I know as about as much about game theory as I do about auto mechanics, but I read an article about the prisoner’s dilemma and it stuck with me. By contrast, I am of the opinion that if the oil really needed changing, the car would simply stop.
In the prisoner’s dilemma, two accomplices are arrested for a crime. The police officers interview them individually. The men have no opportunity to communicate with one another. The police offer each suspect the same choice: he can receive immunity and testify against his accomplice, who will be given a ten-year sentence. Alternatively, he can stay silent. If the men stay silent, both receive a six-month sentence on a minor charge. Both men betraying one another would result in a two year sentence for each man. The choices boil down to cooperating with the partner or defecting. The dilemma is that neither man knows for certain what choice the other will make.
The solution that maximizes their total welfare is if they both cooperate and do not betray one another. They serve their six months and then are free to pursue their nefarious activities or write a tell-all book about prison life. However, each man knows that the other has a personal incentive to defect and rat him out. No matter what the other person does, a suspect will gain by defecting. If his (obviously now former) friend did not do the same, the suspect will get no jail time. If his partner also defected, then at least he only serves two years as opposed to ten. The ground-breaking, Nobel-prize winning conclusion is that self-interest will motivate people to defect (this of course was later contradicted by ground-breaking, Nobel-prize winning rebuttal demonstrating motivation to cooperate).
Even with no walls and cells, people in Congo assume that others will cheat the system and defect. They therefore defect as well, even at the cost of collective welfare. In this context it makes sense to maintain your army even if you are running for office. Your opponent is doing the same. Disbanding them now might leave you holding the bag with the proverbial ten-year sentence.
The cops do not trust the government to send paychecks. Neither do the soldiers. In this dilemma, they actually are damn near certain the government will defect rather than cooperate, so they had best do the same to minimize their loss by preying on civilians. The people through whom government money passes each take a cut because everyone else does. The only actions people can depend on in Congo are ones driven by self-interest. Cops harassing civilians on the street, governors commandeering NGO vehicles, people stealing bridge materials, generals giving false information, staff pilfering from employers…these are not the problems. They are certainly problems, but they are not THE problem. They are symptoms of the overall problem: an absence of trust causing mass defection rather than cooperation, at the expense of collective welfare.
The elections in Congo are no magic bullet precisely because the prisoner’s dilemma will still exist. It will continue until people have faith that others will not try to cheat the system. A democratic government will only be effective to the extent that defectors are punished and cooperators rewarded. People must trust one another. I should really look up that theory on coorperation, since apparently, it would have the answer.
This is my two cents for the day. Having been working a lot on a book about my experiences in Congo, I've been neglecting this little blog, so I'm stealing from some recent work and posting it.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
The Forgotten Kabange
Twins are considered magical births in Congo. When my colleagues in Katanga found out that I am a twin, they immediately asked me why I did not tell them already. It was as though I had deliberating kept important information from them. Ironically, I get this same reaction in the United States as well.
“My twin sister is fabulous at winter sports,” I might say to someone who tells me about their interest in snowboarding.
“You have a twin! Why didn’t you tell me you had a twin?!” This person would reply.
“Because I only met you two hours ago when I got to the party.”
Just like people with certain medical conditions wear bracelets to let strangers know about them, I should wear a t-shirt that says, “I have twin. No, we don’t look alike. No, we didn’t create our own secret language as children.” When an acquaintance discovers that I am a vegetarian, they respond with mild curiosity, or panic, if they just invited me over to dinner. Discovering that I am twin, no matter how long or short the time I have known this person, is greeted with betrayal that they were not informed.
Perhaps this sentiment is amplified in Congo because twins are said to have magical powers. I mean, if I knew someone who had magical powers, I would expect this to come up pretty early in the course of our friendship. Twins can heal the sick and summon rain. They can bring good or bad luck. I was tempted to ask my colleagues if one twin can bring good luck and the other one bad, because I would definitely be the former. When my older sister bought me a shirt that said, “don’t blame me, it was my evil twin,” she went back to get my twin sister one as an afterthought.
