Photo: Rick Hodes

It was a Mission of Charity, rightfully titled, “For the Dying and Destitute.” Gloves often ran out, needles were reused for injections of Penicillin after being boiled, and the medical cabinet was an untidy mosaic of random medicines labeled in different languages, which had been donated by an unsteady stream of volunteers from around the world.

Dr. Abeba was the sole doctor and spent most of his time there. He had not left Ethiopia—like most of his medical school classmates—for the Western world, and made virtually no money. He became a doctor for the purest of reasons.

And after a few months volunteering in his clinic, I knew I wanted to be just like him.

When anybody asked me what my college major was before I came to Ethiopia, I used to proudly state, “geology and creative writing.” When asked what I wanted to do with that, I would just as confidently say, “I have no idea.”

Then I landed in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia to begin a six-month study abroad program. I had spent weeks trying to get in contact with the chair of the geology department at Addis Ababa University to make sure they would be offering the sedimentology class that I needed to take in order to graduate that spring.

On my first full day in Addis Ababa, while the two other students in my program and I were moving into our dormitory rooms, we were told the semester was pushed back a month because the prime minister had called for a mandatory meeting of the university professors and administration.

Just like that, our three-week orientation period was stretched into seven weeks of nothing to do.

I went to the geology department to see if there were any professors or students who could use some help, or who at least wouldn’t mind me tagging along. It took me days to find a professor, and none of the students took me seriously when I told them I was also a student there. They laughed when I showed them my student ID. They could not understand why an American would choose to come to their university, when all they wanted to do was leave and go to the United States.

Not even the professors were aware of the study abroad program (who could blame them—there were only three of us, and it was the first program in five years because of war and violent demonstrations on the campus), so they did not believe me when I told them that I would be taking their class.

Finally, I found the chairman of the geology department, who told me that there was nothing I could do for them. When I asked him to double-check if the sedimentology class would be offered, he said, “I don’t know, we will see if the professor shows up on the first day.”

Desperate for something to do, I found the Mission of Charity.

I was greeted by a mentally challenged child who could not stop drooling or smiling, and his best friend, a 10-year-old dwarf. They got bored when I could not communicate with them and ran off to play with a ball made from rope and crumpled paper.

I cautiously waited by the entrance, where I could see nuns hustling between dozens of people. A foul smell emanated from the compound, and it got denser as I approached. I peeked through a doorway and saw a room crowded with cots holding slender, shallow figures whose eyes glowed big and white in the darkness.

Dr. Abeba arrived and showed me around the building. As we entered the first room, he turned and said, “Welcome to God’s waiting room.”

For the next six months, I helped care for patients. There were amputees with infected limbs, tuberculosis victims with wounds carved deep into their necks, and babies with blistering burns.

One soldier, who spoke a little English and Italian, had a bullet lodged in his thigh from 10 years ago, when he was fighting on the front lines of the war with Eritrea. Now, his thigh was grossly swollen and there was a hole that leaked puss.

Space was so limited that at night two, three, or four thin bodies would crawl onto a single cot without hesitation, thankful that they had a bed to sleep in and a roof over their heads.

On Tuesdays and Saturdays, there was no other place for the makeshift outpatient clinic except for outside. Dozens of patients waited, sometimes all night, for the thick, metal, baby-blue gates of the compound to rumble open so they could file inside. They all had wounds that would not go away because of immuno-suppressed bodies and lack of resources to keep their wounds and bandages clean.

Most of the time, when someone returned a week later, their once-white bandage would be blacker than their skin, and often damp or wet. I would say with all my might, in my ugly, broken Amaric, “KEEP IT DRY AND CLEAN, PLEASE!” They would always nod their head, laughing at my effort to speak their language, and say, “OK, OK.”

I soon found myself obsessed with going to the clinic. There was no place I wanted to be more. Geology was something that I enjoyed, but now I had found a passion. Every Tuesday and Saturday morning I, along with a couple of other volunteers, arrived early and set up the benches in a square shape for the people to sit on, making sure that there was enough room for us to work in the middle. Then we would wait, with our gloves on, for the rumbling of the blue gates.

Community Connection:

This piece was originally published on Glimpse and has been republished here with the author’s permission. Check out more writing by correspondents like Adam Goldstein- visit the Glimpse site.

Photo: Steven W. Belcher

As I walk into the hospital I instinctively stop breathing through my nose.

The smell– a mixture of urine, body odour, stale bandages, dust, and floor polish– is probably fairly typical of a small under-financed hospital in a poor African country.

In 1986, at only 18 years old, King Mswati III was crowned King of Swaziland. At that time, he was the youngest king in the world and one of the last absolute monarchs.

With a population of a million people this small landlocked Kingdom, sandwiched between South Africa and Mozambique, relied heavily on foreign aid and volunteer organizations. A corrupt government plus a teenage king with a taste for luxury meant the country’s most needy were left to fend for themselves.

The hospital corridors are crowded with patients, lying on the floor, sitting in the sun, eating mealies. Most of them show signs of horrible wounds with dirty bandages and open sores. Most are laughing and joking – it’s an African thing that even in the middle of the worst situation there is always time for a laugh at someone else’s expense.

The occasional patient lies there silently suffering and in one corner an old woman looks like she is not breathing at all. Her skin is a dusty gray and her wasted legs are covered by a tartan blanket. I have learnt that it is best to keep breathing through my mouth and keep my eyes ahead.

I reach the children’s ward. Our small group of children are abandoned but the Swazi government refuses to believe there is such a thing as an abandoned child. It is contrary to tribal custom. So the children end up here in the hospital, in Ward 8 as long term residents.

Our volunteer efforts provide nannies, toys, food, and even school fees and school uniforms.

“Aish Medem – I am glad you are here,” Julia greets me as I come in. “I need help with Mandla; he won’t eat his phutu (porridge) and I am busy with the baby.”

Mandla is a hefty 4 year old with Down’s Syndrome. He’s quite strong and a handful at times. I get to work, distracting him with my car keys while I shovel the porridge into him while I have the chance.

Julia is working with the new baby – just 3 months old already diagnosed with TB and (we are sure but nobody says the word) probably dying from AIDS.

No sooner am I finished with Mandla – a huge clean up involving his face, hands, chair, floor, and toys – than Precious needs a diaper change. She is 3 years old and this is the only home she has known. She is still not talking properly.

Julia is walking around with the baby (as yet unnamed) with a deep frown making the characteristic clicking noises of disapproval with her tongue.

“What is it Julia?” I ask from the depths of the diaper bucket.

“Hey Medem, I do not know what to do about thees baby. She is very, very sick but the doctor he says he is too busy and this one is going to die anyway so he cannot spare the time.” Julia’s eyes fill with tears and I can see that the doctor is right. The baby is so thin – overwhelmed by the diaper. Her breathing is shallow.

“Maybe we can speak to the Red Cross or Save the Children,” I suggest. Surely, there must be someone who can get some help to this baby – give her a fighting chance.

“Well, Medem – it is in God’s hands”

Indeed, I think to myself. I’ll see who I can phone when I get home.

I feel a sharp tug at my skirt and look down distractedly. There is Mandla looking up at me with a big smile – his characteristic Downs Syndrome eyes gleaming with delight. In his hand he has my lipstick. He has managed to paint it all over his face.

Community Connection:

If you’d like to volunteer abroad, visit our Volunteering Abroad Focus Page, filled with resources about how to volunteer, as well as other first person dispatches like this one.

Photos courtesy of author.

It’s 7:20 on a Saturday morning.

Three couples huddle under the Louisville clinic’s awning, waiting for the doors to open. Across the property line, several protesters implore the clients to change their minds. “We love you.” “This is murder.” “There’s a heartbeat.” “Come with us, get a free ultrasound, look at your baby.”

Four escorts block the protesters, trying to shield the clients from camera phones and harassment. “Leave them alone.” “No one wants to listen to you.”

More protesters line the sidewalk, reciting the rosary. I wait across from the entrance, an orange-vested clinic escort in a wall of bowed heads. Praying men stand guard on either side of me, one holding a five-foot crucifix. I watch for clients.

At 7:20 two years ago, I would have just finished my morning run on Togo’s national highway. I was working on my English and health clubs, spending mornings at the local hospital and organizing a girls soccer tournament for International Women’s Day. For this last event, I had a committee of three women and three female students helping me.

This is how I met Zenabou.

In committee meetings, Zenabou spoke up, unhesitant about disagreeing with the older women. She regularly attended my clubs, including my Saturday morning running club. She showed the most promise on the soccer field. After we lost our first and only away game, she led the singing as we had consolation sodas with our victors. I hoped she would pass her middle school finishing exams and leave the village for high school, an accomplishment for any Togolese girl. For now, I was happy to have at least one strong player on the team.

It’s 7:35 and the clinic has finally opened. A group crosses the street, coming towards me. It’s a knot of orange vests, escorts and protesters posing as escorts surround the client, who blindly steers the group as she dodges unsolicited salvation through pamphlets thrust at her. I try to make eye contact, waving and smiling.

She heads left, unaware that I will move at the last moment to let her by, then do my best to shield her until she crosses the clinic’s property line. Flanked by praying protesters, my body creates too narrow a tunnel to provide much protection. This usually smooth operation devolves into a chaotic dance – the client goes one way, the escorts signal another, the protesters push, I step aside. The client gets in, but not without a lot of sidestepping and yelling.

Today, I feel weak.

A praying man who’s been inching into my space angrily tells my fellow escort to stop pushing him. A scuffle ensues, the praying man falls – a little too easily – and two older protesters stare down a female escort, trying to intimidate her with their height and masculinity. Intimidation is the game here, and I’m losing.

I fight with my face, and after the next client-escort-protester group has to force its way onto the sidewalk, I grab a replacement. There is nowhere to go to hide my tears of frustration, so I walk to the corner and stare up at the bare tree branches and gray sky, willing the tears behind my eyes.

Tears in Togo are for children and the desperate, so I was happy to have a room to retreat to when my counterpart gave me the news. We were at an in-service training, and he approached me before breakfast.

“They brought Zenabou to the hospital last night, and she died.”

The news sent me back to my room, sobbing. When he told me later she’d swallowed pills to abort, I had to return to my room. Malaria, I could handle. Unknown causes. Meningitis. But self-induced abortion?

I should have known better.

Too late, I returned to my village and refocused my efforts on reproductive health education. I spoke to Zenabou’s father, who denied what I’d been told, probably because the imam had refused to say prayers for the man’s daughter. I spoke to a village elder, who said it was up to me to address the students. Others told me, “C’est la vie.”

That’s life.

Back on the corner, I take deep breaths and collect myself, then return to the sidewalk. The Hail Marys are winding down and most of the clients are inside the clinic. It’s 8:30, and I’m shaken, but I’ll be back next Saturday. And the following Saturday. There are many reasons I wake up at 5:30 each week. But at least one of them is the memory of a laughing sixteen-year-old girl with her friends, kicking a soccer ball at dusk on a Togolese savannah.

