Welcome to "the world"

I've never been to Africa. I've thought about it, certainly, but that's really as far as I've gotten. I've pictured myself, a vision in khaki, sailing through long-grassed fields of gold, a traveler's pack slung unabashedly around my waist. I'd work endless hours in the summer heat, doing something (haven't quite put my finger on what) that leaves me feeling fulfilled and useful.

When it comes to the other people in my imaginary Africa, I've had a bit more trouble articulating the dream. In their presence I feel humbled, for these are people who have most certainly earned their right to live, to speak, to tell their story. I'd listen in wonder as they talk of war, of suffering and poverty, of lessons learned the hard way.

So you can imagine my shock the day I met my first Kenyan. As I climbed into my cab outside Raleigh-Durham Airport (far, far away from the plains of Africa), I was already miffed by the trademark Durham combination of cold and rain that knows how to make even my bones shiver. The driver was remarkably cheerful, wearing a leather jacket and singing along to the radio. As we rolled away from the airport, his eyes flicked up to the rear view mirror.

"It's some bad weather," he said, his voice belying the negativity of his statement. "Where are you coming from?"

I was coming from Florida and just thinking of it made me want to tug the zipper of my black fleece up higher. But something else caught my attention that made the little wannabe writer in me perk up.

"And you? Where are you from?" I asked.

After some feigned surprise at my ability to pick up his accent (a few hard d's and upward vocal inflections were enough to give it away), he admitted he was from Kenya. Jackpot. My rather unproductive Christmas break had one highlight: completing a reading of "What is the What," this year's compelling freshman class summer reading documenting the life of Sudanese refugee Valentino Achak Deng. The story was fresh on my mind as the driver and I talked, and I began to picture myself scribbling pages of copious notes, asking questions when the numbers or names or places didn't seem to match up. "Should I tell you about the time I overcame overwhelming odds to accomplish my goal?" he'd ask. "Yes, do, but make it quick, we might not have space for it, what with the tale of inspiration and the heart-wrenching story of loss," I'd say, flipping through my yellow legal pad. I would be his voice, his way of reaching the world with his story.

And for a while, he didn't prove me wrong. Recalling the days before he left Kenya for the first time (and only; he hasn't been back since), he described the anticipation among his friends and family. America, he remembers, was commonly called "the world" to Kenyans looking to leave the country, so that his friends frequently reminded him not to forget them when he was out in "the world." Jumping from the support his American sponsors were giving him, he dreamed of coming to the land of the free to earn a college education. As we rounded the corner, I asked him if "the world" was all it was cracked up to be. I couldn't see his face when he responded but his answer was simple: Every place has its own problems.

And he's done just that. With a part-time job as a driver and a primary job in home development, you can say Kabui has built his own niche. While service programs from the Peace Corps to DukeEngage tout the need for volunteers willing to work and live abroad, Kabui believes his position in America, combined with his knowledge of the local scene, is what gives him the ability to work effectively on aid campaigns in Kenya-projects he runs in his spare time.

"The greatest aid America can give [to Africa] is being aware of the policies the government is adopting that are extremely destructive to people in these countries," he says, noting that broad changes in consumer behavior toward sweatshop-produced goods, for example, are more likely to effect "real" change overseas than the volunteer work of a few.

At the same time, Kabui has spent his time in the States working with a network of about 40 other Kenyans living here to fund and organize programs to promote health education and local enterprise. What really gets him talking, though, is the documentaries that the group screens and collects to show at home as educational material. Corporations have access to the media, Kabui says, but people do not. And for Kabui, information is everything.

As minutes and hours fly past, we seem to cover any topic imaginable. Listening to him speak is like listening to a professor-somehow taking notes seems entirely fitting. "You haven't read Chomsky?" he chides. "Then write this down: C-H-O-M-S-K-Y. One of the most intelligent men alive today." Talking about MIT Professor Noam Chomsky leads me back to where I left off with the first Kenyan. Is America what you expected? After all that-the politics and the personal-Kabui accepts that his answer is necessarily nuanced.

"Every immigrant knows that there are two Americas-the America in your mind and the America that you experience," he says. "But I was shocked to see homeless people and people starving."

Just look at the Native American community living in America. He recalls statistics from Native American populations where the unemployment rate rises as far as 73 percent.

"It's cool to say 'I went to Africa,'" he says. "But how do people justify leaving when you have the same problems here?"

Its emphasis on civic engagement and the ability it gives students to participate in projects abroad puts DukeEngage in a bit of a gray area. It's not that Kabui doesn't see the good aid work has done, but he doesn't see why we should simultaneously struggle to find students and volunteers committed to pursuing projects on America's soil. Even Eric Van Danen, director of communication for DukeEngage, acknowledges that the program has consistently garnered more interest for its international programs than for its domestic ones. (The reasons for why are more ambiguous, but Van Danen emphasizes that the program remains committed to serving local committees with the same vigor as it pursues in projects abroad.

At about the time I kissed goodbye to any hope of recreating the Eggers novel, I began to see another story unfold in front of me. Theirs are not tales of war and famine (Kabui recognizes a "rift" between those Africans who have experienced such things first-hand and those who, like him, have not), but Kabui and my first driver saw something I couldn't-that we're all guilty of some brand of romanticization. I wanted to see in them my Indiana Jones heroes of Africa, but what I found were still heroes, just the everyday variety with immigrant stories much like those of my own parents. They wanted to see in America the promise of a new start, of forward movement and change, but they found new uphill battles in an America that was neither perfect nor entirely flawed.

Sounds like the rest of "the world."