Failing to observe rites associated with twins can be catastrophic for their families and entire villages. In other words, do not mess this twins. They will make life hell for you. Singing the Mapasa when twins are born is en example of such a rite. This song celebrates the birth of twins. One version begins with, “Eldest twin, watch out, don’t go under the bosenge tree/Youngest twin, watch out, don’t go under the bosenge tree/The day that you do, you will die.”
How fabulous. My whole life I have been living in ignorance that there is a tree, which if I go under it, I will die. Twenty-nine years on the planet and only now does anyone bother to inform me of a twin-killing tree. I do not have a clue what a bosenge tree looks like. For all I know, my parents are planning an annex to their bathroom out of bosenge trees.
Because people are afraid of supernatural twins, they might not discipline them. If your child can cause a drought for your village by keeping rain from falling, some battles parents might choose not to fight. My parents might have been less strict on our curfews if they thought Leah and I could wipe our Marietta with a plague.
There is an entire vocabulary associated with twins (and no, not as in their own secret language. Let’s try to get off that track, alright? TWINS DON’T HAVE THEIR OWN SECRET LANGUAGES). In English, both twins are known simply as “twins.” In Congo, mbuyi is the eldest twin. The second one is kabange. The father of twins is shambuyi; the mother is mwambuyi. Far from nicknames, these titles replace parents’ given names. Though I am no linguist, it seems like the entire twin vocabulary is focused on the eldest twin, mbuyi. My parents did not know they were having twins. My twin sister got the chosen name. My father came up with mine on the spot. Now I come to learn that my parents might as well be called, “Mother of Leah” and “Father of Leah.” Apparently, I can never escape the shadow of my twin sister’s glory, even in Congo.
“My twin sister is fabulous at winter sports,” I might say to someone who tells me about their interest in snowboarding.
“You have a twin! Why didn’t you tell me you had a twin?!” This person would reply.
“Because I only met you two hours ago when I got to the party.”
Just like people with certain medical conditions wear bracelets to let strangers know about them, I should wear a t-shirt that says, “I have twin. No, we don’t look alike. No, we didn’t create our own secret language as children.” When an acquaintance discovers that I am a vegetarian, they respond with mild curiosity, or panic, if they just invited me over to dinner. Discovering that I am twin, no matter how long or short the time I have known this person, is greeted with betrayal that they were not informed.
Perhaps this sentiment is amplified in Congo because twins are said to have magical powers. I mean, if I knew someone who had magical powers, I would expect this to come up pretty early in the course of our friendship. Twins can heal the sick and summon rain. They can bring good or bad luck. I was tempted to ask my colleagues if one twin can bring good luck and the other one bad, because I would definitely be the former. When my older sister bought me a shirt that said, “don’t blame me, it was my evil twin,” she went back to get my twin sister one as an afterthought.
Failing to observe rites associated with twins can be catastrophic for their families and entire villages. In other words, do not mess this twins. They will make life hell for you. Singing the Mapasa when twins are born is en example of such a rite. This song celebrates the birth of twins. One version begins with, “Eldest twin, watch out, don’t go under the bosenge tree/Youngest twin, watch out, don’t go under the bosenge tree/The day that you do, you will die.”
How fabulous. My whole life I have been living in ignorance that there is a tree, which if I go under it, I will die. Twenty-nine years on the planet and only now does anyone bother to inform me of a twin-killing tree. I do not have a clue what a bosenge tree looks like. For all I know, my parents are planning an annex to their bathroom out of bosenge trees.
Because people are afraid of supernatural twins, they might not discipline them. If your child can cause a drought for your village by keeping rain from falling, some battles parents might choose not to fight. My parents might have been less strict on our curfews if they thought Leah and I could wipe our Marietta with a plague.
