The Heart and the Fist Part 6

6. Bolivia

I RETURNED FROM RETURNED FROM Rwanda grateful for the opportunity to once again immerse myself in university life. After my despair freshman year, when my first cla.s.s on my first day of my first semester at college did not meet my grand expectations, I'd grown to appreciate the incredible education I had received. Rwanda grateful for the opportunity to once again immerse myself in university life. After my despair freshman year, when my first cla.s.s on my first day of my first semester at college did not meet my grand expectations, I'd grown to appreciate the incredible education I had received.

I read Milton and Shakespeare and Plato and Locke, learned something of the world's major religions, studied economics and philosophy and science and ethics, read the cla.s.sics and history and contemporary literature, learned an art and a foreign language. I was fortunate, both in and out of cla.s.s, to read many of the major works in the Western canon, and to read them under the guidance of insightful, patient, and demanding teachers, the majority of whom were not infected by the need to "deconstruct" texts based on their own "neo-something" bias or a "something-ist" school of thought. Instead, they taught them, as the American cla.s.sicist Edith Hamilton once described the great works of literature, "the strong fortresses of the spirit which men have built through the ages."1 By entering these fortresses, I became stronger, so that by the time I stood under the sun with a group of friends at graduation in May 1996, I had been given the greatest gift an education could provide: I had a better idea of what it meant to live a good life, and what it meant to be a good man. By entering these fortresses, I became stronger, so that by the time I stood under the sun with a group of friends at graduation in May 1996, I had been given the greatest gift an education could provide: I had a better idea of what it meant to live a good life, and what it meant to be a good man.

Socrates taught the importance of living an examined life, and at Duke I was able not only to examine my life but also, by reading deeply, see all of the rich possibilities that life offered. My discoveries were almost embarra.s.singly simple, but for me they were profound. The Greeks, for example, had a word, eudaimonia, eudaimonia, that meant something close to "human flouris.h.i.+ng," or living a good and complete life. How strange, I thought, that we don't have such a word in English. The Greek word that we often translated as virtue, that meant something close to "human flouris.h.i.+ng," or living a good and complete life. How strange, I thought, that we don't have such a word in English. The Greek word that we often translated as virtue, arete, arete, actually meant "excellence," and another word, actually meant "excellence," and another word, phronesis, phronesis, was translated roughly as "practical wisdom." It was fascinating to see that the people who invented the world's first democracy and laid the foundations for the science, literature, and art that we continue to build on today actually had a way of thinking about the world, a way of speaking about the world, that I had never considered. was translated roughly as "practical wisdom." It was fascinating to see that the people who invented the world's first democracy and laid the foundations for the science, literature, and art that we continue to build on today actually had a way of thinking about the world, a way of speaking about the world, that I had never considered.

I was awed when I read Lincoln's Gettysburg Address and heard the echoes of a speech that Lincoln had studied-one made by Pericles at Athens nearly twenty-five hundred years ago. When I read Martin Luther King's "Letter from Birmingham Jail," I could see the imprint of the philosophy King had studied: the works of Saint Thomas Aquinas, written in the thirteenth century. When I studied the Const.i.tution, I understood why America's Founding Fathers-schooled in cla.s.sical literature and history-had divided power among three branches of government. Understanding these historical and intellectual influences added a new depth to my thinking. I was humbled to see that conversations across the centuries had addressed fundamental human questions, and that by sitting down with the right book, I could learn from a Roman legionnaire, a fifth-century bishop, or an early American farmer his insights about what it means to live well.

Of course, the university had its share of blowhards who were underworked and overcritical, but they were a minority. Whether by luck or a fortunate set of choices, I came in contact with professors who rejoiced in living a full life, and whether they would have articulated it this way or not, they believed in the need for citizens in a democracy to be able to think independently.

I was fortunate also that I had professors who, while appreciating the value of contemplation, understood the importance of doing, of translating thoughts into deeds. In this regard they followed the American essayist Ralph Waldo Emerson, who believed that action was essential: "Without it," Emerson wrote, "thought can never ripen into truth"2

During my last semester at Duke, I met a woman who had just returned from a trip to Bolivia, where she had worked in a home for children of the street. The home, Mano Amiga, was run by two of her friends. She described it as an oasis of joy in the desert of poverty, abuse, crime, and dest.i.tution where most street children lived, and she described her friends as the closest thing she knew to living saints.

Duke's parting gift to me took the form of a photography grant that paid for a plane ticket to Santa Cruz, Bolivia, and as I packed my backpack with film, camera, notebooks, and some well-worn travel clothes, I was beginning to feel like an old pro. This was my fourth trip overseas. In Croatia and Rwanda, I had photographed the remains of the dead and listened to the stories of survivors. I had seen how people-even amid incredible tragedy-continued to care for their children and love each other. I saw people rebuild their lives in small steps, one arm wrapped around their neighbors for support. Despite all the suffering I had seen, I left these places feeling hopeful. I found that volunteers could save lives, bring joy. Bolivia would prove to be a different kind of test.

