# Corrupção rouba 760 mil milhões de euros por ano aos países em desenvolvimento

CLÁUDIA BANCALEIRO
http://www.publico.pt/mundo/noticia/corrupcao-rouba-um-triliao-de-dolares-por-ano-aos-paises-em-desenvolvimento-1668524
03/09/2014 - 16:16

Negócios escuros de recursos naturais, empresas fantasma, lavagem de
dinheiro e evasão fiscal estão entre os principais crimes que lesam os
Estados mais pobres.

Nos paraísos fiscais estarão concentrados 20 triliões de dólares
vindos de países em desenvolvimento RUI GAUDÊNCIO

Mais de 760 mil milhões de euros são tirados anualmente aos países em
desenvolvimento e mais pobres por actividades de corrupção. Somas
astronómicas estão a ser retiradas dos orçamentos e das economias
destes países, mas também milhões de vidas humanas estão a perder-se
para estes crimes. Pelo menos 3,6 milhões de mortes poderiam ser
evitadas por ano se os países mais pobres conseguissem impor medidas
anticorrupção.

Os números, avançados nesta quarta-feira, são do mais recente
relatório da organização não-governamental One, co-fundada pelo cantor
Bono (dos U2) para combater a pobreza.

A meta parece utópica mas foi estabelecida pela One: se o mundo
trabalhasse em conjunto, a pobreza extrema estaria erradicada em 2030.
Mas com base nos dados do relatório da organização, esse objectivo não
deverá passar de uma pretensão.

Segundo o documento, pelo menos 760 mil milhões de euros estão a ser
subtraídos dos países em desenvolvimento através de uma "rede de
actividade corrupta que envolve negócios escuros de recursos naturais,
o uso de empresas fantasma, lavagem de dinheiro e evasão fiscal". Esta
realidade está actualmente a impedir que estes países combatam a
"pobreza extrema, as doenças e a fome", sublinha a ONG.

Se a luta contra a corrupção, contra o sigilo financeiro, negócios de
recursos naturais e lavagem de dinheiro começasse a ser bem-sucedida,
a One sublinha que as perdas de vidas seriam "reduzidas
significativamente". "Isso traria uma série de benefícios para os
países em desenvolvimento, incluindo o aumento do investimento directo
estrangeiro e o aumento do produto interno bruto de até 0,6% ao ano",
observa o relatório.

Os crimes associados à corrupção estão a provocar perdas a estes
Estados entre os 740 mil milhões de euros e 1,5 biliões de euros
(biliões à portuguesa, como sinónimo de milhões de milhões). O destino
deste dinheiro são os paraísos fiscais, onde a One estima estarem
concentrados 15 biliões de euros. Nestes paraísos fiscais, 2,4 biliões
de euros não declarados tiveram origem em países em desenvolvimento.
Se este valor fosse tributado, poderia representar receitas
aproximadas de 14.800 milhões de euros por ano.

A ONG fez as contas e se o valor das receitas fosse aplicado nos
sistemas de saúde dos países mais pobres poderia evitar-se anualmente
a morte de 3,6 milhões de pessoas, entre 2015 e 2025.

A organização alerta ainda que se se terminasse com a opacidade de
alguns negócios e relações económicas, a economia global poderia
beneficiar de um aumento de 9,9 biliões de euros dentro de cinco anos
e metade da meta de crescimento dos países do G20 seria alcançada.

"A corrupção inibe o investimento privado, reduz o crescimento
económico, aumenta o custo para a realização de negócios e pode levar
à instabilidade política", adverte a One.

Ao G20, grupo dos ministros das Finanças e chefes dos bancos centrais
das 19 maiores economias do mundo mais a União Europeia, a One deixa o
seu principal apelo à acção contra a corrupção. O grupo vai reunir-se
na Austrália, em Novembro, e a organização espera que este assunto
seja alvo de debate.

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# Algarve é o melhor sítio do mundo para passar a reforma

2/9/2014, 18:19 Autor Sara Otto Coelho
http://observador.pt/2014/09/02/algarve-e-o-melhor-sitio-mundo-para-passar-reforma/

O índice americano que se dedica a recolher os melhores locais do
mundo para gozar os anos da reforma elegeu o Algarve por ser a opção
mais acessível na Europa para os aposentados. Mas não só.


Milhares de reformados no mundo inteiro estarão a pesquisar o que é
que o Algarve tem para ter sido eleito pelo "Retire Overseas Index" o
melhor destino fora dos Estados Unidos para passar a reforma. Para
além de ser possível viver bem "com 1.500 dólares por mês", a região
portuguesa combina "algumas das melhores praias da Europa" e herança
medieval.

Kathleen Peddicord, que está à frente da organização americana, conta
que já há mais de 100 mil reformados estrangeiros a conhecerem este
segredo chamado Algarve. O custo de vida é baixo em relação a outros
destinos europeus e o programa de vistos "Gold" torna "mais fácil do
que nunca" aos estrangeiros a obtenção do visto de residência em
Portugal.