There is an entire vocabulary associated with twins (and no, not as in their own secret language. Let’s try to get off that track, alright? TWINS DON’T HAVE THEIR OWN SECRET LANGUAGES). In English, both twins are known simply as “twins.” In Congo, mbuyi is the eldest twin. The second one is kabange. The father of twins is shambuyi; the mother is mwambuyi. Far from nicknames, these titles replace parents’ given names. Though I am no linguist, it seems like the entire twin vocabulary is focused on the eldest twin, mbuyi. My parents did not know they were having twins. My twin sister got the chosen name. My father came up with mine on the spot. Now I come to learn that my parents might as well be called, “Mother of Leah” and “Father of Leah.” Apparently, I can never escape the shadow of my twin sister’s glory, even in Congo.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Stop that 29-year old from drinking!
I got used to many things in Congo that are different in the states. With so many big changes, like no running water, driving a trunk, living in a rural town with dirt roads, I often forget about the little random changes I now come across on a daily basis in the United States.
Here are a few of the random products or insights I have noticed in America:
1- Red wine does not have a hint of vinegar
2- I have never eaten a Lunchable in my life, but I had completed forgotten about the pre-made assemble-it-yourself weird lunch phenomenon.
3- Spray butter. Why?
4- Offices do not keep supplies like pens under lock and key
5- I get carded for alcohol
On this point, yesterday my friends and I went to see Pan’s Labyrinth. When the 4:45 show was sold out, we decided to buy tickets for the next one and get a beer in the meantime. I did not have my ID on me, since I figured were only going to see the movie. We went to a brewery. The waitress gave us beer samples without carding, so I figured that I was in the clear. Wrong. I am 29, and even though I do not quite look my age, I certainly do not look 20. Not wanting to put the waitress in a bad position, I tell her that it’s okay if she does not want to serve me. She suggests my friend order my beer. Problem solved!
Or so I thought.
The waitress tells me five minutes later, apologetically and with a smile, that she will have to confiscate my beer if she happens to catch me drinking it. What? Que? Quoi? Having my friend order for me was her idea, not ours. My friends and I, albeit a bit baffled, create a system where they scan for the waitress each time I move in for a sip. One puts his hand to his chin when the coast was not clear. In this manner, I make it through two beers. People might think that Congo is absurd, but when I am using a friend’s hand signals in order to consume a beer when I am eight years past the drinking age, I would argue that the USA is not a bastion of logic.
Here are a few of the random products or insights I have noticed in America:
1- Red wine does not have a hint of vinegar
2- I have never eaten a Lunchable in my life, but I had completed forgotten about the pre-made assemble-it-yourself weird lunch phenomenon.
3- Spray butter. Why?
4- Offices do not keep supplies like pens under lock and key
5- I get carded for alcohol
On this point, yesterday my friends and I went to see Pan’s Labyrinth. When the 4:45 show was sold out, we decided to buy tickets for the next one and get a beer in the meantime. I did not have my ID on me, since I figured were only going to see the movie. We went to a brewery. The waitress gave us beer samples without carding, so I figured that I was in the clear. Wrong. I am 29, and even though I do not quite look my age, I certainly do not look 20. Not wanting to put the waitress in a bad position, I tell her that it’s okay if she does not want to serve me. She suggests my friend order my beer. Problem solved!
Or so I thought.
The waitress tells me five minutes later, apologetically and with a smile, that she will have to confiscate my beer if she happens to catch me drinking it. What? Que? Quoi? Having my friend order for me was her idea, not ours. My friends and I, albeit a bit baffled, create a system where they scan for the waitress each time I move in for a sip. One puts his hand to his chin when the coast was not clear. In this manner, I make it through two beers. People might think that Congo is absurd, but when I am using a friend’s hand signals in order to consume a beer when I am eight years past the drinking age, I would argue that the USA is not a bastion of logic.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
An Essay on Character
Hanging out with my twin sister in Breckenridge a couple months ago, being unemployed was not a problem. We mountain-biked, went camping, and drank beer with absurdly high alcohol content that I had not seen since my days of cross-border raids into Belgium. Job? What job? My sister’s Breck friends embrace that freedom with the same vigor they tackle ski runs.
