I just finished reading The End of Poverty, by Jeffrey Sachs. He makes some important points toward the end about the anti-globalization movement.
You should know that Sachs himself is very pro-globalization. As an economist, he believes in free trade and open markets as the solutions to many problems (notably, and as the title of his book implies, to the problem of poverty). Very importantly in light of recent global economic events, though, Sachs appreciates that government has an essential role in regulating markets so that they produce the greatest amount of good for the most people.
As Sachs approaches the anti-globalization movement and begins talking about Seattle anti-WTO protesters in 1999, I’m thinking, “He’s going to start his ginormous intellectual engine and crush them.” Because Sachs is very smart. And of course, it’s his book—the protesters don’t get a rebuttal.
In fact, Sachs expresses admiration for the anti-globalizing movement. He credits anti-globalizers with putting the spotlight on issues of corporate responsibility. Corporations are forced to provide better wages and working conditions in factories abroad, to pay closer attention to the environmental impacts of their factories, and to provide drugs at reduced prices in poor countries because of the negative attention they will otherwise receive from anti-globalizers and the media. Of course, this solution is not perfect—government regulation could do a whole lot more than a bunch of rowdy twenty-somethings in hoodies and stocking caps.
So the anti-globalizers have their heart in the right place. Which is something I can appreciate, because I have at least a few times referenced the “corporations” as the root causes of various and sundry social and environmental problems.
But Sachs also criticizes the anti-globalizers for being short-sighted. Yes, Nike is paying workers too little at its scummy factory in Indonesia (or, at least was doing this before the 1999 protests). But who let Nike do this? Indonesia, for not regulating a living minimum wage. The United States, for allowing its companies to profit off of international regulatory loopholes. The “international system”. Not for allowing companies like Nike exist, but for failing to constrain these companies’ actions.
What about Honduras? I have heard that Home Depot imports a fair amount of its wood from Honduras. Some comes from tropical rainforests where endangered species live. Honduras has passed several laws protecting swathes of land from loggers. However, much logging in Honduras happens in a very informal way—a couple of campesinos know they can sell wood in San Pedro Sula for x price, so they go to where they know there is a whole lot of wood available—the national forest. A place as poor as Honduras has no money to spend protecting the integrity of its national forest, and there is no check at the point of sale on where the wood comes from. Who’s to blame? Honduras has done all it can; Home Depot can’t necessarily do more. Any ideas for a solution?
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Chuchos and Poverty Policy (a blog that i started a month ago and didn't finish)
Chuchos and Poverty Policy
Chuchos
Dozens of dogs roam the streets of Copán. By way of explanation, I have heard that Hondurans do not keep house-pets in the same way we do in the United States. A family may own and feed a cat or dog, but that animal lives exclusively outside the house. The idea appealed to me for awhile: pet ownership without confining an animal to life in a box; a best friend that can walk itself. Even more interesting was that everyone seemed to know the names of the town dogs. I remember thinking, “It makes sense—in a town where everyone knows each other, they also know each other’s dogs.” But as I paid more attention, I noticed a few stranger things. All of the dogs seemed to have the same name. “Chucho!” people would yell at passing dogs. Then, instead of coming, the dogs always seemed to turn tail and run from their callers. Had Honduran dogs re-discovered the call of the wild, and sought further independence from their human captors?
It wasn’t until I got fed up living with piles of garbage that I was finally able to answer this question. My landlady speaks wonderful Spanish. Her speed, fluency, and control of the regional accent are all enviable to someone who is trying to learn to communicate with locals. Put another way, she is impossible to understand. So when I have a question for her, like “What do I do with my garbage?”, I can generally expect an hour-long conversation full of gesturing and the words ripite por favor. What I think I learned, though, is that garbage day is Wednesday. Oh, and the garbage bags should be tied to the front gate, high up if possible, out of the reach of the chuchos. Because the chuchos are not fed by anyone in particular—they are stray dogs in a place where spaying and neutering has not yet arrived.
Poverty
To foil the chuchos, who might otherwise spread garbage all over Copán’s streets, houses and businesses without gates have constructed small garbage lofts. For example, my school, which produces five large bags of garbage every day—mostly food packages and scraps from the cafeteria—built a six-foot garbage loft structure on four poles with about 30 square feet of space on top. The bags pile up until garbage day, safe from chucho interference.
