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It's been long enough since I've endured a truly hot day to allow thoughts of winter to flourish. Sure, it's fall here and the weather is supposed to be cooler, but seasons change and time flies, especially when you're busy acquainting yourself to a new culture.

And there have been quite a few revelations, albeit small ones, as I've become acculturated to Namibia.  The definition and soul of value, for one.  In the states you buy things based on what you want.  Here you buy things to survive.  The act of purchasing a washing machine or a digital camera cannot be completed without enduring a plague of questions about what else the money could be used for.  One washing machine equals about 300 meals, or eight weeks of groceries, or a six months of electricity, or 250 taxi rides.  There's a lot that money can be used for, but necessity eliminates many options, and the shear volume of need reduces purchases of convenience to mere frivolities.  How can I walk down the street enjoying an ice cream cone and look in the eye the homeless starving child without paining from guilt?  Ice cream is now a frivolity.  But I do it anyway.  And I'll probably buy a washing machine because I'm sick of destroying my clothes in an attempt to clean them every week.  Am I just living a live of privilege out here in the southern African desert?[cut]

I'm beginning to think that I left the States to live the same kind of life here in Africa.  The only difference is that the suffering and pain in the world that you hear about so often is right down the street rather than across an ocean, and I've traded my Jeep and nice apartment for an ice cream cone and washing machine.  This is the subtle but constant guilt I live with here, in the capital city of Namibia; working daily with the poor and deserving while enjoying a life of relative comfort that I just can't seem to shake.

Another revelation involves begging and giving.  Three weeks ago I gave $100 to a homeless man named Emanuel.  I'd seen him in town quite a few times prior, and each time he had the same story to tell: from the north, in town to see the doctor, can't afford to get back home.  So this time I relented and gave him money for the bus ticket back north.  Even while handing over the bill and telling him to have a safe trip, I knew I'd see him again next week.  But I didn't give him the money because I believed his story, I gave it because I wanted to trust him.  And when I did see him two weeks later downtown in passing, and as he told me he did go home but had to come back, I knew I was right in the beginning:  He didn't lie, he just sold me his trustworthiness. And that day the possibility that someone with something could help someone with nothing was worth 20 meals and 16 taxi rides.  Emanuel sells his trust, I sell my guilt.  It's a bargain well met as neither of us values our commodities highly.  I'll likely not give Emanuel another cent, but I will still chat with him, and maybe someday I'll understand what drives a good man to such a low bargain on an important piece of character.  But right now I just don't know.

Then there's Essime.  She's an 11th grader who came to school in a well worn uniform a few sizes too big.  Her house (shack) burned to the ground two weeks ago, the cause was never identified.  She now lives with her aunt, seven to a bed.  Along with a few other teachers, I gave $100 to her family to help with whatever they need.  The money went to purchase a new school uniform, which she now wears with pride.  The money was unsolicited, and she does not know the identity of the contributors.  Honest charity for an honest recipient.  But why should someone have to loose so much to get something they needed in the first place?  I wish I understood.

Then just last week one of the teachers came to me and asked for a loan of $10 to buy some food.  The smallest quantity bill I had was $50, which he took with the promise of repayment.  Even with several polite reminders I have not yet been repaid, a situation that would have lead to my having a bad impression had it not been for some background information shared by another college.  I learned that this teacher supports his three siblings and their collective fifteen children as well as their parents and two uncles, all under three roofs not a stone's throw from one another.  I can only assume the members of his family who are not too sick either make crafts or food items to sell or ask for change on the streets, a story all to common here.  How can I ask for repayment from someone who gives so much to others?  What is a $50 bill to a man responsible for more than 20 hungry souls?  I honestly don't know. 

Sometimes you do it with honor and dignity.  Other times you are manipulated and betrayed.  But I have plenty of honor to spare.  And if all I have to give up is a little dignity for the privilege of not judging the hosts of my modest generosity, it's a cost I can bear.  I'd rather suffer a little humility than snub a genuine plea for help.   And I have to justify my privilege somehow. 

So my policy now is to always give.  If someone asks for something, I stop and listen.  I offer modestly, and when possible make the price a short conversation.  I try to remember that we are all people, doing the best with what we have.  And I may never understand the soul of a man who lives under a bridge and spends each day begging for coins, but I can at least value that soul over the sum of money in my pocket.  [/cut]