Cyclones

There is a tropical cyclone ("Gael") off the eastern coast of Madagascar and despite the fact that we are over 500 miles away on the opposite, western side of said country, we can feel it.  

Two days ago I awoke to the sound of wind gusts running between the flailing arms of palm trees screaming for mercy.  The wind, with its unfettered velocity, gained its momentum over the vast Indian Ocean and our vacant bay.  It punched through cracks surrounding our A/C unit and barged through the open 4-story staircase like an underground explosion dislodging a manhole cover (can that really happen or is that just in the movies?).  Our living room became home to small pools of bug water collecting under soggy towels.  The rain penetrated the spaces in our porch door where the wood once expanded in the heat but since retreated as the humidity was pushed to the interior of the country by a white capped, brown sea and colliding pressure systems.

I was reminded of living on Cape Cod during Hurricane Bob in the summer of 1991.  Power out, oak trees laying across r

oads, the sound of chainsaws and stories of small tornadoes skimming the ground.  Something about that storm - and this one - felt primordial.  You find comfort and a bit of boredom in the simplistic form your existence takes.  Do we have duct tape? Candles? Matches? Food we can cook on a wood or coal burning stove?  We retreat to the depths of ourselves and seek womb-like warmth as we curl up with books, starchy foods and conversation.  

Some days my eyes feel open, as they do in a storm, to what is pure and beautiful.  I find brilliance in the sea-stained, faded yellow and peach stucco and cement houses.  I see hand-made intricate patterns of flower petals in the sidewalk tiles of a decaying colonial avenue that I missed countless times before.  The shattered cerulean glass of a squatter's house reminds me of a cathedral on the upper west side of Manhattan.  The Padaria (bread shop/bakery) seems to capture - with its smell - all that is sumptuously nourishing about the heat-soaked earth.

But most days my eyes feel closed - blinded by a white light that is only magnified (never absorbed) by a monotonous azure sky.  The squatter's house becomes infested by decay.  My emotions tune-out the incessant reality of children, covered in dirt and hunger, begging for food or change.  The streets become trash receptacles filled with grape and orange Fanta cans, white-plastic salt bottles and discarded flip flops.  

These scenes bring up questions of survival.  The act of living today seems overly harsh for many and sadly dismissed by most (including myself).  On days when I cannot find serenity my mind wearily travels a torturous path of questions.  Why do so few people smile here?  What are the social community rules of squatting (e.g. how do you cope when you're living with strangers you may not even like?)?  What are the ethics of water availability?  Is it our (Joe & I) responsibility to provide endless gallons to our neighbors because they asked nicely?  Is it fair that they can depend on us when there are children living in twiggy shacks infested with malaria-carrying mosquitoes who cannot afford a mosquito net?  What about the emaciated blind woman who has syphilis?  Should she have water?  What of the children dying of diarrhea; can you imagine how dehumanizing that must be?

I am trying to reconcile these observations of Beira with the current state of the US economy. Everyday I seem to be hearing of job losses, foreclosures, decimated investments and health care concerns.  On the one hand, I have hope for the short-term and fear of the long-term impact of the stimulus package.  On the other hand, I forget about the US crisis when I walk out the door and into the streets of Ponta Gea.  When I think of the US I ask myself, "What can I sacrifice and what can I save?" and when I am immersed in Mozambique I continually come back to questions on the boundaries of my dignity.  Would I beg if I had to?  I'm sure I'll never know.  

Today I thought I would begin to research some of these questions, which led the geek in me to seek out stats on comparative poverty levels between the US and Mozambique.  The figures are staggering in both contexts.  

• MZ: 50% of the adult population and 58% of the child population live in poverty, making it country number 168 out of 177 according to Unicef reports.
• US:  12.7% of the population lives in poverty.  35% of those individuals are children and 24.5% are black according to the US Census Bureau in 2007.  
• The number of people living in poverty within the US is greater than the entire population of Mozambique.
• The US poverty index hovers around $10,000 for a single person according to the Census Bureau. 
• Income per capita in Mozambique is $310 USD/year (Unicef).  
• In general, life expectancy in the US is over 75 years old with obvious variances among socioeconomic status'.  Some reports say this is decreasing due to a rise in the number of uninsured.
• Life expectancy in Mozambique is approximately 37 years old and is expected to drop to 35.9 by 2010 (Unicef).  

I did not share this under the pretext of "you should be thankful for what you have because children are starving in sub-Saharan Africa".  Rather, I'm trying to raise my own consciousness of the issues that surround me here as they relate to the issues back home in the US.  It's not necessarily fair to compare a country of 20M with a $3 Billion GDP (half of it coming from foreign aid) to a country of over 300M on the verge of passing an $800+ Billion economic stimulus package. Especially since the former somewhat depends on the latter.  But, I'm sincerely interested in hearing if your view of your own survival or viability is changing in relation to the US economy.  What are you discovering you can live without?  What are the boundaries that you will or won't cross?