“Half the world knows not how the other half lives.” — Oft quoted words of French clergyman Francois Rabelais. Although I have been a witness to a variety of living conditions and habitats, of both extremes, I have never seen it to the degree in which I observed last week.

When my children were young, anytime they would complain about not getting something they wanted, I would remind them of how very fortunate they are compared to the rest of the world. I believe they coined it lecture 417.7, section 2, the “you have no idea how good you have it” lecture. I would not only relate my own past living conditions, including a summer stint living in my car in college, but I would also expound on the many homes I have toured in my real estate career which a two-door hatchback would have been a step up from. Last week, however, I had the opportunity to see how the other half REALLY lives.

Although Cabo, Mexico, is definitely a beautiful, picturesque, beach-enhanced, white-sanded resort town with plenty of beautiful brown bodies dotting the shores (and some of us very pale ones as well), just a few short blocks away reveals a very different scene. And since I can’t seem to go to a different country without wanting to experience some of the local culture, we were able to immerse ourselves into this scene, albeit, very temporarily.

It became clear that we were no longer on frequented tourist soil immediately upon reaching the outskirts of this little town. As we drove our compact rental car the wrong way down an unmarked one-way street with honking cars coming at us in all directions, no traffic signals, road signs or stop lights in sight, we knew that us, the proverbial Dorothys, were no longer in Kansas. Since we were clearly unfamiliar with the implied, yet unposted traffic rules, we decided to park and walk around a bit.

We pulled up to a curb from which another car had just exited and climbed out of the car. We were promptly met with a very large military-like truck with a standing guard in the back armed with an AK-47 assault rifle. I was tempted to take a picture, but I refrained. I worried that if I pointed something at him, he may reciprocate. I was uncertain as to whether these boys were sent by government military or drug cartel. Within seconds, we were approached by a less-than-gentle man asking in broken English if we would like to purchase OxyContin, or perhaps something “better.” We declined.

Just to the north of these small dilapidated open store markets were the “living facilities.” Small “neighborhoods” consisted of lean-to-like structures or one-room cinderblock dwellings with corrugated metal roofs. Some of these setups were simply assembled from scrap particle board, tree branches and cardboard. These areas are overcrowded and set atop desert scrubland. Sewer systems are not existent, as is a municipal water supply. Overcrowding is common, and public services are spotty or nonexistent. Stray dogs wander among the rubbish and trash, picking out an existence just as the residents themselves. One man dropped his drawers in front of us and squatted. The man next to him was drinking ketchup from the bottle.

Sadly, these are housing conditions of the very people in the service industry who were parking our cars and passing out towels at our resort. One of them was our valet, one of the kindest gentlemen, who thoughtfully explained exactly what we needed to do to get our front license plate back from the local police who had taken it as penance for parking illegally (apparently, a green curbside does not mean “go ahead and park here”). He even offered to accompany us. We paid the ticket, got the license plate back, tipped him liberally and returned home, to our first-world country, grateful for indoor plumbing and electricity, luxuries the “other half” don’t have.

Jen Fischer is an associate broker and Realtor. She can be reached at 801-645-2134 or jen@jen-fischer.com.

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