Community Connection:

How has travel changed the way you engage in your community at home? Send your stories to julie[at]matadornetwork[dot]com.

Photos: etrenard

[Editor's Note: Matador Nights co-editor Kate Sedgwick first read this dispatch on the blog of Peace Corps member Monica Yancey. We contacted Yancey to request her permission to reprint an excerpt here.]

My perception of the world has already been permanently changed….

Experiencing the country of Niger, even for six weeks, has… been a beautiful lesson—but a lesson about something… I am afraid of: poverty. Poverty is real and it isn’t okay.

No mother wants her baby to die. No woman (or young woman) wants to develop fistula. No one wants to have AIDS. No one wants to have lost multiple family members to Malaria. No man wants to feel incapable of feeding his family. Nobody would rather have a life 20 years shorter because of where they happen to be born. And from the women I know who have been pregnant there is a consensus: women don’t want to be pregnant for the majority of their adult life.

Niger is a “people live on less than a dollar a day” country and that has a lot of ramifications regarding quality of life.

But it is paradoxical.

Niger should be sending people the United States for Nigerien Peace Corps. Niger doesn’t just need us, we need Niger. There are ideas here and ways of life here that we would be better off knowing. The family structure is largely intact and rural life is hard (no doubt) but community firmly exists. I guess it’s the irony of going somewhere to teach and instead finding myself very deeply a student.

Life is so different here. In some ways it is a thousand times harder, yet in other ways it is easier. I will probably never be able to explain what I have seen to myself let alone those of you who are reading this blog. This paradox does not mean that everything is fine. Everything is not fine.

But pity is not the answer. Fear is definitely not the answer. Only looking at things through dollar a day lens is not the answer. The annual United Nations poor country competition is not the answer. It is more complicated than that….

Discussions of poverty often end (or begin) with some variation of a “but they are happy” argument. “It’s too bad that people are living in poverty, but they are happy so at least there’s that.” It is true that in Niger smiling and laughter exist (thankfully).

However, the “but they are happy” observation is perhaps better located in a discussion of what really makes us happy as human beings and not as a terminal argument in discussions related to poverty.

We know from personal experience that an excess of material goods does not equate happiness. We also know that the human spirit is capable of finding joy in even the most trying set of circumstances. The resilience of the human spirit does not mandate a passive approach to human suffering.

So what is the answer? I obviously don’t know and there isn’t one anyway (to be sure) but I will say that in Niger, there is a feeling of gratitude and that is something I think we could learn a lot from….

Community Connection:

For more information about the Peace Corps or other volunteer abroad experiences, visit our Volunteer focus page.

Photo: Jesse Gardner

Maryam Razai walks 30 minutes to and from school each day. Her cheeks droop, and the excess skin appears smooth like silk. As a child, I used to touch my Nana’s face, tracing the lines of her 70 some odd years. In exchange, she always offered up a story: how she met my Papa, or the flames that once consumed their attic.

As I take visual snapshots of Maryam—an elderly Afghani refugee living in Utica, New York—we struggle to make conversation. She doesn’t tell me about her war-torn country or the family she has lost or left behind. I don’t ask about the scars on the hand of the woman sitting beside her, or the traditional sari she is wearing.

Instead, I help her fill out a work sheet with phrases like, “The vase is on the table” or “The bottle is on the floor.” Just as I am beginning to feel helpless, she raises her pencil from the page, looks at me, and smiles–a gesture that fills me with hope and optimism.

*
The Office of Immigration Statistics Annual Flow Report notes that in 2008, 60,108 refugees were admitted to the United States. Despite the U.S. Resettlement Program’s reputation as a lengthy and challenging process, this represents a 25% increase from the 2007 admission statistic. Whether or not we recognize it, the U.S. is growing as a major haven for refugees.

The U.S. Committee for Refugees and Immigrants explains that, “Refugees flee their homes, business[es], farms and communities in order to escape war and persecution.” These men and women enter the U.S.—or any country where they seek asylum—not knowing what to expect. Though many find and connect with others from their native country, life is not easy.

Photo: The Advocacy Project

The Resettlement Program provides minimal financial aid and some psychological support, but for those who have experienced intense loss and suffering, it’s likely not enough. For example, refugees receive about $400 per month from the government, and unemployment rates are still slightly higher among refugees than among Americans.

Many English speakers—from activists to explorers to teachers—have seized the opportunity to teach English as a Second Language (ESL) abroad. This is a beneficial and worthy endeavor, but there are 2.6 million refugees in the U.S., many of whom are unable to move forward with their lives until they learn a new language—perhaps the most intimidating barrier to getting by in the States.

If you’re putting down roots, but still want to make a difference, you may consider teaching or volunteering with refugees in your own country.

*
I met Maryam while volunteering at the Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees in Utica. There, surrounded by migrants from Afghanistan, Burma, Bosnia, Somalia, Iraq, and Ecuador, I realized that teaching English to refugees is about much more than how to spell “refrigerator.”

Language as Psychotherapy

At Mohawk Valley, the classrooms are not dull and dreary places where students lament their losses. Instead, students channel culture shock into concrete motivation to learn. One teacher introduces me to the “bottle-plate” dance, in which refugees clap, stomp, and sing about everyday objects. At some points, the classroom looks as though it will burst into a full on party, complete with break dancing and a turntable.

The language exercises also stray from asking questions about the past, an issue brought to my attention by the center’s director. Rather than inquiring about a refugee’s native country or family, students are asked about their life in the here and now: “Who do you live with?”; “Do you work?”; “How many days per week do you attend school?”.

Photo: polandeze

Learning English becomes a therapeutic practice for the individuals at the center. With every new word or phrase, students find a new form of self-expression, and in doing so, find themselves. Language also provides an important outlet for individuals if they desire connection–allowing them to share their stories and narratives in English with new friends, teachers, judges, and caseworkers.

In this sense, learning English becomes more than a task or lesson; English becomes a language of refuge.

A Bridge to Self-reflection and Personal Fulfillment

Teaching your native language to refugees is a personally rewarding experience. I met people from countries that used to exist to me only as ink blots on a map. I was introduced to Esar My, a Burmese refugee with exceptional conversation skills. Later, I met Esar’s daughter, a 20-something girl much like me, yet already married. This work fulfilled my desire to travel by engaging me in what I love most about the journey abroad: meeting new people and learning from them.

What was happening in these classrooms was also real and important. Without English skills, these men and women would be forced to subsist on very little. Language is a necessary component of physically starting over: finding a new home, new job, and fresh start.

Likewise, language can be a significant step to psychological reconciliation and repair, inviting individuals to let loose through classroom exercises, connect with their peers, and process and share their histories.

Get Involved

The Office of Refugee Resettlement has compiled a list of “Mutual Assistance Associations” for refugees. Check out the list to find a center near you. If you’re already trained in ESL, mention this when you call; the center may need full or part time teachers. If you’re not trained in ESL, you may also be able to help out as a tutor, interpreter, office assistant, or general volunteer.

Community Connection:

If you’re interested in learning a language yourself, be sure to check out our Language Learning Focus Page.

Mai Alyschild, RN volunteering in Haiti

Mai Alyschild retired from her job as a psychiatric nurse at San Francisco General Hospital when she turned 60.

That was five years ago.

Rather than join a bridge club or take up knitting, Alyschild began pursuing a different pastime: humanitarian work in the developing world.

Alyschild has conducted a study on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) in rural Afghanistan; worked in Nairobi’s Kibera Hospital and AIDS Clinic; and has gained extensive experience in disaster relief, having provided medical assistance after an earthquake in Peru and a flood in Villahermosa, Mexico.

Alyschild, the mother of a friend of Brave New Traveler co-editor, Christine Garvin, has been on the ground in Haiti helping with earthquake relief efforts since January 21. She has been keeping a running journal of her impressions and experiences on Facebook, where her status updates give the rest of us an unedited, unscripted sense of what it’s like to be volunteering in Haiti right now:

Thursday, January 21: Oh.My.God

“We made it through the 7th level of hell (immigration bs/customs at the border). We were besieged by desperate hungry children at every turn….

…[W]e are …at the UN compound at the airport in Port-au-Prince. The Turkish NGO, Helping Hands, is feeding us dolmas and dates and grapes – after going hungry all day…. We will start work at the Hospital near the palace Nacional tomorrow.”

Friday, January 22: Greetings from UN Hospital

Photo: The US Army

“I no sooner got my scrubs on this morning at 6am when I was immediately coopted by the UN hospital here on the airport grounds… they were desperate for nurses… over 100 pt’s in the post-op recovery tent and 45 in the Pedi/Kids tent…(eek) and a full surgical theatre… with choppers airlifting in more pt’s every 1/2 hr from ground zero with gangrenous open wounds.

I was assigned vitals, wound care and hydration/nutrition… wound care was a bit daunting but the other nurses and I all pulled together and no one died…

[W]orked 12 hours running my ass off…and there was never enough time…everyone hollering “Doctora” “Doctora!” at me…. (This place makes “Mash” look like a 4-star hospital).

We even conscripted carpenters to ma[ke] us more OR surgery tables… as we needed them!
One funny thing: a team of Scientologists showed up to feed the Dr.s and Nurses hot chicken soup (bless them).
I may be here for awhile.”

Saturday, January 23: Day 3 at UN Hosp Hell City

“It is NOT getting any better…. The CDC would shut us down in a heartbeat for (absent) infection precautions… but what can we do??…. I want to scream at all the voyeuristic media hanging around, ‘Go home and send us nurses!’”

Sunday, January 24: 3-dot journalism

“passing soup across the cracked lips of a 96 yr old Creole woman…
one constancy intrudes: the whup-whup-whup of incoming choppers
and your gut tenses, wondering What now??

Untenses in the brief respites around coffee urns with colleagues
14 lenguas…two phrases in common:
‘What do you need?…How can I help?’

One certainty: I am where I need to be
You’d have to drag me away from here

Every moment you are ‘in the moment’
paying attention to the need in front of you.”

Monday, January 25: UN Hosp…

“Checking charts: (well, ‘charts’ is a bit of a stretch…stapled together sheets of paper)
‘TB positive’…’sickle-cell crisis’…’Hypertensive’…’rule out Typhoid’…’chicken pox isolation.’

Earthquake survivor, Photo: UN Development Programme

How many ways can the human body crump [sic] on you aside from earthquake trauma?

Don’t ask.”

Tuesday, January 26: How long have I been here?? IT FEELS LIKE A MONTH.

“Received ‘NO Code’ patient in advanced AIDS with advanced tetanus… prognosis: 24 hrs. Family at bedside
I gave him care and had a translator explain that this was their time to say goodbyes….

…[T]his is going to be Hell for the foreseeable future….

Tuesday, January 26: Reality bites

…Tonight a Haitian band came in and played some rousing gospel music and the patients families got up off the floor and began dancing and shouting in all the available open spaces…it was a sight to behold. Somehow they find it in their heart to be joyful for just being alive in the face of such dire adversity.

