Own your own piece of paradise

by Anna Kirsch/Race, Poverty and Media Justice Intern at POOR

“Yeah we just bought something like twenty pieces of property here,” the young American gloated to me. His clear blue eyes were shinning and I could practically see the money signs popping up in them as he spoke. “Really,” I said trying not to sound too much like I didn’t give a damn. He had after all just bought me an overpriced shot of tequila in this overpriced, Americanized bar.

Here I was in Costa Rica, suppose to be immersed in a new culture and learning a new language, and I felt like I was at a frat party. Thoroughly disappointed with the lack of opportunity to practice my Spanish and wondering how the hell I had ended up here, my mind wandered back to the day I decided to leave San Francisco.

It was an usually, hot and sweaty afternoon in June when I looked around my cramped, messy apartment and thought “I gotta get out of here.” It was a sudden strange urge that I couldn’t ignore. A surge of claustrophobia erupted in my body and I knew I needed to escape—the fog, this place and my life for a while. “I’ll leave the country,” I thought almost immediately. Traveling had always cured my blues. Maybe because the distance between me and reality always seemed to grow as soon as I stepped on a plane or train. I could ignore the world in a way I never could when I was at home. I’ll just take a break from the maddening reality of life in the city. Yes that’s exactly what I need I thought to myself and smiled.

When I mentioned this to my teacher and editor, Tiny, at POOR magazine’s Race, Poverty and Media Justice Institute, she warned me not to be a poverty voyerist. She informed me about POOR’s disapproval of travel because it contributed to the colonization of other cultures. She told me that POOR believed tourists were, by default, adding to the suffering felt by increasingly displaced indigenous people all over the world by consuming and participating in the globalized real estate and tourism industries that caused them to live in poverty.

This was something I had never considered before. Traveling to me had always been an opportunity to experience and learn something new about the world and myself. I hadn’t so much thought about the effects of my trip on a global scale. I left my intern meeting that day feeling uneasy about my trip. I felt guilty when I realized I was going to be causing the destruction of a local culture. I vowed to myself and POOR that I would keep my eyes open and be conscious of the colonization I was contributing to. I also promised to be aware of the connections between the injustices occurring abroad and those happening in San Francisco.

A few short weeks later I found myself squeezed into an overcrowded plane on my way to Costa Rica. I was overjoyed. I had never heard a negative word uttered about the country known as the “Rich Coast.” Military less, with a low crime rate and one of the most progressive governments in the world, Costa Rica seemed like just the opposite of the poverty-stricken city of San Francisco. A city where more and more poor people and people of color were being pushed to the outskirts by corporations and investors. A city unconcerned with the well being of its citizens. A city where affordable housing was becoming non-existent. There had to be some place better. And I thought I had just landed in it. A few days later my mind drastically changed.

I wiped the sweat from the back of my neck and shifted uncomfortably on my barstool. He was still talking. “And you know everything is just dirt cheap here so I think we can really make a killing…His voice trailed off as I mentally focused on blocking his words from entering my ears.

It seemed to be the same story on every beautiful beach, in every corner market and in every local bar. Another rich foreign investor talking about his latest incredible property deal in one of the most desirable parts of the country. It was always “such a steal” and “unbelievably cheap.” These people seemed unconcerned with any thing other than a relaxing retirement or some business profiteering scheme. They seemed to have all the power in a country that wasn’t even theirs. The whole country felt hijacked.

Many “local” businesses were owned by foreigners and big corporations and companies had sprung up all over the country. “The stated aim is to entice primarily high-tech corporations to take advantage of Central America’s most educated and disciplined work force…the economy is being transformed from it’s longtime dependence on coffee, bananas and cattle to microprocessor production and high-end telecommunications,” an ad seeking foreign investors proudly stated. I couldn’t believe the country I had idealized in my head so much was turning out to be so different.

Early the next morning, I was walking down a dirt road in the boiling sun with mud splattered on the back of both my tanned legs when I glanced up into the mountains. That’s when I saw them for the first time. Dotting the horizon I saw mansions of epic proportions. I hadn’t even noticed before.

