Capitalism bad?

I just read yet another article on corruption within the corporate world. This one in the New York Times titled "The Spreading Scourge of Corporate Corruption" (http://www.nytimes.com/2012/07/11/business/economy/the-spreading-scourge-of-corporate-corruption.html?hp)

The core of the problem here is that cheating has become culturally acceptable. It's only when you are caught is it considered reprehensible.

Let me clarify this: people feel it's ok to cheat, but it's not ok to be caught cheating.

Because capitalism has replaced democracy as the form of government in our country, the distorted tenets of modern capitalism have subsequently replaced what moral compass came along with our democracy.

Capitalism itself is not a bad thing, in fact it's an important driving force to the unique freedoms we all cherish in The U.S. But it's when people start to see the drive for ever greater profits as the ONLY definer of success that we have serious problems to our overall way of life.

Confrontationally attacking capitalist greed will not get us anywhere. Instead, we need to redefine the ideals of "success" to include personal and social responsibility as well as true, uncompromisable morals.

Then sit back and let the pigs eat from THAT trough.

Terreno custodiado por la comunidad cuesta de belen

Which translated roughly to "This land is being watched by the community group Belen", meaning that the house was deemed "unused", so the community took the property and (subsequently) gave it to a local poor person who petitioned for it. It's important to note though, that the vast majority of these poor people do not/will not work and do not pay for their electricity or water. This is another example of the common end-result of Chávez' Socialismo: removing all incentive for people to strive to be productive or responsible. And these ideals are passed down to their children. And that is the key to what support Chávez has: he plays into the historic culture of poor Venezolanos expecting handouts without any effort on their part. It's very deep-rooted here and will pose quite a problem for any future President who actually tries to govern this country responsibly. Until then, the educated complain and leave and the poor sit in their doorsteps and look for the next handout while their children entertain themselves in the dirt.

The People You Meet..

I've been going all around town for something like two weeks trying to find decent running shoes for a reasonable price. Brand-name items are one of the things that are ridiculously overpriced here. I'm talking double what they cost retail in the States—and I can't remember the last I paid retail for anything in the States because of the ease of online shopping. But here in Bogotá you go into a store, and they are all over you and literally hover right next to you trying to help you in every way they can. And they are actually trying to be helpful so I feel a little guilty being annoyed. Besides, usually it's a tiny, adorable Colombiana, so no matter what, I'll put up with it. That and it's a good opportunity to practice my Spanish. Anyway, I tell them what I want - in painful detail because I've learned that Colombians just kinda buy whatever's available and so the store employees have come to expect that. Like no one looks for specific things when they go shopping. Then they show me something that completely doesn't fit my description, so I tell them again, this time clarifying the elements that are most different between what I asked for and what they brought. This goes on about three times, until they either "get it" or they just happen to bring something that's what I asked for—in this case, sneakers that are specifically for running. Running shoes. And it gets harder because I need extra pronation support, and between the fact that there aren't many shoes made for that in the first place AND the crazy notion that someone has specific needs AND I can't even fathom what spanish words to use to describe my foot problem and the type of sneaker that is made for it, you can imagine how long the process is.

Eventually I get a shoe that I don't write off immediately. So I nod an initial approval to myself and they get all excited as if we have a done deal. But certainly, before I ask them to go through the trouble of pulling my size--which they are crazy anxious to do, I for the price. I'm getting pretty good at showing amazement and confusion with gestures and a few Spanish words. But here again, its like no one questions anything and I can only assume that if people want a general something, like "a shirt", then if the store has "a shirt", they buy it. There no price comparisons, there's no push for a style that's "just so". That's why all stores of the same type are clumped together. You will never—ever—see a store NOT surrounded by stores of the exact same kind, selling the exact same items, for almost the exact same price. There's absolutely no concept of a free market system by either sellers or the buyers.

So the fact that I finally found a decent pair of running sneakers for a normal U.S. retail price is in and of itself amazing enough, but that's not the best part of my day.

My umbrella broke the day before, and it's been raining almost nonstop for two weeks (a month as of this late posting) and is supposed to continue this way until freakin' June. But of course I started on my shopping trip with no umbrella hoping I'd find a decent one to buy on the street along the way. (I seem to have a pattern of weather denial. No heavy clothes in the cold, no sunburn lotion in the summer and no umbrella during the raining season.) But of course, every single street vendor had the same three umbrella types that I didn't approve of. I'll get rained on every day for the rest of my life before I buy an umbrella I don't like.