There is surely a lesson there for all of us….

Wednesday, January 27: Stress rears its ugly head

“I resorted to sneaking food from the mess to patients families who are here overnight without much to eat. Officially we have ‘only enough for patients and staff’ but there are cargoloads of donated food/supplies coming in every day marked ‘For the people of Haiti’ (I didn’t see any marked ‘for patients and staff only’).”

Wednesday, January 27: Greetings from (now) an armed camp

Previously known as the UN Hospital.
“The Army has taken it upon themselves and in a matter of 8 hours pounded posts in and hung a 6 foot chain link fence around the hospital to prevent locals and looters from coming into our camp.

I asked one: ‘Is that to keep the nurses in here from fleeing this scene?’ He laughed out loud.

Big problem: Cargoloads of donated items flown in in crates and dumped on our doorstep but no time or personnel to go thorough [sic] them and find what we need and get it on shelves… too busy with the need in front of us.”

Community Connection:

Another perspective on Haiti in this post-quake period is provided by students at the local film institute in the town of Jacmel. Check out MatadorTV’s video: After the Earthquake: A Compilation of Cine Institute Coverage.

Photo of Harish Iyer courtesy of Harish Iyer

Harish was seven years old when his uncle decided to give him a ‘bath’. After that moment, he would be raped continually over the next seven years, from the age of 11 to the age of 18.

Because of the abuse, sex was never pleasurable for Harish as a young adult. He found he was not attracted to women, and dreaded the sight of men. For a long time, Harish struggled with his sexual identity.

After a few relationships with women that didn’t work out, Harish embraced the fact that he was naturally attracted to men, despite his concerns about fitting into society or even facing criminal charges, since the repeal of Section 377 had not yet occurred. (On July 2, 2009, the New Delhi High Court repealed Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, decriminalizing consensual sex between members of the same sex, and a huge step forward for the gay rights movement in India.)

“I’d made up my mind to speak out about my sexual orientation because it was important to talk about my life,” said Harish.

People within the gay community treat him like a hero (Harish recently went on a date with a guy who had asked for his autograph), while other people in the community give him sympathetic glances.

Many people equate Harish’s being gay with the abuse he suffered as a child. Harish recounts an incident in which an unknown person on the train started giving him advice after reading about him in the local newspapers, “Beta (son), don’t worry about the abuse. Just get married and everything will be alright,” the man told him.

“I’m tired of explaining to them that I don’t need their sympathy or their protection,” Harish said, referring to that exchange.

Harish wishes he had a support system, but very few children will tell anyone that a family member molested or raped him or her, so there are not many others who publicly share their experiences. The discussion of sex is a taboo topic in India, and many schools in the states of Maharashtra, Gujarat, and Madhya Pradesh have banned sex education, stating that sex education will “corrupt young minds.”

Sadly, there is little protection for children from sexual predators in India because there are no laws in the country for such an offense. There is also no protection for male victims of rape under the definition of this act by the Indian legal system, which only refers to a man assaulting a woman. Instead of being stopped by this downfall, Harish has made it his mission to raise awareness about incestuous child sexual abuse.

Harish is going to be running the Mumbai Marathon in mid-January in order to raise funds for ARPAN, an organization based in India that works to combat child sexual abuse. To donate, visit the United Way Mumbai donation page. You can find Harish on Twitter, on Facebook, or on his blog.

Community Connection:

Read about the law decriminalizing homosexuality in the article Indian Court Decriminalizes Homosexuality.

Photo: Joe Stump

“Russell Simmons has a lot of Buddhas.”

That’s one thought I have as I realize my cup of coffee has tipped over onto the gorgeous Persian rug covering the floor of his ample living room… the rug the moderator has expressly asked us *not* to rest our coffee cups upon.

Oops.

“Russell Simmons OWNS the Shepard Fairey ‘Obama Hope’ painting.”

That’s another thought.

“And a Basquiat.”

That’s the third thought, and the last one I have before I hear John Forte (who, I will later learn, is a rapper and former producer of The Fugees), addressing another member of the group, asking her to “thank your father for granting me a pardon.”

Forte, you see, was just released from prison in January, after President Bush commuted his 14 year federal sentence (of which he served seven years) for a drug-related conviction.

That means he is addressing President George W. Bush’s daughter.

I stop trying to sop up my coffee as Forte picks up the guitar to play his song, “Breaking of a Man”:

*
It’s a rainy Saturday in September and I’m one of about 40 people under 40 years old sitting in the living room of hip hop mogul and philanthropist Russell Simmons, gathered here–directly across from the World Trade Center site–to “create an honest and open assessment of our generation and develop action items that will grow [among group members] and ultimately unite the generation in a more meaningful way.”

The people seated in the circle represent some of the most important thinkers and doers of my generation. Some of them are people whose work I’ve been interested in for a long time, like Jay Parkinson, founder of Hello Health, and Jehane Noujaim, documentary filmmaker and director of “Control Room” and “Pangea Day.”

There are also people I haven’t heard of before, but over the course of the weekend, I learn their stories. Dan Choi, the Army National Guard Arabic linguist and Iraq War veteran who was discharged for acknowledging he was gay. Robert Reffkin, a Wall Street analyst who’s running a marathon in every US state to raise money for underprivileged kids. Debbie Berebichez, aka “The Science Babe,” who takes her PhD in physics to break down the scientific mysteries of daily life (the physics of high heels?) in an accessible way (she’s particularly passionate about getting young girls interested in science).

There are women and men; blacks, whites, Asians, Latinos, and biracial folks; Muslims, Christians, Jews, and agnostics; Republicans, Democrats, and Libertarians; people from really wealthy families and those of us from middle or lower class backgrounds; people who are familiar with the polished wood tables of the nations’ most influential board rooms and those of us with more experience in street activism.

I look around and notice all the difference.

*
I find myself in a break-out group with Barbara Bush, daughter of the former president. I’ve made no effort to restrain myself from offering my assessment of her father openly here on Matador, compiling a round-up of his less articulate moments and praising the Iraqi “shoe throw” journalist (and just wishing he had better aim) and I sit in our circle with a concealed dubiousness about what she brings to the table other than her name.

One of the Buddhas is poised in a corner of the room, a benign presence on this overcast afternoon, the day after the 8th anniversary of the attacks, in a penthouse within view of the WTC site. Its golden legs folded easily into a triangle, its forehead relaxed, the Buddha’s eyes look down at us without judgment.

Me?

I’ve judged Barbara before she has a chance to share her ideas, projecting her father’s ideology and his shortcomings onto her unfairly. It’s only when she speaks up about health care and the potential uses of technology that I realize we actually have a great deal in common. She’s articulate, thoughtful, a good listener. The hour allotted for our conversation ends quickly. I’m surprised that I want to know more about her work, to hear more of what she has to say.

*
I don’t know about you, but the big lessons I have to learn in life are the ones that are the toughest to “get.” Being patient? Recognizing that sometimes getting my way or being right will do more harm than good (even if I am right)? Being in the moment? Being non-judgmental? The opportunities to finally get these–and get them right–come up over and over again. I don’t know if that’s the challenge of my generation, but it’s certainly *my* challenge, and it’s what I take away from the weekend, and what I realize I need to work on moving forward.

Consumption will consume you. Photo: Daquella manera

In November of 2006, New York City resident Colin Beavan, along with his wife and daughter, set out to live with no net environmental impact.

Fast forward three years later, add the Huffington Post, and you have No Impact Week. According to the website, the goal is to “demonstrate ways in which small actions in our daily lives can have a profound impact on our world.” Together, they’ve provided a daily guide with steps you can take to lessen your impact over the course of a week. Each day has a different theme.

I’m joining over 4,000 people to take on this challenge to identify what impact my actions (or lack of action) are having, and to find out what areas of my lifestyle I can change to balance out my carbon footprint a bit more.

Day 1: Sunday: Consumption

The Sunday challenge was to not buy anything new (excluding food). Considering I am on a tight budget anyway, this would not be too much of a challenge. The first step for today in the No Impact Guide was to make a list of things you “need” this week, take off the ones you can live without, and find an alternative way to get the rest of the items (second hand, borrow it, make it). I didn’t have a very long list, so this was relatively easy. I’m also trying to jump start my workout regimen, so every time the urge to go to the mall comes up, I’m going to consider a run or bike ride instead.

What about people who do need to buy something new? Luckily, there are plenty of resources available for you to make an earth friendly purchase. Try The Green Guide for Everyday Living for information about making better product choices, or the GreenPages to find a directory of screened and approved green businesses.

There is also a non-profit organization called Freecycle, whose members give away stuff they don’t need to people who do need something. The mission statement of this group is to “build a worldwide gifting movement that reduces waste, saves precious resources and eases the burden on our landfills while enabling our members to benefit from the strength of a larger community.” Membership is free and there are close to 5,000 groups globally. If you don’t feel comfortable getting something from a stranger, have a clothing/item swap with your friends.

The next step was to start collecting my trash from the day in a separate (reusable) bag from the regular trash can. Unfortunately, my week’s worth of food runs out right around Sunday, so I conveniently finished the apple juice, cereal, and a box of crackers today. Add in the receipt for the new food I purchased, and the plastic container the pears were in, and my bag is almost full. The good thing is that those items are all recyclable, which I have a separate trash can for already, so I wasn’t too hard on myself for that one.

Day 1 complete. That wasn’t so difficult, although I am a little nervous about tomorrow’s challenge – trash.

Community Connection:

Are YOU taking the No Impact Week challenge? If so, share your experiences with us in the comments.
To learn more about Colin Beavan, aka No Impact Man, check out this article from our archives.
Want to learn more about consumption and its impact? If you do nothing else, watch this video. “The Story of Stuff” is a video by Annie Leonard about our production and consumption patterns and the environmental impact these patterns create. Its fast pace and compelling facts make the 20 minute long video feel like five minutes.

Photo by author

This absurdist statement was typical for choreographer Christopher Caines on Sunday, September 20, as he led a group of 2,000 New Yorkers gathered in Central Park to create a giant living sculpture for Oxfam and the TckTckTck Campaign’s Human Countdown: Climate Wake-Up Call.

I was part of that sculpture—assigned, specifically, to represent Western Sahara on the North African coast. My role as one of 600 Earthlings was simple. I was a little speck, a grain of sand trapped inside an hourglass—one of many grains of sand—and together we dissolved into the phrase “tck tck tck,” a reminder to world leaders that time is running out for them to act on global warming.

Our public protest targeted decision makers as they gathered in New York for the United Nations summit two months ahead of the Copenhagen climate treaty talks this December. But instead of shouting angrily about how they’d better get it together on a fair and binding climate change agreement, we were a close-knit community of volunteer dancers spelling out our message.

There was a foolishness to what we did, I know. What kind of crazy person spends an entire day running around in a park pretending to be a grain of sand? How could we possibly change the world?

But we were all in it together. As the choreographer reminded us: “You are the most important people here today, and you’re all here to help each other.”

