You may or may not have heard of Edgar Rice Burroughs, but your experience of modern media has been quietly [and completely] affected by him. Star Wars, Superman, Avatar, all of that is his fault . . . I’ll explain.

A little intro to Burroughs

After watching John Carter a couple of weeks ago, and loving it, I had to read the book it’s based on, A Princess of Mars, which was written by Burroughs in a world very different than ours today . . . 1912 America.

This guy, who fell into writing as a last-ditch effort to pull his family out of poverty, covers a lot of story in few pages, pulling you forward with that nagging desire to see what happens without bogging you down in too much detail. His intro will give you a good taste for his story-telling ability.

“I am a very old man; how old I do not know. Possibly I am a hundred, possibly more; but I cannot tell because I have never aged as other men, nor do I remember any childhood. So far as I can recollect I have always been a m an, a man of about thirty. I appear today as I did forty years and more ago, and yet I feel that I cannot go on living forever; that some day I shall die the real death from which there is no resurrection. I do not know why I should fear death, I who have died twice and am still alive; but yet I have the same horror of it as you who have never died, and it is because of this terror of death, I believe, that I am so convinced of my mortality.”

Um . . . yes, please. Such an awesome beginning.

Thus started Edgar Rice Burroughs’s career; thus started the ideas that would influence the creators of Star Wars (the Western genre now went galactic . . . Han Solo, Jabba the Hut, all of that good stuff), Dune, Avatar (damaged ex-soldier on a foreign planet with sudden super-human powers falls in love with native princess), and Superman (whose original source of power was the lesser gravity of earth . . .), to name just a few.

E.R. Burroughs has mostly been forgotten. He wasn’t a terribly good author, partly because he wrote so much so quickly . . . in 1913 alone he wrote 413,000 words (Díaz, intro), but his imagination has affected our current fiction in a profound way.

Which brings us to our conversation today:

Race

Burroughs lived in a much more racist time than we do now and that is clearly seen in his books, especially in Tarzan but also in the Barsoom series about John Carter of Mars. Some people lament enjoying his literature as a result, feeling that his creations are tainted with the hate of his time.

But while his books prop up racial distinctions in a very obvious way (A Princess of Mars contains Green Martians, a war-minded savage people to whom White John Carter brings back love and morality; Red Martians whose feathered clothing John Carter compares to the Natives of Arizona; the culturally superior [and White] “Holy Therns;” and the Black pirates, usually just referred to as “blacks,” who are beautiful but incredibly wicked; and even a yellow-skinned people John Carter hasn’t yet found), it also transcends cultural taboos of Burroughs’s day with with interracial love, honor and bravery within other races, and making the White “Holy Therns” as depraved as all the other-colored races on Mars. At one point, Burroughs, via John Carter, remarks “More I am willing to concede–that the First Born (the blacks) are no holier than the Holy Therns (the whites), nor the Holy Therns more holy than the red men.” That statement doesn’t really belong to a 1912 political regressive like Burroughs . . . and it’s little comments like that that make me wonder how racist Burroughs really could have been (of course . . . I haven’t yet read Tarzan . . .).

We live in a society where people commonly say “I’m color-blind,” or “I don’t see race.” I like to think I don’t treat people any differently based on color or wealth or anything like that, and I don’t think I do. We’ve certainly come a long way since 1912 . . . but we might think we’ve come farther than we actually have.

Do we really live in a post-race society?

Junot Díaz, who wrote the intro to the 2012 edition of A Princess of Mars, posed this interesting question with some great facts to help answer it. He teaches about Burroughs often at MIT, and here he replies to one of his students who expressed how upset they were at the racial themes in A Princess of Mars.

“. . . What if the unease was about something deeper? Less about where Burroughs was at with his ‘race stuff’ than where we in this country are at with ours.

“After all we live in a country which we are repeatedly being told is becoming race-neutral, race-blind, where racism is if not already bye-bye then more than halfway out the door. In spite of the fact that by a whole series of metrics–prison sentencing, economic outcomes, health outcomes, education outcomes, access to housing and medical care, casting in T.V. and film–racial discrimination and racial disparities have not only persisted they have in certain cases increased. Post-race claptrap aside, racial segregation continues to be a stubborn feature of our social order; my city, New York, considered the model of American multi-racial diversity, turns out to be third most segregated city for black folks in the nation. The country has experienced massive shifts in demographics–there are more colored people than ever before, nearly a third of the whole country–and yet TV and our movie screens and the halls of our state legislatures are as white as ever. Even the U.S. military, long viewed as a bastion of racial equality, was rocked by a study that reports that “minority service members are more than twice as likely as whites–after accounting for the crimes’ circumstances and the victims’ race–to be sentenced to death” in military court.

“The gulf between our post-racial hallucinations and our omni-racial realities is vast and yet we continue to be sold (and to believe) the same ideological bushwa–race and racism are no longer an issue (unless of course it’s racism against white people we’re talking about).

“Which might explain why these days nothing and no one is racist. A photo likening a black woman to a monkey is not racist. A predominantly white political organization calling a black president a ‘witchdoctor’ has no racial animus. A state representative in Arizona falsely claims that 80 percent of violent crime in his state involves illegal immigrants–he is not racist either. And the legislation that has been passed in states like Arizona and Alabama which more or less criminalizes the lives of undocumented immigrants and threatens the civil liberties of all Latinos and by extension all Americans–that’s not about race either.

“In a post-race country like ours where nothing is racist–where people are more likely to believe in UFO’s than in institutional bias–which does back-flips to obfuscate the operations of white hegemonic power–and thereby ensure its continuance–Burroughs’s ‘racial stuff’–especially his obsession with whiteness and the power it arrogates–must literally be too much. Burroughs’s razaphilia is as shockingly naked as his Martians but these days we prefer our ‘race stuff’ if not utterly erased then at least totally obscured. . . .

“In this light (which is really darkness) I hazard to guess that the problem with a novel like A Princess of Mars for readers like my students is not that it is too fake but that it is too real. Perhaps at the lowest frequency what my students were sensing in Burrough’s often [messed-up] ‘race stuff’ was their own.”

What do you think? I’d love to read your thoughts – share a comment below!

3 comments | tags: A Princess of Mars, John Carter, philanthropy, Post-race society, Race, Racism | posted in Literature, Philosophy

February 18, 2013

Chapter Five – Rio Blanco and Home

By Jefferson

No trip to Nicaragua would be complete without going into the mountain interior. The problem is the bus system. Buses leave to Rio Blanco every four hours, they’re packed, and if you’re late you might have to stand for the whole ride. The solution is to bribe a taxi to break a bunch of laws so you can get to the bus station on time. Oh, what $4 can buy . . .

Now, this probably wouldn’t be a problem for you at all; you’re a responsible traveler, no doubt, and would know when your bus was going to leave weeks before your trip started. I am not. I think travel, like life, is best when not stuck to a strict plan.

Since I didn’t know when our bus would leave and no one could tell me, and since I didn’t want to stand for our five-hour ride if we got there late, I took a taxi to the station by myself, early in the morning, so I could find out. The ride to the station and back took about an hour with the taxi driver stopping and picking up other passengers along the way, and by the time I got back to the hotel Britney and I didn’t have much time. We grabbed all of our stuff, got out the door as quickly as we could, and then I got to do something I’ve always wanted to do, but have never have wanted to pay for.

After hailing a taxi I asked the driver how much it would cost for a ride to the bus station. “50 Córdobas.” “Great, our bus arrives in 30 minutes. If you get us there before then I’ll give you . . . a $100-Córdobas tip.” That’s $4.

It was the most impressive city driving I’ve seen, rivaled only by my experience with New York taxis, but with more broken laws. He went as fast as his little car could take us at every chance he had, took detours through neighborhoods to avoid slow parts of the road, and ran red lights whenever he could get away with it. When we came to a red light and had about 15 cars between us and the intersection, he simply drove on the shoulder of the road until he had passed all the cars, then turned in front of them to wait until the light turned green. We got a seat on the bus and he got his tip.

Into the mountains

The ride to Rio Blanco is long, the bus is cramped, and the road is pot-holed, which makes it hard to do anything except pop a pain pill and think. As an 6-foot 2-inch adult, I’m not designed for the school buses I rode as an elementary student. My tail bone lands firmly on the iron bar of the bench, so I’m forced to slouch or sit with my feet in the aisle, which isn’t an option because of all the merchants and passengers walking past. Britney could have laid her head back, except for how well the bus’s old shocks transferred every bump through the whole metal structure into every passenger, bouncing and jostling with every hole and turn.

With the jewelry cooperative and La Chureca on my mind–still day-dreaming about the possibilities–I looked around at the other people on the bus, a mask of boredom worn by most of them just like it was worn by me. I wondered what they were daydreaming about and how their culture influences their secret ambitions.

Outside the bus everything became a shade of blue, green, brown, and white. The city was behind us, along with its cement and smog, storefronts and graffiti, advertisements and FSLN propaganda, and now it was just mountain and sky, a loud engine, wind coming through the bus window, and my thoughts.

We arrived at María’s on time and prepared a few things so we could leave at four the following morning. We were glad to have a trusted bed and a bed net – we were now far enough inside the country that malaria and dengue fever were a risk.

The morning came and we started what has become my favorite bus-ride of all time – three hours up into the mountains to the community called Naranjo, which I’ve done on both trips to Nicaragua. As an outsider, most people act differently around you. In Nicaragua, especially, everyone is seen as a potential customer. In the mountains, that stops. From the darkness before sunrise to the heat of mid-morning, Britney and I were flies on the wall – strangers in a foreign country observing the daily routine of Nicaragua’s humble farmers. These are cowboys returning after selling milk or livestock in town; young students going to school for the day; families going home with a baby in their arms and a toddler on their lap; and elderly men returning from the city after trying to buy a new horse, but finding out it had a gimp leg.