Hundreds of children live on the streets of Santa Cruz. Commonly referred to as ninos de la calle ninos de la calle-children of the street-these children spend their days s.h.i.+ning shoes, begging, selling gum and cigarettes. Some of them return to small cardboard or corrugated metal shelters where they sleep at night, usually in groups and often surrounded by dogs for warmth and protection. The children live in alleys, their shelters in shadow. Drugs, sickness, abuse, injury, dirt, theft, unwashed clothes, pain.

Some children end up on the street after being abandoned. Others flee abusive homes. Yet the street is no escape from violence. Young women, in particular, are often the victims of s.e.xual abuse. Self-mutilation in the form of cutting is common among street children. I would see a young girl-pretty, round brown eyes-stand before a volunteer, wearing a dirty sweats.h.i.+rt and jeans, holding out her left arm to reveal three black, unclean wounds caked with dried blood.

Sniffing glue is also common among Bolivia's street children. For some children lifting a small white bottle to their nose is a reflex, like blinking. Sniffing this cheap drug eases pain. It also causes permanent brain damage. Seizures, spasms, memory loss, hearing loss: all are common. I would watch one girl-maybe seventeen years old-lift a white bottle, tilt it to her nose, and breathe in deep. Her eyes were wet and gla.s.sy as she brought the bottle down from her nose and set it on her pregnant belly.

The Mano Amiga home is located just outside Santa Cruz; for a barefoot child it's about an hour's walk from the center of the city to the gate. My first night in the home, I gathered with the volunteers and all of the children in a large room that also served as the dining hall. Here I'd eat simple breakfasts, lunches, and dinners of bread and stew and steamed vegetables served from steaming black pots.

A tall man, thick boned, with black hair, olive skin, and small gla.s.ses that gave him a professorial air, stepped into the room. In the States, I would have described him as a guy who could have played linebacker on his college football team. A big man, he moved slowly. A deep, soft voice gave his words a feeling of pastoral reverence.

He began in Spanish. "Welcome, everyone. My name is Don Thomas. I have been working in and overseeing these homes for years and with great pride and happiness." As Don Thomas spoke, I realized that I had not used my Spanish, the language I'd studied in high school and college, outside of a cla.s.sroom for more than an afternoon. I strained to understand every word. I listened as he said, "Every time I introduce new volunteers..."-and then he turned his head and I lost what he was saying. But then he turned back. "I feel truly blessed that you are here." He smiled broadly. "The work that you do here is not only a great contribution to the children of Bolivia, but is also a great contribution to all the children of G.o.d. On behalf of everyone here"-and he opened his arms to take in all of the children-"thank you for coming. Now, let us all introduce ourselves."

Jason and Caroline were a young American couple who ran the home. Jason was a Wisconsin native who approached every task-attending to wounds, refereeing fights, disciplining children-with the steady gait of a midwesterner walking out to the barn. Caroline, his wife, was an intelligent, compa.s.sionate woman, who in the s.p.a.ce of one minute could gently discipline a child, give instructions in Spanish about how lunch should be served, tell a volunteer in English where to find art supplies, and pick up a crying kid from the floor. "I talked to my sister on the phone," Caroline told me once, "and for her birthday, her boyfriend got her a diamond necklace. For my birthday, Jason gave me a back rub." She smiled. Jason and Caroline's work at the home afforded them no material luxuries, but it was evident that it did afford them the best kind of happiness: simple, deep. I remember thinking, What a beautiful way to start a marriage. What a beautiful way to start a marriage.

Then the children introduced themselves: Rodrigo, Carlos, Adolpho, Maribella. They stood up one after another, just as hide-behind-their-hands shy, crazy-face clowning, and good-student earnest as any group of American kids. I leaned forward in my chair. I strained to understand them. Some of them swallowed their words and others squealed, and some of them barely spoke Spanish. Many of the children came from rural villages surrounding the city, and their native language was Quechua. I had to reconsider whether I was an "old pro": I had come to volunteer in a home for kids without even knowing what language many of them spoke.

One boy-he was maybe six years old-stood and shouted, "I am Eddie!" and flung his arms to the side as if he were a rocket shooting through s.p.a.ce. Eddie then sat with a smile and bounced in his chair. The introductions moved on to two more children, after which Eddie again jumped to his feet and circled the room, curling his arms like a monkey, scratching his armpits and grunting.

"Eddie," Caroline said simply, and Eddie returned to his seat with a smile.

Then it was my turn. I had decided to introduce myself using the Spanish name I'd been given in my high school Spanish cla.s.s, thinking it might be easier for the kids to p.r.o.nounce than "Eric." But when I stood and said, "Hola, me llamo Qui Que," the children burst out laughing. Even Don Thomas laughed. Was my Spanish that bad? Was my Spanish that bad?