And we were not alone.

The next day, in 2,632 media-saturated events in 134 countries, thousands of people allied with the TckTckTck Campaign and its partners, including Avaaz and 350.org, rallied to send a Global Climate Wake-Up Call.

We placed cell phone calls to the White House, we sent text messages to cabinet ministers from Australia, we filmed ourselves and went viral on You Tube, we tweeted, we blogged, we handed out fake copies of the New York Post with the headline “We’re screwed.”

When I was a kid growing up outside of Chicago, I sat in suburban comfort on my couch one summer and watched in awe and confusion as police clubbed and tear-gassed Vietnam War protesters rioting just a few miles from my house during the 1968 Democratic Convention. Now, climate change has become an equally urgent issue that has galvanized support around the globe.

Some old-school protesters complain that we 21st-century activists don’t engage with the passion that fired them up back in the day. As I see it, though, the technology available through new media and the Internet has forever changed the nature of public protest. Just look at the live-blogging and mobile-phone photos that came out of the Iran elections in July.

Here in the States, it may be true that nobody is risking their life anymore by taking to the streets for a political cause. But who’s to say that our cause is any less just because we’re having fun and acting silly while joining in the fight?

And global warming is a strange enemy to fight. It’s as big as the world, and as small as tossing the bottle of soda you just finished drinking into a recycling bin. It’s a massively complex problem, and yet some people don’t even believe it’s happening. In short, doing battle with an amorphous idea requires tremendous creative energy and a well-developed sense of the absurd.

The Human Countdown was designed by Christopher Caines with the assistance of visual artist Gail Rothschild and architect Stephen Furnstahl.

“When Christopher first asked me to help with the graphics and figure out how to enlarge the hourglass/earth/text onto the huge net, I thought it sounded impossible,” Rothschild said. “But I’m always up for impossible projects for noble causes, and somehow, it all worked!”

Read dispatches from on-the-ground journalists and bloggers at TckTckTck.org’s Climate Voice, an online reporting hub where you can follow progress on the global warming debate and keep up with breaking news, live video, Twitter streams, and aggregated blog feeds.

Community Connection:

What do you think about 21st century activism and the roles technology and even fun might play? Share your thoughts below.

Photo by Antoine Bonsorte; remaining photos by author.

Manuel Ignacio Salinas was so proud to repeat his name when I asked him a third time.

“Manuel…Ignacio…Salinas.”

Standing just over five feet tall, the aging Señor Salinas had graying hair, a discolored left eye, and rashes visible where his tattered light-blue button-down shirt failed to cover his dark Ecuadorian skin.

We passed his ramshackle wooden home, which was held ten feet off the ground by white concrete stilts. In the backyard, a group of children were hanging clothes on a line and chasing a small, fluffy white dog. They smiled and waved before quickly returning to their tasks. It was obvious they knew what we were there to see.

I was visiting Señor Salinas with one other volunteer as part of a Toxic Tour of the polluted area in the Amazon jungle. As we entered his backyard, I began to smell the unbearable scent of crude oil. Lying before us was what looked like an abandoned sewage waste site—a 50 yard-long section of marshy land with weeds jutting out.

There were no rats or flies like I expected, perhaps because even these creatures could not stand to live near such a massive pool of stagnant oil. The area was encircled with yellow tape that read “peligro”—danger—but the side closest to Manuel Salinas’s home was left open. We walked to the edge of the area, and Señor Salinas began to talk to us.

“I bought this land 25 years ago, without knowing what was beneath the surface,” he said. “I started to clear away the trees and brush to grow coffee and fruit trees, because this was how I had planned to make a living. But then I discovered what I thought was a huge swamp and could only plant a few trees around it.

“We were unable to farm the land. We were unable to get clean water. We slid into poverty. But we had no choice but to continue drinking from the contaminated well. For a while, we had nothing, ni agua,” he said. Not even water.

As I listened, his adorable white dog scurried around our feet. Suddenly, it sprinted a little too far and hopped directly into the pool of contaminated oil-water. We screamed for it to come back, and when it finally pulled itself out of the sludge, its coat was completely black. Señor Salinas also called for the dog, but it was obvious he was not nearly as shocked as us. After all, he had lived near the backyard waste-sight for over 20 years and had seen many animals perish in it.

“I wanted to move, but who would buy this land?” he continued. “I just don’t want my family to be sick.”

Despite being threatened with “a lifetime of litigation” by Chevron attorneys, Señor Salinas is one of the 30,000 residents of the Ecuadorian Amazon who are plaintiffs in a $27.3 billion class-action lawsuit against Chevron, to remediate what has become known as the Amazon Chernobyl–the worst oil-related disaster on the planet.

Texaco, now Chevron, admitted to dumping more than 18 billion gallons of toxic chemicals into hundreds of waste pits throughout the jungle between 1964 and 1990. As a result, oil-polluted water and soil are spread over more than 1,500 square miles in the pristine Amazon wilderness. Environmental and medical experts believe the mess left by Texaco’s negligence has caused extremely high levels of cancer, miscarriages, birth defects and other health problems in the region.

Judging by his discolored eye and skin rashes and Señor Salinas’ tales of frequent hospital visits, it was apparent that Señor Salinas himself had been affected.

“Even the President of Ecuador, Rafael Correa, came to visit,” Señor Salinas said. As he spoke, the sadness in his eyes was impossible to ignore. “The president put his hand on my shoulder and he asked, ‘What can I do?’ The truth was, at this point, not much.”

His family is forced to travel seven hours by bus to Quito, the capitol, to seek medical treatment for the illnesses caused by the polluted water that they unknowingly drank and bathed in for years. I could not imagine staying near this pool for an hour, never mind a lifetime, as Señor Salinas’s children have. After just a few minutes of standing around the waste site, my nose and whole body felt infiltrated with the gross waste, and I even began to feel light-headed. Wiping my face and blowing my nose later in the car, I was appalled to find the tissue black with what appeared to be nasty petroleum particles that must have been densely polluting the air around Señor Salinas’ home.

A few days later, I traveled to Cuyabeno National Park in the heart of Ecuador’s rainforest. As we traveled slowly down a bumpy dirt path toward the river, large, untouched forests lined one side of the road. On the other, massive oil extraction stations were visibly still in operation. We passed by huge, black tanks surrounded by a maze of black and yellow tubes, fenced-off silver machinery covered in skull and crossbones signs, old unused oil barrels thrown carelessly in all directions and several shiny oil-pits with outlandishly tall and sweltering gas flares in the background that stood higher than the hundreds of tall green trees directly next to them.

We finally arrived at the Cuyabeno River, and I stepped into a canoe that would take us to our destination: a rainforest eco-lodge. Two hours later, we arrived at the lodge, surrounded by a lush canopy. Stepping off the boat onto the small wooden dock, I walked towards what looked like a pseudo-summer camp in the middle of the jungle – complete with fishing boats, small stilted straw huts, bunk-beds, hammocks, and a communal outdoor dining area.

The sound of birds singing intermingled with the pounding rain. I took a deep breath and savored the fresh jungle air. This was how the rainforest was supposed to be. As I plopped into a hammock beneath the canopy, my mind drifted back to all the things I had just seen: the incriminating pools of pollution, the countless rusting oil barrels, the massive oil stations, and the flaming gas burners with birds circling in their emissions.

Eventually, I think I could forget these images. But the one thing I will always remember is the face of Manuel Ignacio Salinas.

Community Connection:

Read more about Chevron’s acts in the Amazon here.

Michelle and Danny explain the impetus for their documentary project:

Our job was to capture the stories and images related to prison life, the city streets, the courtrooms and the debates shaping the future of Brazil’s legal reform.

It wasn’t easy.

Our opportunity in Brazil was organized by International Bridges to Justice (IBJ), an organization open to young travelers who would like to use their skills in documentary photography or writing to assist programs in the developing world.

In July of 2009, International Bridges to Justice (IBJ) sent us to Brazil to assess the impact and potential of IBJ’s fellowship program there. The program, known as JusticeMakers, granted Dr. Aziz Saliba the financial support to produce an educational DVD on habeas corpus and the Inter-American Court.

Every prison that IBJ’s team visited was at least twice over capacity, except for one- APAC (Associação de Proteção e Assistência aos Condenados). This prison is Brazil’s homegrown vision of a jail guarded by prisoners themselves. It was the cleanest, most cost-efficient, spiritual and calm prison we’d visited during our stay. The energy and the optimism of the lawyers we worked with kept us going.

The surreal characteristic of the other prisons we visited reminded me of Ursula K. LeGuin’s famous story, “Those who walk away from Omelas.” But on the whole, I was most struck by the humor and the optimism of people like Adão, a spiritual leader in a community with high incarceration rates; Thomas, a young boy of 15 who knew his rights front and back; Lupe, a man who had re-written a book about his life in prison memorized completely in his own head; Roberto Tardelli, a leading prosecutor who worked in neighborhoods where locals thought they were still under the military dictatorship of the 1970s; and Casé, a lawyer leading the campaign against pedophilia and child abuse who still had time for his own love of comic books and family.

These people all have their own stories.

I hope our photos encourage you to learn more about their situations, help their cause, or join IBJ in the future.

1. Prisoners are given time during the day to sunbathe in a courtyard at Presidio Floramar, an adult prison located in Divinopolis, Brazil. They are required to sit during this period until the head count is completed. Meanwhile, some chant, sing to themselves, or talk with the guards, but are on the whole much quieter than the inmates at the adolescent jail next door.

2. Though Floramar is considered to be one of the more well-managed prisons in the region, it suffers from the characteristic overcrowding that affects most prisons throughout the country. At approximately 500 inmates, the prison is already over twice its formal capacity of 250 inmates. Even so, grievances are hardly addressed. Fire riots broke out at Floramar due to overcrowding just weeks after this photo was taken, eventually put down by brute police force.

3. The Brazilian justice system is plagued by a number of serious problems, most notably, a lack of investigators and endless bureaucratic red tape. A single case could take up to 10 years to process. Here, an employee files away paperwork for a case at Forum, a civil and criminal courthouse in Divinopolis, Brazil.

4. Under such circumstances, many temporary detention centers have been converted into full time prisons for both accused and convicted criminals. This alberque, living quarters originally meant for accused individuals imprisoned for a maximum of 30 days, is located just outside of Divinopolis. Like Floramar, it is also twice over capacity, at 50 inmates in a 25-person facility.

5. One inmate we spoke with had been detained for two years and three months. Though he suffered from severe medical conditions, including a tumor, he was still awaiting trial. Most inmates spend their free time writing letters to friends and family.

6. IBJ Fellow Dr. Saliba is hoping to inform these prisoners of their right to habeas corpus, which would protect them from illegal detainment. Through the distribution of a short film, he can make a difference by making it easier for people to both learn about their right to habeas corpus and for communities to exercise this right more often. As such, the film is directed toward a lay audience with no experience in law or legal training. Dr. Saliba is also producing a second film for legal aid workers on the Inter-American Court of Human Rights – a resource they could appeal to when all else fails.