There was a boy in the front-right seat who had a space available next to him that he wouldn’t give up, even to elderly passengers, until a cute girl got on the bus. I had talked with a young guy on my first trip, on this same bus-ride into the mountains, who had asked me how many girlfriends I had.

“Uh . . . one,” I said.

“Only one?” he asked. “I have a girlfriend in every town!”

I’m sure he was just boasting, but as I looked at the two young people in the front-right seat of the bus I wondered how much of this was a daily routine and whether or not she was happy about it. Were they dating? Did she like that he saved her a seat, or was this just something he did to pick up on cute girls? His family owned the bus, so he stayed on it all day going back and forth into the mountains – were there other girls along the route that he saves that seat for? Naturally, as a camera-happy American, I took a picture so I could journal about it later. I’ve been watching chick-flicks and reading love stories my whole life, but they’re all depicted in American settings. I was thinking about the love story of the future, as America no longer dominates culture and as Nicaragua and other poor countries find their own two feet. This could be the setting for a chick-flick in Nicaragua – two young people flirting on their morning ride into the mountain-farms above Río Blanco.

Since the ride is long and the bus drivers do this route all day, every day, we stop halfway in a little town called Wánawá. Here there is a café with no sign, but known by everyone anyway, to which bus passengers quietly shuffle to eat whatever is cooking: usually fried chicken, hand-made tortillas, slow-cooked beans, and fresh cheese, along with your choice of a few different “frescos.” The smoke rises slowly towards the windows and gaps in the roof, which creates soft rays of light as the sun passes through. The walls are decorated with newspapers and framed photographs of graduations and weddings that are placed on backgrounds of Disney Land or palaces, never against the natural scenery around them.

Our cultures continue to interact in ways I don’t fully understand. Americans take as many pictures with natural scenery behind them as possible – it’s our proof that we were there, with our faces stamped into the photograph in front of the Eiffel tower or mountain scenery to prove it. These Nicaraguans like to place themselves artificially in American or European destinations. They wear American clothing and watch American movies dubbed over in Spanish. The fantasy is an American one, not Nicaraguan. Though certainly they’re proud of their country–they all know how beautiful it is–I wonder when little things like the backgrounds for pictures on the wall will change, when their culture’s appeal will be stronger to them than America’s.

It’s early, but it’s the weekend and it’s Nicaragua – there’s work to be done. Plus, sleeping in isn’t really an option when you’re surrounded by roosters, not to mention to insects and birds of the jungle. Here, farmers talk in the foreground and kids play soccer in the background. A Claro dish can be seen at the top of almost every one of the houses in this little square. Cellphones are new to the area and people need to refill their minutes often. Someone started selling them first, it went well, and everyone else copied. Now you can get your refill anywhere you’d like.

After our little break in Wánawá, it was another hour or so until we arrived in Naranjo. We were there to help give a survey (the director of the program, Tab Barker, wants to start collecting data so he can to measure how much a good school and access to clean water affects education) and we were there for María to meet with the adults of the community so she could coordinate the rest of the work that needed to be done to finish the school. We were also there to dance, to laugh, to eat, and to learn.

To laugh, to eat, and to learn

There were two surveys, one of which was for the kids. Britney stayed with María in one of the houses by the school and Manuel and I walked from home to home to asked our questions. Each time the whole family would come around, bring us a drink and something to eat (again, some of my favorite food – hand-made tortillas and a fresh white cheese called guajada), and we’d chat. One of the questions was meant to determine what the kids liked to do, and Manuel always asked it in a way that made it fun: “I’m going to give you a list of things you could do, and I want you to tell me which things you like to do the most, OK? Do you like to work, go to school, go to church, or play the most? Work?! Well, this one’s going to be a hard worker, isn’t he?! OK, so out of the rest of the three, which do you like to do the most – go to school, go to church, or play? Church?! Well, he’s a serious boy!” I got the feeling that many of these kids were answering with what they thought their parents would like to hear rather than what they’d actually do if they had the choice – some parents even answered for their kids.

Other questions were meant for the adults, to determine their level of income and to survey how many children they have, etc. Tab wanted me to help get these surveys started and report back to him, and I was very interested in helping; this was a good excuse to ask questions I was already extremely curious to know about anyway. It also made me feel like a pampered fool for complaining about my job.

Take this field for example, which has been cleared and is almost ready to plant. First, the trees were cut down; then, organic beans were planted to choke out the rest of the vegetation; and then a man came through with a machete, stooped low so he could reach, and cut everything down as it is seen in this picture. That man was paid 100 Córdobas a day by the other farmer who owns the land, which is $4, something I make in less 15 minutes of sitting down in an air-conditioned room, often googling pictures of cats or complaining that my work isn’t meaningful. My grandma could barely get me to mow her lawn for $35 when I was a kid even though all I’d have to do is walk behind a lawn-mower that moved itself, turn it when I got to the end of a row, and listen to music. It took about three hours to mow that lawn, so I made $11.67 an hour. Then my brother and I would complain about how strict she was when she’d take us around the lawn and point out all the spots we missed and ask us to finish it up or grab the gas-powered leaf blower to blow the grass off the sidewalk. A pampered American, indeed . . . .

Britney’s secret mission

In Nicaragua, dogs are there for the same reason they came around us to begin with – they stay because we have food and we let them because they’re useful. They keep away the snakes, rodents, and everything else that creeps around in the jungle, and warn us if anyone else is coming close. But if they eat the chicken or get in our way, whack. They get pretty good at staying a few feet away but still begging, and they don’t like to get very close.

Britney, with her feminine sensibilities (*bracing for a slap), and being the American that she is, made it her goal to gain the trust of the little dog you see in this picture. She slowly came closer and closer, and Britney would hold on to the food until she came as close as she would, and eventually she even ate right out of her hand. It was quick, though, quick enough to be hard to catch on camera, and this was the only picture I got when she was close. Britney had a friend and the dog had a new source of food, and both felt pretty good about the whole arrangement.

When I feed my dog at home, he, also being a pampered American, lets it sits in his dish until he feels like eating. With three or four other dogs around, as well as pigs and chickens competing for the scraps, these dogs on the farm don’t hesitate and they don’t chew. I tossed them some grilled meat I couldn’t finish (having been fed about eight times that day) and it was gone in a second, the dogs swallowing as quickly as possible so they’d have room in case anything was left, and then looking up at me with their round eyes to see if I had anything else to give. I suspect that having round eyes and eyebrows is one of the gifts of evolution that have kept dogs fed for millenia.

Mountain time

Things go at their own pace in the mountains; clocks don’t dictate what a person does or send them anxiously running so they can be “on time.” We had told every family to meet us at 4:00 in the school for a community meeting and we had showed up a little early. 4:00 came and went, and people straggled in and chatted or watched the movie someone had started on the TV, and no one did anything. 5:00 came and went and I got nervous about wasting people’s time. I didn’t want them to be upset about missing out on the work they needed to do because we had told them to come to a meeting. I asked Maria and she smiled at me and said, “Oh, that’s what we call mountain time. We say 4:00, but people come when they come. When everyone is here we’ll start.” I wonder if I could convince my boss of this philosophy the next time I’m written up for being late.

TV is amazing when you haven’t watched it for awhile. Its pull is almost unavoidable, even if it’s a kid’s program that’s on. When I was a Mormon missionary and I hadn’t watched TV for over a year, I had a companion who was completely useless if a TV was playing in the house – his eyes would be pulled towards it and there was no way to get him back, so I’d have to go on without him. So it was with Britney, and, I suppose, with these people who had only recently obtained electricity and probably hadn’t watched more than a few hours of programming in their entire lives. The movie was Kungfu Futbol and I highly recommend it – after a few weeks of not watching TV it’ll become one of your favorite movies of all time. Britney’s zombie TV-watching face can attest to that.

“Oooohhhh”

Everyone finally having arrived, the meeting began. María is an excellent community connector and she’s also pretty blunt when things aren’t being done as they should be. In this community, there were still some things that hadn’t been take care of (the name hadn’t been painted on the school and the floor hadn’t had a second layer of protective coating placed over it) and María did what she does best and called a few people out on it. The response was good. Everyone came to agreement, some plans were set, and the meeting was done after about an hour.

Dancing

The day’s tasks done, this trip was complete. The next morning we were to travel back to Rio Blanco early in the morning and then catch a bus from there to Managua – eight hours of bus travel in total, before sleeping in a hotel and then leaving by airplane back to the States. We had one night left here in the mountains, away from commerce, away from everything we had to do and that we wanted to become, a night to take a shower outside as the sun set, to chat in the dark with no natural or artificial light to distract us from where we were, and to enjoy Nicaragua.

Without any city lights around for a hundred miles, it gets very dark and the stars all come out. As we chatted outside the home we were to sleep in, María, Manuel, Britney and I, along with a couple of the farmers, darkness fell, but our conversation continued. It was fun, talking and laughing with friends you can no longer see. I think it always is. It reminds me of having sleep-overs when I was a kid and has that mischievous energy we used to get when we did something we weren’t supposed to (“Turn out the lights and go to sleep!”). With people of a different culture, and while speaking a different language, some of the obvious differences between us were taken away with the setting of the sun. We couldn’t see skin color, clothing, or even the mountains and the huts around us. We could have been anywhere and anyone. We were just friends and acquaintances sitting on our back porch and talking.