When I finally got off the bus in a part of town I've never been to, it was down pouring. I saw a small group of vendors across the street from the Transmilenio bus station and dodged in between traffic to get there and then stood under the vendor's umbrella just thinking about what I was going to do without an umbrella and really without even knowing which way to go. So I turned around and asked the three vendadoras who were huddled together talking if they knew where the outlet store was and they basically told me it was a few blocks up the street. But they went further and volunteered one of their own to show me. And by show me, they meant walk me there with her umbrella. This is the type of thing that people do in Latin America. And it's not a big deal. You don't owe them anything, and they are happy to help. It's so wonderful to experience, you think of all the times you've been "justifiably" selfish and feel like a fool.

So this tiny little girl and I start walking down the street huddled under her umbrella. But the funny thing is she has this beat up, wooden suitcase of candy strapped onto the front of herself, open. She's a candy seller. They are all over the place and I've always wondered who these people were, how much they work and of course how much money they could possibly make selling little sucker candies and cigarettes, one at a time. (Few smokers buy packs of cigarettes—following my theory that people in Latin America don't acknowledge that the future is actually going to arrive.) Because it's raining, she has clear plastic draped over the open suitcase, held in place by two lollipops stuck in holes on the far corners that the plastic has been draped over. Even though she's helping me, she's essentially "at work", so she keeps the suitcase on and open while we walk the few blocks to the outlet store.

I thought there was going to be just one Adidas outlet store, like a warehouse thing. But of course, there's no such thing as a store of anything by itself. The area is about a four by four block zone with all shoe "outlet" stores. Lots of activity, lots of street vendors, lots of outdoor speakers blasting salsa. For some reason, people here think blasting music in your face is an enticement for every type of buying activity.

My little escort directed me to one of the first Adidas stores of many. We stopped at the door and I said an overly-emphasized thank you and kissed her on the cheek and went in. In this store, there were two people overly anxious to help me. One a woman, and the other a man, second-guessing and talking over the woman, as usual. Fortunately, they didn't seem to have my size in anything, so I was able to make a guilt-free quick escape. But when I got just outside the door, I saw my escort there waiting for me in the rain. She was planning on taking me to the next store!

And so it went like this for almost two hours. The exact same scenario in every store where what I meant by "running shoe" had to be defined over and over, finally coming to a possible option then seeing the price ridiculously high and thanking the eager employee for their help and moving on. But after the first few stores, my escort became comfortable enough to come into the store with me and stay by my side to "help" me go through the process, never taking off her suitcase of candy. But she didn't speak a bit of English, so mostly she just repeated whatever the employee said. We slowly started "talking" more and more with the bits of Spanish I know and the plenty of pantomime I know well, so eventually she learned what I was looking for and in fact became a big help. We honed our question and answer technique such that we would zip in and out of stores, note the progress in our overarching goal and move on.

At some point I didn't notice, she lost her suitcase and she because just a regular person. I guess she figured this was going to be a long process and I've killed her chances of making any sales anyway. We continued going in and out of stores making our way through most of the area. We were learning which stores had what shoes and at what price. Finally, we found running shoes that fit me well at the best price and I bought them. (Still $20 over US retail). At that point I was determined to buy her lunch.

At the empanada stand she absolutely refused to let me buy her anything, even though she certainly didn't have any money to buy herself anything. She said she eats on a schedule, two times a day. I had to trick her into letting me buy her one empanada by asking IF you were to have something here—and I know you're not going to, but IF—what would you buy? I know I didn't so much as trick her as she simply relented.

So we sat for little while and talked. She's says she's 18 but I am certain she is younger, possibly as young as 14. She says she will not being going to university simply because she can't afford it. She lives with her cousin. Her parents live in Bogotá, but the best reason I could get as to why she doesn't live with them is that it's a "better arrangement" this way. Something really must be going on because NO ONE leaves their parent's home, girl or boy, unless they go away to school, which is rare, or get married. We talked about what the U.S. is like, what we do on weekends and what kind of boys/girls we like. She says averages 20 mil pesos a day selling candy (about $10) and she works Monday through Saturday—but not Sundays!—from 9 to 6. There was a lot we didn't discuss, and I'm sure there was a lot she wasn't telling me and certainly there is a lot I would like to know about her but didn't ask.

Afterwards, we picked up her suitcase, which was hidden within another vendor's stall, and we walked together for about a half-hour while she made some "rounds". She poked into some stores and had brief conversations with people, but mostly we just walked around the block. This is what she does six days a week, selling hard candy and individual cigarettes. Unless fate brings her something dramatic, this is what her future holds. What other options does she have?

Eventually the time came for us to part, she walked me to the bus station and I asked her if I could buy a kiss on the cheek from her. I was looking for an excuse to give her money. She refused with an almost confused smile until I reiterated only on the cheek! So she agreed but insisted we go somewhere, I assume so customers and other vendadoras couldn't see.

We eventually stopped away from the main shopping area, I kissed her cheek (and she made sure it was the cheek) and I tucked a 20 mil note into her suitcase in a manner that she couldn't see what the bill was. Then we walked back to the bus station.