The other day, I found myself waiting for a friend in front of the school, not far from the garbage loft. I was there about ten minutes before a family of six showed up—five children under the age of ten, and their pregnant mother. The mother immediately sat down on a stone under a tree, holding the youngest child’s hand. I assumed they were waiting to catch a bus. Then I saw that the oldest of the family, a girl of nine, had climbed the tree and was picking fruit. The fruit is called jocote, and has no English translation of which I am aware. Jocotes are the size of large grapes, and my students like to buy them in bags of twenty before eating them with plenty of salt. They have not yet appealed to my taste buds.
In her mouth, the tree-climber held a machete. She climbed up high, and farther out on a limb than I would have dared to go. Then she began hacking away. As she chopped, I noticed her two younger brothers, probably five and seven years old, were climbing the garbage loft. They threw two bags down, jumped after them, and hauled them off into the bushes. The girl in the tree shouted at her youngest sister to step back a moment before her machete buried its blade in the ground next to her. Soon after, both sisters commenced stripping the branches of all of their small green fruit. The boys came out of the bushes with their trophy, two pizza boxes—I assume with some leftovers inside. The mother stood up, her children lined up behind her, and off they went from where they had come.
The whole event took less than ten minutes.
Chuchos
Dozens of dogs roam the streets of Copán. By way of explanation, I have heard that Hondurans do not keep house-pets in the same way we do in the United States. A family may own and feed a cat or dog, but that animal lives exclusively outside the house. The idea appealed to me for awhile: pet ownership without confining an animal to life in a box; a best friend that can walk itself. Even more interesting was that everyone seemed to know the names of the town dogs. I remember thinking, “It makes sense—in a town where everyone knows each other, they also know each other’s dogs.” But as I paid more attention, I noticed a few stranger things. All of the dogs seemed to have the same name. “Chucho!” people would yell at passing dogs. Then, instead of coming, the dogs always seemed to turn tail and run from their callers. Had Honduran dogs re-discovered the call of the wild, and sought further independence from their human captors?
It wasn’t until I got fed up living with piles of garbage that I was finally able to answer this question. My landlady speaks wonderful Spanish. Her speed, fluency, and control of the regional accent are all enviable to someone who is trying to learn to communicate with locals. Put another way, she is impossible to understand. So when I have a question for her, like “What do I do with my garbage?”, I can generally expect an hour-long conversation full of gesturing and the words ripite por favor. What I think I learned, though, is that garbage day is Wednesday. Oh, and the garbage bags should be tied to the front gate, high up if possible, out of the reach of the chuchos. Because the chuchos are not fed by anyone in particular—they are stray dogs in a place where spaying and neutering has not yet arrived.
Poverty
To foil the chuchos, who might otherwise spread garbage all over Copán’s streets, houses and businesses without gates have constructed small garbage lofts. For example, my school, which produces five large bags of garbage every day—mostly food packages and scraps from the cafeteria—built a six-foot garbage loft structure on four poles with about 30 square feet of space on top. The bags pile up until garbage day, safe from chucho interference.
The other day, I found myself waiting for a friend in front of the school, not far from the garbage loft. I was there about ten minutes before a family of six showed up—five children under the age of ten, and their pregnant mother. The mother immediately sat down on a stone under a tree, holding the youngest child’s hand. I assumed they were waiting to catch a bus. Then I saw that the oldest of the family, a girl of nine, had climbed the tree and was picking fruit. The fruit is called jocote, and has no English translation of which I am aware. Jocotes are the size of large grapes, and my students like to buy them in bags of twenty before eating them with plenty of salt. They have not yet appealed to my taste buds.
In her mouth, the tree-climber held a machete. She climbed up high, and farther out on a limb than I would have dared to go. Then she began hacking away. As she chopped, I noticed her two younger brothers, probably five and seven years old, were climbing the garbage loft. They threw two bags down, jumped after them, and hauled them off into the bushes. The girl in the tree shouted at her youngest sister to step back a moment before her machete buried its blade in the ground next to her. Soon after, both sisters commenced stripping the branches of all of their small green fruit. The boys came out of the bushes with their trophy, two pizza boxes—I assume with some leftovers inside. The mother stood up, her children lined up behind her, and off they went from where they had come.
The whole event took less than ten minutes.
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