blog

This is the last part of the story in which teacher Aurora, the two dentist ladies, and Bas, together go look for the three missing crafty numbers.

“No!” a wave of panic floods over me. “No, they cannot possibly chase a runaway child armed as if chasing a dangerous fugitive, can they? They cannot possibly pull their guns and shoot at random into the innocent crowd, can they?”

It takes me a few seconds before I awake from my daze and before it starts to dawn on me that the police regiment isn’t targeting one of the Proniño children but a man; a stout fellow with a moustache, who makes a ridiculous attempt to dive away behind his pathetic shoe stand.

“Why do they attack that guy? We were supposed to look for a boy in a bad neighborhood and suddenly the entire street is thrown into confusion about a shoemaker?” Thinking all this in amazement, I cautiously step out of the dentist’s car to ask Cristian what is going on.

“Yeah Bas man, ya know who that is, the mister with the piece of hair under his nose?” he asks, full of indignation. Well, no, I don’t of course, if I would ever have embarked upon a journey to this part of town on my own, I would never have lived to tell the tale.

“So who is he?” I curiously ask.

“Yeah Bas ya see, that’s the vile fellow who always sells the glue to us and it is forbidden but he does it anyway and it’s also terribly expensive ’cause he knows that we’ll come anyway when we run out of supplies”.

And so it happens that I literally bump into the pivot of the glue problem that ravages the street youth of all the poor nations. Some interesting facts about the goings on of the glue world are featured on the website of www.casa-alianza.org . Casa Alianza works to improve the fate of street children in several Latin-American countries and reports to the United Nations about the violation of the fundamental rights of these totally abandoned young people.

According to Casa Alianza, (western) glue manufacturers sell more than 100 million liters (approx. 28 million U.S. gallon) of shoemakers’ glue per month to addicted children in Latin America, through their distribution channels, a nice, and legal, financial gain.that would vanish into thin air if they would produce an equivalent glue based on water. After all, water-based glue sticks just as well, but cannot be sniffed.

Shoemakers purchase the glue from wholesalers and they apparently sell it without scruples to 8 or 10 or 12 year old little lads, who in turn eagerly suck it into their lungs, until they are too sick to steal or prostitute for the next bottle of glue, or until they drop dead from an overdose.

So there I come face to face with one such “dealer”, who is grabbed by the collar among jeers from the crowd and applause from the children, and is shoved down onto the back seat of the patrol car, cuffed and clamped between two officers.

Together, we merrily continue our journey, in an ever more curious party.

So now we have three disheveled boys: Flaco the beanpole, Cristian the proud adolescent and the unbending Newcomer, who is determined to fight his way into the Proniño Paradise at any cost. I try to put myself in his shoes but I can barely manage a vague impression of his inner urge to survive. What goes on in the mind of a nine year old who has so little to lose that he forces himself upon a couple of unknown adults? A Western child of that age would shun all contact with strangers, whereas this little creature eagerly lays his fate in our hands. The Newcomer has no father, he has no mother either, he might possibly have a handful of siblings who have vanished. The Newcomer has nothing but his own life to lose, so he can afford to risk anything for a chance.

Then we have some six surly officers, needled by the presence of that FBI-like American, the persona I’d been given and choose to hide behind. Furthermore there are three ladies in our midst. Courageous Aurora, who was the first to approach the youths in the obscure little park, and the two lady dentists who indeed look around anxiously and keep their doors bolted, but who were also the one’s to take the initiative to mount this expedition. Finally, there is the craftsman who makes part of his living with the sales of third world drugs.

Together we head for El Pasaje, the Corridor where the last missing runaway possibly hangs around. No man’s land. The police stop. The dentists stay in their car, with the doors shut tight, but Courageous Aurora stately steps down. Me too, albeit less stately.

Bystanders watch us warily, clustering together to form a front against the menacing presence of the agents. When the arm of the law reaches this far it rarely means good news.

The police grasp their truncheons more firmly. I walk behind them, unarmed and vulnerable, while Aurora seeks protection near the car. The only one who knows his way around here is Cristian, and toughly he takes the lead, now and then amicably shaking hands with “acquaintances” that I silently suspect of cutting my throat if Cristian were not here to protect me. The world seems turned upside down. It feels oddly comfortable.

El Pasaje. A narrow blind alley it is. It’s filthy, stinking, with human excrement in the open, and peopled by gang members. A woman in the last stage of pregnancy lays half naked and stoned with a bag of glue at her mouth on a bed of thin cardboard that reads “Pioneer”. Her breasts nearly burst. Her skin seems gloriously tanned, or could that be buildup street dirt that has nestled in all the pores of her body? “Pioneer” cardboard. Maybe she has sold a stolen stereo system and uses the casing as a home? Should I ask? The situation is so overpowering that I disconnect from reality and become absorbed by the strangest details.

