Water Water Everywhere (For a Price)

Here's a sign you won't see in airports anymore. Okay, I can somewhat understand the government's ban on taking inexpensive bottled water through the security gate. Hey, it makes as much sense as making you take off your flip-flops. But what if I took a big gulp in front of the highly trained airport security personnel? Wouldn't they be able to recognize if I was swallowing some explosive liquid instead of New York City tap water? I mean, they could watch my eyes and if they didn't bulge and if my throat didn't collapse, then it's probably a good bet that I wasn't toting a powerful explosive liquid. But that's too much to ask, I suppose. So fine, they won't let you take a bottle of water through security.

But let's take a step back. Before you ever got to the checkpoint where they made you throw out your bottled water, you've already done the following: Left your home at some horrific hour to battle traffic and get to the airport the prescribed 2 hours prior to departure. Then you proceeded to a self-service kiosk to check in. Problem is, the person in front of you is from a distant planet and has no idea how to operate the "quick" check-in. After agonizing minutes an airline person comes by and taps the screen and finally checks in the person ahead of you. Great. Now it's your turn.

The new issue is that the kiosk has frozen and won't allow you to scan your documents. Now you have to find another one. After completing this "quick" process, you hoist your bags onto the scales only to find that one is overweight by a few pounds. You have to decide if you're willing to dump your laptop computer in the trash or pay the $75 for the additional weight. By now, your time is running out.

You make a mad dash to the security check point. You wait. And wait. And wait. Once you're finally through the metal detector, you have to find a seat, put your belt on, put your shoes on, and then discover that you've left your wallet and passport in a plastic bin on the conveyor belt. You (hopefully) retrieve your valuables. Then you're off to the gate. And you are THIRSTY.

The government has taken away the bottle you brought from home. And, you hope, that you'll get a bit to drink on the plane. But you are thirsty now and just want a water fountain. Good luck. They've vanished from airports almost as quickly as the airlines have lost the free peanuts.

Over the last several months I've flown from, through, or into the following airports and cities: JFK, LaGuardia, Toronto, Amsterdam, London, Nairobi, Lusaka, Paris, Mexico City. In all of these I found only one water fountain and the pressure was so low you had to lap up the drops like a dog in summer. They've done away with free water. But they're willing to sell you a lousy bottle of water for $3 or $5 or more. Insane. If they figured out a way to charge you for air, they would. Water is supposed to be free, people.

And I'm not talking about some remote village somewhere. No, these are big city airports. And they've made a pact with the devil (or some big conglomerate who bottles tap water and wears devil's clothing) and make you pay for something that God intended for us to have for free.

Why am I carrying on about this? Because water is a big deal to me. I drink a gallon or more a day. I crave it, I drink it, it satisfies me. And it has none of the calories of, say, Peanut M&Ms. But bottled water in the airport costs much more than gasoline. And you don't hear politicians lining up to give us tax breaks so we can buy more water, do you?

Okay, I'm obsessing here. But for me it is a source of aggravation, not life and death. But what about the people around the world who can't afford to pay for clean water? They die. Pretty simple formula.

When I'm at home or at work I have a choice: I can drink tap water or I can drink bottled water. That choice is an extroardinary luxury considering what folks in developing nations are faced with. I'm concerned about those HIV-positive mothers around the world who, to protect their babies, choose not to breastfeed. But in order to mix formula they must have clean water. And therein lies the problem.

If I get cranky about having to buy water in the airport (or anywhere else for that matter), I'd also better start getting involved in making sure that water becomes more of a priority when we talk about health concerns in developing countries.

Water, water everywhere. If you have the money to buy it.

Permanent Ink

I talked with a fellow today who had a very interesting tattoo. As someone with more than a handful of tattoos, I’m always interested in the artwork that other people choose as their own. This one was particularly interesting.

It was on his forearm, not more than 1 1/2” wide and maybe that tall. It was very simple: HIV+. Four characters, quite identifiable in just about every corner of the world.

Why, I asked him, would he wear his HIV status on his arm for all the world to see. This is where the story got interesting.

Seems the guy lost his wife to AIDS several years ago. He’s an American who was working in London when he fell in love with a woman from Guyana. He knew she was HIV positive when they met, but he couldn’t deny his love for her. Not long after they met, the couple wed in a simple ceremony and moved to Bermuda. His wife had been shunned by her community and his job allowed him the opportunity to work from many locations, so Bermuda seemed an ideal place for them to begin their life as a couple.

After less than six months of marriage, the woman became quite ill. She was in and out of the hospital for several months. The last time he took her to the hospital—for Kaposi’s sarcoma—she developed a lung condition that would claim her life.

The man soon moved back to London, trying to put his life back together. One night while wandering the streets alone he stopped into a rough-looking tattoo parlor. He’d never had a tattoo, nor had he ever considered getting one. But that night, sober as a board, he sat down in front of a tattoo artist and told him what he wanted. In less than 20 minutes the man walked out of the tattoo parlor branded for life: HIV+

The fascinating part of this story is that the man is actually HIV-negative. He had been tested regularly before his wedding, he and his bride had practiced protected sex, and he’d been tested even after her death. Each time the result was the same: HIV-negative.

Why, then, would a healthy young man have such a tattoo? He explained that, at the moment of the inking, he wanted to experience the same stigma his wife faced every day of her life in her community. But it has actually turned out to be much more than that. In fact, he uses that tattoo every day as an educational tool.

“We all have choices,” he told me. “We can be negative or positive when it comes to people living with HIV or AIDS. I choose to be positive for those living with HIV and and I want to share this with the world.”

So today this man—an international journalist—rolls up his sleeves and goes to work. When people ask him about the tattoo, he talks with compelling confidence about the need to support people living with HIV or AIDS. It is, for him, a personal ministry to reduce the stigma surrounding HIV.

Had it been even a couple of years later, he know that his wife could have received treatment that would have allowed her to live a full, productive life. He also knows that many people who are doing so with HIV are still stigmatized in their communities.

His simple act of getting a small tattoo, just so he could feel his wife’s pain, has turned into a true education opportunity for lots of other people. I have to admit that I have a very good idea for my next tattoo.