Washington, DC, is quite a different story. If DC were a guy he’d constantly be talking about his work and would feel naked without a tie. I’m pretty much waiting for a little airplane to sky-write “UNEMPLOYED!” with a perfectly drawn finger in the heavens pointing down at me. That is what being a jobseeker in DC feels like. Rather than eating humble pie, it’s like free-basing humble heroine. In a few short months I have gone from a bilingual, Masters-holding, respected, work-is-my-life management position overseas to swimming in a sea of overqualified professionals who have two Masters or speak three languages. I’ve thought what a character-building experience this is. That thought was immediately followed by another thought: “Screw that.” Congo hammered a certain amount of character in me that I feel should suffice for at least a year. Is unemployment really going to provide some sort necessary humbling that I didn’t garner while lying in intensive care in a hospital in a third world country with only three IV drips for company (a day before which a friend shot me in the butt with anti-malarial drugs and an Indian colonel held back my hair as I gracelessly vomited at a military base)? Character, that devilish friend, is always on the look out for a new “in.”
Still, I smiled when I woke up with a headache this morning. No panic that it might be malaria. I simply reached for my Advil. Moving back to America was about my need to change my lifestyle, and maybe I forgot that the comforts of my home country would be combined with the uncertainty of leaving my job. DC’s fixation on work highlights this uncertainty, and the greener grass is never as green once you get to it. So perhaps I should stop trying to figure out how green it is and start doing cartwheels on the lawn. How’s that for character?
Washington, DC, is quite a different story. If DC were a guy he’d constantly be talking about his work and would feel naked without a tie. I’m pretty much waiting for a little airplane to sky-write “UNEMPLOYED!” with a perfectly drawn finger in the heavens pointing down at me. That is what being a jobseeker in DC feels like. Rather than eating humble pie, it’s like free-basing humble heroine. In a few short months I have gone from a bilingual, Masters-holding, respected, work-is-my-life management position overseas to swimming in a sea of overqualified professionals who have two Masters or speak three languages. I’ve thought what a character-building experience this is. That thought was immediately followed by another thought: “Screw that.” Congo hammered a certain amount of character in me that I feel should suffice for at least a year. Is unemployment really going to provide some sort necessary humbling that I didn’t garner while lying in intensive care in a hospital in a third world country with only three IV drips for company (a day before which a friend shot me in the butt with anti-malarial drugs and an Indian colonel held back my hair as I gracelessly vomited at a military base)? Character, that devilish friend, is always on the look out for a new “in.”
Still, I smiled when I woke up with a headache this morning. No panic that it might be malaria. I simply reached for my Advil. Moving back to America was about my need to change my lifestyle, and maybe I forgot that the comforts of my home country would be combined with the uncertainty of leaving my job. DC’s fixation on work highlights this uncertainty, and the greener grass is never as green once you get to it. So perhaps I should stop trying to figure out how green it is and start doing cartwheels on the lawn. How’s that for character?
Thursday, December 28, 2006
The dog who stole my cell, or something like that
Did I say uneventful? Really, I am trying. But it’s not working.
In the past month I – 1) Got attacked by a dog while jogging, 2) Had my cell phone involuntarily adopted, 3) Went ass-over-tea kettle on my bicycle avoiding a cat that darted from underneath a car. For all of these events, I can’t help but wonder how I would have dealt with them differently if I were in Congo.
Dog bite - The dog belongs to a neighbor of my parent's in Georgia, and I knew it did not have rabies. Bonus! My mom took me the emergency room, since the second bite, right behind my knee, was pretty deep. I certainly am not the first person to limp into an ER wearing jogging clothes, the thought of which made my mom and I giggle a lot. We called all our relatives and played “guess who’s in the emergency room?” With a niece and nephew and my sister in town the odds were pretty even. The nurses commented that we seemed to be having an awful lot of fun. What can I say – my family always finds humor in non-lethal injuries. Better to happen in Congo or USA? – Much better for this to happen in the USA because of medical facilities.