The little lad is untraceable. The Newcomer on the other hand, asserts his presence more than ever, fully aware that his moment of truth has come. May he come or not? He may. Of course he may! Aurora and I are no match for his charming qualities and the police are grateful that an awakening criminal career will be nipped in the bud.

Seven of us drive back, cramped in the dentists’ tiny vehicle to the Las Flores center, victorious for having two of the children with us, concerned about the third one. Flaco and Cristian rapidly merge into the group again.

The Newcomer is reunited with his best friend Denis in the Proniño Paradise, and he does indeed know how to kick a ball. After a few days he beckons me to a discreet corner with a conspiring gesture, so that no one can witness the secret transaction in which I am soon to take part. Solemnly I have to close my eyes and swear eternal secrecy.

“For you” he whispers triumphantly, while he conjures up a miniature U.S. Air Force F-16, to put it in my hands.

“Because you have saved me!”

I am convinced that the beautifully polished plane hasn’t landed in my hands in a fully legitimate way, but was ingeniously taken from the common toy box. Well, what is one to do in such cases, as a surrogate tutor? In such cases one simply throws all one’s principles overboard and accepts the given present with a lump of gratefulness and emotion in the throat.

In reality, the educators call “El Flaco” and “The Newcomer” by their real names. The above story happened in August 2003 and in January 2004 Proniño has still no sign of life from the last missed child. In the autumn of 2003, after a painful struggle with himself, “El Flaco” has decided to leave the center again and turn back to the streets. Proniño keeps as much contact with him as possible and there is a decent chance that he will come back to find a future again.

In November 2003, Cristian was among the first group of children to move to La Montaña, the miniature village where they can go to school, learn a trade, and grow up. He was the star student in the trades, but just before Christmas he has decided to return to San Pedro Sula to join his bigger brother, who hangs around there. Cristian too is welcome at Proniño any time. The Newcomer has taken to it like a fish to water since day one. He now officially attends the newly opened school at La Montaña and has learnt to write his name and much more!

The event that is described here is not an everyday situation. The majority of the children stay at Proniño, just like the Newcomer, and by trial and error they learn to enjoy life again and to believe in the future that they are offered. Nevertheless it is difficult for many of the street youths to exchange the liberty of the “outdoor life” and the “delights of the drugs” for a life of regularity and education. One can hardly expect that children and youths, who have been neglected for years, will always and immediately make a sensible and well-considered choice for their future.

As for the educators of Proniño, they learn to care ever better, care in which love and compassion weigh more than knowledge from western books. The first group of 28 children now attends school at their center and learns a trade. With the next group a relationship of trust is being built in the streets, and they too can start the rehabilitation process when they are ready for it.

In the evening, when I am sitting comfortably at home on the couch with a cup of tea, I sometimes see these images of Flaco dance before my eyes. Images of a tiny fragile person reduced to bestiality in that filthy “Pasaje”, two cardboard boxes for a home. “Pioneer” cardboard, of course. But one glance on my desk is enough to see that F-16 wink at me, and to remind me of why we do this work. Love and Light.

This is the sequel to the story in which teacher Aurora, the two dentist ladies, and Bas, together go look for the three missing crafty numbers.

San Pedro Sula, 500.000 inhabitants, three little run aways.and there I witness two of them strolling by! As I walk along the side of the church, I can see two familiar faces rising above the wall across the street. A wave of happiness flows through me. Then fright takes over. Will they be glad to see me? What if they run off! I need to hide! My heart pounds in my throat and without a thought I throw myself blindly in the traffic of San Pedro’s busiest street, all or nothing.

Before I am even aware of it I find myself standing face to face with “El Flaco” and his mate. El Flaco means “Skinny One” in Spanish. It is an appropriate nickname for this beanpole, who is still skin and bone despite four months of patching up at Proniño. The boys are happily surprised when they see me but in my panic I commit a blunder and get El Flaco by the scruff of the neck out of fear that they will flee.

The broad grin on their faces turns to stone, and the littlest boy bolts away like a deer, to vanish into an impenetrable mass of street vendors, chatting neighbors and students. El Flaco cannot escape my iron grip and to my delight his resistance is more symbolic than convincing.

“Is he secretly delighted that we have come all this way to look for him?” is the thought that crosses my mind.

Quite possibly, but in the meanwhile the scene that takes place between the big white man and the little dark lad is a guarantee of entertainment and soon we are surrounded by at least a hundred curious San Pedro Sulians. No one has a clue of how to deal with the situation. The crowds are clearly hesitating whether I am a devilish kidnapper having designs of Flaco’s life, or whether I am the guardian angel of an otherwise doomed little thief, whereas I am left wondering whether I should feel menaced by the masses or feel protected by them.

