CARE PACKAGE

Collecting the shoes was the easy part. Now all Craig Cowan had to do was figure out how to get 10,000 pounds of them from San Luis Obispo to Central America, a five-week voyage marked by unexpected delays, savvy 'negotiations' and lessons in just how best to help the poeple of an impoverished nation.

Published: Sunday, February 13, 2005
Story and photos by Nathan Welton
The Tribune

GRANADA, Nicaragua -- Skinny cows and odd-shaped trees dot the grasslands of northwest Costa Rica, and the 91-degree air feels like an outdoor sauna.

Craig Cowan and his friend, Lisa Postle, sit in an air-conditioned minivan heading north to Nicaragua along the Pan-American Highway. The driver, Juan Aguilar Rivera, will serve as Cowan's translator and facilitator for the next week.

About half a mile behind him, almost 4,000 pairs of shoes are traveling in a white freight truck. Cowan's hands blur as he shuffles through papers in his lap and nervously flips through the screens of his Blackberry. He's preparing to cross the Nicaraguan border, but now that the shoes are three weeks behind schedule, his expectations for an easy transit are low.

It's no secret that cash catalyzes action in Central America, and supposedly a friend has arranged for the shoes to pass through with money exchanged in a handshake. So Cowan is carrying four crisp $100 U.S. bills.

As the border approaches, the landscape suddenly closes into dense jungle. Wispy tendrils seem to reach down from the forest canopy and grab at the convoy. It's like an omen: entanglement ahead.

On the Costa Rican side, a customs agent happily speeds up the crossing because he'll get shoes for his hometown soccer club. In the Nicaraguan customs office, however, things don't go as smoothly. Cowan doesn't pass any money in a handshake. Instead, an official orders the truck locked and the shoes impounded. They must go to Managua, he says, so customs agents in the nation's capital can count every single pair.

"It's not easy to make these things happen," the official explains. "We have to control the donations in the country because we don't know if the people who need them will actually get them."

Cowan's lips tighten.

"How long will it take in Managua to get the shoes?" he asks.

"If you get a green light, maybe half an hour," the official says. "If you get a red light, maybe a week."

They finally leave the border after dark. The truck carrying the shoes heads to Managua; Cowan and his crew drive toward Granada.

Cowan says he was tempted to offer the driver a few hundred dollars to cut the lock on the truck, but he didn't. He decides he'll relax in Granada the next day, and then go to Managua to try and free the precious cargo.

Seeing treasure

As he eats breakfast two days later at a local waffle house, Cowan is joined by Peder Kolind, a wealthy Dutchman in his 60s who runs the orphanage for which Cole and Cowan originally began collecting the shoes. Now there are 3,000 more pairs than the orphans can use.

Kolind is tall, dresses all in white and has well-coifed white hair. During his business career, he made millions by starting various companies, including a fire and alarm subsidiary of Brink's Security. For the past 12 years, he's done charity work in Central America, and he tends to answer Cowan's questions with personal stories.

Cowan is especially worried over what local children will do with the donated shoes.

"Will they sell them?" he asks.

"They probably will," says Kolind.

"What will they use the money on?"

"Cellular phones."

Cowan stares at Kolind, his head craning forward in disbelief.

"Remember, our values are not their values," Kolind says quickly. "If you ask them if they'd rather have a television or a bed, they'll pick a television --because they can still sleep in a box or on the floor. These people don't think they're poor, and a phone means prestige. They compare themselves to themselves, not to us."

When Cowan asks if there's a way to ensure that the children keep the shoes, Kolind sits back, looks away for a second, and continues.

"An oilman from Texas came down here once to give away toothbrushes -- but they'd sell those," he says. "So he decided to go house to house with the toothbrushes, giving them to people and teaching everyone in the household how to brush their teeth. 'Go in circles,' he'd say, 'don't forget the tongue, don't trade them to other people because you'll spread bacteria.'

"My point is this: he helped them, and he prevented them from selling the toothbrushes -- because now the toothbrushes were used. So we need to think like that with the shoes."

After breakfast and armed with inspiration, Cowan heads to Managua to try to free the shoes -- but he fails. They're stuck. Even a trip to the U.S. Embassy doesn't liberate them from Nicaraguan customs.

Father Christmas

Cowan meets with Kolind again back in Granada that evening, and they sit in a dimly lit courtyard to share a bottle of wine.

Intrigued by the economics of footwear, Kolind has gone into town and asked around. He found a salesman who buys used shoes by the kilo and sells them for $15 a pair. The massive donation from San Luis Obispo could put the man out of business if Cowan gives shoes to anyone but the poorest children, Kolind says.

Cowan doesn't reply, so Kolind tells another story.

Every Christmas, he gives away 300 frozen chickens to the children of hungry families. The youngsters become craftier each year, finding ways to scam him out of several birds at once.

After four seasons, he's learned to hand out tickets rather than chickens. When bearers exchange their tickets for the birds, they leave with thumbs marked with indelible ink.

This, he says, is how Cowan should distribute the footwear.

"Well, whatever we do, I want to see this through," Cowan says. "I've told a lot of people what we're doing, and I've had so many people helping out."

Cowan mentions his childhood and how his mother gathered bottles to cash in for refunds. In kindergarten, he decided he wanted to help the poor people of the world.

"You want to know why I do what I do?" asks Kolind. "I do it for myself. Because it makes me feel good. I may not do it for the children, if I'm really honest. I do it for me. I know that might not be politically correct, but it's true -- and I've not had 12 better years in my life."

But Cowan insists that his motivations are selfless.

"I met a guy and he said when he was a kid, he'd eat bananas and sugar for breakfast and bananas, salt and pepper for dinner," Cowan says. "That struck me -- I just about cried."

Kolind interrupts.

"Craig, I think you need to realize that you give for yourself, too."

"Probably, but I had two mentors, and. ..."

Kolind interrupts again.

"I do this to help myself. I want to die happy. Understand? I'm doing it to help myself be a happy man."

"But in the process you're helping people."

"Yes, but that's all extra. Being Father Christmas -- what better can you be? Is there anything better?"

The talks continue into the night, past the point when the courtyard's lamp burns out.

The next morning, Cowan gets the call from customs officials. Come up here with some money, they say, and let's talk. We're ready to help you out.

He goes, waits a few more days, and receives another call.

The shoes are ready.