Peeling Onions

PART I

Dunstan St. Omar, a celebrated local Saint Lucia artist, said it the best: “The curse of the Caribbean is that our poverty is picturesque”. This island is not the most poverty-stricken nation in the world, but poverty exists here.

Before I was invited to Saint Lucia, my impression of the Caribbean islands was created from the Sandal’s commercials shown on television.

People who visit the island and stay in an all-inclusive hotel or get off a ship for an afternoon are whisked away in an air-conditioned taxi to see the island: the beautiful Pitons, Sulphur Springs, the crystal clear aqua Caribbean, the incredible interior with dense rain forest.


There is a dense population of taxi drivers and competition is stiff. When he is alone, he drives with the windows down and the air-conditioning off to save a few pennies in gas money. Few tourists have time to see beyond the beauty and most aren’t looking for it.


As a volunteer, these are the things I first saw when the plane landed and I boarded a clean air-conditioned bus for the hour and a half trip across the island.



I saw vendors roasting corn by the roadside and selling local fruits which they farm. I saw my first sight of Castries. I stayed in a retreat for a few days and was well fed. I sat in air-conditioned rooms while being oriented to the island.



After a few days, training begins. I was invited to live in the home of a middle-class family who struggles to make a living. They have cable TV, electricity and running water – although the water was not hot. There was no internet.


Although they have three children at home who attend school and one in college, internet is a luxury they cannot afford. I used public transportation and was given just a couple of dollars a day for “walking around” money. Although many people stared at me, ask me for money or think I am a tourist in need of a taxi, at times I began to feel Saint Lucian.


It didn’t take more than a few weeks before I saw things that many Americans might describe as hardship; the lack of electricity in some homes and public wash facilities in the villages where I live. Of course there is no air conditioning, but I never expected that anyway.


The layers of the onion are peeled away as I mark my calendar with what little time I have on the island. It takes awhile longer before I began to see the depth of Saint Lucia poverty; the families that live off the beaten path on dirt roads in sheds or the families who are camping behind the trees in the bay by the sea, the children who don’t go to school because they don’t have the money to buy school uniforms; the illiteracy and sometimes hopelessness that abounds. And, then there are the children who don’t have enough to eat.


Then things happen that make me wonder, “Do I really understand the depth of poverty?” Or, are there more layers? I hope I don’t experience anything more that gives me content for the subject of this post. I want this to be my last post on this subject.

PART II
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It is Wednesday morning. I walk down the road towards the primary school. I pass the secondary school and notice the principal, usually dressed in business casual is wearing a suit. I walk up to the classroom where I teach primary school Junior Achievement and the teacher confirms what I already know, “yes, we are closing school today at noon." We will do the Junior Achievement lesson next Wednesday. I remember I need a few things from the store and I need to get them now as it appears the entire village will shut down at noon.



I pick up a few staples at the market and bread at the bakery. I walk up the stairs to my apartment and look out the window at the parking lot of the Catholic Church. There are children playing games with their teacher. They are laughing and having a good time.


It is 1:00 now. Secondary school children are still in uniform walking down my street towards the church. In a few minutes, a hearse will drive through the village with a procession of mourners walking behind it. At 2:00 the mood at the church will be somber. The church will be overflowing into the parking lot. I will hear gospel singing. Cars will line the nearby streets.

PART III
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The only hospital on this side of the island was destroyed in a fire three months ago. I now understand the devastating impact it is having on people. A make-shift hospital in an athletic stadium, with little equipment and doctor’s on-call, is the only choice on this end of the island. The girl, who was stabbed, died in that make-shift stadium hospital.


There is one ambulance here and when it’s down for maintenance, people must wait. The ambulance carrying the girl had to drive slowly to the stadium because the tires were bald. It took time to bring a doctor to the facility.

It makes me wonder who is at fault:

• Is it the culture of reaction to infidelity?
• Is it the ambulance driver who refused to drive faster?
• The ambulance company who allowed the vehicle to use every thread of tread before replacing worn tires?
• The government for not ensuring the hospital is re-built?
  
• Was it the girl who stabbed her?
• Was it her friend who gave her the knife?
  
• Or, could it be the doctors who didn’t get there in time?

PART IV
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The other end of the island is met with another story. A friend of mine has a little boy who was hit by a truck shortly after Christmas. In critical condition, he was rushed to the public hospital. When his father realized that the scissors the nurse was using weren’t sharp enough to cut off his boy’s shirt he was horrified. The hospital did not have the resources to buy a pair of scissors.


The boy was fortunate because his father has insurance and he was immediately transferred to the only other hospital on the island; a private facility and nearby. The portion of the bill that will not be covered by insurance will undoubtedly leave the family in debt; but medical debt is an American story too. Happily, the boy is doing fine and will recover. More layers of the onion are peeled away.

PART V
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I have a mantra about money that I have carried with me for thirty years: Money is only important when you don’t have it. Right now money is important to that little boy and his family. Money may have made a difference in the little girl's destiny. This makes me angry. It makes me sad. It makes me ask questions for which I previously didn’t know I needed an answer.


Is it just an entire system of broken processes and infrastructure? Or, was Dunstan Omar right when he said, “The curse of the Caribbean is that our poverty is picturesque”?

(If you stayed with me during this long and drawn out angry post, I promise something more uplifting next! Thanks for listening.)