August 30, 2003 - Milwaukee Journal Sentinel: The Art of Being Globally Thrifty

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By Admin1 (admin) on Monday, September 01, 2003 - 8:20 pm: Edit Post

The Art of Being Globally Thrifty





Read and comment on this essay from the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel by RPCV Terez Rose who lived in Africa sixteen years ago, leaving the padded comforts of her Midwestern home to teach English with the Peace Corps in the Central African country of Gabon. In spite of being a relatively prosperous African nation, there was no denying provincial Gabon was poor, by American standards. Although she and her colleagues lived better than most, they still lived simply, without television, air-conditioning or computers, phones or washing machines. No one had surplus money, which was okay, because there wasn't much to buy.
"Ensconced in this leaner lifestyle, I discovered a purity of life in Africa that, upon my return to the U.S., I found hard to duplicate. Until now, in The Great Crunch of 2003. Once again, I have had to learn to live with less, live with insecurity. Although my husband and I have enough savings to keep the vultures from repossessing our home any time soon, we've had to cut back significantly on spending. No fancy vacation, trendy restaurant meals or new outfits. The new computer, the big-screen television, the LASIK eye surgery, are all deferred to the future.

We'll survive this trial. But it certainly isn't fun. In fact, it's downright lousy. I'm reminded of the shock I felt when I first moved to Africa, the incomprehension over the message that I would have to learn to live without things, even if they were things I wanted really badly. And now, I want that vacation, those clothes, the sharp-looking new television. I want, I want, I want."
Read her essay about one of the lessons she learned while in Africa - how to be patient and weather the storm of challenging times with dignity and grace. Read the essay at:

The Art of Being Globally Thrifty*

* This link was active on the date it was posted. PCOL is not responsible for broken links which may have changed.



The Art of Being Globally Thrifty

I can't help but visualize the Bible's Three Wise Men when I think of the Secretaries of Commerce, Labor and Treasury, descending upon the Midwest recently, laying down promises of jobs and growth, refund checks and future tax cuts. "Fear not," I can imagine them telling people gathered, "for it has been told that things are looking up. Regard yonder index of leading U.S. economic indicators."

And yet, the only thought that springs into my mind these days when I read the papers is, "How much worse is this going to get?" Between U.S. economy woes, continued high unemployment and increasingly distressing global unrest, I feel myself succumbing to a low-grade panic. Sometimes I feel as if I haven't been able to draw a deep breath since the day my husband, our chief breadwinner, came home eight months ago and told me he'd lost his job. "No one's fault, no reflection on your work," he was told. Reorganizations, cost-cutting, downsizing-that kind of thing.

Although it seems pretty lonely at times, our family is far from alone. According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, 9.1 million Americans are currently unemployed, giving the nation a 6.2% unemployment rate. Since 2000, three million jobs have been lost across the country, including 80,000 factory jobs in Wisconsin. "Chin up," the officials tell us, "the upturn has already begun." But then again, they're the ones with jobs. Maybe they're not the people I want comforting me when life continues to bombard us with more bad news, as my husband continues to search unsuccessfully for a job in the besieged high-tech sector.

Africa shares the headlines these days with news of unemployment. At first glance, the former would seem to have little to do with the latter. But I can't help but derive a bit of solace from one, in helping me deal with the other. Sixteen years ago, I lived in Africa, leaving the padded comforts of my Midwestern home to teach English with the Peace Corps in the Central African country of Gabon.

In spite of being a relatively prosperous African nation, there was no denying provincial Gabon was poor, by American standards. A concrete house with a bed, table, four chairs and a vinyl couch was considered luxury. Skirts and shirts that people wore were so faded with use, you couldn't make out the original pattern or color. Dysentery and tropical diseases abounded. If the residents of my town wanted to go somewhere, they walked, often for miles, often barefooted. Unemployment was high, life expectancy low. Social security, welfare benefits? Forget it.

Although my colleagues and I lived better than most, we still lived simply, without television, air-conditioning or computers, phones or washing machines. No one had surplus money, which was okay, because there wasn't much to buy. Time was the commodity people had the most of-time to relax and get plenty of sleep, and/or walk the mile to friends' houses to visit. I spent many an evening gathered around friends' tables, over plain rice-based dinners and abundant, mercifully cheap beer. We'd talk about Africa's seemingly hopeless struggle: the pervasive health problems, the lack of enough good jobs, and corruption in the governments. "How much worse is it going to get?" I'd ask and there would be a "that's how it is" shrug from the Africans at the table. And indeed, for most of the world's population, this is how life is, not simply a crisis that will soon be resolved. The thought would sober me into silence. Then the host would go put on some bubbly African music, another person would bring more beer to the table, and we'd continue the evening in that odd mixture of laughter, conviviality and insecurity that seemed to define my two years with the Peace Corps.

