I’m on the move today, headed for Australia to meet my son, Sam, who has been battling complications from knee surgery for two months now.
Yesterday Alan and I were running around San José doing errands. In a taxi we had a chatty little conversation with the driver.
“So, where do you live?” he asked.
“In Puerto Viejo… Limón.”
“Paraíso,” he said.
“Well, paradise with drugs,” I replied with a smile.
“Ah, well,” he said, “no paradise is perfect.”
Poverty. It is all around us and the statistics are astounding.
*Almost half the world — over 3 billion people — live on less than $2.50 a day.
*The GDP (Gross Domestic Product) of the 41 Heavily Indebted Poor Countries (567 million people) is less than the wealth of the world’s 7 richest people combined.
*Nearly a billion people entered the 21st century unable to read a book or sign their names.
*Less than one per cent of what the world spent every year on weapons was needed to put every child into school by the year 2000. It didn’t happen.
*1 billion children live in poverty (1 in 2 children in the world). 640 million live without adequate shelter, 400 million have no access to safe water, and 270 million have no access to health services. 10.6 million died in 2003 before they reached the age of 5 (or roughly 29,000 children per day).
*Poverty is the state for the majority of the world’s people and nations.
I remember the first time I confronted grinding poverty and how I felt about it. In 1975, when I was 25 years old, I spent Christmas on my parent’s sailboat. They were cruising the Caribbean at the time and we agreed to meet in Haiti, at the northern tip of the island. My then-husband, our young son and I met my parents at the airport in Cap Haitian and boarded their boat.
It wasn’t until the following morning when we debarked for a tour the town and its environs that I ran face to face with poverty of the grimmest sort. Young children with bloated bellies, wearing torn and ratty clothing, accosted us at every step. We were obvious targets; they were begging.
“Hey Mister,” they said, trotting along beside my husband and me, “you give me one dollar.” When he refused they were undeterred. “Hey Mister. You give me two dollar.” It was funny and charming but the situation they lived under was not.
The chasm between our standard of living and theirs was so vast I felt as though I was on another or planet, certainly another hemisphere. We gave some money to the kids, knowing it wouldn’t help. After a few days I didn’t want to get off the boat anymore. I couldn’t face them.
From the comfort of my parent’s sailboat I watched as a huge cruise ship–The Carnival Kind–docked and disgorged tourists into the streets. In the afternoon I saw passengers high up on the decks. They spent their lazy afternoons sipping drinks and tossing coins over the rails. Kids dove in that filthy harbor for their casually discarded change. The callousness of that scene burned into my consciousness forever.
One afternoon my mother and I talked about it. How could I have so much and these people have nothing? We agreed it was difficult to come to grips with, and both agreed that it wasn’t our fault. It was simply kismet that put them where they were and us where we were. Even if I had a million dollars, I rationalized (and that was back when a million dollars was worth a lot more), and even if I gave every single Haitian I met a dollar, it would do no good at all. I remember I also remarked that the Haitians seemed happier than most North Americans I knew, yet had so much less. It was a convenient explanation and allowed me the luxury of accepting the idea that there was nothing I could do.
On that trip my then-husband and I bought arts and crafts from vendors and did not haggle over prices, although our tour book suggested otherwise. We did what we felt we could. Over the years and with more knowledge I came to realize that in reality it was our fault.
It is a collective fault. That poor countries continue to fall further behind and rich countries continue to prosper is no accident. When wealthy countries keep poorer ones indebted, they are forced to sell their goods and services at cheaper prices. When people are desperate for food they will capitulate.
I have never forgotten that trip to Haiti. It was those people who convinced me help in any way I could for the rest of my life. But what can we really do? The statistics are truly overwhelming and get graver every year. I think the answer lies in the gathering our energies and resources together to effect change. It also requires individual vigilance.
I now live in a place where the standard of living is not North American by any means, but people in Costa Rica –by in large– do fairly well. My now-husband and I make sure that our hired man, for instance, is paid a proper wage, his utilities are paid for by us, he has health insurance, retirement and a decent roof over his head. His salary goes to his family and his personal needs. We pay him more than the average police officer makes here (which might also explain why they are so corrupt). José lives on about $14 a day; about what I lived on when I was raising two kids by myself back in the 1980s. It’s not a lot, but I know he is well provided for. That is one thing I can do.
This blog alert day is just one way to draw attention to the issue. I’m not sure we can ever “end” poverty but we can do a lot to diminish it.
Here are some things we can all do as individuals:
*Make sure politicians know where you stand on the issue. Write a letter to your representatives. Only support those who have dedicated plan to combat poverty.
*Insist that Free Trade Agreements be Fair Trade Agreements
*Conserve energy. The less you use, the more there is to go around.
*Invest in education (especially for women) as study after study shows that poverty comes from lack of education; support education initiatives on the ballot.
*Support a raise in the minimum wage
*Volunteer in your community. Teach someone to read.
*Give to your local food bank
*Donate items you don’t use (or don’t need) to charities that distribute free of charge to the poor
*Read books about what you can do
*Think about it.
*Write about it
*Refuse to be silent
Imagine yourself in a similar situation as those less fortunate. The latest global economic downturn is a reminder that any of us could just as easily be in the situation of the Haitian or the Sudanese or a poor inner city kid in Detroit with no money and no hope.
Think of the less fortunate as your equals. By lifting them up we are helping the planet and ourselves.
Places to donate your money or your time:
And watch the American presidential debate tonight. Which candidate speaks about poverty most often? Which one has a clear plan to combat it?
Take part in Blog Action Day on October 15th 2008! Read more about it by clicking on the link. Register. Participate.
