Memories Of Underdevelopment–The Delights Of Poor Countries

It is too much to expect that those helping the poor should live like the poor, and that comforting philosophy has given thousands of aid workers license to lead the good life in the developing world.

In order to do good, one must feel good; and feeling good means being well-rested after a comfortable flight, a good night’s sleep in a five-star hotel, and a meal at the best restaurant in town.

None of the expenditures for such sumptuous travel, went the thinking of administrators and senior staff, was excessive.  Project managers of international development banks were responsible for millions of dollars in loans and credits, and a clear mind was absolutely necessary when negotiating complex agreements.   The US Government was far less generous than these institutions, but the hotel allowances and per diems were more than sufficient for stays at starred hotels and fine meals.



Anyone who has traveled to Africa knows that good accommodations go a long way to alleviating the trauma of crime, disease, civil unrest, and uncertain, dangerous travel.  They are oases and refuges.  They are places of resuscitation and renewal,  redoubts into which the outside world cannot enter.  They are not suggested, but required.

Even the most ethically-minded traveler soon forgets his qualms about income disparities and the irony of impossibly wealthy Americans – even one on an American civil servant’s modest salary is, seen from a development perspective, to be more wealthy than the richest emperor of Wagadu or Songhai – ministering to the desperately poor.  It is all taken as a matter of course.  His wealth, education, privilege, and good fortune all enable him to give more freely and concernedly; and the causes of local misery, perennial economic immobility, and lack of  of enterprise and independence which ensure perennial poverty are not his affair.  He is there to alleviate suffering, regardless of the cause.  The ethos underlying American foreign aid is unquestionably Christian, and helping the poor for no other reason than their suffering, is to follow in the path of Christ.



It is this very missionary philosophy that makes five-star hotels and sumptuous meals ethically and morally justified.  Doing the Lord’s work in and of itself is good, and nothing can take that away.

The life of American expatriates is even more trying.  Not only do they have to suffer the heat and dust of their host countries for the two or three weeks of a short mission; they have to live it day in and day out.  It would be impossible to survive under such conditions without a comfortable home, spacious garden, swimming pool, servants, air conditioning,and  long paid local and European vacations (R&R).

Even at that, life for these American development workers is not all easy.  Servants steal, malarial mosquitoes bite, break-ins are common, and pumps, compressors, and toilets rarely work properly if at all.   All the more reason to live in the most American- designed, -built and –equipped quarters where plumbing and electrical wiring is new, security is high-tech, and furniture and appointments are no different from home.

Especially when expatriate families relocate to Africa with small children, such comfortable, secure, and generous housing is even more necessary.  Cars must be new, reliable, and unbreakable.  In other words, the good life is justified. 



Perhaps most importantly, the sponsoring agency or its contractors would never be able to recruit aid workers without the guarantee of such commodious and accommodating living.  That, plus the tax-free income and generous allowances, are necessary incentives to get even the most ambitiously caring to leave home.

There are some foreign aid workers, however, who have never had qualms or any hesitation about working in the so-called Third World.  Even the most benighted places have something to recommend them in the way of the good life.  Luanda, not long after the end of Angola’s long and bloody civil war, was a nasty place – few hotel rooms, scarce restaurants, high crime rates, corruption, and civil disorder.  Yet, the seasoned traveler familiar with the city, knew exactly where to look for respite and pleasure – the Peninsula, a narrow strip between the Atlantic Ocean and the Bay, with excellent restaurants on the sea.

At one, the Delmar, the giant grilled shrimp and fresh lobsters were first rate, the selection of Portuguese and French wines outstanding, the service impeccable, and the view through the palm trees to the ocean delightful.  The costs of dinners at Delmar would be considered exorbitant anywhere but in Luanda, where limited supply and high demand resulted in $500 meals, they were considered acceptable.   Once again, there was cost to doing good – sponsoring agencies had to pay well and in accordance with local conditions.



Bamako before ISIS, al-Qaeda, and restive Tuaregs was a relatively peaceful, simple country; but amenities were at a premium.  There was one good hotel of international quality, but outside of its restaurant, there were few choices of where to eat – except the Oasis, an outdoor restaurant overlooking the Niger River.   The scenery was picturesque, the cadre excellent – linen tablecloths, silver, Baccarat glassware – and the food, especially the Nile Perch from the river and the unusually good selection of French burgundies, excellent.  Three hour, four-course Sunday luncheons were de rigeur.  Price was no object, although never that much and affordable given generous living allowances.

The hotels of Asia are legendary to frequent travelers.  Their five-star ranking is not high enough, for the polished marble lobbies, great brass planters of tropical flowers, spacious rooms, excellent restaurants, impeccable service and irreproachable quality make them the best part of any foreign assistance mission.  Hotels in Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, Colombo, Delhi, Bombay, Calcutta, and Dhaka set the standard of excellence for the rest of the world.  Most aid workers would never see such hotels without development assistance money.