As the sun set, the fireflies came out. They were larger than any I’ve seen before. Britney had never seen fireflies at all and was completely enamored with them. We went into the large clearing next to the home and tried to catch some of the fireflies with our hands. After failing for a few minutes, Manuel came to help us. Smiling, as he often is, he showed us that the bugs were attracted by light. That’s why they lit up in the first place, he said – to attract mates. He used my cell phone’s flashlight app to get a few to come near and, sure enough, caught a couple for Britney to see.

I felt, for a moment, as if we were in some enchanted forest, the kind we read about when we were kids, and imagined that these were some sort of magical creatures around us, fairies or something else. I grabbed Britney’s hand and placed my other hand on her waste, and told her I loved her. We rocked and turned, laughed and sighed, and smiled against each others’ faces.

In the middle of Nicaragua, a recently engaged couple danced in the darkness, a shifting blanket of fireflies below and around them, stars above.

The long road home

We woke first to the sounds of the mountain farm (roosters, dogs, insects, birds) and then, finally, to the light of the sun. It was cold, and fog had settled in the low points of every part of the mountains, making for beautiful scenery. I snuck back to my cot before the others woke up (it gets really cold at night and Britney and I both had only one thin blanket). We packed our things, Manuel grabbed the desk from the school, and we headed out to the place on the road where the bus would pass and pick us up.

One thing Britney had not yet done, because for some reason the buses we had ridden so far wouldn’t allow it, was to ride on top. When we got to Wánawá, the driver told us it would be OK and we joined four of five other passengers for the hour and a half of the ride we had back to Rio Blanco. This is, I think, the best way to travel, as long as you make sure to duck under the power lines and tree branches.

The sky was cloudless and the sun was warm. We were in that perfect place where the wind from the bus’s movement took away the sting of the heat, but the sun kept us from getting cold. A group of 20-year-old kids were on top of the bus with us, sitting on a spare tire, a chicken inside a bag placed in the tire’s hole. One of them picked up old cocoa beans that had collected in the grooves of the bus’s metal roof, unzipped his friend’s bookbag, and put them in without him knowing. Then he looked back at us and laughed.

We were tired. This was the end of our trip. We lied back on the bags of cocoa beans and alternated between napping and looking up at the trees and clouds passing over head.

The world looks very different when it’s upside down and moving past you, and when you aren’t looking ahead to see what turns you’re about to make. It’s nice just to live in that moment and enjoy it, thinking of how glad you are to be there.

**********

Thanks for reading! If you’d like to read from the beginning, here’s the intro.

I’d love to hear what you think – if you have any feedback, let me know! Or if you’ve gone on a similar trip and want to reminisce about it, I’m all ears.

Also – if you need any help with traveling to Nicaragua, or if you know of any great nonprofits down there that I haven’t talked about, let me know.

Happy travels, friends.

10 comments | tags: blogging, Education, Memoir, Mountains, Nicaragua, philanthropy, Photography, Poverty, travel | posted in Nicaragua, Trips!

February 14, 2013

Homosexuality, Religion, and Philanthropy

By Jefferson

My other blog is about my journey from devout Mormon to Atheist, and I usually keep it completely separate from this blog. Religious debate tends to divide people; my goal on this blog is to bring people together to pursue something we all value – helping other people.

Austin Pride Parade 2012

Today I’m going to risk crossing over because of an issue I care deeply about – gay rights. I’m crossing over because . . . unfortunately many of the problems facing gay people are caused by religious belief about them.

Also, life has placed me in a unique position of empathy; I couldn’t keep myself quiet about it if I wanted to.

You see, my father is gay and I grew up in the Mormon faith. My parents were divorced when I was one, so my dad wasn’t around and I didn’t really know him, but he was still my dad. That had an affect on my religion. I felt like my dad was going to go to hell if he didn’t change and I felt a personal responsibility to help save him. This, along with many other things, was one of the things that led me to become very religious.

Listen, if you’re not interested in talking about this that’s fine. I’m not trying to push a conversation on you that you’re not open to and I’m not looking for an argument. Come back later and let’s keep working together in the areas we agree on.

So, philanthropy

The reason I’m bringing it up here is because there are too many good people suffering.

There are still too many instances of bullying, too many suicides, too many parents kicking their children out of their homes, too much depression, too much mental illness, too many STDs from normal people being pushed to the fringe of our society, too many predators taking advantage of young people who lost all support from family when they “came out.”

The world is changing. The world my dad grew up in was much more difficult for gay people. In fact, if he had been born a few years earlier there’s a large chance he would have been involved in electroshock therapy at BYU. Mormonism has become much more inclusive over the past few years.

Things are getting better, but we’re not there yet.

For example, 42% of homeless youth in Utah are gay. They were shunned, pushed into “reparative therapy,” or left their home for some on their own because of the pressure.

All of these things stem from the beliefs you and I hold about who gay people are and why they do what they do. They depend on the attitudes our kids hold when they go to school and see the effeminate kid being picked on. It starts with us.

So I’ve written about it a lot – mostly on my other blog, but also on Facebook, in the Pride Team Member Network within my job, in letters to family members, etc. Advocacy for gay rights and understanding of gay issues is a core part of my philanthropy.

Here’s the point

My brother and I were interviewed a few weeks ago on a podcast that focuses on gay issues within Mormonism. We talk openly about what it was like for us. If you’re interested in hearing our perspective, you’ll find the two episodes of the podcast here and here.

If you can’t listen, you’ll get the main gist of what I want you to understand in this short article: A Mormon Boy’s Mission to Save His Father.

Talk to me

I’d love to hear what you think! I’m very open about this and will answer any question you have. You can post in the comments below or send me a personal message.

Cheers!

–Jefferson

5 comments | tags: Christianity, Equality, Gay Rights, Homosexuality, Human Rights, Mormon, philanthropy, Politics, Religion | posted in Austin Events, Gay Rights

February 13, 2013

MIT and Harvard For Free – You Want In?

By Jefferson

Every four months:

“Oh my hell . . . I hate my job. I want to go to school again. I wish I would have studied harder when I was going to college a few years ago.”

—-”Yeah, that’d be awesome. Then I could have good debates again, be pushed to explore new ideas, and have a schedule that would push me to learn more than I’m learning on my own.”

“Meh, it’s too damn expensive. Next Winter, maybe (or Fall, or Spring . . .)”

—-”Screw it, I can learn just fine on my own. It’s about self-discipline. All they’re really telling me in college courses is information I could find online anyway.”

15 sticky-notes, 10 iTunes U downloads, and 3 book purchases, and a few weeks later . . . I’m back to the same old dialogue. “Ugh, I hate my job . . . I want to go back to school.”

C’est la vie.

If I’ve learned anything over the past year (and I think I’ve learned a lot), it’s because I’ve learned not to trust myself. There’s the planning Jefferson and then there’s the doing Jefferson, and my planner seems to be full of hot air that only lasts a few days or a few weeks. My planner is a cool guy, he’s always pushing me to do more, but he’s shifty and he knows it. He leaves way too fast. I don’t trust him. I have to rely on my other side to actually get things done long-term. So my planner bought two tickets to Nicaragua last year, started this blog, and told everyone I was going to start interviewing local philanthropists. It’s been great – a seriously fun learning experience filled with a bunch of new friends.

But . . . I need to strong-arm myself into finishing something. Structure of college courses would help.

The skinny

MIT and Harvard came together to form a new platform for ongoing learning, for free. Get amped by watching this video:

Want to join me?

I signed up for the course called The Challenges of Global Poverty and I’m ready to tear it up and start some fun debates on the discussion forums. It’s an 11-week course ala MIT – no shoddy “feel-good” education here, this is the real deal. Every week there are a few reading assignments, some videos, and some homework. Oh, and the discussion board – my favorite part.

You can sign up here, but do it fast – the course started this week. If you don’t have the time, don’t worry – come here and to my Facebook page where I’ll be posting some of my thoughts. Either way, I’d love for you to join in on the conversation.

All you’ll get at the end is a certificate and a bunch of new ideas bouncing around your brain that’ll help you understand the world better.

Who’s in?

(Thanks to “Mean Gene” for tipping me off about this course!)

2 comments | tags: EdX, Harvard, MIT, Online Classes, philanthropy, Poverty, Study | posted in Philanthropy Study

January 30, 2013

The Share the Love Fundraiser is Here!

By Jefferson

A few months ago I talked with Liana Mauro about her experience being stalked and what she’s doing about it now. Her annual fundraiser, Share the Love, is coming up next Wednesday (the 6th of February) and I’d love to see you there with me! (Click here for tickets! Details of the event are all below)

Since that article in October, Liana wrote one of her own, bravely showing her ongoing emotions about how being stalked has affected her and how she made it through. The whole article is great–give it a read!–but here’s one of my favorite parts:

“The repetition of being told that I would get through it, that I had someone who believed in me – in what I was fighting for, in who I am, and in who I would be as a result of this experience – that got me through it. Friends who didn’t care what time it was but would come over in the middle of the night because I was too scared to sleep or just needed someone to be there while I cried. Having someone sit by my side who didn’t tire of hearing me cry, get angry, ask why, take long walks in silence when I needed to be silent, sprint with me when I needed to sprint, and then do it all over again. Having someone who allowed me to experience everything I was feeling without judgment but with encouragement, gentleness, and belief in my path. Being told that when the case was closed that my process wouldn’t really be over and that it was okay. Being told over and over that it was all okay. Being reminded to breathe. Gosh, we need these people! Please be this kind of friend, mother, sister, lover, and father. Don’t say ‘let me know what I can do’, GO and BE with these people – with anyone who’s hurting for that matter. Sometimes the pain is too deep to ask for help and it’s really comforting to know that you aren’t as alone you may feel. BE with people who are hurting. Especially the people you love.”