At the steps to the entrance, she slipped me a piece of paper that said "Carolina" with a cell phone number on it. I almost laughed because many woman are really named Carolina here (Caro, or Cat) but when women want to give you a fake name, they also use Carolina. So if you meet 100 woman in 100 completely different circumstances, 80 of them will be named Carolina. It seemed a sweet gesture that I'm not really sure how to take. A few times she genuinely refused my offers of food or a coke. But I think about what I must represent to her, a young girl with very little if any prospects for a bright future. And I come from a world where the streets are paved with gold, and big money is easily earned by all. A world not unlike a fantasy or another planet to her, even though she lives here in Bogotá as modern a city as there is in Latin America.

Creating global change. Or not.

I read a gentleman's blog today. He's a doctor and practicing Buddhist. A very thoughtful guy who posts about once a week on various topics, but often having a thread of ways to find agreement, or peace in your life in a world with not enough of it. I usually like what he says and even have found comfort in a some specific things he's offered.

But yesterday's post was about how to create peace in a world seemingly driven by war. It's a common topic and his suggestion was a typical one I've found irritating whenever I've heard it. Basically it's: work on making yourself happy (or "at peace") and hope that your happiness positively impacts people around you. That's the best anyone can do.

My problem is that this is exactly what's already going on in the U.S. today—and why those in power are able to get away with all that they are. They put in enough measures and laws for the masses to grab hold of to feel they have their own hand in deciding how or whether to be "happy" or not. Then those in power use that complacency to pass or subvert other laws to get to their version of happiness. Most people's ideas of happiness are set from a young age. And they are more than happy to allow you to find your own happiness, as long as they can continue to pursue theirs—which is the amassing of money and power. All fine and dandy, except their version of happiness seems to always need to infringe mightily on many other people's happiness. And with globalization, those in power can actually choose which group of people to affect in pursuing their "happiness", keeping the wool neatly pulled over the eyes of their neighbors, or constituents, as the case is.

I've long been a bit envious of people who can turn away from guiding change in others simply by "deciding" to be happy themselves and hoping it will catch on. But unfortunately, I've seen too much what I would call "cultural momentum manipulation" in the world to let my life's years pass without trying to really create change in the world—beyond smiling at passersby.

I've been violated! (finally)

The other day I embarked on the dreaded 10-hour bus ride from Quito to Cuenca. Here's the foreshadowing: Everywhere you look, and everyone you speak with will tell you to be careful because it is fairly common to have someone try to cut into your backpack and steal whatever they can.

Despite my extreme paranoia that generally keeps me safer than most (thank you New York!), a young guy tried to steal my camera during the ride. He was in the seat in front of me, after moving around a bit because I kept shifting my bags. I was being extra vigilent. But the guy climbed under his seat from in front of me, and reached all the way back and cut through the bottom of my bag, which was between my legs and only barely extending under his seat. I was certain no one from the front or the back could reach my bag, yet about an hour into the ride, I felt the almost anticipated slight shuffle at my feet and stood up and saw the guy crouched under his seat looking up at me. I shouted very loudly and he had quite a look of fear in his eyes. I kept shouting so everyone on the bus could hear very clearly, and when I looked, everyone was standing and looking over, putting the ball in my court. While holding him by the scruff of his t-shirt collar, I checked my bag and saw the camera body and the smaller lens missing so I demanded them and other passengers pulled them off the floor and offered them to me. Clearly my spanish lessons have not taken hold because the only word I could conjure was mas! when telling him to turn over the other pieces of my equipment. I shook him around a bit and made the bus stop and had him and his female partner kicked off the bus I-don't-know-where.

So in the end I lost two Nikon camera batteries ($30 each) and 5 rechargeable AAs. But you know what I'm most mad about?—and I'm really struggling with this— is that I didn't pummel him bloody. Keep in mind I am a guy, and I was raised in New York, where people start swinging at the slightest cross look from a stranger. Although I was aggressively shoving him around and shouting curses in my most aggressive voice, my only leftover emotion is disappointment in myself for not just totally beating him senseless—as he well deserved by any standard. Ok, any "guy" standard. Ok, ok, any "guy raised in NY" standard. I'm learning, through a few good testing opportunities throughout the years, that my aggressiveness only goes so far. I'm a little afraid of actually punching someone and although it sounds weird, even to myself, it bothers me. Not because it's good to punch people, because it's really not, but because if you're going to stand up for yourself in ways that genuinely keep you safe, you need to know you have the goods to back it up—hopefully never needing to use them. I dunno, that's my theory anyway.

So I haven't been kidnapped so things are good, although I think that's more of Mexico thing. (And wouldn't that suck: "Your family pays a ransom of 8 million or we kill you!" - Um, Sorry.. my family has about $250.76, will that do?)

