Fragilecologies Archives
5 November 1997
We’ve got it pretty good in Boulder. In fact, we probably don’t know how good it is … until we get outside the city.
A lot of my work takes me to places that are not safe for a variety of reasons: because of war, because of political turmoil, because of poverty. Poverty leads to lots of problems we never get to see unless we travel. Whether in Ethiopia during its revolution or in Angola, they are the same: little food to eat, few clothes to wear, shanty towns everywhere. The same can be found in Rio de Janeiro, in Nairobi, in Johannesburg — or even in Detroit.
Part of the fallout of poverty is unemployment and, following that, delinquency.
So, why am I writing all this stuff in a column that is mostly on the environment?
While attending a conference on the environment in Ecuador recently, I had my first direct encounter with delinquents. Actually they are called delinquents here because that is a relatively tame word in English, one that covers a range of possible activities. I guess I would call these individuals thugs or parasites or something much more descriptive and closer to reality.
Before I get into the story, I want to tell you something about the country. Ecuador has one of the poorest economies in South America. Unemployment is high among the general populace and very high among the young. Its government is often changed and controlled by the military. Its economy is largely dependent on the export of food like shrimp, bananas, cacao, and coffee, all crops that are heavily dependent on the weather.
Ecuador is flood-prone, especially Guayaquil, a southern port city of about 2 million people where flooding usually accompanies El Niño events. During the past few El Niño events, Guayaquil has received more than four times the amount of rain it usually gets in a year. Today, Ecuadorians are worried about El Niño.
Back to the delinquents.
When I left the airport in Guayaquil, I could see the hotel I was to stay in, which was about 10 blocks away. I told another person from the plane that I would walk, and he said not to — the city is too dangerous. It was 8 a.m., there were lots of pedestrians, a lot of traffic, and I thought: “How dangerous could it be?” He offered to drop me at the hotel when his company car picked him up. That was my first warning to beware.
The second warning came when I had to buy some clothes because my bags hadn’t arrived. The shopping mall was only ten minutes away, so I said I’d walk. Everyone said no. I was told that a car and driver would take me there and pick me up at a designated time.
So, the handwriting was there — Guayaquil is not a safe place for tourists (or anyone) to roam around in, on foot. The message was starting to sink in.
Some friends who live in Guayaquil wanted to show me some of the sights. It was my first visit, and I wanted to get away from the hotel, a city unto itself with shops, restaurants, etc. There was no need to go out of the hotel compound, which (by the way) was guarded by private police armed with machine guns, sawed-off shotguns, and pistols.
As soon as we got into the car, my friends insisted the city was safe. Then they told me to lock the car door. We visited walled and guarded communities in the midst of the city. We drove around the center (the old part) of town, but they said we couldn’t visit the waterfront because it was too dangerous.
One could see armed guards everywhere. Even small shops hired them for protection from gangs and robbers. As soon as we pulled up to a shop, a guard would approach the car and then accompany us to the shop. When we left, he would escort us back to the car.
We then went to a high point in the city, and my host pulled up to the curb so that I could take a photo. I noticed a group of boys in their late teens and early twenties lazing around the corner. A small boy was flying a kite. When the driver stopped, I asked him to go on because we didn’t need to take a picture from that spot. But the driver was out the door before I could finish my sentence.
So I got out too. I managed a couple of photos before I felt the camera, which I was then holding up to my eyes to look at the panorama, being jerked away from me. My first reaction was to pull back, not knowing what was happening. I held on to the body of the camera and grabbed the strap as well. On the other end of the camera strap was a “delinquent,” about 20 years old, pulling and shouting at me in Spanish (I later found out that he had been yelling for me to let go of the camera). He kept tugging with one hand and threatening to punch me with the other. He never struck, but a lot of tugging and shoving followed. In the midst of all this I was totally oblivious to the other eight delinquents who were standing by, watching their friend fight with this stranger.
I had never been in this situation before — not in Africa, Asia, Russia, the US, or in other places in South America.
What must have been a few minutes seemed like hours. Although he was threatening to hit me, I never even thought about the possibility of a weapon (I’ve heard that knives are the preferred choice). We continued to struggle, and I looked for an opportunity to defend myself. His legs were spread apart to maintain his balance, so I aimed my foot between them — twice. But for some reason, it seemed to have no effect (he seemed drugged and perhaps would not feel anything until the next day).
The strap to the camera gave way as I gave him yet another shove. He lost his balance, went down, and I found myself holding the camera and half a strap; he had the other half. I quickly turned and tossed my camera into the car and jumped in. The attacker was pretty angry as he threw the other part of the strap at me. The others in the car told me how lucky I had been. Not because I kept my camera but because my attacker’s eight friends (who had been standing by) had not joined in. They also said I was lucky that no weapon was produced on the spot.
That night I was pretty mellow, wondering what my fate would have been had the gang gotten involved or if a knife had been drawn. I think I was in mild shock from the incident. That night, I noticed a few more bruises. By morning, everyone in the hotel had heard about the incident and tried to console or joke with me about it. But it was no joke. This time I was the victim, not some passive observer reading about an incident in some faraway place.
It also made me realize that my assailant and his friends are likely to go nowhere in life. They live in a relatively hopeless economy with no hope for further (or perhaps any) education, no chance for a job — even a menial one would not release them from their prison of poverty.
We can call them delinquents, thugs, or parasites. There were many articles in the Guayaquil Sunday paper about how delinquency was the number one problem there. I can personally attest to the fact that it is a real problem with no easy solution. Those guys hanging around on that corner represent Ecuador’s lost generation, with no hope except to get through the day with alcohol or drugs bartered for stolen goods.
How many people around the globe can be counted as prisoners of poverty? As we approach this millennium, I can only wonder if it was like this a thousand years ago. We have come so far technologically in the last millennium. But have we come all that far socially?