For the most savvy travelers, developing countries not only provide excellent accommodations, food and drink; but are welcome adventures from the humdrum of home, family, and office.  More importantly, no one is looking.  Without the blinders, tethers, and traces of home, they have fun.

There are few professions which combine moral purpose and simple pleasure like international development.  Since development consultants and expatriates are working towards a higher good – the alleviation of poverty, disease, and suffering – they can enjoy the benefits of travel without a trace of guilt or second thoughts.  They can eat well, sleep well, and have brown lovers to their hearts’ content – all on someone else’s nickel.

It would be an added benefit if such accommodations resulted in some positive outcome – that the health, welfare, or economic well-being of the populations served benefitted from the foreign assistance provided to them.  Unfortunately, the history of development assistance is a sorry one indeed.  If countries have progressed, it is thanks to the macro-economic policies put into place by reform-minded governments (liberalized currency exchanges, free trade, limited government regulation) rather than any Western-sponsored public assistance.   Yet ‘doing good’ is part and parcel of the American Christian ethos – we cannot do otherwise.  To suspend assistance programs because they don’t work but where people are suffering is an unthinkable option.



Even though no more justification for the good life overseas is needed, the ‘giving one’s all’ rationale, is often added.    If one works hard, follows the rules, is appropriately sensitive to cross-cultural differences but sufficiently bottom-line in approach, then success or failure is irrelevant.  One has done one’s best under difficult conditions; and can enjoy life without hesitation or self-doubt.

President after president has vowed to reduce foreign aid, turn over development activities to the private sector or to countries themselves, and to withdraw support from anti-democratic, autocratic regimes.  None have done so whether Republican or Democrat.  As small as the foreign assistance program may be, it has ardent supporters.  American simply cannot be seen to be abandoning the poor.

So those in the international development industry keep on travelling, settling in as expatriates, and enjoying the good life. 

Youth, Beauty, And The Sexual Ideal

Not every woman can be Aphrodite nor any man Apollo,  but the desire to be so persists nonetheless.  The ideal of sexual beauty, allure, attractiveness is as old as evolution, changing over time and generation but still as valid as ever.  We would all like to be Marilyn Monroe, Paul Newman, Ava Gardner, Gregory Peck, or a host of hot Hollywood newcomers.

The veneration of the ideal is not new.  Plato never intended generations of humanity to wish more than they ever could achieve.  He only meant to set unreachable but perfect standards to which we should aspire.  Women can never have the unique sexual allure that has made Marilyn an icon, desired by successive generations of men, but try they must to satisfy longings for perfection.  Even if they fall stories short, they will have at least attempted the ideal, validated the perpetual search for feminine, sexual, desirability.

Most women not only fall short, but fall dismally short.  Sadly, many women have fallen prey to post-modern feminism which has devalued their central, unique character – their femininity – and automatically resigned them to the lower tiers of the stadium, many seats below the unreconstructed women who know men’s weakness, how to manipulate it, and how to get the best bet for attractive offspring. 

If one was to look at women’s magazines as indicators of women’s sexual fashion, a surprise would be in store.  It is as if feminism had never happened.  Getting a man is first, foremost, and the sine qua non of essential femininity.  Self-worth, intelligence., social potential, and character do not even feature in the cover stories of Elle, Vogue, and Seventeen.  Yet these periodicals have not missed a beat, are not retrograde in the least, and are at the avant-garde of sexual gamesmanship.  Nothing has changed since the Paleolithic, these magazines tout, so get with it, sister, and reel in your man. Of course the back pages are filled with articles about getting ahead, Michelle Obama, and the new crop of thirty-something women in Congress; but the cover is all sex, sex appeal, and mating. Why is this not surprising?

Human nature has not changed one iota since homo sapiens.  We are the same acquisitive, territorial, aggressive, self-interested creatures as we were climbing out of the slime; so why should anyone suggest anything other than competitive mating, competitive economic competition, and competitive social mobility?

The ideal of feminine beauty has not changed an iota either.   Beautiful women today are held to the same standard as Nefertiti, Venus de Milo, and lesser Greek and Roman goddesses, princesses, and queens.  Images from ancient sarcophagi, temples, and frescoes depict women as ideally beautiful as they are today.

Why is it not surprising that women today resort to face lifts, reconstructive surgery, enhanced makeup, and stylistic remakes to look young?  God, Darwin, and survivalist human nature ordained that beautiful women would be sought after; and that others would have to stand in line.  No amount of propaganda for the self-worth and value of the articulate, intelligent, insightful female could possibly divert attention from the Marilyn Monroes of a culture.  Seductive, alluring, impossibly sexual creatures yelling fertility, sexual satisfaction, and regeneration.  If and only if a woman combines intellectual achievement and sexual allure can she compete with Marilyn Monroes.