“Yeah, they’re all owned by rich white people, no Tico could ever afford that,” my friend Paige stated matter of fact. She had been traveling throughout the country for the past seven months. “Yeah dude, this place is full of gringos,” she said and sighed. “A gringo’s paradise.”

That’s when I realized the majority of people I had met weren’t indigenous or even local for that matter. They were white, English-speaking and many didn’t seem at all interested in assimilating into the local culture, a culture that was quickly disappearing. Although beautiful, no place I visited felt truly authentic and everything had been built to please the tourist population.

A few days later I was in Manuel Antonio on the Pacific Coast. Wandering up a long, winding paved road to try to get a good view, I became lost. As I tried to find my way back down, I stumbled on more unbelievablely huge, modern houses. These ones were still under construction and had private brick gates.

A young Tico was standing in the yard of one of the houses with modern architectural details and bright shinning metal that looked more like it belonged in L.A. than the grassy mountains of Costa Rica. He stood under the sweltering sun with a large brown dog. “Buenas,” I said. We talked for a few minutes and I asked him if the house belonged to his family. He smiled and shook his head, “No, es la casa de mi patron.” The house belonged to his boss. He told me he lived down the hillside.

I remembered walking by the rundown houses with peeled paint lining the paved road that carried tour buses to and from the sparkling beaches. These were where most of the locals lived I guessed. I thought about the small brown shacks I had seen on the outskirts of the towns all over Costa Rica. These people had been pushed off of their own land because it was no longer affordable for them while foreigners were whisked by to the surfing spots and high end resorts. I thought I had left all this behind in San Francisco, but it just kept getting worse and worse.

Two days later a big, glossy real estate magazine lying open on a wooden table surrounded by dirty glasses and playing cards grabbed my attention. I was sitting in an open-air yellow patio in a small hostel on the Caribbean coast. “OWN YOUR OWN PIECE OF PARADISE,” “JUST ROLL YOUR 401K OVER,” “RETIRE IN STYLE,” “INVEST IN PROPERTY,” the ads screamed from the pages. Written in English, these ads were obviously not aimed at Costa Ricans and I wondered if the government was trying to control any of the rapidly expanding foreign investment. It didn’t seem like it. In fact, the government seemed to be enabling the robbery of land from indigenous people.

“The most strident problem facing Indian communities today is the rapid encroachment of non-Indigenous people onto their lands…the government recognizes this, but has done little to remedy the problem,” Gerard Schulting, a researcher in Costa Rica found. There is an Indigenous Act meant to preserve native culture, but the majority of the time the government does not enforce it’s land protection laws and readily allows foreigners to buy property.

I wandered around the following week and all I could see were the future construction sites, property for sale signs and SUVs hauling building materials. I left Costa Rica a rainy week later, feeling let down in a way. I hadn’t escaped reality at all. In fact, traveling had only made every problem clearer and more pronounced to me. I hadn’t been able to ignore anything.

After returning to the foggy streets of San Francisco, I was walking around the “New Fillmore District” when suddenly memories of my trip flooded my mind. Shading the sun from my eyes, I gazed up and noticed I was surrounded by towering residential buildings, chain coffee shops and live/work spaces for rent. Everything seemed fake, brand-new and shinny in a way that made my stomach turn.

This was the neighborhood that had been severely gutted by the city for “urban renewal” and redevelopment over thirty years ago. The indigenous people had been pushed out, the local culture had been destroyed and a unique cultural identity had become extinct. I thought about this place and about Costa Rica. One already destroyed and one severely threatened. They weren’t that different after all.

I returned to my internship that August with a new perspective. During our monthly newsroom meeting, Tiny discussed the gentrification occurring in West Oakland and about how when poor people are forced out of their homes they often don’t leave the community but become homeless. She spoke about people living in cardboard boxes or what’s called “the sidewalk hotel.”

As she was speaking, I remembered Costa Rica and felt a pang of pain run through my body. I thought about the new homes being built in West Oakland and I remembered the mansions dotting the horizon in Manual Antonio. I thought about the people living in boxes on the streets of their own communities in California and I remembered the shacks with peeling paint surrounding the resort towns of Costa Rica. As I shared this with everyone at POOR, I felt my experience come full circle and everything became clear. There was no escape from this. Locally, nationally and globally these problems were clear if you’re eyes were open and now mine were.