They arrived five months ago. First, David and Sanja had planned to stay for six months, but they’ve become attached to the children and they notice on a daily basis how important their presence is for he further development of the project, and they have decided to sign on for a few more months.
Sanja has just majored in child psychology and was thrown in at the deep end at Proniño.
Ten year old drug addicts who have spent the larger part of their lives sleeping in a doorway or a park, aren’t really part of the teaching experience in Holland and she needs to pull out all the stops to bring her knowledge to bear on our stunning reality. Fortunately she carries out her task with dedication, just like her boyfriend David.
From a chef’s position in a luxurious five star hotel, David joyfully switched to cooking classes for rebellious youngsters and teaching computer abilities to the boys in the permanent living center.
On that particular evening we meet at the salsa bar’s terrace and when David gets up to order some drinks, Sanja can no longer hold back and in a excited torrent of words, she takes great delight in sharing their good fortune of the past weekend with Nicky and me.
Nicky, who manages one of the centers, is there too and together we hang on Sanja’s every word. David and she were just looking for a phone booth in the neighboring city of San Pedro Sula when a neglected, smelly boy bumped into them behind the cathedral.
“Señora, Señora, can I help you, what are you looking for?” The twinkle in his eyes makes the filth on his face fade away.
“Well, we are looking for some coins to make a phone call, maybe you would have some in exchange for a note?” Sanja asks him, while assessing whether the lone child is a suitable candidate for care.
He likes the sound of that, because notes are obviously worth infinitely more than coins and maybe the lady will let him keep the difference! The dirty little kid and the tall white lady get talking to each other and when he finds out that she is working with Proniño he starts pulling at her enthusiastically.
“Do you know Nicky? And Bas, the one who has that same silly accent that you have? Are they there, do they still work there?”
Pleasantly surprised Sanja looks at the boy with curiosity. If he knows our names, we know his too and she understands that she needs to winkle as much information out of him as possible, to find out who he is, where she can find him again and if he can be placed at Proniño.
“You bet I know Nicky and Bas, but what’s your name?” she asks, desperate to hear the reply.
“Manuel!”
At once Sanja knows which Manuel that is. I had given her all the details about the child in the big neighboring city that I knew and feared dead, because we had all lost track of him and the rumors continued to buzz around. It had to be him, because there was only one missing Manuel who knew Nicky and Bas.
“Señora, hallo, are you still listening to me?” Sanja’s thoughts had wandered off to the dark recesses that cast a shadow over Manuel’s past and the little lad had to literally tug at her arm to get her back to the present.
“Yes Manuel, I am still listening. I know some people who will be filled with joy when they hear that you and I have met!”
By now David had joined them and little Manuel was desperate to be taken along right away. It’s not possible, not yet, not now. David and Sanja are not working this weekend and cannot identify themselves as Proniño workers. From time to time there are foreigners who deal in body parts, organs, or in entire children, and there is a small risk of an unpleasant confrontation with the police, who might wrongly accuse them of objectionable practices.
“Manuel, listen carefully,” Sanja says, “You cannot come along right now but we will speak to Nicky and Bas tonight and I’m sure that they will come and fetch you first thing in the morning. Be here, right behind the cathedral.”
By way of a magic trick they turn Manuel’s shabby coins into enough notes for at least two decent meals, and it is with pain in their hearts that they watch him while he skips away, pleased as Punch with his small fortune and the promise that tomorrow a new life will begin.
Seven thirty, the next morning, delighted and dangerously fast, Nicky and I tear over the potholed road to San Pedro Sula. Will he be there? Before we’ll find out, we are going to visit someone in a youth detention center, part of which the government has recently transformed into a center for street children. As with other of the scarce initiatives of the penniless and corrupt government, we find that this one isn’t well led either, but it has one remarkable advantage over Proniño. They offer permanent nursing.
The first HIV infected child that was taken care of by Proniño can receive much better guidance here and thanks to a United Nations program he is one of 2.000 HIV children who are given their daily medical cocktail virtually for free.
Nicky knows the boy well. She wants to surprise him with some cartoons and juice and it’s a relief to see him. The emaciated, deeply depressed child has gained a few pounds and a timid smile flirts around the corners of his mouth twice when Nicky jokingly tickles him in his side to feel how stocky he has become. The fact that the slightest of breezes is still enough to blow him away is a detail that all three of us deliberately overlook, as if to keep death at an appropriate distance.
Just as we are at the point of leaving, a sudden uproar flares up at the main building. A police patrol arrived to deliver eight children who they plucked from the streets, and who are now being housed in the government’s center, with no say in the matter and much against their will
From a distance we follow the scene. Suddenly one of the smallest breaks free from the group and starts a desperate sprint towards liberty, which is seductively beckoning on the other side of a large football field, behind a twelve feet high concrete wall.
Immediately one of the officers sets off in his pursuit. The machine gun that he has put around his shoulder is swaying casually from left to right with each step, as a waving reminder of the cruel truth of the streets. Only when I focus my gaze on the boy, I discover to my horror that it is Manuel who’s spurting away from the oppressive protection of the state.
In disbelief Nicky and I glance at each other. At the same moment, I leap up and run toward them like a madman. With all my heart, I wish that I run faster than the policeman and I catch myself thinking that I secretly hope that Manuel can clamber over the wall before the out-stretched arm of the law grabs hold of him.
“Mmmmm, well, in the direction of your head for instance, or your legs. We’ve got over two hundred balloons here, at least ten of which have your name on them and the rest will soak your mates”.
The hotel where Sander and Wessel stay is inaugurated as our headquarters. Plaza Victoria, as it is lovingly called, is a block away from my own apartment and I am one like the family there. Sometimes I go for a swim with some of the boys who have no family to visit, but are still allowed to leave the center on an occasional Sunday. The room maid takes care of my weekly laundry in a huge American machine from the sixties for a mere two euros and the owner’s daughter is the children’s dentist.
The idea behind the water war is of course not one of conflict, but rather one of fellowship and respect. To the children of the streets, who for years were treated with disdain or utter indifference by the adults surrounding them, it is pure joy to have the right to pepper adults in a legitimate and playful way, especially when afterwards we can discuss together about the best throw, the smartest launching techniques and the most heroic action.
