The United States of America, as well as most of Western culture, has constructed entire industries based on the concept of convenience. These industries make billions of dollars per year supplying us with things we don’t need. There is nothing wrong in profiting from providing a product or service if people willingly and knowingly pay for it. The issue I have with these industries is that they tend to frame themselves as something that is necessary, and in some cases have become necessary in the eyes of our culture.
These industries supply many things that are commonplace today, such as: processed food, make-up, luxury automobiles, overpriced clothes, household decorations, hundreds of TV channels, credit cards, fossil fuels, running water, and that most sacred of Western relics—the pet rock. The list goes on ad infinitum. When looked at with a wide enough lens, I don’t think it is radical or unjust to claim that the existence of some of these industries is immoral. I feel it is nothing less than irresponsible to not shun these businesses into more useful roles in society.
As guilty as I think these industries are for profiting on unnecessary goods, some of the responsibility must lie with the people who buy them. Whatever the division of responsibility, both are very much to blame. I know that I have lived most of my life thinking that many of the material possessions I have are necessary. My experience in Nicaragua so far has shown me how wrong I am, and how important it is to change my ways.
I wake up in the morning to a dimly lit room. My head rests on a thin, beaten pillow as I turn to look at my wristwatch, the only timekeeper in the room. I have no alarm clock, cell phone, or laptop to tell me the time, or anything else for that matter. No chatter of TV or websites is around to fill my mind as the day begins. I’m left to contemplate my next action relatively on my own, in my undisturbed mind. My feet touch concrete as I shift out of bed. No carpet, shade, lamp, or tiles in sight. No hum of air conditioners or rush of cars can be heard, just the arguments between the chickens and roosters, dogs and cows, and my feet sliding out the door.
I’m headed to the bathroom, which is outside. It has no sink, bath, shower, mirror, hairdryer, cleaning products, or light switch. I hardly notice. There is no running water, just a hole in the ground and a raised seat, that’s all I need. I only drive when I have to and I’m very lucky to have the option to shower with something other than a bucket. After two weeks I finally decide to use the bucket. The water comes from a well about 100 yards down the road. The electricity comes partly from the grid and partly from several solar panels on the roof. Electricity I only use to light my room in the night time, for reading or writing. While my room is illuminated I take the time to admire the line of leaf-cutter ants marching on the rafters, carrying their goods. A large spider remains motionless on the wall at the end of my bed. We make a bargain of mutual aid; he seems like a trustworthy fellow. I shut off my light, crawl under my mosquito net, and flop into bed. Not moments later, three bats burst into the room, their wings flapping rapidly, chasing one another through the empty space of my room. I turn my flashlight on dim and watch them fly in and out, from one room to the next. You can’t compare such an experience to watching YouTube videos or playing video games. The experience is so much more intensely real.
Through experiencing life with only what I need, I have come to a new understanding of what is real and what is imaginary; of what I need and what I want. At the same time I realized how much it is a pleasure to put first things first, the change of pace is nearly intoxicating. I no longer have to be dialed into hyper-speed, and my brain thanks me for it. In doing so I am rewarded by the beauty that I rush past every single day. I gain everything I need and lose only the parts that prove to disconnect me what is really intensely real.