The cell phone - My phone slipped out of my pocket as I biked home in DC. I borrowed my roommate’s cell, frantically called and called my number hoping someone would pick up. I even retraced my bike path while calling. I never hear this damn phone ring even when it is ten feet away from me in my apartment with no music on, so why I thought I’d suddenly hear it on a busy street is anyone’s guess. A man who owns a small grocery watches me pacing the street and dialing, and someone finally answers. Thank god! I think. I tell her she found my phone, she tells me that no, it is her phone. Bad sign. The next call she says the same, the third time a man answers who tells me he does not speak English. He hangs up and turns the phone’s power off. I get angry. The man outside his shop then asks me why I did not ask him for help, implying I made a mistake and he would have solved the problem. I get angrier. Where is good karma? Why does this man hover and watch me and then reprimand me? I walk home furious, wishing I could throw something. My roommate is home and listens to my tirade about karma and stealing and the one time I found a phone and tracked down the owner because that is what you do. Luckily she informs me that I can keep the same number but I should head to T-Mobile to cancel that phone quickly to ensure no international calling on my dime. I do just that and feel better. USA or Congo? I would have dealt with this much better in Congo, where something akin to this happened at least once a week. There I let these things go, but in the USA I have a harder time. My theory is this – in Congo I decided to stress over only the things in my life I could control, which was about 5% of all happenings. I let the other 95% go (generator breaking, warehouse getting broken into, annoying cops, mundane food, canceled flights, random illnesses, etc). In the USA most of us, myself included, are under the false impression we can control 100% of our lives. Hence the cell phone freakout.
The bike spill – A muzungu lady falling on her bike in front of a crowd of Congolese kids? Heck no. I would infinitely prefer to go down on pavement on a quiet street in DC than fall on cushioned dirt in a Congolese town. It’s all about pride.
Last week, as I am pulling my bike through the door with a slight limp, wondering what wrench I need to use to get the handle bars straightened back to their proper angle, I get a phone call from my best friend who tells me she is engaged (I had been waiting for her to call since, like everyone else, her number was in the cell phone no longer in my employ). Not all events are bad.
In the past month I – 1) Got attacked by a dog while jogging, 2) Had my cell phone involuntarily adopted, 3) Went ass-over-tea kettle on my bicycle avoiding a cat that darted from underneath a car. For all of these events, I can’t help but wonder how I would have dealt with them differently if I were in Congo.
Dog bite - The dog belongs to a neighbor of my parent's in Georgia, and I knew it did not have rabies. Bonus! My mom took me the emergency room, since the second bite, right behind my knee, was pretty deep. I certainly am not the first person to limp into an ER wearing jogging clothes, the thought of which made my mom and I giggle a lot. We called all our relatives and played “guess who’s in the emergency room?” With a niece and nephew and my sister in town the odds were pretty even. The nurses commented that we seemed to be having an awful lot of fun. What can I say – my family always finds humor in non-lethal injuries. Better to happen in Congo or USA? – Much better for this to happen in the USA because of medical facilities.
The cell phone - My phone slipped out of my pocket as I biked home in DC. I borrowed my roommate’s cell, frantically called and called my number hoping someone would pick up. I even retraced my bike path while calling. I never hear this damn phone ring even when it is ten feet away from me in my apartment with no music on, so why I thought I’d suddenly hear it on a busy street is anyone’s guess. A man who owns a small grocery watches me pacing the street and dialing, and someone finally answers. Thank god! I think. I tell her she found my phone, she tells me that no, it is her phone. Bad sign. The next call she says the same, the third time a man answers who tells me he does not speak English. He hangs up and turns the phone’s power off. I get angry. The man outside his shop then asks me why I did not ask him for help, implying I made a mistake and he would have solved the problem. I get angrier. Where is good karma? Why does this man hover and watch me and then reprimand me? I walk home furious, wishing I could throw something. My roommate is home and listens to my tirade about karma and stealing and the one time I found a phone and tracked down the owner because that is what you do. Luckily she informs me that I can keep the same number but I should head to T-Mobile to cancel that phone quickly to ensure no international calling on my dime. I do just that and feel better. USA or Congo? I would have dealt with this much better in Congo, where something akin to this happened at least once a week. There I let these things go, but in the USA I have a harder time. My theory is this – in Congo I decided to stress over only the things in my life I could control, which was about 5% of all happenings. I let the other 95% go (generator breaking, warehouse getting broken into, annoying cops, mundane food, canceled flights, random illnesses, etc). In the USA most of us, myself included, are under the false impression we can control 100% of our lives. Hence the cell phone freakout.
