A surprising number of Hollow folk travel the world lending a hand to those less fortunate. Heck, the Missus and me ran into half of Mount Abe High School up in Mole’ Park last year in Ghana. International volunteering is worthy work, and enriches the giver as well as the receiver. I recommend that every citizen give some part of their time to volunteering within their own community and abroad. Through the miracle of email, I continue to mentor some half a dozen entrepreneurs in developing countries.

Over time, however, I have become very disillusioned with the entire Aid system. As we soon learned, the business of NGOs is NGO business. For the uninitiated, NGO stands for Non-Governmental Organization. In the US we often call them nonprofits.

Why I no longer believe in Foreign Aid (except for protecting water and air quality around the world)

At best, foreign aid is an apologist for colonialism. “I am sorry we destroyed your civilization, enslaved your people, suppressed your religion and culture, introduced plagues, and made you feel poor and ignorant, even as today, we continue to steal your country’s natural and human resources. Here is a bone for you.”

At worst, foreign aid is the marketing department for the new colonialism; renamed globalization. Not your grandfather’s colonialism. We promise.

Anyone wishing to read more about this country’s history of keeping the faith with non-European cultures can pick up one of the many works about our relationship with the Native Americans. By the mid-1890s, nearly 375 treaties had been written—and broken—usually before the ink was dry. Good thing we are different now; civilized, sensible, liberal. Believe that and I’ve got a truck that gets 12mpg to sell you.

You see, bandits are bandits are bandits. They may wear a suit. They may wear a collar. They will tell you that God, Teddy Roosevelt, and the US stock market are on their side. Truth is, they are just shoplifters on a global scale. In Hollow speak: “Rape and pillage may be good for the stock market, but it’s still rape and pillage.” And it’s the do-gooders who make it all appear palatable.

I was in Upper Guinea when I met a man who complained to me of his poverty and lack of opportunity. “I grew up in a small village,” he told me. “We never saw money or foreign made goods, maybe some piece of cloth or a small thing. But we did not know any different, everyone we knew was just like us. It was always the same. We usually ate at least once a day. We thought everyone in the world lived as we did. But the NGO people (professional do-gooders) came. They had everything! Shoes—we had never seen shoes like that! And hats. Cell phones, laptops, and calculators, SUVs with drivers. I left my village to seek money so I could get those things for my family and for my village.” He then offered to come and work at Vermont Soap so he could send his money back home. This was a daily request during our journey there.

This man said it all. He was not born feeling poor and disenfranchised. No—he had to learn to feel inadequate in his own village. And it was the professional do-gooders that inadvertently infected him with the disease.

Deep within the swamps of darkest Florida lives the last of a tribe that never signed a treaty with the United States. Their code is to have no contact with white culture. Some young men went to the old one and asked, “Father, may we buy a used pick-up truck? It would make all of our work so much easier.”

The old man did not hesitate. “No my sons, this is not acceptable. It starts with a pick-up truck. Soon everyone gets the white man’s disease. Usually fatal.”

The young men were noticeably agitated. Finally one spoke up. “Father, what is this disease that you speak of? We have not heard of such a thing.”

The old man looked each of them square in the eye; “The disease?” he croaked. “Wants Plenty Things.”

The tribe did not get the truck. But over time, some of the men have left the village to seek work in the white man’s world. They almost never return to the low stress life of self-sufficiency their people have enjoyed for a thousand years. Why? And why is this decision being made every day, all over the world?

The answer of course, is that dramatic growth of human populations (accelerated by do-gooder interference), have resulted in the utter devastation of local ecologies. Forest becomes sand. The land can no longer feed them, and jobs are scarce. People wait for years for a tiny handout, rather than feel empowered to do themselves. The European culture’s assault, begun by Royal Navies and Private Slavers, is now complete thanks to television, movies, and the work of NGOs. If the goal is to have lots more people living unsustainably, we have absolutely succeeded.

I have twice been warned about teaching the natural rhythm method of birth control in developing lands. Twice! “Officially Unofficial” of course. For anyone who does not know this dark secret that can do more to slow the environmental degradation of our world than anything else we attempt it, is this; (Parents, hide your children’s eyes and hum loudly while you read this). Remember this—8 to 6. Remember this—8 to 6. Eight days after you start to bleed abstain for 6 days. Traveling, sickness, or emotional upset can alter the cycle. There it is. The secret formula the Bushies do not want out in the world. Tell everyone you know. And tell them to tell everyone they know. This is far from foolproof, but for the majority of the women of this planet, who have no birth control options, it is better than a life of nine kids and breasts down to their knees. Trust me. The typical reaction to learning the method (in Africa anyway) is to dance for joy.

Which is what I suggest you do. Dance for joy that you are well fed, have shoes, and are literate and well bathed with handmade soap, and that you live in Vermont.

There was a great T-shirt around years ago. It read: “Because Vermont is, what America was.”

This is the Soapman asking each one of you to be conscious of who you support with every purchase you make.

These essays were written for entertainment purposes only. The views expressed herein do not necessarily reflect those of Vermont Soap, its employees, board of directors, our Web host, Web designer, the neighbors who live up the road; or any of the thousands of people who use our stuff. Originally published in edited form by Comic News. Many thanks to Seasoned Books, without which, life in the Holler may never have become a reality.