Blog Action Day is an annual nonprofit event that aims to unite the world’s bloggers to post about the same issue on the same day. The aim is to raise awareness and trigger a global discussion. Each blogger brings their own perspective and ideas to their blog post, and each blogger engages their audience differently.
Last year the subject was the environment. In 2008 the aim is to focus the blogging community’s energies and passions on the mammoth issue of global poverty.
October 15th
Two weeks ago I was recalled to the world of nursing, and I do mean the world. My 35-year-old son, Sam, had arthroscopic surgery in Gifu, Japan, August 20th. He lives there and needed a torn ACL in his right knee repaired. In and out of the hospital in three days, he was released to do his rehab at home. All went well for about a week.
The first I knew of any complications was the morning I received an email with a photo of an extremely red and swollen right leg, the incision site visibly weeping… well, suffice it to say it was ugly.
His orthopedist opened up the site, began cleaning it, and gave him IV antibiotics. The infection got worse or at least it refused to give up. Sam went back into the hospital.
I was sure he had something the medical world has learned to dread- MRSA or Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus. Sam’s doctor kept assuring him he did not have it, but used an antibiotic protocol routinely used to treat it. It became a grim joke of ours: Oh, it’s not MRSA, it’s just like MRSA.
I have spent the last two weeks on the phone via the Internet (thank you Skype) talking to him, talking to his insurance company, and finding other surgeons in Australia should the need arise to transfer him. When I wasn’t phoning I was investigating on the Internet the drugs his doctor was using, emailing a physician friend of mine in the USA, and generally learning about resistant forms of Staph… and they vary from country to country.
Sam’s insurance company, InterGlobal, has been simply superb to work with. I can’t begin to say enough positive things about them. If you ever need international health insurance, think of them first. I can’t think of any insurance company in the United States that would have been half as responsive. I probably would have gotten a voice mailbox to send my complaints to and no follow up phone call.
When it became evident the antibiotics the doctor in Japan was using were ineffective in treating this, I sent a rather detailed list of my concerns to InterGlobal’s Asian agency, First Assistance. They assigned a physician to the case and forwarded my emails directly to him. He and the doctor in Japan began having conference calls every other day or so.
I never communicated directly with the physician from First Assistance, but went through one of their service representatives (there were two, actually, and neither of them ever- EVER– dropped the ball). They routinely emailed me the details of the conference calls. We all worked in tandem to keep an eye on Sam from across the globe, making sure he got the care he needed.
It was nip and tuck. As of late last week Sam and I were both looking for tickets to Australia for treatment there. Then yesterday he turned a corner and things look as though they are working out for the better. His numbers look much better and it appears he will be going home shortly to begin recovering there.. again. He will still need to go back to the hospital for follow up blood work, but the situation is much better than it could have been.
After reams of antibiotic regimens, failed IV sites, drains in his knee, and repeat arthroscopic debridement he is fed up. I knew he was improving, though, when he began to complain vehemently about his treatments and his roommates.
He says his arms look like those of a failure junkie and he will be glad to leave a place where: the nurse did not wear gloves while assisting the doctor change dressings, the staff changed his sheets once a week, and his roommates snored and farted all through the night.
To First Assistance in Aukland, New Zealand; and my old ER friend and doc, Paul, who I tracked down in Memphis TN; and to Sam, who kept hanging in there even when it looked its darkest, thank you all. We made quite the international team.
The Internet is a wonderful thing!
There was an art festival scheduled for Puerto Viejo last weekend. The posters were printed, musical groups were hired, and reservations at hotels and cabins made by countless people from the Central Valley.
It didn’t happen.
The Arts Festival was supposed to celebrate,well… The Arts. What that means here in Talamanca is a bit nebulous, though. The fliers said there would be live music, “Arts”, and “discussions and workshops about Alternative Medicine.”
According to the poster I saw the other day, the events started on the Wednesday prior to the weekend. Mostly it listed the musical groups playing at various bars throughout the area. There was mentioned an arts display on Saturday and Sunday, one basketball game, and one Indigenous dance on Saturday during the day, but the rest of the five-day “Arts Festival” happened at night. In bars. Music.
Puerto Viejo loves to party.
In fact, this area is famous for its partying. It’s a beach town. It’s a Caribbean beach town, and it’s wide freaking open. Don’t get me wrong. I love music and I love Reggae in particular, but this place is so totally out of control as to warrant an inforced police curfew.
In the past two weeks the English speaking newspaper, The Tico Times, carried frontpage spreads on the ever-increasing violence here. The murders and other criminal activities have been on a climb that would make Wall Street slack jawed with envy.
We can’t take it any more!
The police complained to the municipality that they have only four officers on duty and one motorcycle. No plans were made to increase their numbers for security. The police are unable to control the area in non-arts environment, much less with an influx of revelers here to drink, do drugs, and party through the night.
Puerto Viejo has no sewage treatment center and relies on open drains to the sea. A life-long resident we spoke to the other day said, “There seems to be something in the air.”
“What do you mean?” We asked.
“Well, it smell like someone pee. Everywhere.”
It has been especially dry here for the past few months and I imagine Puerto does smell like a dehydrated latrine at this point.
Port also has no regular supply of drinking water. Instead people rely on rainwater catch or a miserable system cobbled together that regularly dries up after a week or two of no rain. Any added stress and the town runs out of water. Restaurants and no water to wash hands make for a bad combination, in my opinion. We don’t eat out often.
So, last weekend’s planned Arte Viva Festival was canceled after a court challenge, which left the municipality unable to issue permits for events. Good, I say.
It was this entry on the planned activities that I found the crux of the issue:
Saturday, Sept 26. 9:30PM-ON– everyone is invited to Jonhy’s Place to continue the celebration.
Jonhy’s Place is a bar on the beach. It’s had a less than stellar reputation in the past. It’s open most of the night.
You know… The Arts!