Questões logísticas à parte, o Retire Overseas Index destaca as "3.300
horas de sol por ano, mais do que em qualquer outro local da Europa",
o facto de Portugal ser o 17.º país mais seguro do mundo e, claro, a
beleza natural e cultural do Algarve. "Não só vai encontrar a essência
da cultura do velho mundo no Algarve, como vilas medievais,
'eurocharm', mercados ao ar livre e vinho local, mas também algumas
das melhores praias da Europa ".

As escolhas do Retire Overseas Index são feitas a partir de uma
"combinação de estatísticas (desde o custo de vida ao sistema de
saúde)" e "observações pessoais dos vários correspondentes espalhados
pelo mundo", pode ler-se na página da organização.

Atrás do Algarve ficaram locais como Cuenca, no Equador, George Town,
na Malásia, Chiang Mai, na Tailândia, Dumaguete, nas Filipinas,
Medellín, na Colômbia e a única cidade europeia no top 7, Pau, em
França.

Esta é mais uma menção ao que Portugal tem de melhor. O país tem
estado emdestaque um pouco por todo o mundo, com distinções atribuídas
a hotéis, restaurantes e entidades. Em maio, o britânico Telegraph já
tinha escolhido o Algarve como o 9.º melhor sítio do mundo para passar
a reforma.

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# A 500-mile solo hike cured my loneliness

Only 150 people a year complete the Colorado trail.
http://qz.com/257211/a-500-mile-solo-hike-put-an-end-to-my-loneliness/

Willow Belden
August 29, 2014

The journey began at an unassuming trailhead on the outskirts of
Denver, Colorado. It was early July, and the morning sun was already
unpleasantly hot. I hoisted a 40-lb. backpack onto my shoulders,
paused for a photo, and started walking.

The plan was to hike the Colorado Trail, a 500-mile path through the
Rockies that links Denver with Durango. It crosses eight mountain
ranges, travels through remote wilderness areas, and climbs nearly
three times the height of Mt. Everest. Most of the trail is above
10,000 ft., so the air is thin, the danger of lightning strikes is
severe, and nighttime temperatures often dip below freezing. Of the
estimated 400 people who attempt the trail a given year, only about
150 finish.

1

I wasn't sure if I could do it: the longest I'd ever been in the
wilderness was a two-night trip near my home in Wyoming, and I'd never
backpacked solo. I also had a fear of heights.

But I craved an escape from the daily grind of work and life. Since my
parents passed away a few years ago, I'd been unable to shake a sense
of emotional emptiness. And though I liked my job reporting for
Wyoming Public Radio, I wasn't sure I had chosen the right career.

If Cheryl Strayed could get over her grief and a heroin addiction by
going for a long hike, I figured I, too, might find solace in the
wilderness.

So I quit my job, scoured countless books for tips on long-distance
hiking, and shopped for gear. I bought a tiny orange tent, a down
sleeping bag, a new backpack, and a pair of trekking poles. I
fashioned a home-made stove out of an empty cat food can, broke in my
hiking boots, and mailed boxes filled with power bars and dehydrated
backpacker meals to towns along the trail.


Just before I left home I got an email from a former editor of mine:
"I think you're nuts. Traveling alone in the wilderness with wild
animals and God knows what else sounds daunting. The countryside
should be beautiful, but won't you get lonely?"

It was a good question—one that many friends had asked as well.
Americans are lonelier than ever before despite constant contact
through digital connections and social media. Studies indicate that
one in four Americans have nobody to confide in; 20% are unhappy with
their lives because of loneliness; and more than one-third of adults
older than 45 are chronically lonely.

We are becoming increasingly isolated, and I'm no exception. Just
before I turned 25, my mother succumbed to cancer, and a year later—as
I was mustering the courage to contact my estranged father—he passed
away too. I have no siblings, and after I left the East Coast and
moved to Wyoming, I rarely saw my extended family.

That's not to say I was alone: I had plenty of friends, a caring
significant other, and wonderful colleagues. I ran into acquaintances
almost every time I went to the grocery store, and my work at the
radio station had made me a minor celebrity in Wyoming. But making
plans around other people's packed schedules was often a challenge.
And as friends got married and had children, the delightful one-on-one
conversations I used to share with them—the kinds of conversations
where you hash out life's challenges together and go home feeling
loved—became rare.

It seemed reasonable to assume that trekking alone for 500 miles, in
areas with no cell phone reception and few other hikers, might leave
me lonelier than ever.

But loneliness and being alone are two different things. During the
five weeks I spent on the trail, I felt less lonely than I have in
years.