That’s what this fundraiser is about. Few of us understand domestic abuse and stalking as much as we could, or as much as we might need to if a close friend experiences it. This is a great chance to become more aware and raise money for a great nonprofit at the same time.

But . . . this fundraiser also happens to sound like it’s going to be a lot of fun!

When, Where, What

It will be held at the Molotov Lounge (719 W. 6th Street, Austin, Texas 78701) from 6:30-10:00 PM.
Tickets cost $20, drink specials will be going all night.
Catering provided by Carmelo’s Ristorante
Live music by Abe the Assassin
A “silent auction” where you can bid for a lot of great things donated by Austin businesses, artists, and others. Here’s a list of some of the items available.

Texas Advocacy Project

All the proceeds go directly to Texas Advocacy Project, which gives free legal services to victims of stalking, domestic violence, and sexual abuse. We all know how complicated the law can be, even with normal, daily things. For someone whose life has been turned upside down by a manipulative abuser or stalker these free services are extremely helpful. Access to legal services is one of the few things proven to decrease domestic violence rates, and TAP receives a significant amount of its funding from direct donations every year. You can help by just coming out and having some fun

Just a few harrowing stats about stalking for ya:

76% of intimate partner femicide victims were stalked by their immediate partner. That means there was a period of time where the woman’s partner was monitoring, controlling, tightening their grip, threatening, and manipulating . . . SEVENTY SIX PERCENT of women who are killed by their immediate partner were stalked before – we need better and quicker protection for them, and more awareness of the resources.
54% of femicide victims reported stalking to police before they were killed by their stalkers. They reported it but didn’t get protection in time (or they didn’t push for protection out of fear, love, or promises from their partner).
46% of stalking victims fear not knowing what will happen next.
46% of stalking victims experience at least one unwanted  contact per week.
11% of stalking victims have been stalked for 5 years or more.
29% of stalking victims fear the stalking will never stop.
The prevalence of anxiety, insomnia, social dysfunction, and severe depression is much higher among stalking victims than the general population, especially if the stalking involves being followed or having one’s property destroyed. (“The Toll of Stalking,” Journal of Interpersonal Violence, 17, no. 1 (2002):50-63)

(most of these stats come from the Bureau of Justice Statistics Stalking Victims Survey from 2009 and 2012)

So come grab a drink with me next Wednesday, enjoy some live music, and help lend a hand (and a dollar) to one of Texas’s great nonprofits!

One last quote from Liana

“In the short-term it’s easier not to do anything about it because you just want to move on with your life. What I recognized was that in not fighting, I was implicitly telling him that he could go do it again and get away with it. I was determined that if I could stop him from doing this to just one more person I would undergo however long it took to do it. I recognized that, as with everything, we have a choice – to live in fear and be quiet, or to stand up and tell the world that it’s WRONG and that there is absolutely no shame in what I went through . . . I refuse to be quiet about this.”

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5 comments | tags: Austin, blogging, Charity, Domestic Abuse, Domestic Violence, Fundraiser, Nonprofit, philanthropy, Stalking, Texas Advocacy Project | posted in Austin Events

December 31, 2012

2012 in review

By Jefferson

2012 has been a year of blogging – I’ve started five blogs this year (OK, so . . . maybe six or seven), but have only consistently contributed to two: The Weekend Philanthropist and The Accidental Atheist.

For this blog, I traveled to Nicaragua twice, interviewed six philanthropists (abroad and local), and did a lot of reading. I’ve found a lot of joy in learning to express myself more clearly and look forward to another year of writing in 2013.

As a cap to the year, here are the 2012 articles from this blog I’m the most happy about, along with an annual report from WordPress down below. Enjoy!

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1) The 3 Donation Projects Funded By You! and 4 Donation Projects Funded By You! Two days before my first trip to Nicaragua I had the simple but powerful idea to have others donate through me. $10, 25, or 100 at a time (or whatever they wanted), we pooled together $250 on the first trip and $775 on the second. I looked for chances to use that money for donation projects while in Nicaragua, and the result was amazing. I feel like I’ve learned so much from those experiences and have gained lifelong friends in Nicaragua as well. What started as a simple and random idea has become the best part of traveling and has given me, donors, and recipients some of the best memories from 2012.

2) A Plane, a Reader, and an Alien Country. I’m always trying to get better at expressing my wonder for nature and for the people I meet in a way that captures my feelings and thoughts in a sincere and meaningful way. This article is one of my favorites so far. Writing the first draft was very clunky and disjointed, but I gave it a few days and was very happy with the result.

3) Travis and Sophie – Hippie Capitalists – PW #3! Half-way through the year I decided to dabble in some quasi-journalism. I wanted to give a spotlight to people who were doing great work as well as have a good excuse to ask them a million questions. The first article I wrote was so difficult. I sat with writer’s block for about an hour-and-a-half with the fully transcribed interview and notes in front of me before the words finally started to flow. As I did more of these interview articles it became easier and more fun. This one, on Travis and Sophie’s business, Teysha, was the most popular by views. They and the other philanthropists I wrote about have become great mentors and friends, full of great advice as I approach the launch of my first nonprofit.

4) Chapter 2 – Volcanoes, Drunks, and Polio. When I got back from my first trip to Nicaragua I had a lot I wanted to write about. Life and distractions slowly but surely distanced me from the memories, and I never got around to writing my experiences down in full. I didn’t want that to happen again, so on my second trip I pushed myself to do a five-chapter memoir including interesting and boring detail, I’m sure. In my fixed pursuit of the goal to write it all in a week, I went too quickly and didn’t make the memoir as good as I would have liked, but it still turned out OK. This chapter was the reader favorite (and yes, I still have one more chapter to go to finish it).

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As 2013 approaches there are many new exciting plans I have for this blog. Thanks for being a part of it! Please let me know what you think about it, what you’d like to see, or whatever else you’d like to say.

If you’re curious, you’re welcome to read the full report from WordPress that shows some of the stats from The Weekend Philanthropist.

Also, again if you’re curious, you can check out the annual review of my other blog, The Accidental Atheist, along with the four posts I’m the most happy about and the things I’ve learned from them.

3 comments | tags: 2012, blogging, Donation Projects, Nicaragua, philanthropy, travel, writing | posted in Uncategorized

December 18, 2012

Christmas in La Chureca: Be Awesome and Buy Some Jewelry!

By Jefferson

When I think about developing countries, one of the first things that comes to my mind is busy, hectic markets, people haggling for lower prices, and some serious pressure to buy every single thing from every person you pass.

Millions of different people search for their own ways to make a living, copying each other when someone finds something that works. A guy hops on a bus to sell soda, riding with the bus for a few kilometers and shouting “Gaseosa! Gaseosa barrata!” over and over again, then gets off and rides another bus back, making a profit of 4 to 8 cents from each soda he sells. People copy him and soon there is a vibrant market around buses: people selling nuts, ice water, bandanas, jewelry, candy, packets of fruit, everything you can think of. (It’s a simplistic way of viewing it, but you get the point).

La Chureca

The tough and highly competitive economy is one of the things that drove people to the trash dumps to find a living – some of them went there and found that they could sell enough trash to survive, and others copied. After a huge earthquake in the 70′s which left hundreds of thousands of people homeless, some people went to “La Chureca” and many have stayed ever since.

They’re at a crossroads now: the dump has been closed and one person from each family has been given a job at a recycling plant. It’s very exciting!

But . . . there are still many problems, the largest of which is that they’ll actually be making less money per family than they were before. They’re working hard to find new sources of income . . . and you can help.

Four months ago, Manna Project International brought some of the women together, paid a Nicaraguan jewelry-maker to teach them to make beautiful jewelry, and gave them supplies to start. So . . .

This Christmas, buy the gift that keeps on giving!

Ha, I almost died putting that cliche on the computer, but . . . it works. I’ll show you how. With every piece of jewelry you buy, you:

Help these women in their goal to find new income. I really liked the jewelry I saw from them and want them to do well. The more of these that sell in the States the more income these women have available to them, the more opportunities they have to get better at jewelry crafting.
Are connected more to their story. With how unique this jewelry is, people are going to ask you questions. It’s a great chance to let more people know about poverty in Nicaragua and one great way of helping them pull out of it.
Um . . . well, you look awesome, of course.

Every cent of revenue I get from this will go back into the community – either by buying more jewelry from them or by donating to Manna Project International.

So there ya go! Be the awesome flower child you are, buy some amazing jewelry, and help out some of Nicaragua’s poorest (and great) women at the same time. What more could we ask for?

Here’s my attempt at an awesome phrase for this whole thing . . . are you ready?

“Buy it because it’s beautiful. Wear it because you’re . . . beautiful? A hippie with some amazing taste in jewelry? Awesome?” Um, well . . . ya, that’s where my awesome jingle comes to an end. I’m still ironing out the details, as you can tell.

Click here to go to the store:

Since you’re awesome and you made it this far in the blog post, here’s a coupon! Use the code “ChurecaBlog” and you’ll get free shipping on anything over $18. Yes, $18 seems random.

Some pics for your viewing pleasure

Do you want your jewelry shipped straight to someone else for Christmas? Send me an email when you order and I’ll do that, include whatever personal message you want, and even gift wrap it for you.

Whew, giving just got easy.