But after being her for two days, I will say that I really like Cuanca. It's very colonial—every single street is cobble stone— but culturally urban at the same time. I actually watched an old gentleman impatiently tap his keys on the counter for service in a restuarant. To me, that's a good thing and something I would NEVER have expected to see anywhere in Central or South America. The people seem friendly, educated and relatively aware that it's 2009. I could stay here for a little while..

Life and Death is Relative.

This morning I heard a chicken strutting around outside under my window and wondered whos it was and if the cat would have a little fun with it. I didn't think much more of it because there are chickens everywhere you look here in Otavalo. It's the defacto meat, eaten by everyone pretty much every day. This is a very rural and indigenous town and many people keep their own chickens. Of those that don't, they buy them live daily and cook them the same or next day. It's just how it is. NO ONE buys frozen meat of any kind—it's not even available if you wanted to. The good thing about this is that the meat here is fresh and organic. All the food here is. In the States, for any product to fulfill the definition of "organic" (or even "healthy", for that matter) would require all sorts of exceptions to the way our food chain brings food to our tables. Because we have such an extensive and complicated food delivery system, designed through capitalism-inspired market forces to have only a few producers provide for many millions or people (customers), any exception to the standard procedure is very costly.

If you looked at the most extreme definition of organic you find that in developing countries, most food fits that criteria—at 1/4 the cost of pre-packaged, processed foods in the states.

There are downsides, of course. No one gets rich in the food industry here, as there is no food industry outside of the big cities. Also, the risk of accidentally driving into a grazing cow is quite a bit higher here than in the States. In fact, it's a daily risk. So much so that drivers have taken up the habit of honking at anything that has the potential of possibly entering the roadway. Ferel dogs (of which there are many), people standing on the sidewalk looking in store windows, floating bags, intersections with people or other cars or not. In fact, to cover the bases, drivers—all of them—simply honk about every 10 seconds.

Feed is also a cost that isn't accounted for by people raising animals. So every morning people bring their cows, pigs and chickens to their favorite grassy area and let them feed and whatever grows from the ground. It doesn't matter if the land is public or private, if it's not being used, it's a good feed lot. Even thin patches between roads and storefronts are good enough to drop off your animals for the day. And so you commonly have chickens, pigs and cows grazing inches away from the roadside. So the chicken you bought at the street market that morning is in fact "organic" and has left a wonderfully small footprint on the planet, but has also helped to create havoc in a community that has over the years come to accept many instances of havoc by embracing a culture of "anything goes". And if you follow a certain line of thinking, this leads to interesting examples of cleanliness, building methods, child rearing, time management and commitment, noise and a total lack of personal drive to achieve something "better"—something so ingrained in the culture of the U.S., that it filters everything everyone does at all times.

So I come down for breakfast and go into the kitchen to say hello to Rosita, the indigenous woman who cooks the meals here, and see a pot filled with fresh chicken parts, waiting to be cooked. She knew that I knew what transpired that morning, and looked at me with a half smile knowing the visiting gringo would find the events foreign. What I also saw in her look was a recognition of the relationship between life and death and The Way Things Are.

One of the things that makes living in the U.S. so comfortable is that much of the cultural, financial and physical infastructure is devoted to putting a wall between us and The Way Things Are. It's easy to defend it by saying we are more "civilized" or "safer" than cultures that don't have these walls. But our system doesn't change the relationship between life and death, it just hides it—and in fact promotes and imposes it very harshly in other countries.

And if death is a natural and important part of life, what are we gaining by living in denial of what life really is?

A Little Catch Up

Fast-forward five months. I was arrested in Mexico City, spend two nights in jail, two nights in federal prison and eight nights in immigration detention. I was also exposed to the joke of a court system Mexico provides in its "democracy". All for no reason other than another gringo got caught in the system and everyone wanted to have a chance to squeeze some money out of him. I learned that corruption in the Mexican government filters down to almost every low-level employee. (Almost) And the people not directly engaged in it essentially support as The Way Things Are. Especially corrupt in a big, glaring way, is the entire police force. It is a sad example of human nature and I am embarrassed for the Mexican people and, like many educated Mexicans I spoke with, not terribly hopeful for a future of true democracy there.

I will say that oddly (or luckily) some of the most friendly (and interesting) people I've met in Mexico were in the prison. If you've traveled out of your home country, you know the sensation of being the obvious outsider. Try being the only gringo in el Reclusorio Norte Prison in Mexico City. Fucked up.

I've also completed an article and photo story for a new non profit magazine about micro finance. I met with the family of Lucia Reyes in San Miguel las Tablas, outside of Mexico City. You can see the article here: http://www.allencraigphotography.com/microfinance-article/AllenCraig_Microfinance.pdf

Anyway, I am now in Otavalo, Ecuador, where my posts will begin again infrequently. Shortly I will head further south to Cuenca.