Glittering Beads, Glaring Poverty

I love going to the Masai markets. Glittering beads reflecting the sun, woodcarvings, silk scarves, confused tourists accepting the first offered price, “Hallo sister! See my…Looking is free!” creating an echo effect as the sounds of hawking melt into this confusion of ordered chaos. Above all this mess, I love the market because it is the one place where I use my Kiswahili uninhibited by self-doubt. Rather, the language speaks through me and does all my bargaining. Succinct to say, I am a market junkie. However, this past Sunday was different. When I was walking away from the market, I replayed the events in my head, and in that moment I experienced African capitalism from the vantage point of the disadvantaged vendor. But, I suppose I’ve gotten ahead of myself now…

After Kiswahili bargained for me two beautiful scarves, I stashed the loot in my pack and carried on with my expedition through the market jungle. I came across a tarp island covered with beaded bracelets, not unlike the thousand other bracelets showcased on the scores of other tarp islands. I pulled ashore at this vendor and a man struck up conversation with me about his great merchandise, even better prices. I explained to him that I prefer to buy from women vendors in support of their enterprises, and, as though the director of a play spoke those words, a woman behind the tarp emerged from the glaring sun and entered center stage. Let the bargaining begin. I asked the lady how much for one bracelet – shilingi mia moja na kumi (110). “Kweli?! Uweze punguza!” (Really?! You must reduce the price!”). Then I explained to her my current dilemma: I only had 100 shillings left and I still needed 20 bob (yes, they call shillings “bob” sometimes – maybe it’s like Uncle Sam…just kidding, but I would really like to meet Bob, whoever he is) for the bus ride home. I really wanted two bracelets, though. To complement each other. To keep each other company on my wrist. Because, let’s face it, two is so much better than one. At that point I really didn’t know what the “market price” for these bracelets were. Even that concept sounds silly from this perspective, though – I mean, I was in the market, so I guess me and her were setting the market price at that moment. Well after about fifteen minutes of tossing prices back and forth like a tennis rally (interrupted only briefly by her request that we swap phones), I walked away with both bracelets and 20 bob for the bus.

And then it hit me.

I had undercut this woman. The materials and labor for these bracelets probably just about matched the price I paid. Her net benefit from the exchange probably amounted to zero. Most capitalists would argue that in the free market, where prices are set by that collision course between supply and demand, that the high number of suppliers in the Masai market probably drove the prices down. However, I’m quite certain (a couple of days after the fact) that the going price for those bracelets was actually much higher than what I paid. So, if this was a “free” market, why did she undersell her merchandise?

Is the African microbusiness market actually “free?”

And then (still walking to the bus stop) this is what hit me: Poverty takes the freedom out of “free markets.” Without stereotyping too much, the vendor’s low socioeconomic status limited her freedom to sell goods at even the market price. Faced with the choice of receiving 80 shillings at a net-(or maybe sub-) zero profit or receiving nothing, she inevitably had to choose the former. She faces the imperative of filling needs most of us would consider basic; this imperative takes away her freedom of exchange and compels her to sell at any price, even at a loss. Poverty precludes her opportunities to market her products. Moreover, poverty contains all her entrepreneurial endeavors at the micro-level; her business is not free to expand because, rather than invest her profits back into the business, poverty is an insatiable thirst that her measly earnings must constantly quench.

The optimist that I am, it peeves me to end on such a down note. So, I will add here that next Sunday I plan to return to the market (with the company of enough Bobs to pay for all my merchandise and the bus) to buy more bracelets from the same vendor, at the free and fair market price.

Intro to Stephanie's Kenya Blog: Life in Nairobi

Hi friends, family, and professors!

I have been in Kenya for a month now, sans blog. My summer in Tanzania last year passed without a single online entry, and I am beginning to realize that the "blogosphere" would be a valuable dimension for relating my experiences abroad and staying in contact with those back home, or in other parts of the world. And thus, my Kenya blog is launched.

