anyway, I might as well bring a book or magazine with me to read while I ate from my private food bowl. But it was difficult to turn the pages when I had peanut butter sauce all over my right hand, so I started bringing a spoon with me to all of my meals. Eventually I dropped the eating with my hands business altogether, because I had discovered a much cleaner, more efficient and hygienic manner of bringing food to my mouth.

The more I thought about it, there is really no compelling reason for me or for anyone else to eat with their hands, that it’s simply a primitive practice employed by those cultures who have yet to embrace modern sanitation. Hand-washing with soap is a harm-reduction practice which can reduce the spread of disease among cultures that eat with their hands much like if heroin addicts were to shoot up with clean needles instead of sharing them – but the harm can be eliminated if people would stop shooting heroin altogether. I resolved to never eat with my hands again.

Once I started eating with utensils again, Durcas remarked that I was “eating like a Tubab.”

“No matter how long you look at it, a tree stump will never turn into a crocodile”, I replied. The one and only proverb in the Bambara language means that some things just don’t change.

And eventually I noticed that Karitie, Lazar and Boubacar had given up on washing their hands with soap. It was plainly obvious that they had been going through that charade the whole time to humor me – not because they were actually serious about adopting this practice. Despite a whole year of my lectures about the giardia, the fecal-oral cycle and disease prevention, the most educated men in the entire community were still content to be ingesting each other’s fecal matter.

“No matter how long you look at it, a tree stump will never turn into a crocodile”, Karitie said.

I was really disappointed with this outcome, both with my host family and with myself. I interpreted it as my greatest failure in two years of Peace Corps service.

The people of this village requested a Peace Corps Volunteer to help them build the capacity to improve their water and sanitation, so the United States government decided to take this former lifeguard with three years experience testing and chlorinating the pool water, they trained me to build concrete wells, latrines and wastewater receptacles, and sent me to Sanadougou. With the help of the Water Committee and my expert mason counterpart, we secured roughly $6,000 in USAID , NGO and private donor grants to build 112 latrines, 96 soak pits, 3 infiltration trenches and 6 top-well platforms in families’ homes, we built a row of latrines at the secondary school, we built a row of latrines at le Bureau de la Mairie, we even repaired and reorganized a broken solar water pump-to-tap system so that the people of Sanadougou could enjoy clean, potable drinking water. After all the work that we did, Sanadougou is now a visibly cleaner place. Though I have no way of compiling exact statistics, our work to improve this community’s infrastructure should lead to a significant decrease in the transmission of diarrheal diseases.

Though as I prepare ready to leave for America, I fear that all my work has come to naught because I wasn’t able to make a dent in Sanadougou’s eating habits. The World Health Organization estimates that if people would only wash their hands with soap it would reduce the incidence of diarrheal disease by 43 percent. Even if Engineers Without Borders were to expand the solar pump-to-tap system and bring running water directly to every family’s kitchen, even if some charity were to give the people of Sanadougou a lifetime supply of bottled Evian so long as people keep on eating the way that they do now they are still going to be consuming each other’s shit. Until people in Mali are willing to change their habits, giardia and dysentery are going to forever remain facts of life and children in this town are still going to die from simple bouts of diarrhea.

The fact of the matter is that sometimes tree stumps do, in fact, turn into crocodiles. There’s a word for this phenomenon: “progress”. Hundreds of years ago, the disparate Slavic tribes from which I am descended, the Franks, Teutons, Angles and Celts all lived in earthen huts, they farmed the little food they had with simple hand tools made of iron and wood, they lived in poverty not unlike that of the present-day Miniankas. They didn’t have toilets, they didn’t have toilet paper, and they ate their potatoes with their hands, so the tribes of Europe suffered from endemic giardia and dysentery and they had a life expectancy about as low as that of the Miniankas today. But sometime around the 10th century the French and Italian nobility popularized a simple technology which made eating all the more cleaner: the fork. It took a few more centuries for the peasants and lowly serfs to follow in kind, but eventually all the people of Europe adopted this new custom which not only made eating easier and more pleasurable but also reduced the incidence of disease.

There was also a time in the not-so-distant past when Europeans didn’t quite understand disease transmission either; they thought that sickness was spread by the Devil, the cold and the wind. There was a time when angry mobs massacred Jews by the hundreds because they could think of no other explanation for why the plague had come to their city, they burned so-called witches at the stake for causing outbreaks of cholera – very few Westerners took the time to question whether the spread of disease had anything to do with the complete and utter lack of sanitation in the cities where people lived amongst and ate and drank their own filth.

Now America, Europe, Japan, Australia and all the countries of the developed West have established a culture in which it is absolutely unacceptable for people to eat most foods with our hands, we all eat from our own separate bowls and separate plates with our own separate sets of utensils. And even though a surprising number of Westerners are not conscientious about washing their hands on their way out of the bathroom, we have developed our cultural habits to the point where even if you invite someone over for dinner and they did have microscopic pathogens crawling all over their hands, it wouldn’t really matter because at no point over the course of the meal is your guest ever going to put their hands in your food. As a result, giardia, dysentery and cholera are all but nonexistent in Western societies, it would be a freak occurrence if a child were to die from diarrhea, and we can expect to live to a ripe old age in our late 70s. It is only a rare occasion when someone falls so sick that they cannot work, and since we are so much healthier and more productive we have so much more wealth and a superior standard of living.

When I try to explain this to Malians, they typically respond along the lines of “Well, you Americans are healthy because you have so much money and you can buy so much more medicine” – they think that every time we contract dysentery we just pop some expensive pills and that’s the end of it. I insist that Americans don’t ever contract dysentery to begin with and few will believe me – gastrointestinal disease is simply accepted as a fact of life in these parts. More worldly Malians might understand that everyone in America has flush toilets and tap water in their home, but they can still attribute that to our superior wealth – it seems that no one is willing to be critical enough of their own culture to realize that maybe our superior health has more to do with our superior hygiene and superior methods of disease prevention, and that they could improve their own health if only they adopt new methods of eating.

The people of Mali have a choice; either they can overcome the pagan superstitions about evil sorcerers and start washing their hands with soap, or they can start eating from separate food bowls, or they can start eating with forks or spoons or chopsticks or spatulas or flat-nosed screwdrivers - anything besides the hands; even better, they can adopt some combination of all of the above. Or they can continue what they’re doing and forever remain mired in this endless cycle of disease. This kind of change is not something that white-skinned NGO workers can do for them – changing the habits and customs of Malian culture is something that only Malians can do for themselves. And when they do take this great leap forward, the people of Mali will finally understand that development is not just about building roads and factories but that it is also about changing behavior, that positive change doesn’t require massive foreign aid and that it can be done on the cheap or for free, and that the future of their society truly rests in their own hands.