This Poor Ole World of Ours

The boy entered the bus in Zambia holding his mother's hand. He wore a tattered blue dress shirt, fraying at the cuffs and collar, dusty black shoes with no socks and ripped black jeans probably handed down. The other passengers stared out the windows. He stared at his shiny new belt, constantly fidgeting with the buckle.

When he stood, I saw that the belt wrapped once around his waist then almost again. Holes had been punched into the leather to shrink the size to his small frame. This was a belt meant to last many years and the boy's cherished possession. He was lucky, well off even by Zambian standards. His mother could afford a belt. And a ticket on the bus. Most of his countrymen aren't as fortunate.

We left the upscale hotels and safari lodges in Botswana and South Africa and ventured into Zambia and Malawi over land. They are some of the poorest countries we've seen on the trip. And we've seen many, including Cambodia and Syria, parts of Bulgaria and Indonesia, slums in Brazil, Russia and Thailand. In fact, if you limited me to just one adjective to describe the world, I'd use "poor."

I know this sounds obvious. But the world is far poorer than I imagined. Despite all the news stories and documentaries, it was impossible to see and feel the immense poverty until I started to walk the dirt roads in the countryside and explore over-crowded cities.

A friend emailed me during our stop in Cambodia. He wanted to know if the country was suitable for children. "Absolutely," I responded, feeling it would be beneficial for kids to see their counterparts playing happily in front of one-room, tin roof shacks. They could learn a lot from the poor. So could their parents. I know I have.

They'd learn a cold shower is better than no shower.

They'd know what it's like to laugh and cry at the same time after a group of smiling, malnourished kids hug your knee.

They'd understand the world isn't full of double-espresso lattes, but powdered milk and boiled water. Ironic, but ask for a coffee in a country famous for its coffee - Columbia or Indonesia, for example - and you'll probably receive instant. The good beans go straight to Starbucks or Folgers.

They'd see that the toughest stares can usually be melted away with a wave or a thumbs up sign.

They'd see that in most the world children don't tease each other about their clothes and adults don't nit-pick a friend's wardrobe. Just having clothes far outweighs irrelevancies like color clashes or seasonal choices. That old man with the hole-filled sports coat worn on a 90-degree day isn't trying to be fashionable. It's probably one of the only pieces he owns.

They’d learn most view any employment as gold; and they’d never hear someone say the words “not my job.”

They'd understand why people around the Third World don't become angry when a car breaks down or a village loses power. They know they are privileged to have them.

They'd see that offers of food or drink are rarely refused. Even if the food is half-eaten or removed from its wrapper. It's never considered impolite to offer nourishment.

They'd know what it's like to give away all the money in your pocket during a city stroll and still feel awful after realizing you'd forgotten a penniless little girl.

They'd experience a new type of humor. I asked a van driver directions to a hotel in Lusaka, Zambia. "Up there," he said, "I'll take you for 1,500 Kwacha." "No thanks," I said. "I want to walk." "OK," he said. "Only 500 Kwacha to walk."

They'd understand the constant struggle to stay clean in streets without pavement and feet without shoes.

They'd learn the best auto mechanics in the world are not only in Detroit and Dusseldorf but also in places like Soweto, where craftsmen work on cars raised on blocks in front of homes. With minimal tools and spare parts, they perform miracles on cars well past life expectancy. Ditto for the makeshift, scooter repair shops in Vietnam.

They'd recognize that poverty doesn't automatically equate to unhappiness. Some of the biggest smiles we've seen have been in areas with the least.

They'd see our world is packed full of renaissance men and women who can perform multiple tasks to earn a living. In Malawi, every car is a potential cab. The bus station porters in Puerto Mont, Chile will book you a room at a guesthouse then walk you there. In Syria, the humus vendors will also sell you carpets or jewelry if you ask.

They'd learn to be more comfortable seeing global brothers and sisters with heavily calloused feet and soiled clothes, with glazed eyes and misshapen bellies from lack of food, with un-combed hair and in need of a bath. They'd become more comfortable amid poverty, yet hopefully more inspired to tackle it.

They'd see that poor communities aren't all "woe is me." There's an energy, a camaraderie uncommon in Western cities. Ask for a specific cab driver or salesman, and his competitors will know his location and help you track him down.

There is also an amplified spirituality along with packed churches, temple and mosques. With shorter life spans and fewer material distractions, the Third World spends more time focusing on faith. Like the cab driver in Zambia who told us he was Christian before he told us his name; or the carpet salesman in Turkey who came to our inn to drop off a Koran. Mosques, churches and temples are not only packed on religious days, they serve as town centers and gathering places the rest of the week.

They'd know that their mother was right. There are people starving in Africa. Eat your vegetables.