1 comment | tags: Artisans, Christmas, Jewelry, Nicaragua, Nonprofit, philanthropy, travel | posted in Donation Projects, Nicaragua

December 7, 2012

4 Donation Projects Funded By You!

By Jefferson

On my first trip to Nicaragua I asked you to donate a few bucks through me; I would keep my eyes open on my trip and get something nice for a random person along the way. You donated $250 that went to three great people, and that article has become one of the favorites on this blog. It showed many of us how far even a small donation can go in making someones day a little better and, I feel, connected us to those people in a real way. When I opened up the donation pool for this trip 33 people were involved–family, friends, and readers–donating a total of $775! The smallest donation was $5 and the largest was $100, and every one of those dollars counted. Here are the stories of the four little projects we did we those donations.

Mariselda Bonía Martín

Mariselda lives on Ometepe Island in the community of Los Ramos with her two parents and three siblings. She is 10-years-old, loves math and reading, and she also happens to have polio. Polio has affected her ability to walk normally, giving her stiff limbs and tight tendons that don’t respond well. Her parents started taking her to therapy when she was two-years-old, a long and expensive trip across the lake to Rivas. The treatments went well and she learned to walk on her own, but over time her tendons have tightened again. She can no longer walk safely, especially on steep and rocky paths around her home.

We approached their house with Ever Potoy, our new friend who was showing us around the community, and sat down to chat. It took a little prodding to get her to talk with each question we asked, but we slowly got to know her. After talking awhile with her mom and explaining what we do, I asked Mariselda what she would like us to do for her. She didn’t answer for a couple of minutes, but we waited, wanting to get her what she wanted more than what we thought she should have. I said, “If we could get you anything, what would you want?” At this point I hadn’t used any of the money in the donation pool – though I wasn’t going to use it all on one person, I wanted to do something important for her if I could.

Finally she answered: “To be able to walk.” We spent the next twenty minutes asking what we could do to help her with that. What she probably needs is another medical operation that could cure her of polio, but since we couldn’t afford that we went with the next best thing.

We used $184 for Mariselda (4,416 Córdobas)

A new bike so her dad can take her to therapy – 2,000 Córdobas ($83)
A seat for the back of the bike that Mariselda could sit on – 180 Córdobas ($7.50)
A wrench for the bike – 100 Córdobas ($4.20)
A new bed (she was sleeping on a wooden board with foam on it, we figured she deserved something nice just for her) – 1,500 Cóordobas ($62.50)
Some spending money for a few other things (tubes for the bike, a charger for her school computer that has educational games and stuff like that on it, and books) – 500 Córdobas ($20.80).

At her young age there still may be a chance that therapy will enable her to walk, but she needs to go twice a week. With how busy both of her parents are it was impossible for them to do that on foot. To help you understand their family’s income, every year Mariselda’s dad rents an acre and half of land for 2,500 Córdobas ($104). He plants beans, rice, and corn, and then sells that, earning about 5,000 Córdobas from each harvest ($208). I think there are two or three harvests each year. Buying that bike on his own is probably something he never would have been able to do.

My friend Ever is going to continue sending pictures as she goes to therapy. I really hope her therapy works! She is a bright girl with a lot of potential, her family just didn’t have enough money to do this themselves.

La Chureca

The next three donation projects were all in La Chureca, Managua’s city dump, where over 1,000 people live, sorting through trash and selling what they can. There are already some nonprofits doing great work to assist them with living healthily and transitioning to a different life. There are a lot of needs there. The following three tell the story of La Chureca well, showing a variety of the issues that confront the people and the things that can be done to help.

Santa Reina

Santa Reina was 6-years old when her family moved to La Chureca, coming in from the mountain farmlands of Matagalpa shortly after her mother died. When her father couldn’t find any work they moved onto the trash dump to make enough money to survive. Her father was abusive and negligent. Santa Reina and her sisters had to find their own food until they got boyfriends and left home, Santa Reina at age 15, but they didn’t move away from the dump: it is home, it is the life they know. Santa Reina told me, “Even though it’s a house of plastic, here I am with my companion and my two children.”

A few months ago, Santa Reina became very pale and started bleeding from her gums. The bleeding wouldn’t stop, she became increasingly weak, and finally went to the hospital where she stayed 42 days before leaving to be home with her kids. She was diagnosed with a rare blood condition called aplastic anemia, an extremely dangerous disease in its advanced stages with Santa Reina. Her doctor believes she only has a few more months to live.

Anemia, in its general and less severe form, is a condition that affects the usefulness of red blood cells. Sickle Cell Anemia, for example, is a specific type of anemia in which red blood cells are crescent-shaped, inhibiting them from doing what they’re supposed to be able to do. Anemia is common in impoverished areas. Without enough nutrients like iron, B12, and folate, our bodies can’t produce the red blood cells it needs to operate healthily.

Aplastic anemia is an advanced and rare type of anemia affecting not only red blood cells, but the production of white cells and platelets as well. Without enough red blood cells to carry oxygen, enough white blood cells to fight infection, and enough platelets to stop bleeding, those in advanced stages of aplastic anemia don’t live for long without treatment. While many people in La Chureca are diagnosed with Anemia due to malnutrition, three have been diagnosed with aplastic anemia. They happen to all live next to each other.

With a probability of 1.5 people out of 1,000,000 for someone to contract aplastic anemia (in the US, but it’s the only stat I have), the likelihood that three people who live next to each other will all contract the disease is almost impossible unless it was caused by a toxin common to all three. The dump is very toxic, but John Doty, a doctor from Austin who helps fund the clinic, thinks the cause was likely lead. Residents of La Chureca breathe fumes from burning trash, touch the toxins directly that are left behind on old trash, and have been known to fish and do laundry in the highly polluted pond by their community.

Decades of trash runoff has accumulated in the pond. The highest toxicity levels have been found in the people who lived closest to it.

At this point, Santa Reina’s treatment is just about trying to help her have a comfortable life before she passes. The permanent solution to this in the States is a bone marrow transplant or a treatment based specifically on the toxin that caused the condition. Even with a bone marrow transplant, which would be very expensive, she probably wouldn’t live longer than five years more.

By getting blood transfusions, Santa Reina’s blood is replaced with the healthy blood of someone else. Temporarily her body all the blood cells it needs again. Volunteers say she’s instantly happy, energetic, and talkative after returning from the hospital. As the days pass she becomes weak, begins bleeding from her gums again, and starts to faint easily.

Yoanna and Sarah playing behind me while talking with Santa Reina. Sarah is one of the children with aplastic anemia

We used a total of $271 to fund the clinic in doing the following things:

To provide extra medical care for Santa Reina. Right now she’s receiving a little more than one transfusion a month. We wanted to help her have more frequent transfusions, if possible. We hope more transfusions will mean she’s at home with her kids more often, something extremely important to her (when she was hospitalized for 42 days she eventually just got up and left because she didn’t want to be away from her kids for that long).
To pay for tests to see what caused the blood condition. Though Santa Reina is at the end of her life, it’s possible that something could be done for the neighboring kids. With a better understanding of what caused their aplastic anemia more effective treatment can be given. MPI has a volunteer who is a pre-med student, JJ, who has taken special interest in Santa Reina. JJ will work with Dr. John Doty, sending him information he needs to do remote tests from Austin, TX.
To provide iron supplements, mouthwash, and milk for her and the kids. Iron competes with lead and other toxins in blood cells, decreasing the amount of time it takes for the body to remove toxins, as well as being a main nutrient needed in red blood cells. Mouthwash is for those times when Santa Reina’s gums are bleeding and she can’t brush her teeth.

This video is eight-minutes long, I didn’t have time to cut it, but just wanted to let you hear her voice and see her personality. I’ll subtitle it later.

Right now volunteers have been paying for some of the things for Santa Reina out of their own pocket. She’s technically outside of their mission, but they all love her, she’s very nice and always happy to see them, and they want to help. Hopefully this donation will help alleviate some of that cost.

Scholarships

Esmeralda is the head nurse and social worker in the clinic within La Chureca. Being Nicaraguan herself, and with 10 years of experience in giving medical and social care to residents of La Chureca, I’m not sure there are many people who understand their needs better than her. In our candid conversation about issues in La Chureca she brought up an unmet need – scholarships for promising children to go to private school outside the dump.

As she and the principle of the school explain it, going to private school means more opportunity for the children: smaller class sizes, higher discipline, access to a psychologist, a library, and a computer lab. Also, children are given incentives to be the best in their class – the top student in each class has their tuition cut in half. They begin English courses from preschool all the way through 15-years old, an absolutely huge competitive advantage for them (there are many telecommunication companies that pay very well in Managua, and more opportunities to come as Nicaragua develops).

We used $210 on scholarships, giving two children the opportunity of a better education

$80 each for beginning of the year costs (books, supplies, uniforms, etc.)
$25 each for the first month’s tuition

Meet the students:

Judith Mercedes Contreras Betancur – 11 years old, in 4th grade of primary school.

Roberto Antonio Martinez Chavez – 15 years old, in 1st grade of secondary school.

We’ve only provided the first month’s tuition for these two students – if you’d like to become one of their permanent sponsors please let me know! It costs exactly what is above – $25 a month, $80 at the beginning of the year. Esmeralda will be coordinating all of this in her spare time – I’ll send her the money each month and she’ll send me receipts, grades, and she’ll also send letters from the kids to the sponsor so you can be up to date (again all her idea). Also, if one of the kids gets the best grades in their class and earns half-cost tuition, we’d like to do something special for them. Kids have two breaks each year–one in summer and one in winter–and Esmeralda would like to give them the money they saved on tuition as spending money.

The impact of a good education can make a huge difference for a child – consider signing up to support one of these two

Jewelry Cooperative

Picture courtesy of Manna Project International

There are a lot of challenges facing the people of La Chureca. With the Spanish program almost at completion, residents will be moving into their new homes shortly. It’s a great opportunity, but presents a lot of challenges as well. For example, they won’t be able to bring their animals with them, they’ll have less income, and they’ll have to pay electricity and water bills for the first time of their lives.