The bike spill – A muzungu lady falling on her bike in front of a crowd of Congolese kids? Heck no. I would infinitely prefer to go down on pavement on a quiet street in DC than fall on cushioned dirt in a Congolese town. It’s all about pride.
Last week, as I am pulling my bike through the door with a slight limp, wondering what wrench I need to use to get the handle bars straightened back to their proper angle, I get a phone call from my best friend who tells me she is engaged (I had been waiting for her to call since, like everyone else, her number was in the cell phone no longer in my employ). Not all events are bad.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Ch-Ch-Changes
Not many people make a decision to lead an uneventful life. As a goal, it is not a very good one. A person eventually settles into such an existence. But when I decided to leave the Democratic Republic of Congo, my home of 16 months, I did so with this very objective in mind. I wanted Sunday brunches, Target, and coffee with soy milk on a Friday afternoon while reading an Oprah-endorsed book. I wanted to just take an Advil when I got a headache, rather than have a panic attack that I had contracted malaria. Again.
People often tell me that they are envious of my adventurous lifestyle. They claim to live vicariously through me. I can see their point. When I read my former blog, Breaking Hearts in the Heart of Darkness, I see someone whose engagement with the world and unique lifestyle makes for an extraordinary experience, even if I never saw it as such at the time. That was simply my life, no exaggerations, and I included the annoyances and boredom as much as I did the beauty and excitement. The former usually outweighed the latter. For those that envied or even complimented my choice, I could not help but wish I felt the same love for my lifestyle. Ideas are easy to love, and the idea of living in such a stimulating place like Congo is like having a crush on an exciting hottie who drives a motorcycle and reads Camus. That was Africa for me. The land I liked from afar for one reason and grew to love for the frustratingly beautiful reality it is. However, I have chosen to leave that life for the tame one. I doubt this blog will inspire the same envy, but writing has become a lovely addiction.
This blog is about coming home - being a former expat, exploring urban jungles, and coming to terms with knowing that the rest of the world is there waiting for me like an old flame, as it is for every person who has or will step outside their own corner of the world. Welcome to the adventures and non-adventures of Conrad's ex-girlfriend, on the rebound from her relationship with the Heart of Darkness.
People often tell me that they are envious of my adventurous lifestyle. They claim to live vicariously through me. I can see their point. When I read my former blog, Breaking Hearts in the Heart of Darkness, I see someone whose engagement with the world and unique lifestyle makes for an extraordinary experience, even if I never saw it as such at the time. That was simply my life, no exaggerations, and I included the annoyances and boredom as much as I did the beauty and excitement. The former usually outweighed the latter. For those that envied or even complimented my choice, I could not help but wish I felt the same love for my lifestyle. Ideas are easy to love, and the idea of living in such a stimulating place like Congo is like having a crush on an exciting hottie who drives a motorcycle and reads Camus. That was Africa for me. The land I liked from afar for one reason and grew to love for the frustratingly beautiful reality it is. However, I have chosen to leave that life for the tame one. I doubt this blog will inspire the same envy, but writing has become a lovely addiction.
This blog is about coming home - being a former expat, exploring urban jungles, and coming to terms with knowing that the rest of the world is there waiting for me like an old flame, as it is for every person who has or will step outside their own corner of the world. Welcome to the adventures and non-adventures of Conrad's ex-girlfriend, on the rebound from her relationship with the Heart of Darkness.
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