7. Faiçal narrates Dr. Saliba’s film on habeas corpus. As the General Director of Universidade de Itauna, a law school in a nearby city, he has been assisting Saliba as he approaches completion of his project with International Bridges to Justice.

8. The road ahead is still long. Weak institutions and bureaucratic inefficiency are only two of a host of obstacles that Brazil faces. Most prosecutors we spoke with in Brazil agree the legacy of the military regime is a major cause for the gaps they face in the fair application of Brazil’s legal code. The stigmatization of Brazilian human rights commissions, historically related to criminals and those on the margins of society, means that society as a whole is less willing to embrace human rights reform and debate. Above: Two security agents accompany an inmate down the halls of Forum, the civil and criminal courthouse in Divinopolis.

9. Continued racial profiling and troubled state-society relations can also make people reluctant to learn about their legal rights. In this photo an inmate consults with his lawyer beside Floramar’s open courtyard, defying the traditional stereotypes of social class and race. To this day, many Brazilians question the authority of the police, largely as a legacy of the decades of military dictatorship.

10. Nonetheless, progress is being made, albeit very slowly. A new form of detention is now being implemented in Brazil and worldwide — one that focuses on the prisoner as a human being with dignity and potential rather than as a mere prisoner. In many ways that addresses the plight of the Brazilian legal system, especially with regard to its historical legacy and social stigmatization. The system, known as APAC (Associação de Proteção e Assistência aos Condenados), boasts success on all accounts, from reeducation rates to financial sustainability standards. Above: an inmate looks out the window from an APAC office, where all of the administrative work is carried out by inmates.

11. Imprisonment does not dampen the youthful spirits of inmates, as one young man reaches out spontaneously to pose for the camera.

To learn more about the documentary journalist positions at International Bridges to Justice, please visit this site.

If you’d like to make a donation to the habeas corpus project, please click here.

If you’re interested in volunteering with an NGO in Brazil, please contact Cecilia Neves Silveira at cecilia@omnes.org.br. Cecilia coordinates opportunities at OMNES, an NGO working with the defense of human rights as a whole. Projects include teaching professionals how to work with the human rights legal system. Another project assists prisoners and defends their rights.

Cecilia also coordinates volunteer opportunities at De Volta Para Casa, an NGO helping children return to their homes or to help them find families. De Volta Para Casa also works with children in adolescent prisons.

Community Connection:

Brazil isn’t the only country with overcrowded prisons. Read this article from the archives to learn how the US prison system has become a big business.

About the Photographers:
Michelle Ferng studies International Relations at Virginia. She has always had an interest in photography, but it had usually been more of a casual hobby. IBJ afforded her the opportunity to show her talent through documentary photography and the production of photo-essays.

Danny Thiemann is assisting research and program development for IBJ’s expansion in Brazil. He has completed previous academic studies on international law in Costa Rica, art-for-peace programs in Lebanon, creative fiction programs in Egypt, a recent documentary for the Clinton Global Initiative in Palestine. He is a 2009/2010 Fellow for The Modern Story in Hyderabad, India.

Photos courtesy of author

We were a Be the Cause volunteer group visiting Casa de Paz, an orphanage just outside of Ensenada, Mexico. During the impromptu welcome tour, the director, Jonatán Lopez Sánchez, had quietly noticed young Jesus drinking from a plastic soda bottle. Later, he let us in on the significance of the moment:

“About two weeks ago I gave Jesus a soda after I returned from the market.“ Jonatán explained how he had forgotten about giving the soda-present until this particular afternoon. Tears building in his (and our) eyes while continuing, “Little things like this show me how much these children value and care for their home here. This is one of the reasons why my wife and I have been at Casa de Paz for the past eight years.”

Jonatán previously worked with a bank and owned his house in Veracruz. But he and his wife were not satisfied with this lifestyle, and felt a calling to give more. They decided to take a two year hiatus at Casa de Paz in Ensenada. It is apparent that this hiatus has turned into a lifelong project for the couple.

After this group-tear session, meeting other employees, and spending time with children, we had found another family, just as we had with the Door of Faith Orphanage (DOFO). At DOFO we had seen an amazingly organized operation that contested the dreary picture normally associated with an orphanage. But while Casa de Paz is well constructed and planned, it’s not the polished environment achieved by the Door of Faith Orphanage.

What it lacks in polish, however, it makes up with its structure, vision, and character:

Structure

Casa de Paz houses 48 children between the ages of four and 18. Like other orphanages, Casa de Paz has a casa de niños (boys’ house) and a casa de niñas (girls’ house). But there is also a casa verde (green house) housing special needs children. They require 24-hour care and attention, provided by a rotating staff, including a psychiatrist.

When the special needs children arrived at Casa de Paz, they were not accustomed to sleeping on beds or eating on tables. They promptly destroyed all the beds in the house and tore apart the living room tables. Over time, and with love and care, Casa de Paz was able to show the children a better way to live. Not only do they sleep on their beds now, but the orphanage focuses on giving them contact with the other children. They all eat dinner together. They spend free time on the playground with each other. They are being taught they are not different.

Vision

Self-Sufficiency:
Currently, Casa de Paz operates via private donations. The Mexican government also provided a greenhouse built next to existing farmland. The orphanage now grows onions, citric fruit, spinach, pumpkin, watermelon and more. It’s also beginning to raise goats. Casa de Paz ultimately plans to sell the extra fruit, vegetables, and goats to become completely self-sufficient. They will also be teaching their children how to manage and operate the farmlands.

An Infants’ Home:
A newly-built home is ready to accept infants, but funds for operation are lacking. Due to the constant care needed for this age group, Jonatán has estimated it will cost the orphanage $300-$400 dollars a month to hire an adequate staff.

Jonatán explained the need for urgency. In Mexico, many orphaned infants are kept in shelters managed by “D.I.F.” (Mexico’s National System of Family Development). He had the chance to visit one of these establishments and painted a picture of 35 babies incessantly crying in a small room with minimal supervision. Casa de Paz pushed to finish the building; now, they seek funding to make this care a reality.

Plans for Kids’ Futures:
Jonatán was asked about the rule requiring that kids 18 years old and over need to be enrolled in school to stay at orphanages. His answer revealed the Casa de Paz spirit:

“After they turn 18, we would like them to attend more school. If the child does not want to attend more school, but lets us know their productive plan for the future, they are more than welcome to stay with us.”

Character

Jonatán and his wife Marisol sit on an outside bench contentedly watching the kids play on the basketball court and run on the mini track. Oscar, the chef and father figure for the boys’ home, concocts one of the spiciest, tasty hot sauces of the Americas while his larger than life presence fills a room with his kindness.

Maria and Laura, two children at Casa de Paz, poke fun at a visiting gringo who speaks Spanish with a strange Uruguayan accent. The children’s bus is about to leave for Sunday morning Mass on the other side of town. Eddy, one of the oldest children at Casa de Paz, jumps out of the bus and gives one of the volunteers a warm hug, saying, “See you when you come back.”

For More Information:

If you would like to organize a visit, Casa de Paz can be contacted at jona_losa@hotmail.com or via telephone (646) 155-21-66.

Donations can be sent directly to their U.S.A. address:

P.O. Box 4113, Chula Vista, CA 91909

Community Connection:

Plan on documenting the lives of kids during your travels? Check out these tips for approaching children appropriately from Lola Akinmade’s “How to Photograph Children During Your Travels.”

Mae La Refugee Camp, Photo: jackol

It was at the Mae La camp, located about 60 kilometres south of the border town of Mae Sot, Thailand, where I met Kyi Pe Kyaw, his wife, and daughter.

Forty year old Kyi and his family escaped Myanmar five years ago to avoid prison. He became a wanted man after the junta discovered his affiliation with the opposition party, the National League of Democracy.

Kyi explained the events that led up to his decision to flee his country. “In 2004, the SPDC (State Peace and Development Council – the official name of the Burmese military junta) arrested twelve NLD members for distributing copies of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights in the streets of Rangoon. Then, they indicated they would arrest all participants. I’ve already spent eight years of my life in prison. It was out of [the] question to return,” he said.

It took two months for Kyi Pe Kyaw and his family to make the long trip to the border and arrive in Thailand.

Buddhist monks helped the family hide in temples along the way. They were eventually registered as political refugees on January 11, 2005.

Aftermath of Nargis, Photo: Foreign & Commonwealth Office

Life as refugees has had its own challenges. Last year, Kyi and his family learned they lost 40 relatives when the Nargis cyclone ravaged the Irrawaddy delta region, in the south of Myanmar. They learned of the tragic news a month after the fact from another refugee who was lucky enough to reach the border.

Cyclone Nargis killed tens of thousands of people and left hundreds of thousands homeless, prompting a new wave of displaced people to join the existing refugees. Few of them make it to the relative safety of the north of Thailand.

Kyi’s family story is far from exceptional. More than 140,000 refugees live in one of the nine camps along the Myanmar-Thailand border.

Mae La is the largest refugee camp, with 40,000 people registered with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR). It seems this figure is a gross under-estimation; some non-governmental organizations estimate the camp population exceeds 60,000.

At first glance, the camp stretches for miles. Through the jungle, perched in the limestone rocky hills, thousands of wooden houses are protected with straw roofs.

Mae La Refugee Camp, Photo by jackol

Mae La refugee camp is not guarded (or at least not overtly). Only Thai militia seem assigned to monitor the main entrance. People come and go through dozens of holes in the barbed wire fence that surrounds the camp.

Everywhere, small shops are selling their goods; there is even a DVD rental store. It’s a community similar to any you would find in a small town in Southeast Asia. In fact, some refugees have lived here for more than 20 years.

Nha, a veteran camp resident, comes from the Karen State, the homeland of one of seven ethnic minorities in Myanmar, located just across the Thai border.

He has lived at the camp for 19 years. He lost both of his arms due to a mine explosion when he was only a teenager. “I fled my village because we were warned that the soldiers were on their way. They destroyed my village. I could not go back so I walked. I walked for five days and I came here.” Almost all the refugees have a similar story.

Nha recently received authorization from the U.S. State Department to immigrate to the United States. I ask if he is looking forward to moving.

“What will I do there?” he asks, shaking arms that have been amputated at the elbow. “I will go for my kids so they can go to school and have a better life, but I would prefer to stay here.”

Nha, along with 10,000 other refugees, is part of a resettlement program that was set up three years ago. According to officials, it is the largest resettlement movement ever implemented. Since 2005, 30,000 people have found refuge in one of 10 partner countries, one of which is the United States.

Resettlement seems to be the best thing that could happen to these refugees, but brings problems of its own. Simon, a reverend who has worked in the camp since 1988, says, “10,000 refugees have left Mae La in the past three years, but 20,000 more have arrived. Before 2005, the camp housed mostly Karen refugees who were fleeing the Burmese military regime. Now, with the resettlement program, other refugee groups come and use the camp as a gateway to Europe, Canada or the United States.”