Four months ago, Manna Project International launched a jewelry cooperative, bringing women together to learn a new skill and have the chance for more income throughout their lives. MPI received a $27,000 grant from Walmart to get started, but will soon be self-sufficient from sales.

They’re selling the jewelry in local malls and in the Airport, and are constantly looking for new retailers in Nicaragua, but so far haven’t found anyone to sell it in the States.

I’d like to help with that.

Made from cans and bottles

We purchased $105 worth of jewelry with your donations and brought it back with us to get started, and are working on being permanent retailers, hoping to provide consistent demand for their jewelry to help them have a better life. More details to come

Special thanks

First of all, thank you so much to everyone who donated! I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I do. I’ll do my best to keep you up to date with our new Nicaraguan friends so you know how things are going.

Also, thanks to the nonprofits and people who helped me while in country. Outmore Adventures, Manna Project International, Austin Samaritans, and the many others I’ve come into contact with since.

If you’d like to help

This trip was part of my continuing goal to understand philanthropy and find the type of nonprofit work I want to focus on. I’m looking for an unmet need that matches my skill-set, something that I believe in passionately enough to [hopefully] make a long term impact.

I’ll be going on more trips, every 4 or 6 months. I pay for the trips myself, but open it up to you to donate through me. 100% of every donation goes to the people the donation was meant for – I pay all the PayPal, ATM, and conversion fees. If you’d like to be a part of it next time just send me an email and I’ll let you know when I’m accepting donations!

Also, if you’d like me to take a look at your nonprofit or an organization you think is doing some great work, I’d love to hear from you!

Check out the album on Facebook

Thanks for coming, and please – share this story with your friends

16 comments | tags: Anemia, Charity, donations, Jewelry, La Chureca, Managua, Nicaragua, Ometepe, philanthropy, Polio, Social Entrepreneurship, travel | posted in Donation Projects, Nicaragua, Trips!

December 5, 2012

Chapter 4 -Poverty and Happiness in La Chureca

By Jefferson

I’ve never felt comfortable with charity advertisements that display starving children with vacant looks in their eyes. I have yet see a child with that expression. After going to the mountains of Nicaragua and finding out how little the farmers there earn I thought maybe I didn’t notice those vacant-faced children because of the beautiful surroundings or because kids were excited to see a gringo, but in La Chureca I was left without an excuse. Here is a place with almost every possible problem of extreme poverty. Where were the sad children I’ve been seeing on billboards and TV spots my whole life? I’m sure it’s true, that I don’t see the whole picture, but I have yet to see it myself, even once.

It’s the happiness that moves me the most. It’s the deeper realization that these people are exactly like me. It’s playing soccer with them in an alley, saying “Pass it to me!” to a kid named Jeffrey, when my name is Jefferson. It’s panting to catch my breath after trying to get the ball past Alejandro. It’s laughing with them and giving high fives. It’s going by the school and having a little boy I didn’t know come and hug my legs because he wanted me to pick him up and talk to him. It’s seeing these things in contrast with the difficulties they live in that motivate me.

But showing happy children, apparently, doesn’t tug on the heart strings of consumers enough to get the donations needed. While the ad runs over our flatscreen TVs and we watch from our plush leather couches we see see these children depicted as destitute, depraved, down and out, sad and dying, and I don’t think we connect. To the degree that these tear-jerking ads take away from that human connection they take away from what could be done to help. They place these people in a world that can’t be understood by us outsiders, we who have never gone hungry a day of our lives unless it was on purpose. I’m not saying the sad children don’t exist, but that nonprofits use that image too much.

That’s also why I’m not going to claim that the work I’m doing is anything amazing. If you were to go on a trip of your own you’d find that seeing poverty isn’t some holy experience that transcends normal daily routine. I say that only because most people who return from a trip, when asked about it, get a faraway look in their eyes, shake their heads slowly, and say something like “It was amazing . . . .” Really, it’s a lot of riding on uncomfortable buses, walking down dusty paths, and talking with normal people. It’s a lot of normal things, a lot of regular work. It’s rewarding, yes. But it’s ordinary. I travel to other countries to learn about poverty, meet new people, and see if I can do something to help. If I go to great lengths to brand these trips as something great, I’m such an awesome person, or wow, look at me!, which I think many writers do, I might get more readers or more donations, but I wouldn’t be telling the truth. If I do take artistic license and exaggerate what poverty is like I’m robbing you of a genuine experience and setting unrealistic expectations for the service you give yourself.

Walking into La Chureca

Walking into La Chureca was the most intimate exposure to poverty I’ve ever had. Today I’ll take you with me on a tour through the dump, showing you the only images my camera captured – images of happy people just like you and I living in an incredibly difficult place.

We took a taxi to the entrance of La Chureca, Managua’s city dump, and met up with some volunteers from Manna Project International to look around and meet some of the 1,000 or more people who live there and sort through the trash for a living. As we rode we started asking questions to one of the volunteers who probably didn’t realize beforehand how incessantly we were about to quiz her. The little taxi bounced over the dirt road, the sun was up and bright, the air cool and dusty, and we chatted about the things around us.

The homes are made from materials scavenged in the dump: wooden frames, if there is a frame at all; walls formed from sheets of plastic, old banners, advertisements, chicken-wire, sheet-metal, or wooden boards; and roofs formed from metal or plastic. They are clumped together in seemingly random neighborhoods, separated and accessed by dirt paths crossed often by trails of opaque white water, non-useful trash laying everywhere. Dogs, all stunted from quick successions of generations that ate very little, can be found curled up under shade at almost every turn.

Being pulled in two directions

Within this bleak and destitute setting are beautiful and happy children, smiling, laughing, and playing together. Britney and I had the unique opportunity of meeting the families – we didn’t just drive around the dump, snap some pictures, and check La Chureca off of our list. We wanted to understand these people, hear their stories, and see what it was like to be them, as much as possible, anyway. It was at once humbling to see how little they live on, confusing to see some who wouldn’t participate in programs that were there to help them and their kids, and frustrating to find gaping holes in government aid programs aimed at relocating them and giving them a new type of work.

With most poverty I’ve observed, I recognize it, I hear how little they make and see how little they have, but I still feel like they are normal, they’re doing OK, and they live a good life. I see how their life is rewarding in spite of challenges. Nonprofits help them have more opportunity, better healthcare, loans, education, water, all of those amazing things, but they’re still just regular people you can sit down and chat with.

Those who live in La Chureca give me that same feeling, but embittered with a strong resistance to their way of living. It’s difficult for an outsider to understand, but many of them choose to be there in the dump. They have the same characteristics found in every other type of society: pride for their lifestyle, fear of change, and stubbornness in their ways of doing things. They also live in a highly contaminated area and their children contract stomach viruses from eating bad food and walking without shoes. Drug, alcohol, and domestic abuse rates are very high. Living their life is dangerous to them and their kids.

I can see myself in them, understand their decision, and take pride with them in their possessions because I know how hard it was for them to obtain them. The sense of horror at the way they live comes from concern for their well being – an acknowledgement that I, if I were in their place, would have a much shorter lifespan, much more sickness, much less confidence, much more likelihood of being addicted to drugs, and much less education. I would work hard from when I was young, chastised by my dad if I didn’t. As a boy, I would be likely to have over a dozen sexual partners in a month. If I were a girl, I would be likely to become pregnant with my first child at 13, the father would be resistant to providing for it or taking responsibility, I would be encouraged not to use birth control because it’s expensive, I may become a prostitute for truck drivers so I could feed my family, I would be at high risk for HIV, I would have a much higher chance of being a victim of domestic abuse, both as a child and an adult.

So it was that when going through La Chureca, and when thinking about it now, I was pulled by two sides: the basic human connection on one, deep pain on the other. The first is the side that related with the people, played soccer the kids, picked up a boy who hugged my legs, and turned the camera around to take pictures of myself with four smiling kids who were excited to see their image in the LCD screen. The second was the side that saw the high number of risks and problems they encounter every day.

These sides make it difficult to approach the problem of philanthropy–you want to give them opportunity, but can’t and don’t want to force change they don’t want–but they also increase the desire to act to help them. When I found an unmet need, a way I could help the other nonprofits be more successful in each of their initiatives, I was very excited. I’ve lost more than a little sleep thinking about it.

The little boy who hugged my legs. In this picture he’s correcting me because I couldn’t get his name right

The Spanish development plan

You would probably be shocked to find out these people have new homes about a half mile away, with a recycling plant offering a job to one person of each household, yet many of them won’t move in. This is a perfect example of one of the problems with big government aid: they try to solve things right now, dump millions of dollars into the project, and don’t consider all the possible effects. If we were to give that money to small projects that are doing things that work on a small budget we’d see slow, steady change. Here’s how it happened:

In 2007 the queen of Spain visited Nicaragua and toured through La Chureca for a part of her trip. She saw the deep and destitute poverty, was moved by a desire to help, and pledged her support. Since then, Spain has invested $45 million in three projects: building new housing for residents of La Chureca in two sites, one inside the dump and one right outside; covering all the open trash with dirt; and building a recycling plant. The project would close the dump and convert it to an efficient recycling plant, giving residents a good job and a good home.

If you or I were in La Chureca, born there and victim there to the many difficulties of that lifestyle, we would probably latch on to that program as soon as we could, right? Here’s an opportunity for a real home, a real job, and a healthy future for me and my family!

