Hardship is Relative

The following was published in the Albany Times Union on May 2, 2010:

The advertisements on the New York City subway enticing me to trade my morning coffee for a cup of tea made me smile. They were selling flights to London with the promise of unparalleled comfort and the ease of unburdened travel.

If the price was right, one could hop continents and barely notice. But with volcanic ash floating high above Europe for several days in April, a good portion of the world accustomed to the modern trimmings of travel was left wondering what to do.

I thought back to the molten days of April in West Africa, and about the two years I had spent there as a Peace Corps volunteer. The heat would last until the rains arrived in mid-June. Punishing afternoons with highs in the 120s burned the skies as farmers burned their fields in preparation for planting. I tried everything to escape. I swam in the river, but April found the river, too. The current flowed like a solid mass and felt as thick as bathwater. Even the cool well water in the small upcountry village where I lived didn't stand a chance. It broke the surface in a pumping rhythm, confident and full of optimism, and then fainted into my bucket, dejected and defeated. Like travelers to and from Europe those few days flights were cancelled, I felt the world had tipped and left me no options.

Then I stopped myself and simplified. My life was already comfortable in its iron-age simplicity: I lived in a mud hut with a thatched grass roof, and I slept on a bed made from palm boughs. Still, I simplified further. I took heed of the old adage and did as the Gambians did. I took apart my ceramic and steel water filter and traded it in for a giant jug. A jug made of clay.

I traded in my standards and expectations and found a little relief.

The jug or londe was simple. As water slowly seeped through the rough exterior, it moistened the outside and evaporated leaving the water inside the vessel crisp and cool-- a little oasis of temperature. It was enough to get me through the hottest part of the day, and since the jug was the size of a bass drum, it was enough water to pour over myself before attempting to fall asleep at night.

I bought the jug at a weekly market an hour outside of my village. Carrying it back was not a pleasant experience. It was fragile and so I couldn't store it on the roof of the ragged bush-taxi van that ran past my village.

I sat crammed next to 23 people in a space made for 15, and stared straight ahead over the heads of the people in front of me. The londe was searing hot in my lap, having sat all day in direct sun. All I could do was gaze out through the cracked windshield and wipe the sweat out of my eyes. I knew it would be worth it in the end.

My subway car rumbled along the tracks headed north between Rector and Chambers streets in New York City's Financial District and I sat looking over the heads of the people across from me. Splinters of light flashed through the temporary ceiling on the west side of the tunnel and I realized where I was. The Cortland Street Station used to sit here, beneath the steel and concrete of the World Trade Center. That was nearly nine years ago -- the last time so much airspace was silent.

Outside on the street in a light spring rain, a young woman jumped out of a cab and ran across the sidewalk to the shelter of an awning. Her friend who had been waiting there for her looked at her in shock.

"You took a cab? It was only 10 blocks!"

"Yeah, well I don't do rain," she said zipping her purse.

The price was right.