Many newcomers are not registered with the UNHCR, says Reverend Simon. “They are not on the camp distribution list for food and accommodation. They have nothing and they must fight for survival. This has made camp a tough environment over the past few years.”

The overcrowding situation is forcing many to live illegally within Thai territory. The Thai-Burma Border Consortium, which is responsible for camp administration, believes at least 200,000 Myanmar refugees live illegally in Mae Sot alone.

The Mae Sot border is located six kilometers from the city. A few hundred meters away, a bridge crosses the river and links the two countries. Dozens of people cross the river sitting on a tube, slipping beneath the gaze of Burmese soldiers. A man pushes them across the river. Known as the swimmer-smuggler, he crosses from one bank to another, helping countless people in their quest for escape.

The price for crossing the bridge is 10 Thai baht – about twenty cents at the time. The Burmese can get a day pass for double the price. I crossed over for around ten Euros and the militia kept my passport to ensure my safe return.

The border is so easy to cross that many do it every morning in a hunt for work. Wages are lower in Myanmar than Thailand. The risk is great but a chance to earn extra money to provide for their families is often too much for people to ignore.

If arrested by police, the ‘workers’ are detained and returned to Myanmar at noon the next day. Some attempt to cross the river again as soon as they are planted back on Burmese soil.

Ko Thawadar is one of those who do not risk crossing the border every day. He has tried to settle in Mae Sot after fleeing Myanmar in September 2007. Ko was involved in a human chain, a makeshift security device for the Buddhist monks marching in the streets of Rangoon.

Ko does not want to live in a refugee camp. He wants to live a normal life and feels that although his life is already limited in many ways, life in camp would leave him with even fewer options.

“It’s not safe for me here. It is filled with Burmese government spies and because I arrived not long ago, they know me. They know my face. They know that I am against the government and I fear for my life,” he says.

Community Connection:

To learn more about Burma, check these links submitted by Matador members who have experience working and volunteering in the region.

Ethnic Karens Under Attack

Myanmar Orphans Flee to Uncertain Refuge in Thailand

1. “For every child fortunate enough to live in a home like The Miracle Foundation…there are a thousand more the orphanage cannot afford to take in.”

2. “They ask for nothing from me other than being here. [T]hey are just like other children I’ve known with homes and families of their own–except for their neediness, their raw hunger for affection, love, belonging.”

3. “[T]here were stories behind each one of these children.”

4. “I began to discover who the kids were–their individual personalities and dreams.”

5. “‘The meaning of life is to love all. The purpose of life is to serve all.’ It was a simple prayer, reminding me that life need not be complicated unless we made it so.”

6. “I desperately hope we will not be too late for these children…. We owe it to them and to the world. And ultimately, we owe it to ourselves.”

Community Connection:

Brave New Traveler contributing editor Christine Garvin interviewed Shelley Seale about her experiences in India. To read the interview, click here. If you’d like to order Seale’s book, The Weight of Silence: Invisible Children of India, click here.

Photo: Silent vigil in Ioannina, Photo courtesy of author

We have wrapped up the volunteer portion of our trip. It was kicked off by being picked up by local animal activists in Athens and taken to the ONLY licensed animal shelter in a city made up of millions of people.

The amazing people at the KAZ shelter run the facility on a shoestring, doing as much as they can to help forgotten and discarded animals who have nothing but love to give. We brought the shelter hundreds of dollars in medical supplies, and I was excited to give a personal donation I knew would definitely be put to good use.

After departing the Athens shelter, we headed up to the mountain town of Ioannina. There is no animal shelter in Ioannina, a town of 150,000 people, but there is a handful of concerned citizens who dedicate their lives, their homes, and their finances to help homeless animals.

We spent most of our time at the homes of these dedicated activists, helping prepare for a protest about the poisoning of stray dogs in the city. Having been an activist in America, it was exciting to experience this feeling in a foreign country, and even more exciting to see how well it was received. Young and old alike welcomed the information and took the time to read it. Our group took great pleasure in seeing our work first hand and found it very motivating to continue on.

I personally took great pleasure in leafleting outside the mayor’s office, the man everyone knows is responsible for executing the rash of cruel poisonings on the animals. I handed a leaflet to everyone I could who was entering the building in the hope it would cross his desk.

A silent vigil was held on the evening of our fourth day in Ioannina. We were thrilled with the turnout. Many more people came in support than I had imagined and numerous media outlets appeared.

We also built feeding stations and placed these in strategic locations around the city where strays congregate. The most surprising was the scene at the local university, which looked like inner city projects in the US. We were surrounded by concrete buildings riddled with graffiti, trash, and teens with no real concern for the pack of starving animals with whom they shared this space.

We were shocked to see a small puppy stroll out from behind a bench and head right toward us, not yet afraid of humans as many of the older pups were (not than any of them live long – the average age is 18 months before they are poisoned or hit on the road).

I began chatting with one of the students and he explained that many people dump puppies at the university, thinking they will be taken care of. He said there are new litters every week. He pointed me in the direction of the dumping site, and I spent a good hour searching around what would be considered a trash dump in the US. No puppies were found but I did make friends with various cats that were starved for attention.

I am sad to say this portion of the trip is coming to a close. I have greatly enjoyed the interaction with the local activists. I have formed lifelong bonds with even the ones who I was unable to have a conversation with because we share a passion that we hold deep in our hearts.

Community Connection:

To learn more about the organization with which the author volunteered, visit Inside/Out. To create your own volunteer experience, browse through Matador’s member organizations, which offer volunteer opportunities around the world.

Photo: A few of Greece’s many stray dogs. Feature photo: jturn; Photo above: simobran

We are a group brought together by inside/out, a unique adventure travel company that provides humanitourism™ trips for people who want to volunteer on meaningful international projects while pursuing active adventure.

We will be spending the majority of our time in Ioannina, in Northern Greece. Animal welfare in Ioannina has been a hot topic lately due to continuous poisoning of stray animals in the town.

Poisoning is just one of many atrocities allowed in Greece. Hanging is a common practice for disposing of animals no longer needed, especially hunting dogs. Just last month, five dogs were hanged from an olive tree, four bundled together and one by itself. The dogs were hung in such a way that their paws barely touched the ground. The vets who visited the crime scene estimated that the animals experienced eight hours of torture before dying.

Photo: alex kuruz

To fight cruelty and help strays, small grassroots groups are cropping up all over Greece. Many buy food and pay for veterinary services out of their own pockets, help to re-home dogs both locally and abroad, and some are even opening small shelters on their own properties.

Fortunately, young people are taking an interest in the animal rights movement. Organized protests are starting to be utilized and a local TV channel now airs an animal welfare program.

To do our part while we are there, we will spend much of our time working on feeding stations for the massive stray population and providing hands-on care to animals in shelters to prepare them for adoption. We’ll also do community outreach, distributing educational materials on sterilization, anti-cruelty practices, and responsible pet ownership, as well as producing a demonstration with local activists.

As we travel to different to Ioannina, Konitsa, Papingo, and Kavasila, all in the Zagoria region, we will connect with locals. I am excited to meet all these wonderful people who dedicate their time to improve the lives of the animals. Between each of these volunteer experiences, we will be white water rafting, kayaking, and trekking between the villages some days.

Photo: OxOx

What makes this trip more unusual is that the five of us have never met. But we share a common bond– a love for animals– and we refuse to turn a blind eye to the injustice occurring in Greece. We refuse to go on with our daily lives like nothing is happening.

We want to get out there, get our hands dirty, and make a difference far beyond this 10 day trip. I am certain lifelong bonds will be formed and with the collective knowledge of this group of power-hitters, new ideas will be created.

Community Connection:

Interested in other ways you can volunteer to improve the lives of animals? Read about Mexico’s Todos Tortugueros turtle rescue project and Thailand’s opportunities to volunteer for the protection of elephants.

Photo: David Gilbert, Amazon Watch

How many activists does it take to shut down the main entrance to the headquarters of the 2nd largest U.S. oil corporation?

Six.

Well, six, plus dozens of supporters and organizers of an international campaign called The True Cost of Chevron.

The purpose was to draw attention to Chevron’s environmental and human rights abuses from Richmond, California– the location of one of its largest refineries– to Ecuador, where a judge is set to decide this fall on the long-standing lawsuit that seeks damages of $27 billion for toxic environmental pollution in the Amazon rainforest and its communities.

The setting was Chevron’s annual shareholders’ meeting in affluent San Ramon, California, about 30 miles from its second largest refinery in Richmond. It was too close for me not to miss.

Photo by author

Blocking the entrance was not the goal of the demonstration. Rather, it set the stage for two events that marked the day: First, proxy shareholders came from the many countries around the world where Chevron operates to share the stories and concerns of their respective communities with the Board and Chevron CEO David J. O’Reilly (the 15th highest paid U.S. oil CEO).

Second, the announcement and discussion of “An Alternative Annual Report” entitled “The True Cost of Chevron” that is in striking contrast to Chevron’s own 2008 Annual Shareholder Report, which highlights its remarkable financial success, boasting nearly $24 billion in profits last year. “What Chevron’s annual report does not tell its shareholders is the true cost paid for those financial returns, or the global movement gaining voice and strength against Chevron’s abuses,” reads the alternative report.

Organized by a broad coalition of organizations, including Amazon Watch, Global Exchange, Justice in Nigeria Now, CorpWatch, Richmond Progressive Alliance, Rainforest Action Network, and Crude Accountability, the Alternative Report chronicles abuses in Nigeria, the Philippines, Ecuador, Kazakhstan, Iraq, Burma, Canada, and the USA.

It covers everything from Chevron’s successful lobbying of high-level political connections to air pollution, toxic spills, industrial accidents, discriminatory labor practices, human rights abuses, and environmental and health devastation. Its demands to Chevron are clear and simple: clean up your mess, clean up your act, stop aligning yourself with dictatorships and militaries, pay your fair share, and be transparent.

I was among several dozen activists who accompanied the proxy shareholders to the security gate, where they were sent off with good cheer and warm solidarity. Soon after the shareholders went in, six local activists from Unconventional Action if the Bay Area and Rising Tide locked down the main entrance lane by locking their arms in PVC tubes painted yellow with the words “Chevron kills.”

Photo by author

They were soon joined by myself and dozens of others lined up behind them, claiming a space for speakers to explain why we were there. Chevron security forces and San Ramon police did not attempt to remove us. Perhaps they decided not to take action in order not to draw more negative media attention than Chevron is already getting.

The coalition of organizers also produced a clever subvertisement campaign called “Chevwrong” that mirrored and mocked Chevron’s latest “Human Energy” ad campaign. Images of representatives of communities around the world are shown with a quote, such as “I will try not to breathe polluted air” along with a factoid highlighting a particular abuse in a specific region.

The week prior to the meeting, the San Francisco Bay Area saw the appearance of these images wheat-pasted on billboards and poles around town. CBS Outdoor had refused to sell ad space on its billboards. When contacted, the CBS spokesperson said that it was against policy to have attack ads that were negative in character.

