A COUNTRY CALLED BROKEN

A COUNTRY CALLED BROKEN

A couple weeks ago, I was on a “long distance” bus taking me from one city to another. I sat in the far right corner of the bus in a row that was raised by just one step. As such, my sightline included the air vents above every seat in front of me, all the way to the very front. Having 8 hours with not much to do, I observed that most of the vents were broken (it didn’t help that it was a hot day and the air conditioning was finicky so everyone was trying to adjust the air flowing to their seat.) I looked at my vent. The plastic grill had fallen off who knows when and some brilliant person, who was either too hot or too cold, had stuffed an empty juice carton in the vent that was now a hole. Except it was juice-sized carton for milk. Sigh. The vent beside it was still a gaping hole.

Outside my apartment complex, there is a sidewalk that leads to the bus stop where I catch the bus everyday. The sidewalk is unlike most sidewalks in that it’s made of smallish squares of stone that are set in a pattern. The sad thing though is that the soil between the stones has eroded and some of the stones themselves are cracked. The first time I took that sidewalk, I nearly got my foot stuck in the deep crevice between the slabs of stone. I’ve since learned to watch my step.

The apartment I now live in is nicer than any apartment I’ve ever lived in on this side of the ocean. It’s spacious, it’s clean and it’s really quite comfy. When I first moved in, I noticed little patches of white dust on the edges of the hardwood-style floor. I wondered what it could be from. After a while, I realized that there are little pockets of wall that are puckering out in random spots. I still have no clue what they are, but apparently, the paint is falling off like dust and collecting in neat little piles underneath.

It’s also not uncommon for the public buses to stall every few stops.

I was reflecting on all this brokenness around me and I wondered if it ever bothers people here. They don’t seem to be phased when things don’t work or aren’t complete. Perhaps when you grow up with things not working all the time, imperfection doesn’t annoy you quite as much? I wonder if perfectionism is an issue linked to culture. I wonder if I grew up in a place like this, would I still have such a strong drive for things to be perfect? Would I still have such a problem letting go of the ideal of what I think things should be and embracing the reality of this fallen world?