Poverty

When you live in one of the word's poorest countries, sometimes the poverty we see around us on a daily basis can unfortunately start to seem commonplace.
Occasionally, though, something happens that reminds me just where we live and what poverty can mean.

I have just returned from picking up Ben and 3 other little MAF children from school. On the way home, I stopped in the town centre briefly in order to buy some "daggar"- dried fish (cat food for Moshi!). A man on crutches, dressed head to toe in black, ragged clothes caught my attention as I stopped the car. I could not see his face, but his movements were strained and awkward. He seemed to be struggling as he hobbled along and then I realised that he was lowering himself gingerly onto the floor in the street in front of my car, next to the large, filthy puddle which was spilling out from the roadside shops and stalls.
I got out of the car, jumped onto a wooden board placed in the middle of the puddle and took another jump to land on dry ground by the food stall. I glanced over at the crippled man, who was now on the floor, supporting himself with his hands behind him, when, to my horror, I realised that he was defecating right there in front of us, right next to the puddle in the street. I took another look, as I could not quite believe my eyes and was equally horrified to see the green mass he had left behind on the tarmac. Not a healthy sign. I felt somewhat queasy because of what had been deposited in front of my car but also terribly, terribly sad that a person could be reduced to such terrible need that he had to squat down in the middle of a street in order to relieve himself.
He looked unwell and it took him several minutes to get himself back upright in a standing position with his crutches propped precariously under the rags hanging from his armpits. During this time, I was waiting for my daggar to be weighed on the scales, squashed into a small, black plastic bag and then I had to find the change I needed to pay.
When I hopped over the puddle again and climbed back into the driver's seat, the man was painfully making his way up the street. The 4 children in my car were oblivious what had just occurred but were happy to watch when I drove over to the side of the street to offer the man a packet of biscuits. He turned around as I called to him from the car window.  I looked into the face of an old man who seemed fully aware, but worn down with pain- and perhaps with the loneliness of coping by himself on those rickety crutches without anyone to assist. However, his face lit up as he reached out for his biscuits- with hands that were locked into a claw position, the fingers all folded into themselves so that he could not straighten them. It was a heart-rending moment: that a person could be so thrilled by a small packet of biscuits; that he could give me such a beaming smile through all of the suffering he must endure.
 I felt like a fraud- to give such inadequate help in a country of so much need... Sometimes I am reminded of where I live. Sometimes I am reminded of just how aware I should be of the thousands of blessings I have had- and have- in my sheltered life.