I have been in Kenya since September 1 with the University of Minnesota's program "Minnesota Studies in International Development" (MSID). As evident from its name, the program's core focus is on development studies in the global south, emphasizing a variety of sub-fields ranging from public health to sustainable agriculture to social, urban, and women's studies. After seven weeks of classes held in Nairobi, students venture off to their respective, most often rural, internships with grass-roots non-government organizations. Second semester allows students to continue their internships as well as conduct their own research projects and case studies in international development.

Life in Nairobi:

After spending two months in a rural village in Tanzania in 2007, my expectations of life in Kenya proved quite distorted when cast against the reality of Nairobian livelihood. In essence, this urban hub of East Africa is deceivingly Western. The skyscrapers of the city center convey the image of a bustling financial district. Rush hour (better, yet, ALL hours) traffic puts L.A. to shame - the automobile density demonstrates at once that a sizable chunk of Nairobi's population flaunt cars and that the city planners performed poorly in creating road systems to accommodate the swelling urban population. People dress nice here. I'm busting out the hiking boots while at least 65% of the women are showcasing cute shoes. How they manage to detract mud and dust is beyond my comprehension and ability - maybe "mzungo" skin has some uncanny magnetic attraction to dirt, as the brownness of my feet is not a suntan. Just when you think to yourself, "Hey! I feel like I'm in a US city..." you get engulfed in a whirlwind of thick, black, nose-clogging smoke by a KBS bus or a matatu. The street-kids are less numerous (I am told) than in the past, but at least once a day a poorly-clad boy greets you with "How are you. Give me money, I'm hungry." You can't do anything, though, really. The problem is systemic and giving out money only perpetuates it. It's sad, though.

Of course, the best way to be reminded that Nairobi is NOT an African equivalent of L.A. or NYC is by taking the bus #32. I take it to school a few times a week, as per my laziness. It's point of departure: the biggest slum in Africa, Kibera. But to understand the shock of entering Kibera for the first time, I must backtrack and discuss my living arrangments...

Jamhuri Estates, my homestay family's neighborhood, is an eclectic place - ornate houses slam against simpler multi-family housing structures. Intense iron gates cage everyone in at night, loud cling-clanging echoes reverberate at all hours as people leave their fortresses (some much nicer than others, some much worse) and come home. The stray cats and dogs are loudest around 5 am, about the time I wake during the week. My bedroom window is an arms-length-out-the-window distance from the family who lives on the second floor in a flat this is semi-connected to my family's BIG two story house (not home, of course, - that place is in the village. Nairobi is "house," place to make money. Village is "home," place to make community). I feel safest in Jamhuri, although two friends have already been held at gunpoint (was it real or was it a toy gun? Hmm...) in one of Jamhuri's salons. In summation, Jamhuri is a middle class place, all basic needs are met, and many cars litter the unpaved roads like candy spewed during a parade.

I walk through Jamhuri, I don't know if its N,S,E or W, but I walk for about 7 minutes. I come to the train tracks. I step over electric wire, I step over the tracks. Boom. I've been transported to a different world, a different reality. Life's blender pressed "on" and now everything's been shaken up. I'm in Kibera. I'm still on its outskirts, so I don't feel too scared or threatened, but I'm on guard. I walk about 5 minutes and that's where I pick up the 32 bus. Could it be any more movie-like? A nice middle class neighborhood, cross the tracks (why do tracks always separate the rich and poor? I remember learning, but forgot the content, of a theory addressing that question) and you're in the continent's biggest slum. Larger themes of income inequality, emerging class struggles, and the government neglect of rural areas - hence prompting rural-dwellers to move to urban centers for employment, which, may it be said, does not exist - all take on a human shape and a human face.

I'll be in Nairobi until the end of October, at which time I will move to the coastal city of Mombasa to commence my internship. The NGO holds seminars on political finance accountability and land rights. Diverse, ehh? Like so many things in Africa, I do not the details yet, so I will elaborate on that subject when the subject manifests itself to me.

That's all for now. Throughout this blog, please feel free to post any opinions, points of contention, questions, etc. etc. Thanks for reading!!!