Tourist discovers charity begins at home … or not

Here we are in the land of the free, home of the brave, absorbed with what the world thinks of our foreign policies.

On my recent Caribbean cruise with a port stop in Jamaica, taxi drivers were unconcerned about American policies in Iraq. They cared about the stability of Haiti. We felt like travelers from the United States were not emissaries from the free world but merely cash cows who could supplant their economies through buying T-shirts or renting snorkel gear.

Tourists were valued for how much dough they could divvy among the stores and tour buses. The Montego Bay port was exceptionally annoying, as every two steps a local with Bob Marley dreadlocks tried to sell us a taxi ride, home tour or beaded necklace.

Seedy hustlers all but flashed watches from inside overcoats.

After spending all of our shore money on parasailing, my husband, Chuck, and I had to hit a cash machine to do some shopping. The ATM by Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville, a wonderful tourist stop if you are traveling with a drunken fraternity, was behind a secure door on the main drag. You were supposed to lock yourself inside the small room, get cash, then emerge outside to face 17 surly panhandlers.

Instead, we found a cash machine at an island casino. We felt unsafe there, too.

Our friends spent their Jamaica port day on a drive to an inland river to float on inner tubes. On the bus ride, they saw huts with scenes out of National Geographic come to life, such as toddlers on ramshackle porches.

My friend Sean McGee said he saw shacks no bigger than the smallest bedroom in his Everett home.

“It didn’t look like there was any electricity or water to it,” McGee said. “I remember thinking if one good hurricane came the houses would be gone.”

Behind a Jamaican shop where I bought a handmade maraca, I saw seedy apartments not fit for humans. We realized street hustlers were only trying to put food on their tables. Shamed to think about how much I had spent on a cruise to an island hiding depressing poverty behind pretty malls, I thought I would come home with a new appreciation for the plight of America’s poor.

I would become a vocal humanitarian.

Or not.

When I got back to Mill Creek, a homeless teenager was all but living in our backyard. He stood under our bedroom window, ran a stick along the wood, threw rocks at our siding and hopped back and forth between fences. We figured he knew the teenagers who live next door to us.

Our first night home, Chuck went outdoors and asked the young man what he was doing in our yard. The teen said he was waiting for the neighbor teen to come to a window. Chuck said the stranger was filthy and walked with a limp. Our neighbors said he was fresh out of jail and unwelcome at their house.

The pitiful stranger was under our window again the next morning. The young man obviously needed a hand. Would I take him to Cocoon House in Everett, a shelter for homeless teens? Would I fix him a meal and wash his clothes? Surely, this was my moment to shine in my new humanitarian field. I could be on the front line of the poverty battle.

Or not.

I called 911.

In my defense, I did ask the dispatcher to try to help the teenager and mentioned the shelter. A squad car drove quietly up our street and officers confronted the disheveled young man. The police told him to stop hanging around or he would be cited for trespassing.

Banishing the poor is a handy way for a Mill Creek woman to deal with poverty. In the Caribbean, I headed up the gangplank to escape filthy neighborhoods squished behind oceanside resorts, but there was no hiding on the ship. Workers who served food, did the laundry and scrubbed toilets worked more than 10 hours each day, seven days a week, on six-month contracts.

Our waiter, Sutin, had a family in the Philippines. Our waitress, Marina, supported her 21/2-year-old son and husband in Estonia. Imagine having to work like slave labor and only seeing your family every six months.

Back at home, I would somehow right the wrongs of the world. That was my broad shipboard plan, until I found a touch of poverty in my own backyard.

Perhaps I will aid the impoverished at my next opportunity.

Or not.

Columnist Kristi O’Harran: 425-339-3451 or oharran@heraldnet.com