Ensconced in this leaner lifestyle, I discovered a purity of life in Africa that, upon my return to the U.S., I found hard to duplicate. Until now, in The Great Crunch of 2003. Once again, I have had to learn to live with less, live with insecurity. Although my husband and I have enough savings to keep the vultures from repossessing our home any time soon, we've had to cut back significantly on spending. No fancy vacation, trendy restaurant meals or new outfits. The new computer, the big-screen television, the LASIK eye surgery, are all deferred to the future. We'll survive this trial. But it certainly isn't fun. In fact, it's downright lousy. I'm reminded of the shock I felt when I first moved to Africa, the incomprehension over the message that I would have to learn to live without things, even if they were things I wanted really badly. And now, I want that vacation, those clothes, the sharp-looking new television. I want, I want, I want.

And I can't have.

Why is such a simple concept still so painful? Is it because it feels good to shop, to buy things? Is there a more soulful reason, that perhaps we're all looking to fill an emptiness within ourselves? All I know is that I feel like a junkie desperate for a fix, one that everyone else around me seems to be getting.

I'm learning, as the anti-drug campaigns have coached, to "just say no." And there's something oddly liberating about learning to live with less. When you have no means with which to fill the emptiness, you no longer have to worry about how you're going to fill the next emptiness that pops up once the glow of the previous acquisition has faded. And the emptiness will always pop up, as will our desire to fill it, to acquire, obtain. It's human nature-it's timeless. I'm sure many a caveman enviously regarded the new set of wheels his neighbor had just acquired, just as women through the ages must have nudged their partners, whispering, "I saw this new cave, honey-fabulous view of the valley, lots of space, less drips, plenty of room for little Oog's tinker rocks. We neeeed more space. And we won't even talk about this fur I'm wearing-it's a rag!"

My newfound fiscal enlightenment, unfortunately, doesn't alleviate the insecurity or the fear that hovers around the fringes of my days. I fret about whether our money will hold out, I worry about our government's policies, both domestic and international. As I listen to the daily news, anxiety flutters in my stomach like a gang of angry butterflies. "These are hard times," my friends and I all tell each other. They have been for over three years now. And in spite of talk of "things are looking up," manufacturing executives and electrical engineers are still being forced to take jobs as assistant managers at Radio Shack, while highly skilled factory workers bag groceries. Global outsourcing of labor will only continue to grow, stealing manufacturing jobs from the Midwest, technology jobs from Silicon Valley. The euphoric glory days of the '90's have definitely come to an end.

We Americans will adapt-it's one of the things we do best. New jobs will be created and the economy will eventually recover. However, it won't happen tomorrow. But here's another thing I learned from the Africans: how to be patient and weather the storm of challenging times with dignity and grace. How to accept things the way they are, difficulties and all. When I remember this, I look around at what my family does have now: adequate savings to squeak by, a beautiful home and lots of quality time together. My husband and I have the opportunity to sit in the backyard every night and watch our son frolic around, as the sun sinks slowly into the trees. Like my days in Africa, I've ceased to expect or hunger for things that are no longer accessible. I'm simply enjoying the purity of the moment. I think of my African friends, still there, still struggling, but surely finding time to play music and celebrate life. If you ask me, they are the true Wise Men from the East.



November 18, 2001 - Another Essay by RPCV Terez Rose: Thanksgiving in Gabon





Read and comment on this previous essay from the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel on November 18, 2001 by RPCV Terez Rose who remembers that in 1985, she had a few things in common with the Pilgrims. With a band of 30 other idealists, she had left Kansas to join the Peace Corps in Gabon, Central Africa. Initially fired by enthusiasm, their numbers quickly diminished due to disillusionment, homesickness and health issues. Within six months, a third had returned home. When November came, her homesick thoughts turned to the approaching Thanksgiving holiday. Read the rest of the story at:

Giving thanks: For Pilgrims*

* This link was active on the date it was posted. PCOL is not responsible for broken links which may have changed.



Giving thanks: For Pilgrims

Nov 18, 2001 - Milwaukee Journal Sentinel Author(s): Terez Rose

Giving thanks: For Pilgrims, papayas and art of compromise

By TEREZ ROSE

Sunday, November 18, 2001

In 1621, a band of weary survivors celebrated their meager harvest with their newfound friends and gave thanks.

It had been a hard year for those we now call the Pilgrims. They'd arrived the previous December on Plymouth's rocky shores after 9 1/2 perilous weeks at sea. One hundred idealists escaping religious persecution, they were now free to worship as they pleased, but were sadly unprepared for the challenges. The harsh winter and environment took their toll and by spring, a shocking half of the Pilgrims had died.