Alongside this was a form of subvertisement theater organized in large part by long-time activist David Solnit, author of Army of None. The alternative campaign is meant to speak the truth about the real effects of Chevron’s actions behind the fancy rhetoric of Chevron’s greenwashing campaign. Instead, Chevron’s “Human Energy” becomes “Inhumane Energy” and the subvertisement images read, “I will expose greenwashing,” and “I will expose toxic pollution.” Activists held the ads up to frame their faces behind the subversive words and chanted in unison, “I will expose–green washing! Will you join me? Yes, I will!”

Photo by author

While the shareholder meeting was taking place, speakers from Amazon Watch, National Lawyers Guild, and individuals like Antonia Juhasz–lead organizer and editor of the Alternative Report–and Rebecca Solnit, author of the much-praised Hope in the Dark: Untold Histories, Wild Possibilities, highlighted the grievances against Chevron and the need to keep putting pressure on the big oil giants. One member of Iraq Veterans Against the War told about how he was reassigned from his communications/intelligence duties in Iraq to protect oil pipelines.

At about 10:30, the shareholders came out and shared what occurred in the meeting. It was reported that Chevron’s CEO David O’Reilly told them that the campaign’s Alternative Report, which he claimed he had seen, along with their grievances “are an insult to Chevron employees, and should be thrown in the trash.”

Speakers ranged from the Mayor of Richmond, Gayle McLaughlin, who reported that “Chevron’s response is emblematic of its approach to local communities—a systemic disregard and mockery of the communities in which it operates,” to Christine Cordero of Filipino/American Coalition for Environmental Solidarity, who said:

“While our communities suffer from Chevron’s toxic emissions, catastrophic spills, leakages, and explosions, David O’Reilly speaks of his hurt feelings. This is about the health of communities and, ultimately, the long term of health of O’Reilly’s corporation if he continues to choose to do nothing and ignore the costs of Chevron’s operations in the Philippines.”

Paul Donowitz of EarthRights International added that “Chevron chose to turn a deaf ear to the communities who bear the crippling consequences of its operations. Chevron’s complicity in human rights abuses in Burma, the billions in project revenues flowing to the brutal Burmese military junta who use these profits to oppress their own people are more evidence that this is a company that cares for only one thing – its bottom line.” A dozen or so people from the Burmese community, including a robed monk, were there to oppose Chevron’s actions in their country.

After the speakers finished their reports, the rally was concluded with the chant “We’ll be back! We’ll be back!”—echoing Ecuador representative Mr. Criollo’s promise that “we’ll keep fighting until the end.”

Emergildo Criollo

Avujathse gi ke’ima chiga’bian puiyi’ccu EE.UU suma.

Ja’nu gi va San Francisco kanjen tui gi cundaseya mingae amazonia’su a’indeccu Chevron tson’jen’chune.

I send a cordial greeting to the citizens of the United States in my native language.

My name is Emergildo Criollo, and I am a representative of Cofan village. Today, I am in San Francisco [California] to participate in the annual meeting of Chevron, where I will let the public know the truth about what has happened in my territory since Texaco initiated its operations in the Ecuadorean Amazon, as well as the history-making lawsuit that we are leading in pursuit of justice after 15 years.

The village of Cofan is located along the banks of the Aguarico River. When I was a boy, we drank clean water and hunted animals in the forest. We fished in the river, which was uncontaminated. Before, we lived free of pollution. We had enough food for our families, and enough natural medicine from the forest. With these medicines, we cured illnesses as we’d always done, according to our traditions. But with the arrival of Texaco in 1964, we could no longer use these medicines because new illnesses began to appear as a result of contamination.

It was in 1969 when I saw an oil spill for the first time, which soon flowed into the Aguarico River. Seeing this, we–the members of the Cofan–could no longer live there because there was no place to source clean water. So we moved further into the forest, establishing what is known today as the community of Cofan Dureno.

But the company pushed farther and farther into the forest, drilling more oil wells. We even had a well, Dureno 1, which was inside our own community. That well affected our people tremendously. There were spills and massive water accumulations. The flames of refinery towers were visible day and night. Animals abandoned the forest and fish disappeared from the river.

My two sons died drinking contaminated water. My aunt died of mouth cancer. She also drank contaminated water.

The company is to blame for all of the contamination. They must take responsibility for their actions and begin to clean up the contamination that still exists.

The five nationalities–Siona, Secoya, Kichwa, Huaorani, y Cofán– have organized.

Even now, the people from each of these groups continue dying from cancer. It’s for this reason that I write this letter- so you know how Texaco (now Chevron) affects people with its petroleum operations.

The company entered the Amazon without anyone’s permission, destroying the forest and leaving contamination and unknown illnesses in their wake. Today, the company is hiding the truth, saying that oil spills haven’t caused contamination and that they’re not cancer-causing agents. But I know that’s not true because this illness was never in our community before. And I know that my two sons and my aunt would still be alive today.

Chevron must take responsibility for cleaning up the open pools and sediments in the ground water supply so that my children can drink clean water and breathe clean air. Chevron took natural resources from the Ecuadorean rain forest, but those of us who live here have only received contamination, sickness, and death.

Everything the company says is totally false. I know because I’ve seen and experienced the effects of their actions first-hand. Texaco, now Chevron, wants to maintain a clean image. But for me, the image of this company is stained with oil.

I invite all of you to visit the Amazon where Texaco operated. You can see for yourself. You can see firsthand the contamination. You can say so to Chevron and demand that they accept responsibility.

Today, I’ll be entering Chevron’s headquarters to attend the annual meeting of the company’s shareholders. I’m going to talk face-to-face with the company. I’m going to defend my village and demand justice.

I ask the citizens of the United States to join with the 30,000 residents of the Ecuadorean Amazon in solidarity.

We have been fighting for more than 15 years for the company to clean up the damage it’s done to the environment.

And we’ll keep fighting until the end.

Translated from the Spanish by Julie Schwietert Collazo. To read the original version of this letter in Spanish, click here.

Community Connection:

To learn more about what’s going on with big oil this week, check out this article. And to learn how Chevron’s putting responsibility on consumers (and not the company), read about the company’s most recent greenwashing ad campaign. Finally–and most importantly–to learn how YOU can take action, please visit ChevronToxico.

Photo: Dominic DeGrazier

Run-down. A cold atmosphere. Dirty. Desperate.

Apart from being a bit preoccupied with the swine flu, these were my images of a Mexican orphanage before visiting the Door of Faith Orphanage (DOFO) in Baja California, Mexico. Arriving with a group organized by the all volunteer-run network, Be the Cause, we were 10 individuals ready to help a needy establishment full of less-fortunate children.

But the weekend would be giving us a surprise.

Our first insight to this orphanage’s character began immediately after entering its gates. In between brightly colored modern buildings resides a brilliantly built basketball court surrounded by swings, slides and more playground fun. Run-down? My previously-held thoughts had quickly begun to be challenged.

Kristy, an American volunteer living at the orphanage, guided our group through the buildings and layout of the site. We learned that the orphanage currently houses 105 children ranging from ages of four months to 23 years old. Each dormitory sleeps no more than 15 children, and has a mother and/or father figure living within each building (whom the kids call “Mom” and “Dad”). The rooms and common areas feel like a kid-hotel with their bright walls, drawings, and comfortable-looking beds and couches. My “cold atmosphere” vision happily expired.

Another of the colorful buildings we passed had 30 or so articles of clothing hung up outside. “That is our laundry facility. We have just recently hired a lady to wash the kids’ clothes– about 80 loads a day.” After walking through a litter-free playground area, a few spotless mini-kid hotels, and now learning that a person was employed on site to do nothing more than wash clothes, the dirty thought had become entirely extinct.

At this point, I was confused. Here was a barber shop, a medical facility, an aerobics class, a full dining hall and kitchen, a new nursery being built, and more. “What have we come to help here?” went my selfish, silent thoughts. Kristy then explained that in Mexico, it’s costly and takes a tremendous amount of time to adopt children, especially if they are with siblings. Most of the kids remain at DOFO until they’re 18 years old.

This orphanage is not a conduit for foster parents-to-be to meet their future children. This is a home, a family.

Administrator DJ Schuetze described DOFO’s purpose:

1. Family: With the small dorms housing children and parent figures, the aim of DOFO is to provide a family environment, to raise these children knowing that they are loved and provided for.

2. Education: DOFO believes it’s important for children to attend school outside of the orphanage. This way, the children can learn from another social setting and gain invaluable educational knowledge to hopefully guide them for further studies.

3. Service: Once a month a charity service is performed, with the children reaching out to others who are in need.

Beyond learning about the solid structure of DOFO and its purpose, the children who live here are extremely welcoming and made the trip worth the time.

“Do you have any gum?” I was asked by five year old Juan. Despite my, “No, sorry,” he promptly grabbed my hand and lead me to the swings to enjoy a few minutes of horsing around. The kids value contact with people who come to them to spend a day, or longer, together. A few of the volunteers confirmed the children have memorable connections with visitors who they remember for years. The word “desperate” had faded now as well.

Photo: Dominic DeGrazier

DOFO requires a healthy amount of funding to operate for its 105 little citizens and their community. 70% of DOFO’s funding actually comes from individuals sending in small donations.

If you’re in Baja California and would be interested in donating time or money to DOFO, contact the organization through its website.

And no one in the group experienced any flu-like symptoms, in case you were wondering.

A student at Escuela Taller’s forge

Mompox, Colombia may be a UNESCO World Heritage site, but if you stopped for a short visit, you’d hardly know it. Located on the banks of the Magdalena River, Mompox is geographically isolated, and for the rest of Colombia–especially the government, Mompox is out of sight, out of mind.

There are some magnificent colonial structures here, and a marker designates the spot where Simon Bolivar (or “The Liberator,” as he’s known) set off on various journeys to secure the region’s independence from Spain.

A local fisherman

It’s rumored this is the town that inspired Nobel literature laureate Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s fictional town of Macondo… and the longer you stick around and the more you observe, the more inclined you are to believe that.

But at first glance, there’s not much to recommend Mompox. The streets are dusty. If the weather’s been bad, staple foodstuffs might not have arrived from the other side of the river, though there’s always plenty of Aguila beer.

Unemployment is high, so lots of men spend their days lounging along the river, listening to the same track of songs spool off the bar’s blaring sound system.

They talk about better days–the ones before the dam was built up river, when their fishing and farming actually yielded something to support their families.

9th graders in Mompox

It’s depressing to think about, really. The kids stare at you blankly when you ask about their future plans. College? Dreams?

Many of their parents have left Colombia to look for work in Venezuela. Some of them don’t have electricity. Despite their incredible intelligence and talent, their prospects aren’t promising.

And yet, behind closed doors, there’s lots of homegrown social change going on, led by people who love their community, don’t want to leave it, and aren’t willing to wait for the government to solve their problems.

People like Alvaro Castro.