Rain, and particularly afternoon thunderstorms, were a near-daily
occurrence on the Colorado Trail. Traversing high passes like this one
(Black Hawk Pass) required careful timing to avoid lightning.Willow
Belden

Expectations certainly played a role. At home in Wyoming, I
anticipated regular social interaction. So if someone turned down a
dinner invitation, or I failed to make plans on a Saturday night, I
felt lonely. Smiling selfies that friends posted on Facebook triggered
a sense of envy. And when peers chattered about visits with their
parents, the emptiness inside me ached. I wished I could show my
mother the life I'd built for myself in Wyoming. I missed her stalwart
encouragement, and the snail-mail cards she used to send just to say,
"I love you." I longed to go home to her at Christmas.

On the trail, it was different. I knew I was going to be alone; I
wanted to be alone—I wanted space to hear myself think. I felt no
pressure to make plans, and no self-pity about eating dinner by
myself. On the contrary: I treasured the solitude. I woke up when I
wanted to, took breaks when my blisters demanded, walked at my own
pace, and camped when I was tired. In the mornings I woke between 5am
and 6am and savored the silence as I watched the red glow of dawn inch
its way over the horizon. And as I walked along alpine ridges, gazing
at emerald valleys and elegant peaks, I marveled at having these
enchanting places to myself.

One evening toward the end of the trip, I paused by the headwaters of
a river. Purple and yellow wildflowers blanketed the meadow where I
stood. Red cliffs plunged thousands of feet into a canyon. And in
every direction, mountains rose serenely into the evening light.

As I descended a series of switchbacks, I thought of my mother and
cried quietly, realizing how much she would have loved this spot. I
let the tears flow freely, knowing no one was watching. They were
tears of sadness, but also tears of gratitude. It seemed so very right
to be there, in that beautiful moment, by myself. I was grateful that
no one else was around.

Here I am hiking toward a high mountain pass in the San Juan
mountains, on the first of a three-day stretch above tree line.Willow
Belden

Back in the real world, it had been hard to mourn my mother's death.
With so many people around, I felt compelled to appear
strong—collected—capable of accepting my loss and moving on. Now,
alone on the Continental Divide, I finally had the space to grieve.

Of course, I did encounter other people, both on the trail and when I
went into town for supplies. Scores of thru-hikers complete the
Colorado Trail each year, and hundreds more travel short sections. My
encounters with these people, though often fleeting, were unexpectedly
rich.

My first day on the trail, I came to a clearing at the top of a ridge
where a gray-haired man stood, squinting at his guidebook. He told me
he was living on social security and only had $200 to his name. He
planned to eat mostly peanut butter and candy bars on the trail
because they were cheap. As our conversation drew to an end and I
started to continue down the trail, he called after me.

"Hey," he said gently. "Be safe. And if you ever need anything, what's
mine is yours."

"Likewise," I replied, overwhelmed at his kindness.

I never saw him again—we must have hiked at different speeds—but that
sentiment was pervasive on the trail. If something went wrong, you
knew someone would be there to lend a hand or a mental boost.

One morning, after a particularly monsoon-like night, I trudged
irritably through the gloom. This was an especially wet summer in
Colorado, with days on end of incessant rain. Dense fog obscured
whatever views there might have been. If the sun didn't come out, I'd
have to set up a soaking tent that night. My sleeping bag would get
wet, and I'd have no way of staying warm. My irritation was mixed with
a sense of ineptitude. How would I finish this trail, if I couldn't
figure out how to deal with something as innocuous as a wet tent?

After a rainy night, I attempt to dry out my gear before hitting the
trail.Willow Belden

Eventually, I came upon a group of fellow thru-hikers. They sat around
a smoldering campfire, their wet shoes propped up around the fire
ring.

"Isn't this weather awful?" one young woman said. "Our shoes are wet,
our socks are wet, our tent is wet. I don't know what we're going to
do if it keeps up like this."

These guys don't know how to handle wet tents either! I realized.
Though I was alone, we were all in it together.

All along the trail, conversation flowed easily as we lamented bad
weather and broken gear, and joked about the characters we'd met: a
thru-hiker who hated hiking; another who got stoned and stole a bag of
chips from a fire house; a stripper who regaled us with stories of her
one-night stands.

I laughed harder than I'd laughed in years.

But there was another reason our encounters were so fulfilling:
distractions were nonexistent. There were no text messages or emails
to interrupt us; no one was worrying about places they had to be, or
things they had to do tomorrow. They weren't preoccupied with people
who weren't there. Some hikers didn't even bring their cell phones on
the trail. We were there together, in the moment, fully engaged. And
we listened—really listened—to what others had to say. These were true
conversations.

On Aug. 12, a little over five weeks after I'd set out from Denver, I
came to a gravel parking lot. This was the end of the trail. I'd made
it. I sat on a rock, watching the sun sink behind the trees. A quiet
sense of accomplishment tingled through my limbs. I felt calm,
tranquil, fulfilled.

The trail had been brutal at times. It had tested and infuriated me,
and I'd sometimes wondered with genuine bewilderment why I was putting
myself through it. But it had also enveloped me in its vast beauty,
erased my anxiety over my future, and—crucially—it had filled me up
inside.

For the first time since my mother's death, I was not lonely.

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