In January 2011 came the first “move-in” date. The government set the date, told the communities, and then crossed their fingers. It came and passed without event and officials decided to push the date forward to March, then to July, then to November 15th, and then to November 20th. At the time of reading this the date will have been pushed forward one or two more times.

The new housing in the back, the old housing in the front, buzzards everywhere.

To the volunteers who have been working in the area for years this has come as no surprise. There are three main problems with the Spanish project.

First of all, residents of La Chureca currently have water and electricity provided for them by the city, but they’ll have to pay for it themselves when they move. Besides the burden of increased expenses, they’re going to have a hard time paying a bill – almost all of them are illiterate and have never paid a “bill” in their lives, living on cash with their own internal economic system. They understand money, but getting them to pay bills will take training to read and understand them first, which is not part of the Spanish plan.
The second problem is income. The average income of someone who sorts through trash in La Chureca is $8-10 a week, or $34.60 to 43.30 a month. That means that if a family of six is sorting through trash–the father, four kids, and the mother–they’re bringing in $207 to 260 a month. Under the new plan the dump will be shut down, but the head of the household will receive a job at the recycling plant with a wage of $100-130 a month (minimum wage in Nicaragua).
The third problem is that residents won’t be able to bring their animals to their new homes with them. That makes sense since it probably wouldn’t be healthy to have a bunch of animals in those concrete homes, but it’s another quick, forced change of lifestyle.

Other concerns

There are other smaller problems with this quick-change approach. What will the people do with their homes? They’ve built them up over a period of years by scavenging valuable materials from the dump. These are people that value everything, so I don’t see them giving it up. I think they’ll bring their old homes with them, along with other things, and soon their new homes will be as filled with trash as their old ones. There is a neighborhood outside La Chureca where others from other impoverished areas have already been moved. Doesn’t that create a situation that favors the worst in the society? There is a lot of drug abuse, theft, prostitution, and violence right now, but people basically know who the bad ones are. Put them in new housing next to strangers in the same economic situation and anonymity favors the worst of them. It will be a rough transition.

In short, moving into the new homes means more expenses, lower income, and a changed lifestyle. I’m not sure whether these problems stem from idealistic philanthropy (thinking the people would run to these new homes if given the opportunity) or poor planning (not considering the negative effects of quick change pushed by outsiders), but the Spanish don’t seem to be willing to consider them even now when it’s brought up by the volunteers who are concerned for the people they’ve been assisting for years. It seems that the already strained nonprofits will have to take on more responsibility to help residents of La Chureca adjust to their new lifestyle.

A rare opportunity

The day was done, and we headed back to the clinic one more time before calling in a little taxi and leaving La Chureca for the day. Esmeralda, the head nurse, came up and said if I had any questions she’d love to help me out. I told her I’d love to take her to lunch or dinner when she was done with work and she took me up on it.

I was glad to have the chance to interview someone from the clinic about La Chureca–I still had a hundred questions and wanted to see this issue from multiple perspectives–but didn’t yet appreciate how important and rare of an opportunity this was. I’ve done a few interviews for this blog and have gained a general sense of when someone is saying something important. In some interviews I left with one quote in mind, often telling Britney, “Yeah, it went great, and I got the most golden quote of all time.” This informal interview with Esmeralda quickly gained that feeling of importance. I had the chance of talking with someone who had been working hard in La Chureca for a decade as a nurse and social worker, possibly making her the person with the most experience in La Chureca. This interview would give me more correct and clear information than weeks of study on my computer.

We got some chicken, a couple of beers, and had a straightforward, comfortable conversation about issues in La Chureca. She first started working in La Chureca 10 years ago, when it was closer to a living hell than the mild version seen now. She said the first time she walked into the dump she saw an image that would come to her mind every time she thought about La Chureca: an eight-year-old boy was fighting against a vulture for a piece of bread, the boy holding onto one end and the vulture to the other. I knew, by the end of our chat, that this was a selfless person with real expectations of what could be done for people in La Chureca, and if I could do something to help her accomplish what she wanted the result would be great. I wonder what would happen if Spanish developers had consulted people like her instead of trying to solve all the issues as an outsider coming in to save the day?

Two days later we decided on three donation projects to do in La Chureca, helping two promising students, one sick mom, and a group of women looking for a new source of income. Stay tuned

**********

Update: Happily, I was wrong about the move-in to the new housing. While some people were concerned about these problems (lower income, etc) and afraid of changing lifestyles, volunteers report that most of them were very excited to move into their new homes on December 15th. The army came and helped them relocate, later destroying their old homes to prevent more people from moving in. The next few months will be both exciting and challenging for everyone.

**********

Read the rest of this mini travel-memoir here

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Read chapter 5 – Rio Blanco and Home

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10 comments | tags: Extreme Poverty, Happiness, Joy, La Chureca, Managua, Nicaragua, philanthropy, Poverty, Trash, travel | posted in Mini-books, Nicaragua, Trips!

December 3, 2012

Chapter 3 – Salt, Sand, and Sunburned Skin

By Jefferson

If it hasn’t happened to you, I don’t know how I could explain it. It was 12:30 am when I first looked at the clock, 1:30 by the time I gave in and got out of bed. My mind was “racing,” as the saying goes – it had just had an idea of something I could do–an unmet need others were asking for–and it was creating, planning, visualizing, and going through all the potential challenges and the problems, even reciting the sales pitches and the conversations. I couldn’t get it to go away, didn’t really want it to go away, so I left the room to write down my thoughts.

This has happened to me many times before, it’s part of who I am – I have an idea about something I could do and then I imagine it in detail, living in that potential world for a moment. In that half-sleep half-awake area when your brain is free to go wherever it wants, these dreams are even more potent, our ability to imagine much stronger. I stayed out in the hallway of our hotel in Managua for two hours. I woke up again at 7:10 am and started again, writing out the things that led up to that moment of daydreaming energy.

But there I go getting ahead of myself again – I need to catch you up. You’re still in Ometepe, having just purchased a bike for a girl with polio, and I’m in Managua. There’s a city to visit in-between.

San Juan del Sur

We left Ometepe by ferry on Sunday morning, this time on a much larger boat that didn’t seem to tip with its cargo, and, once we landed, shared a taxi with another American couple, taking us the 40 minutes to San Juan del Sur. If you want to talk to a Nicaraguan (assuming that you can speak Spanish) a simple question usually does the trick: “Do you play baseball?” If the answer is anything but an excited “Yes!” you can move on to another topic, but most of the time you don’t have to. On Sunday mornings you can find baseball games all over the countryside, the dusty roads and small houses in contrast with nicely pressed, bright-colored jerseys. Our taxi driver was very excited to talk about baseball. While Britney and our new American friends talked in English in the back of the car, he and I chatted excitedly about the sport, the recent tournaments, and then about his family, how much he pays to be a part of the taxi cooperative he works with, the girl we bought a bike for, and the other beaches he could take us to (he had to go for an up-sale, of course. Who could blame him?).

San Juan del Sur is a mix between two worlds, the foreign slowly taking over the center and the Nicaraguan moving to the outside. Walking down the streets you see everything in two languages, English and Spanish, and I’m reminded of the many Americans I’ve heard complain about the Spanish that shows up in their home towns; they usually say something like “You live in ‘Merica, you should speak ‘Merican!” We talked with three people from Salt Lake City, Utah, stayed at a hostel with an Italian, an Australian, and a Frenchman. Canadians are known to come in literal boatloads every January. Locals have moved to the outsides of town because rising land-value means rising taxes, and foreigners are more able to pay. Within a few years beach resorts will occupy all the plots on the beach, the prices will all be as high as American prices, and eventually the roads will all be paved. For now there are still a few vacant beach lots, a few questionable restaurants, and a few dingy hostels.

Leaving Britney

I only left Britney six times on our trip. Three of those times were in San Juan del Sur. I’m a perpetually morbid-minded person: I think of the worst possible outcome to every situation, visualize it, and worry about it. If I’m doing something risky I comfort others with phrases like, “Oh, it’s going to be just fine”, but when others are doing something I worry and take as many precautions as I can. I didn’t like leaving her, but in a public place in the middle of the day we were fine. There are plenty of travelers around, and she didn’t have valuables with her, so I tried to put my gringo to rest and not worry myself too much.

