.... or something like that.
I find it too hard to fit into this jagged world, where she eats potato chips from a can, ignoring the boy outside with no pants. The store is filled with jeans, overpriced to be sure. If we each gave $5 it could be done. But they are full of their evening at the Ball and thinking of Christmas trips home. I know $20 will not rid my stomach of hunger or fill my night with sleep.
I am reminded of another trip, another she. “Cholera has broken out, killed 14 people.” It’s the Belgian (yes, we are reduced to nationalities here in the world of international teaching.) He’s trying to show his awareness of politics, thinks we’re all fools for not discussing more, being more aware. I read the paper once a week and have found several good radio websites. I opt to say nothing. A man selling plastic containers walks by. “That’s what I need, food storage.” It comes from a young American, not caring about the 14 dead or the thousands displaced. It’s amazing how narcissistic people can become here. They think of it as a survival strategy- don’t look at the beggars and thieves, they will go away if you ignore them. No questions about where they will go or why they are beggars and thieves to begin with. I tried to placate the Belgian with a question half posed- “Where? Around here or in the east?” Of course, I know it’s in the east, where the real tragedy is occurring. From our stance, it seems as far away as America. At least it will until something happens to bring it closer to home, or to inconvenience our lives.
It was regrettable that time, to see the indifference.
But this time, unforgiveable. We found ourselves in a travel tour bus, four American/European women pretending the little boy on the sidewalk didn’t exist. It’s altered my ability to interact with them, not that the bond was ever especially strong to begin with. I am as stunned by the cruelty as if one of them had gotten off the bus and slapped the boy in the face. They do not see it as cruel, they choose not to see at all.
I’m determined to take photos. It has only just occurred to me the reason photos are not allowed is because of the dire situation downtown. It’s not security but national image that is at stake. The store I’ve come to hate is City Market. It’s ridiculously expensive, (home of the $22 box of cereal) but also home to a small community of street people. Except they’re not people, they are women and children. Women nursing babies and smoking cigarettes. Children hoping for a Coke or piece of bread, sitting on dirty blankets, breathing in fumes from the cars and buses that pass. Today, they were arguing. Two women, one whose veins in her neck stood out as she yelled. She loosely grasped a plump baby that looked as if it might tumble to the ground. From somewhere, a saw appeared in her hand. She held it casually by her side as she yelled. Point taken, I suppose.
I asked the driver, Papa Mazando, to deliver the pants. He handed the bag to a woman, gesturing and explaining. I could barely see from the bus window, but I caught a glimpse of her face as she held the pants out and joy as she presented them to the boy. I don’t know if it was the right thing to do, surely not the wrong thing. I understand the solution to these problems cannot be conquered this way. But, of all the children outside that day, there was just one with such a simple and obvious need. It was the only thing to do. For some reason, I wasn't really sure if she would be joyful.
He doesn’t leave my mind that simply. I think of him as the rain pounds the roof. I try to find comfort in stories of secret dry places where he might take refuge. The television would paint a picture of him finding an abandoned building with some bedding and a fire to keep warm by. I know the truth is he is probably wet and cold, soaked in his new pants and hungry with his old, empty stomach. I am humbled with gratitude for my dry house and cozy bed. Though this night, it provides little comfort.