The same can be said of men.  The Apollos of any generation – beautiful, attractive, strong, confident, and attentive males – will always be first on the dance card, first in mating, and first in marriage.  However women might be seduced by status, fame, and fortune; and however many might accept ugly, unappealing men in due return, they know they have settled for second best.  The Henry Kissingers of the world, however much they might raise a woman’s profile and salability, are second best to the Apollos.

D.H. Lawrence understood this best.  Despite Victorian ambitions of status, fame, and aristocratic recognition, Connie Chatterley knew that sexual union with a consummate, sexually complete man was all that life could offer; that no social propriety or concerns about livelihood or status could possibly compare with the sexual unity she found with Mellors.

Everyone settles for second best.  Few find youth, beauty, and sensual allure in their mates Physical ordinariness, common and inescapable, is nevertheless hard to swallow.  Ideals die hard.  We simply cannot be that far away.  Of course we can. Only the fortunate few can find youthful beauty.

This youthful ideal – Apollo and Venus, Dido and Aeneas, Romeo and Juliet – while rare among the young, is much more common among the old.  Those older men, fortunate enough to have found a younger woman to love them, have achieved something their younger colleagues might never know.  In a December-May affair Apollonian beauty is irrelevant.  Only youth matters.  The perfectly formed sensuous breasts, graceful torsos, long limbs, and classic profiles mean nothing.  That Marge from Accounting lacks all of this, but has soft, smooth, young skin; full lips, and a young, exuberant face means everything.  Platonic ideals go out the window.  Marilyn Monroe and Nefertiti are forgotten in an Morgan studio apartment cinq-a-sept.  

It is a mistake to devalue beauty and youth, to suggest that intelligence, insight, and wisdom compensate for lack of physical attractiveness or middle age.  The young  may not be aware of their particular value; and older people may dismiss the value of youth because they have lost it; but youthful beauty is inescapable.  Art from the earliest sculptures of pre-historic, Paleolithic Europe recognizes the uniqueness of youthful beauty.  Depictions of the old are only iconic references to wisdom, sagacity, and history.  The old are and will always be supernumerary, dependent, and dispensable.

The Phillip Roth novel, The Human Stain perhaps best tells of the ironic consummation of perfect love.  Coleman Silk, an older, retired professor has an affair with as woman half his age and well beneath him in status, education, and upbringing.  It is a dangerous affair since the woman is still married to a psychopath and has a brutal, damaged past.  A friend of Coleman’s berates him for the affair, citing all the obvious reasons.  “Granted”, Silk says, “she is not my first love; and granted she is not my best love; but she is most definitely my last love, and that has to count for something”.

Not only is he having an affair with a younger woman, but a woman of sensuality, sexual forthrightness, and and extraordinary beauty.  Silk cares nothing for the risk, the likelihood of danger or death because this is his epiphany – a final, last consummation with youth, beauty, and life.

There are stories of lasting love – couples who have been married for decades and who still love and depend on each other – but these always seem penitential, byes given to men and women who have risked nothing and end up with nothing more than companionship.  Both have been faithful, accommodating, and respectful – and both, if they were to speak honestly, have lives of quiet, secure boredom.

Old age and death have their existential consequences – the end of it all, the abyss, the point of no return – but most men in their passing regret only one thing, the loss of their youth and beauty but especially the loss of the youth and beauty of those whom they might have had.

To Be Or Not To Be–Existential Answers For Dummies

Randall Potter was unconcerned about the leak in the roof, the bad flashing around the chimney, the dodgy flue, and the cracks in the bathtub.  He had more important things to think about – purpose, definition, meaning; and worse, being and nothingness.  Someone else would do the grouting, masonry, tiling, and fitting while he contemplated his life. 

His wife complained that his permanent and persistent existential crisis was no more than laziness.  With a little more practicality – or at least an acknowledgement that without attention the chimney would collapse and the bathtub leak would rot one floor after another on its way to the basement – he might even resolve some of his more persistent questions.  She, unlike him, never gave even an errant thought to death and dying, or the meaning of anything, let alone life.  She had been brought up to think straight ahead.  Peripheral vision only distracted from enterprise and end results.

Therein lay the source of their discontent.  As the house fell more and more into disrepair, her patience with her husband flagged; and even after many decades of marriage and putting up with his obsessions, she was nearing the end of her rope.  Randall, on the other hand, felt beleaguered and hectored by a woman who was all mortar and grouting, who never reflected on anything more important than reupholstery.  His wife was no dunce.  Far from it, she was intelligent, analytical, and logical.  It was just that she preferred to bank her brains and fiddle with getting through the week.

