Challenge: I do not really think like this all the time, and I am certainly not thinking like this now, but there is an element of truth in here. Write only thoughts which occurred to me before I decided to make a blog entry out of them.
From time to time, I go to a fancy restaurant. I spend the average Tanzanian's monthly salary in a single night, savouring a beer and food that reminds me of Montreal. It is refreshing, but it makes me feel guilty. For instance: in Uganda I once ate two meals' worth of steak dinner in two hours; this was the evening after working at a school where the children get one meal a day of beans and ugali (like rice, minus the texture and flavour and cutlery). Even Dickens would be unable to emphasize the poignancy of my social superiority.
I cherish my meal, all the while thinking disparaging thoughts about my dinner companions, every other white customer in the restaurant, every other black or Indian customer in the restaurant, the restaurant's owner, the restaurant itself, and even the concept of restaurants.
No wonder this country is underdeveloped, I ruminate. All the people around me are not developing it! The wealth changes hands between the rich, and the poor get nothing. Even the people in the poverty-reduction business take part in the farce. I should know: I am one.
The next day, I double my efforts at work, as payback to the people whom I will never meet and whom I am supposedly helping. But then, what about the day after that? If I do not keep up my double-effort, that means I could be working faster. Any time I spend on break is time I spend not helping people—people who cannot afford my laziness. I skip breaks and shorten my lunches. I doubt I will ever know if these efforts are fruitful; but can I really risk taking my time?
Once upon a time I did not know or care about any of this. Now I do care and I still do not know. I roam the streets to get time to myself to piece together my thoughts; but I am always interrupted by friendly neighbours and passers-by. Can they not see that the minutes I spend talking to them would be better spent thinking? I am only here for six months: every second is precious!
Of course, this is simply culture shock. At this point my thought process is already abstracted far away from any sick and dying and vulnerable people. I simply must come to terms with the fact that saving lives is a nine-to-five desk job.
And once the stress has built up high enough, I might treat myself to dinner at a fancy restaurant.
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