Castro, an architect by training, is the director of Escuela Taller (“The Workshop School”), a vocational training program that works with both teens and adults to improve their academic and employment possibilities. Castro describes Mompox as a 21st century town stuck in the 18th century. “From the perspective of an architect, this is marvelous,” he says. “But from a social perspective, it’s a disaster.”

Culinary students

Castro oversees an ambitious and diverse cluster of projects that are intended to help some of the town’s most vulnerable citizens: sexually abused children, adolescents from poor families, and former paramilitary members.

The school has several workshops around town; tucked away behind colonial doors, teens learn culinary arts and hospitality service under the direction of a professional chef; 20- and 30-something year old men learn blacksmithing and woodworking; and young women and men are instructed in the art and science of metallurgy, keeping alive a tradition of filigree jewelry making that has made the town famous in Colombia for more than 100 years.

“The purpose of Escuela Taller’s programs,” Castro says, “is twofold: first, to involve young people in education and work, and second, to rescue and sustain our culture by teaching students our traditions.”

A group of students practice in the school’s forge.

The town’s annual budget of $6 million USD is hardly enough to cover all of Mompox’s basic expenses, much less fund programs like Escuela Taller. When I was there, the local nursing home had been operating without any money for eight months. Keeping such services up and running is a job that nobody envies, but which is fulfilled by people in key positions around town by relying upon good will, creativity, and a long credit line.

Castro’s programs–the cost of which exceeds Mompox’s budget several times over– are largely funded by the Spanish government. The investment pays off: 70% of the school’s graduates go on to find work in their field of study, though their jobs often take them beyond Mompox’s watery border.

There’s lots more Castro would like to do– his most ambitious dream is to collaborate more closely with the local government so students can get hands-on experience renovating their own town through the skills they’ve learned, a goal that seems reasonable enough but which is frustrated by bureaucratic red tape. For now, though, Castro’s happy to go home at the end of each day knowing Escuela Taller’s programs are helping his town and its next generation.

Community Connection:

Some of the most interesting social change programs are projects no one outside the local community has ever heard of. What sorts of projects have you seen on your travels? What are the characteristics of successful social change organizations? Share your experiences in the comments.

Interested in visiting Mompox? Matador’s own Richard McColl owns the guest house, La Casa Amarilla, right along the riverbank.

The author takes a nap in her favorite New York City park. Photo: Francisco Collazo

When I was a kid, my parents planted a garden every year–okra, peas, beans, potatoes, broccoli, cabbage, cauliflower, corn, spinach, squash, cucumbers, tomatoes, and more–and I woke up at sunrise many summer mornings to go do the picking. I’d grumble and whine about it, but in retrospect, I loved knowing where our food came from and how it tasted when I ate it raw, still warm from the vine.

My mom would can some of the vegetables and freeze the rest.

We’d eat from the garden’s harvest for most of the year, along with the venison and trout my dad hunted and fished.

I picked blackberries off wild vines running along the driveway, and visited farms not five miles away to pick peaches whose juice was so sweet it would almost make you cry as it ran down your chin because it was that good.

Half of my life was lived there, so I know the value and sustainability of country living.

But I’ve lived the other half of my life in cities–Atlanta, New York City, Mexico City, San Juan, Puerto Rico– so I’ve had plenty of opportunities to experiment with sustainability both in rural areas and in urban ones.

While I’m the last person to advocate a mass exodus from the country to the city (the worldwide urbanization trend poses some serious problems, especially in developing countries), I do agree with the Ford Foundation’s recent observation: cities are leaders when it comes to pioneering effective, far-reaching sustainability practices.

Photo: Julie Schwietert

Here are six reasons why cities can be sustainable spaces:

1. Cities tend to have better public transportation than non-urban areas.

If you asked 10 people in my hometown whether there’s a public transportation system, 9 would probably say “No.” And all 10 would be unlikely to have ever stepped on a public bus, which has limited operating hours and routes. To get anywhere from my home, my family had to drive. But in all the cities where I’ve lived–including Atlanta, whose public transportation system is widely criticized–I’ve been able to get everywhere I needed without a car.

2. Cities tend to be more bike-friendly.

Growing up, I never saw anyone biking the country roads that led to my home. Doing so would have been suicidal– there were no signals, few speed limit signs, or even traffic lines painted on the road, and most drivers operated vehicles according to their own loose interpretation of the law.

In Atlanta and New York, bike paths and lanes are abundant, though hard core cyclists would likely argue that both cities need more. While no one expects Mexico City’s car to bike ratio to shift dramatically in favor of cyclists anytime soon, the Sunday closure of Avenida Reforma–one of the city’s main avenues–for bikers and roller bladers only, as well as an expanding free bike rental program, are encouraging signs that the city government is committed to more sustainable transportation.

3. Cities tend to use space better.

If you drive the “town” part of Spartanburg, South Carolina from one end to the other, you’ll notice how much land has been wasted by building big box stores that developers insist are in demand… and which close just a few years later. These massive buildings sit unused for years, as developers seeking tax credits just move to another part of town and break new ground to open the next big box.

My hometown isn’t unique in this regard; it’s much the same in rural areas and suburbs around the US.

Cities use space better. Though the current economic crisis has seen lots of NYC businesses go under, you can bet these retail spaces won’t sit vacant for too long… and they won’t be abandoned in favor of another parcel of land. Developers and land/building owners in cities come up with creative ideas to make money off spaces in temporary limbo. While they wait for long-term tenants, NYC storefront owners make a fast buck by renting out their spaces for temporary art exhibits or other creative short-term uses.

4. Cities have more green roof potential.

Green roofs improve air quality, reduce urban “heat island” effect, improve insulation efficacy, and can be used to trap and reuse rainwater. And these are just some of their environmental benefits.

Green roofs also offer cost benefits, health benefits, and aesthetic advantages.

While it’s possible to have a green roof in a rural area, cities offer some serious green roof potential that rural areas just can’t match.

More square footage = more space for green roofs.

Greater population density = more hands (and wallets) to help set up and tend green roofs.

One of the biggest urban leaders in green roofing is Chicago. To learn more about Chicago’s green roof initiatives, check out this article.

5. Cities’ food-related carbon footprints often aren’t as big as some people think.

Here in New York, I can subscribe to a Community Supported Agriculture plan and receive weekly boxes of vegetables and fruit from farms less than 100 miles away in the Hudson River Valley. I can buy cheese, milk, and ice cream direct from dairy farmers who live, work, and farm less than two hours away.

In Mexico City, I walked five minutes to my local fruit and vegetable market, which stocked agricultural goodness grown completely in-country– and most, within a 100 mile radius.

Market in Mexico City. Photo: Francisco Collazo

Try walking through the produce section of my hometown Publix. You’re likely to find more countries represented there than in your passport: grapes from Chile. Watermelon, jalapenos, and cilantro from Mexico. Bananas from Costa Rica. Lychees all the way from China. Potatoes from Idaho. And that peach farm I mentioned? Well, it closed a few years ago.

6. Cities offer more opportunities and resources for community building and social change.

Sustainability isn’t just about the physical environment; it’s about the human environment, too.

It was long distance to call my next door neighbor growing up and I didn’t live in a neighborhood, per se. If we wanted to see anyone, volunteer, or participate in the life of the community, we had to get in a car and drive at least 15 minutes to do so.

Photo: Julie Schwietert

There’s lots of talk about the close-knitness of rural communities and the anonymity of city living, but my experience is the opposite. I’ve never felt more anonymous and disconnected from community than when I lived in the country. And I’ve never felt more invested in my neighbors, more hopeful about change, and more clear about how we could work on a common cause, than when I’ve lived in cities.

Community Connection:

What other attributes make cities sustainable? Or would you take a different position? Contribute to the conversation by leaving a comment.

Photo: mikeemesser

10,000 miles. Three mountain ranges. Two deserts.

Each year, teams from around the world come together to cross one-third of the earth’s surface in the philanthropic adventure of a lifetime.

The Mongol Rally was formally organized by Tom Morgan in 2004, after he and some friends got the crazy idea to buy a few diminutive second-hand cars and see how far they could make it from London to Mongolia.

They didn’t succeed, but that idea spawned the formation of The Adventurists, what may now be the world’s premier charity rally organization.

In order to participate in the Mongol Rally all teams are required to raise at least £1000 for one of three official charitable organizations (in addition to the funds needed to actually complete the journey itself). Each organization has a part in improving the lives of Mongolian people through the provision of medical care, education, training programs, and/or water and sanitation programs. Any money raised over and above the initial £1000 may go to the charity of your choice.

Photo: Antonio Bonnano

Teams set off from one of three departure points: England, Spain, or Italy. All teams have two days to reach a set location in the Czech Republic, where they are treated to an official send-off party—a full day and night of live music and general carousing. After this single checkpoint the teams are on their own for the next 9,000 miles or so until they get to the capital of Mongolia, Ulaanbaatar.

Want to take a trip through the sweltering deserts of Iran? How about the reclusive dictatorship known as Turkmenistan? Go ahead—there’s no set route!

There are also no support teams. You are truly on your own.

Photo: Antonio Bonnano

That would be hard enough, but that’s not all.

There are rules in this rally. Number one is the 1.2 liter rule. The car you take mustn’t have an engine over the size of 1200CC’s*. 2009 is also the first year in which your car may not be over 10 years of age—a rule that has unfortunately raised the cost of entry for many participants.

The other major rule is no GPS systems. Not that they’d help you that much—roads as most know them are few and far between once you hit the deserts of western Kazakhstan. Add to that the fact that many of the roads that do exist were last mapped by the Soviets in the 1960s, and that rivers tend to appear out of nowhere due to seasonal snow melt, and you can see why such a device would be little more than a drain on the vehicle’s battery. Old school paper maps and an analog compass all the way.

Photo: vmiramontes

If you’re part of the lucky 70% who actually make it all the way, you will be treated with a pint or two, and have a chance at perhaps the best reward of all: a clean place to sleep (indoors!) and a warm shower. You also get bragging rights for having completed such an amazing journey, as well as the fact that you have helped change the lives of those in need.

Most teams stay for at least a few days to recover and do some sight-seeing, choose to donate their vehicle to charity, and fly back home from there.

I’m lucky to be a part of one of the teams competing in the 2009 rally. It’s not an easy task to prepare for a journey of this magnitude—I’m spending dozens of hours getting ready, and will be devoting about three months of my life and just about every cent I have to doing this. But no matter what the up-front cost, I’m betting that it will all be worth it in the end.

Wish me luck! To follow along on my journey, check out my team’s website.

*You may technically go over if need be, but there will be a fine of £100 for every liter, and you’ll hear no end to the mockery from fellow ralliers. An exception to this rule is if you are taking a vehicle with sufficient comedy value (e.g. an ice cream truck or double-decker bus), or a vehicle that will be useful to the local populace once donated (e.g. ambulances).

Community Connection:

What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done for charity? Or the longest road trip you’ve taken? Share your memories below!