She, of course, never looked at things this way.  She was indeed using her brains in the only proven, verifiable, manageable, and sane way possible.  Whether there is or is not a God; whether  life does or does not have meaning; or whether death means eternal life or eternal nothingness,  were nonsensical questions.  Nothing was ever accomplished by such reflection.  No Kantian scholar ever looked into the abyss and calmly thanked his muse.   Better to wear yourself out with grouting, tiling, reupholstering, and refinishing and die in your sleep than questioning the unanswerable.

‘To be, or not to be.  That is the question’, a line from Shakespeare that has become a ditty repeated in sand traps, board rooms, and subways for the existentially-minded.  It is the kind of couplet that sounds right.  Everyone wonders if it is all worth it from time to time.  Taking two strokes on a bad lie, reading from the same balance sheet, rattling down the same tracks, eating the same pot roast – the sheer repetitiveness of it all encourages existential doubt, just not for long.  Most people never give it a second thought and wave it away until it shows up on the Beltway or in bed.

Randall Potter thought about it all the time.  The tea he prepared in the morning was exactly the same tea as yesterday and the day before.  He made the bed so exactly that he forgot the day of the week.  “Didn’t I just make this bed?”.  He tried to change his routines to see if he could shake this disturbing angst.  Instead of getting off on the tenth floor of his office building, he got off at nine, walked the long corridors through the cubicles and meeting rooms, past the pictures of Indian women at the well, African villagers on tractors, and Guatemalan volcanoes, and up the stairs to his own room.  Yet in a week this route had become disturbingly familiar.  “Didn’t I just walk here?”.

Nothing seemed to work, and if the world was so subject to the same perceptual distortions; and that time came and went with no notice and far faster than he wanted, then perhaps it did not exist.  His attempts to reconfigure time and place, and hold them steady only served to increase his anxiety.  Life had become a wobbly, uncertain affair.

Meanwhile his wife who prosecuted during the week and reupholstered, grouted, and tiled on the weekend never once showed signs of philosophical frailty.  She simply put one foot in front of the other as she went out the door, retraced her steps on the way back, and was as happy as a clam.

Surprisingly, thought Randall, philosophy does not include her in any of their paradigms.  Considerations of being and nothingness – to quote Nietzsche’s phrase which generalized Randall’s existential concerns – never included ‘pedestrianism’, the one-foot-in-front-of-the-other approach which enabled his wife to glide through life unencumbered and as moral and ethical as the most inquiring philosopher.  Everyone from Descartes to Lacan referred to man’s place in the world and added suggestions however abstruse about how to deal with misery, pain, poverty, war, etc. , but never gave pedestrianism a footnote.  Even women like Randall’s wife had to have evolved their particular response to existential questions; otherwise they would not be human.  The essence of humanity, most said, was the ability to consider it.

Nancy Potter, had she been forced to answer this criticism, would have demurred.  The premise itself is absurd, she would have said.  No one ever asked to be put on this earth, and that alone is enough reason not to pay it much attention except to get through it in as personally satisfying a way possible. Philosophical reasoning began and ended with that one simple fact.

It was no surprise that the twain never met.  Randall could not help feeling that as randomly selected as he was to live in a world without meaning, wasn’t their some evolutionary imperative at the very least for using your brain for other than reupholstery and grouting?  What was the purpose of a big brain, capable of the most sophisticated thought, if it wasn’t to contemplate the unknown?  And if man was created with the ability to do so, then wasn’t the unknown ipso facto worth investigating?

A merry-go-round, an intellectual Ferris Wheel, a Mobius strip, and Sisyphus would be his wife’s reaction – again if she were ever asked – but Randall was never persuaded by her hammer-and-chisel approach.  Of course if it hadn’t been for her, the house would have long ago collapsed or washed away, but that still didn’t either resolve his questions or make anything more congenial between his wife and him.

As he approached his later years and found himself still without answers, very much too old without every having become schmart, he wondered if it all had been worth it.  If, despite his big brain, philosophical leanings, and persistence, he had come to naught; he was no closer to any answers to his existential questions than when he started, wasn’t his wife right after all?  Yet how could he give up a life’s work so easily, lying down in the clover and looking up at the clouds?  No, there was still time.

His wife went on tacking, hammering, and grouting until her arthritis became too painful; but by then the house was in good shape as were the finances, so she could settle into another occupation, one more intellectual and inspirational perhaps. Nothing doing, of course.  There was no way she was going to spend her remaining few years in her husband’s yard.  She would simply teach and apply all her organizational, practical skills to her children and grandchildren.  She would be as busy, as useful, and as happy as ever.

Randall got it, but could not swallow it.  So what?  Marriage was difficult enough without having to complicate it with such things.