The worth of a water bottle

I went for a run one morning.  It was dusty, and a bit warm (I didn’t bring anything other than work clothes, so I ran in khakis), but nonetheless awesome.  I left my water bottle on the side of the road, like I would for any run I would do at home.  I know someone could take it, but usually I figure, who needs to steal a water bottle?  I should have foreseen that I couldn’t make the same assumptions in Ghana.  As I was turning the corner at the end of my run, I saw a man walking along the side of the road, smiling happily, taking a big gulp from a water bottle the same size and style as mine.  And the one I’d left by the side of the road was missing. 

I didn’t worry for myself about losing one water bottle; I could easily replace it.  Nor did I think of the man as some kind of thief or greedy opportunist for taking it, as he probably assumed it was abandoned, free for the taking, and his lucky day for finding it.  What bothered me is that it reminded me that I have access to something that most of the people in this community don’t have.  And I take it for granted. 

I was struck by my carelessness with this resource more than once.  At the dedication ceremony for the house we completed, I absentmindedly set my water bottle down in the shade and forgot about it.  By the time I remembered and went back for it, I was too late; a couple of kids had already claimed their prize.  They saw me and stopped, and I think we each knew who that bottle originally belonged to; I think they would have given it to me if I had asked, but I just didn’t have the heart to do so.  I also remember watching another volunteer tell a man at the end of the day he couldn’t take our empty water bottles (something I probably would’ve given over without a second thought – oops, good thing he didn’t ask me) and how uncomfortable I felt when the kids I was dancing with at the dedication ceremony said they wanted water – and I lied and said I didn’t have any.  Which they knew wasn’t true, not just because I’m American but because at least some of them would have seen me drinking from my plastic bottle whenever I took a break from the circle.  

Cute kid dancing with a plastic bottle - look how happy he is!

We were assured access to plenty of safe drinking water prior to arriving at the site, as one of the conditions of our stay.  And we were encouraged to drink copious amounts of water, too, to prevent dehydration and heat exhaustion.  I fully understand the quality and quantity of water we had were deemed a health and sanitation necessity, not a luxury, and I don’t think they needed to be foregone.  But I think somewhere in its assurance and abundance it lost its reverence as well. 

I expected we would have things from home that others in our community wouldn’t have.  I just assumed the majority of them would be frivolous – electronics, candy, shiny things.  Things I probably take for granted but know at the end of the day that I don’t really need, or at least feel I need more so than they because I’m not built for their climate (sunscreen, for example).  I don’t feel too bad for denying a kid a can of Coke or refusing to leave a man my work gloves when I left.  But water?  How can you say to someone “you don’t need that” when I clearly don’t believe that to be true for even myself?  It just makes me feel like a dirty little hypocrite.        

I’ve often heard the parable of the star thrower; eco-enthusiasts and other activists are fond of quoting it*.  A man is walking down a beach covered as far as the eye can see with starfish.   They have been beached by the tide, and if they don’t reach water soon, they will all die.  He encounters another man, walking down the beach in the opposite direction, taking one starfish at a time and hurling it out into the sea.  “You’re wasting your time, crazy man” says the first man.  “There are hundreds of thousands of starfish on this beach, and you can’t possibly save all of them!”  The second man looks at the first, then picks up another starfish and hurls it into the ocean.  He replies, “I just saved that one.” 

It’s a nice story, and I have no quarrel with the basic moral of the tale; do what you can, with what you have, where you are.  But I have to wonder how the story would change if the man that threw one starfish into the sea was suddenly ambushed by every other starfish in the vicinity that saw what the first starfish got and wanted the same thing.  What if flinging one starfish bred resentment and jealousy amongst a thousand others, and the starfish started pushing and shoving and crawling over and abusing each other to get within the grasp of the now overwhelmed thrower?  If providing a generous service for a minority of the population awakens the awareness of the majority, and leaves the majority feeling overall worse … is there still a net positive gain? 

I’m not arguing against getting involved where there’s a need.  And I do think there are organizations like Habitat and the Peace Corps that have learned, through years of experience, how to get involved while minimizing creating a culture of dependence and jealousy around their presence.  I’m just saying, I get it.  I get why giving and donating and saying “yes” to every request for help is not as simple and happy and warm and fuzzy as I wish it could be. 

*I’m paraphrasing what I remember; sorry if I butchered some of the details!