The police bring advice. Three man strong they come running along and in rapid though broken Spanish I explain that I work as a volunteer with Proniño and have come to look for Flaco because I believe in him and because I so much want to help offer him a chance for a future. Something breaks in the boy. He starts crying buckets and spontaneously grasps my hand to walk along meekly.

Moments later we are seated in the police station. Two rickety chairs, a desk that seems to be a relic from communist Russia, on which a typewriter from the sixties is proudly trying to shine, and to my annoyance a primeval ventilator that dutifully turns its rounds, crunching from fatigue, trying to deliver a breath of coolness in the blistering heat. It doesn’t help. A hint of fresh air is no match for the frustration that is caused by the creak of the antique apparatus.

“Flaco we love you, four of us came all the way to bring you back home, in the streets you will die, of the drugs or of the beatings, we love you, you know?” In that unbearable heat I find myself kneeling in front of the child, taking care that I am looking up to him and not the other way around, closely observed by the three police officers, who seem to become quite nervous due to my presence.

“He loves the kid like a father loves his son”, says one of them, spontaneously. El Flaco, who obviously has had no father in living memory, loses himself in a heartbreaking cry and my own words get stuck in my throat. We’re thinking of the same thing, and we both know what that is: two weeks ago, when I had narrowly lost a thrilling pillow fight against Flaco, the boy had for the first time gathered just enough courage to enter into an exploratory conversation.

When I told him, between pillows flying around, that my own father had died when I was a little kid, he had apparently decided that thanks to this similarity, I merited just enough confidence to be given a quick glimpse into his inner feelings.

Meanwhile, the police chief is busily shouting orders over his walkie- talkie:

“There’s an American here from Proniño with a child, over”

“He’s looking for two more, over”

“Send a patrol now for reinforcement, over”

Dear me, a real patrol for two street urchins, and that in a land where some of the police are infamous for simply eliminating those same children when it suits them (for further information on this subject, please consult www.casa-alianza.org, red.) Instinctively I decide to remain American for a while. Wild fantasies about the FBI and the American embassy are likely to impress this type of men more than the current Dutch administration.

In the meanwhile, teacher Aurora and the dentist ladies have joined us once again, Cristian following in their wake. Proud as a peacock that we clearly love him enough to come looking for him, he goes boasting around the station, defiantly looking at the officers and sharply aware that he will be treated with all respect, at least as long the Proniño people are present.

Again we head to the obscure little park. This time, we are accompanied by a small, but heavily armed regiment of police agents, to look for the last missing runaway.

Of course there is no sign of him anywhere, but soon our little friend, who had clamped himself to my leg only an hour ago to beg to be kidnapped to what he considers the big Proniño Paradise, comes running toward us. This time he has set his heart on Aurora, who he clings to with all his might.

“Señora, Señora!”, peeps his shrill little voice.

“I’m super-sweet and I’m really good at making up my bed and also at brushing my teeth, here, have a look!”

Promptly he offers us a view inside his wide-open mouth. Images of an inspection service for cattle cross my mind, and again I am painfully aware of the hopeless situation in which more than a hundred million street children on our planet find themselves. Left to their fate and dependant on the whims and benevolence of the adults around them.

Aurora too is at a loss and when we leave moments later for “El Pasaje” (The Corridor) on the advice of the youth from the park, the little lad seized the opportunity and made an agile leap for the trunk of the police-truck.

Together with El Flaco and a policeman we end up in the dentists’ car, on our way to what is infamous as one of the least accessible neighborhoods of this perilous place. We drive behind the patrol. The dentists are scared, they bolt the car doors. The agent stubbornly stares ahead of him, mumbling unintelligible pieces of information into his walkie- talkie from time to time, and I secretly suspect him of trying to impress the ladies.

The lads, Cristian, Flaco and the Newcomer, regard the outing as a blessing, because of the attention they get. Flaco is whooping with twinkling eyes. Cristian and the Newcomer are brotherly sharing the trunk of the pick-up with three police officers, as if they are the closest friends.

As for me, I am trying to radiate calmness, but I can sense the excitement of the adventure running through my body, making my heart pound, as I’m caught up in the waves of the rapidly changing events. When Cristian and the Newcomer suddenly gesticulate wildly in the same direction, the suspense breaks to turbulent chaos, and the dentists can scarcely avoid a collision with the patrol car.

The officers grab their machine guns. This cannot be true. Pushing each other aside, they hastily jump out of the truck, maneuvering with their guns ready and shouting instructions to the crowd. I can simply not believe this..