However, when given the choice to admit defeat and return to England with the Mayflower, everyone left decided to stay.

In 1985, I had a few things in common with the Pilgrims. With a band of 30 other idealists, I left Kansas to join the Peace Corps in Gabon, Central Africa. Initially fired by enthusiasm, our numbers quickly diminished due to disillusionment, homesickness and health issues. Within six months, a third had returned home.

At my post, an aching homesickness replaced bewilderment, as I taught English at the local high school. My white skin stuck out like a beacon, and whispered stares accompanied me everywhere I went. The students seemed to find my teaching efforts entertaining rather than educational, as I struggled to maintain discipline.

November came, and my homesick thoughts turned to the approaching Thanksgiving holiday. Back home, Mom's delicate china would adorn the linen tablecloth and the rich smell of slow-roasting turkey would pervade the air. Laughter would fill the dining room as ravenous eaters stuffed themselves into a stupor. As I reminisced in Gabon, sweating and slapping at mosquitoes, a longing for home engulfed me.

Clinging to memories, I decided to host my own traditional Thanksgiving dinner. My announcement to the other Peace Corps volunteers, however, was met with skepticism.

"Where are you going to get a whole turkey?" was one response. "Last year, we just drank beer," was another. "The rest was too much work."

I was further disheartened when I perused the local store. No whole turkeys, only the wings. No fresh vegetables and no potatoes, only local tubers. Not a chance of a pumpkin.

"Forget it, then!" I later exploded to one of the volunteers, as we sat at a neighborhood bar. His Gabonese friend took pity on me.

"But does it have to be a traditional dinner?" he asked. "Well, that's the point, to do it the way it's always been done, with the turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie," I replied.

"Maybe if you compromised, you'd have better luck," he gently observed.

His words struck a chord in my heart. As I mulled over them the following week, I observed my actions more clearly. Maybe in the classroom, my expectations were based on my culture. Applying only American ideals to this foreign soil was causing me to fail. Perhaps this was the realization the Pilgrims also had in the spring of 1621.



So compromise it was. I sought the advice of the Gabonese teachers at the school. I threw out the British lesson book that taught words like "vicar" and "perambulator", replacing them with "market," "pineapple," "rooster" and phrases like, "Have you got any yellow bananas?"

Overnight, the classroom environment improved.

Thanksgiving dinner, I decided, was next. It would include turkey wings, mashed local plantain bananas and sliced mangoes. For pumpkin pie, I planned to boil green papayas from the local market, spice them up and proceed with the traditional recipe.

On Thanksgiving afternoon, I was too busy with preparations to be homesick for family. In my rickety house, I pushed the wobbling dining table up against the desk and flung a bed sheet over them. Stubby candles sat atop tin cans.

My guests arrived, American and African alike. The immediate multicultural camaraderie warmed me. After cocktails of local beer, I lit the candles and invited my guests to sit on the chairs and stools that leaned toward the table. The Thanksgiving feast was not like any I'd had before, but it was a reassuring combination of home and my adopted culture.

"I've never had turkey wings prepared this way before," said one Gabonese guest. I thought of the first Thanksgiving dinner, where the Pilgrims cooked unfamiliar food with familiar recipes. Maybe a Native American invited to the feast tasted a dish and said, "Hey, I never thought of doing that with corn before."

When the green papaya pie was served, I watched everyone's expression as they took the first bite, trepidation changing to amazement. "This tastes just like my Mom's pumpkin pie!" one of the volunteers exclaimed. "How did you do it?"

Tears stung my eyes, and at that moment I felt happier than I'd ever felt in Africa, more fulfilled by Thanksgiving dinner than ever before. For the first time, I truly gave thanks: for friends, for bounty, for opportunity.

At this year's holiday, in addition to celebrating, we Americans still will be mourning the deaths of fellow citizens and our once more carefree way of life. Within many of us lies an unsettling fear, not knowing when we will be attacked again by people who threaten our lifestyle and values.

Yet, the Pilgrims also knew all about living with insecurity. In spite of it, they managed to focus on what they were thankful for: good health and the fruits of their labor, for friends still living and the good will of new friends who'd crossed over the cultural barrier.

I think I'll make it my goal this year to try and give thanks for the same things. I want to cross over the new cultural barrier that some would have us believe is insurmountable. Maybe it will be something as simple as serving couscous with dinner, or inviting foreign friends to share our table.

But regardless of what I eat or with whom, I'll pause to remember those who have gone before us. And I'll give thanks.

Terez Rose is a writer who lives in Boulder Creek, Calif.




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