Unready for tourist prices, I had $4 with me when we went to the beach, which would usually be enough to buy 4 or 5 drinks. We ordered frozen piña coladas, sat under a leaf umbrella, and sipped for awhile until the waiter handed me an $8 tab. I told him I’d leave Britney there while I went and grabbed the extra cash. The hostel was only a two minute walk away, after all, so I’d be back pretty quickly. Or so I thought. On the way to the hostel I saw an old lady–she looked70 but was probably only 50–sorting through trash to find cans and glass bottles. I’ve seen people who do this in every State I’ve lived in, shuffling around with their bulging bags. If you’ve ever passed a homeless person and wondered what their story is–the real one–then you understand why I was curious about this woman. I wanted to know where she came from, how many kids she had, how much she made from recycling cans, and what she did with her spare time. She was nice and willing to talk, so I took the opportunity to find out about this profession I’d been quietly wondering about for years. Her name is Dominga, her family isn’t from around here, she lives on the outskirts of town and uses a walker to get around, and a pound of cans sells for 9 Córdobas (37.5 cents), she usually collects 3 to 9 pounds a day ($1.125 to 3.375). As usual I wanted to hear more, so I offered to buy her dinner if she would meet us at 5:00. I was planning on using donations to buy her $25 worth of general goods as well as giving her a nice fancy meal, but she didn’t show up. I don’t blame her, I’m sure it was too much of a risk: if I didn’t come and she had waited, she’d have to make the long trip home in the dark, which could be disastrous for her. She stuck to her routine, skeptical that I’d follow through, and walked home at her normal time. In the meantime two waiters had come up to Britney asking her questions she didn’t understand. With a mix of hand motions and three Spanish words she tried to tell them I was on my way: she said “El hombre, dinero,” rubbed her fingers together when she said dinero, made a walking motion with her index and middle fingers, and pointed at the empty chair. I’m not sure if they got the point, but I tipped the waiter for his patience anyway and we left to play in the Ocean.
Travel agencies and tourist locations like to glorify things. Surfing had seemed like a great idea, but the truth is it’s painful, difficult, and extremely tiring. After about five minutes of trying to get out past the break, Britney decided it wasn’t for her and headed in. The waves were too big, there were a lot of other surfers, and I wasn’t the best teacher – there was a real risk that she’d get hurt or let go of her board and hurt someone else. I should have taught her in a different way, but I’ve only been surfing once myself, so I didn’t know how. I went and played until the ocean had sufficiently beat me up and then we waited for the truck to take us back to town.
The truck ride had been almost romantic on the way to the beach. On the way back it was just painful: wooden benches, potholed back-roads, and salt and sand grinding into sunburned skin. Britney lobbied for taking a shower right when we got back but I wanted to visit Juan Antonio Cabrera, one of the people I used donations for on my first trip, and only had a little bit of time left to do it, so we split up again and I visited him myself. Juan Antonio was happy as ever. We had a casual, friendly, and easy conversation about a bunch of little things: how the Braves did this season, that our mutual friend Alejandro’s team was just eliminated from their baseball tournament yesterday, in fact eliminated by a team Juan’s cousin plays for, my family, my engagement on Ometepe a few days previously, and a few other things. He loves the bed we gave him. When I asked him about it he answered in an energetic and happy tone as if still shocked at how much better it is from his previous bed. It was so great to see that. Juan Antonio is a guy I would love hanging out with any time, I think. His accident, falling out of a tree at age 11, is something that could happen to any playful little boy, and it is something that did happen to me when I was 9. The dice were rolled, I was born in the US and didn’t have a paralyzing fall, he was born in Nicaragua and did. Yet he’s positive, happy, and grateful. I’m sure he’s not positive all the time, though. It would be a terrible thing to see him depressed. I don’t know how I’d react. You want to do something, but in his case you can’t. You can make him more comfortable, give him friendship, and put something good on TV. If I lived there I’d take him around in his wheelchair often, as I think his family does every once in awhile. My list of favorite Nicaraguans is growing fast, but he’s definitely still at the top.

“Get out of that city as soon as you can.”

Once we were done in San Juan del Sur, we caught a bus to Rivas and then an express bus to Managua. Our bus to Rivas was apparently late – we barely caught the express bus. In fact, we had to run and jump onto the back of the bus while it moved, Britney almost falling off when it first jolted forward. She was held on by someone who would become a new friend, Lázaro. We settled into seats at the middle of the bus and Lázaro came up to us once there was a free spot next to us.

He spoke English, and though I first responded in Spanish, thinking it’d be easier for us all, he kept responding in English, quickly telling me that he loves to practice with foreigners. I went along with it and we had a great conversation. He seems as curious about the world as I am – an almost naive excitement to learn new things from new people. We exchanged facts about ourselves, both of us asking a lot of questions, but in a casual way.

Some of the awesome graffiti next to our hotel

Whenever someone finds out I’m traveling to another country, one of their first concerns is safety. As a six-foot two-inch white boy I tend to stand out. Literally, I’m about a foot above everyone else and 10 shades more white. I might as well have a sign above my head that says “I’m probably confused, I don’t know where I’m going, I don’t speak your language very well, and I have some expensive stuff on me. FYI.” But Nicaragua is the safest of all Latin American countries, and much more safe than many of our own US cities.

When someone finds out I’m going to Managua, though, the common advice is to “Get out of that city as soon as you can.” On my first trip to Nicaragua I heeded the advice and left the night after I flew in. This time, though, I couldn’t, nor did I really want to; we were to be working in Managua for a few days and, truth be told, I wanted to experience the city. Ten taxi rides, two buses, a few restaurants, a couple of book stores, and one shopping mall later, and I have a basic sense of the city, honestly only enough to know if my taxi driver is taking me in the right general direction, but it feels like progress.

Managua is the cite of a few tragic events that haven’t been fully repaired: a massive earthquake in 1972 that left over 250,000 people without homes, years of revolutionary war in 1978 that split the city into a two-sided war zone, and hurricane-caused flooding in ’98 that displaced 368,300 people. Years of slow economic recovery and oppressive government policies have left the city even more chaotic and confusing to outsiders than most highly populated cities in a developing country’s capital.

When Managuans can’t afford barbed wire to top their walls . . . (look closely . . . do you see the shards of broken glass?)

Taxi-tactics

Taxi drivers are always looking for a way to get more business. The taxi driver that flagged us down at the bus station when we arrived in Managua started with casual conversation, happy, I’m sure, that I spoke Spanish well enough to solicit. We talked about our trip, the bus ride, and what we would be doing in Managua, and he asked us where we would be staying. “El Europeo,” I said. The name sounded like it’d be an expensive hotel, but I didn’t know Managua well enough to trust a random place and wanted to make sure we’d be safe. He responded, “Oh, that hotel’s very expensive. I know of one that’s in the same area that’s only $30 or so, it’s very nice. We can stop by on the way if you’d like, they’re really close to each other.”

I agreed and we resumed the rest of our conversation. He wasn’t the typical taxi driver, doing a great job at appealing to my tourism, and kept giving me little facts about the areas we were passing: “Lake Managua is right down there, and there’s a lookout up on that ridge where you can see over the whole city.” He told me how early they had started putting up Christmas lights, a few things we could do while we were in town, and then made sure to give me his card and say he’d take us to “La Chureca” for cheap in the morning, if we wanted. “Five dollars, that’s all. I could take you on a tour through the town after, if you want. I do that for a lot of people.”

We pulled up to his suggested hotel and he introduced me to the attendant who showed me a room and explained the pricing. Maybe it was the dim lighting or the feeling I was being sold on something, but I said no and asked the taxi to take me to the European instead. I’ve stayed in places I wasn’t sure about before, the first that comes to mind was in Río Blanco on my first trip to Nicaragua. It was a hellish night of arachnophobia: after an eight hour bus-ride into the jungle I arrived after dark with no clue what the city was really like. All I knew about it so far was that the view from the bus window was a sheer wall of vegetation and I could hear the chirp of thousands of insects, my friend had told me not to sleep on the floor, and my hotel room was dirty and unkempt. I had read a lot about bed bugs and other things in hostels, the bed was sunken, the floor had a half-eaten piece of fruit on it, and the light in the bathroom didn’t work. I sweated out the night inside a bivy on top of the bed (basically a one-man tent). *Yes, I’m a pansy.

Just some more awesome graffiti in Managua

In Managua, a city I had been warned about from every single person who had ever been to it, and since I was traveling with Britney, who swells four times as much as I do from bug bites, I decided to pay a few more dollars and stay at the European.

As we pulled up to the hotel our driver yelled out his window at the security guard, “Tip? Do you guys give a tip?” I had known there must be some tip system the taxi had set up with that other hotel and it was now confirmed by him trying to get money from the place I was going to go to anyway. Later in the week, I asked another taxi driver about it. At first he played it off, “It’s voluntary, sometimes they give 50 Córdobas, sometimes 60.” After some more prodding about fixed deals with certain hotels he finally said, “Yeah, the one I was suggesting for you tips me $10. You would save $30 and I’d make $10 – everybody wins!”

Instead of looking like a spoiled tourist wimp I blamed it on Britney each time a taxi tried to convince me, using a line I’ve heard from married people my whole life: “Yeah, well, you know . . . when she’s happy, I’m happy.” They’d nod their heads and laugh knowingly, glance in the rear-view mirror at Britney, smile, and then change the subject, the pressure to stay at another hotel gone. Britney, of course, never knew I was using her to preserve my dignity as a traveler and as a man. I enjoyed the air conditioning, clean sheets, supportive beds, and good food as much as she did. Oh, and free coffee. Let’s not forget about that.

The next morning was one of the most influential and defining of my life, and from it would come ideas for three donation projects and the founding of my first nonprofit organization which I alluded to at the beginning of this post. You’ll just have to wait until tomorrow to find out what happened

See more pics in my Facebook page’s album

Read Chapter 4 – Poverty and Happiness in La Chureca

This is part of my mini travel memoir, read from the beginning if you liked it!

3 comments | tags: baseball, Managua, Nicaragua, philanthropy, San Juan del Sur, Surfing, taxi drivers, travel, Travel safety | posted in Mini-books, Nicaragua, Trips!

The Weekend Philanthropist

A little intro to Burroughs

Race

Do we really live in a post-race society?

Into the mountains

To laugh, to eat, and to learn

Britney’s secret mission

Mountain time

Dancing

The long road home

So, philanthropy

Here’s the point

Talk to me

The skinny

Want to join me?

When, Where, What

Texas Advocacy Project

Links:

One last quote from Liana

La Chureca

This Christmas, buy the gift that keeps on giving!

Mariselda Bonía Martín

La Chureca

Santa Reina

Scholarships

Jewelry Cooperative

Special thanks

If you’d like to help

Walking into La Chureca

Being pulled in two directions

The Spanish development plan

Other concerns

A rare opportunity

San Juan del Sur

Leaving Britney

“Get out of that city as soon as you can.”

Taxi-tactics

Meet Jefferson!

………………..

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