Two of the kids chanted, "Qui Que, Chicle, Qui Que, Chicle!" I turned to Caroline. She explained to me that Qui Que is a popular brand of gum in Bolivia. What I'd just said was the equivalent of a Bolivian volunteer announcing in an American home, "h.e.l.lo, my name is Bazooka Joe!" Later the kids walked up to me, puffing out their cheeks like chipmunks, pretending they were chewing impossibly large wads of gum.

My first day at Mano Amiga began with a lesson in the Bolivian national religion: soccer. Jason and I walked out to a dirt field beside the home, where a pack of boys, some barefoot, kicked around a ragged brown ball scarred with Mano Amiga history. Some of the boys wore donated shoes; some had outgrown their shoes and cut holes in them, playing soccer with their big toes hanging out.

When I was in third grade-the age of many of the boys here-my parents had debated whether or not to buy me a pair of Tony Glavin KangaROOs. Tony Glavin was the star of the St. Louis Steamers indoor soccer team, and the ROOs were special soccer shoes. The ROOs cost thirty-something dollars in 1982. I remember the debate in my house.

"He doesn't need them."

"All of the other kids on the team are getting them."

"They're thirty dollars-and he doesn't need them."

Here in Bolivia most of the kids played in bare feet, and they had as much fun as we ever had. Alone, human beings can feel hunger. Alone, we can feel cold. Alone, we can feel pain. To feel poor, however, is something we do only in comparison to others. I took off my shoes. In the home, these kids weren't poor. Their recreation consisted of soccer, tag, a dozen other run-and-chase games, marbles in the dirt, bottle caps. In their imaginations, they turned old tires into fighter planes and cardboard boxes into candy stores.

The boys wrestled every afternoon, and Jose-one of the volunteers-would often roll in the gra.s.s, play-fighting with five or six boys. Many of these kids had experienced the physical strength of adult men only in the form of abuse. Jose taught them to control their strength. He never hurt them and he didn't allow them to hurt others.

Although the refugee children I'd worked with in Rwanda and Croatia had lived through incredible, sometimes vicious trauma, most had an otherwise whole life; loving parents, caring adults. These children of the street were different. While the refugee children suffered greatly, there was a "normal" they would return to one day. Many of Bolivia's street children had abuse and violence sewn into the fabric of their days from the moment they were born.

Every night we had to round up the boys and get them into the shower. Like kids everywhere, many of the boys in the home didn't care about being clean. Jason made a game of it. He'd announce, "Shower time-vamos, vamos, vamos!" We'd raise our arms above our heads like boogie monsters and chase the kids into the shower.

One night, Adolpho was covered in dirt from soccer and had crumbs of food on his face and crushed into his hair. He didn't want to shower. Jason had tried the boogie-monster chase. He tried making it a challenge-"Adolpho, let's see how fast you can shower and get to bed." He tried to reason with him-"Adolpho, I'd feel really happy if you got clean and into bed." Adolpho would not go. It was getting late.

"Adolpho, please, you need to shower and go to bed," I said, gently grasping his wrist. The moment Adolpho felt the lightest pull, he kicked his feet out from under him and fell to the floor. He screamed full-throated, the sound of his open-mouthed terror filling the hall. He flailed his arms back and forth as he kicked at the air. I had two younger brothers and three younger cousins. I'd worked as a camp counselor all through high school, and I'd seen plenty of kids throw tantrums. But this was different. This was the wild fear of a child who'd known abuse.

"Adolpho, Adolpho, relax, relax, you're OK, relax, you're OK."

Slowly he calmed. Adolpho had to build a new normal.

One day I went to walk and photograph in the poor neighborhoods of Santa Cruz. As I turned off the wide paved main streets onto constricted paths of dirt and mud, I caught the smell of rotting trash and urine. I walked through a warren of hovels pressed together like animals in a storm. Lines of laundry hung out to dry. Brown runoff trickled between the houses. Plastic bottles floated on the rivulets of water past discarded rags. If every plastic bag that littered the ground had been a vegetable, it would have been a bountiful garden.

The mud-caked walls and red-rusted corrugated steel roofs formed homes no bigger than a one-car garage. Waved inside by an elderly woman, I walked into one of the homes. The floor was immaculate. A sheet hung from the metal roof to divide the s.p.a.ce into rooms. On one side of the sheet, well-worn blankets lay on the dirt floor for a bed. Farther back sat a small iron stove for cooking. Tacked to the wall above the stove was a small crucifix and tacked to the door frame was the image of the Virgin Mary. Just outside, kids ran barefoot, splas.h.i.+ng through the puddles of standing water.

When the kids turned to me, I saw their bright smiles under lazy eyes. I saw their arms and elbows and knees and legs, some with open sores. I knew that these kids ate what their caretakers could scrounge for them, or what they could buy with a day's earnings working on the street, or what they could steal. I knew that throughout Bolivia, kids without access to clean water and sanitation died needlessly from exposure to malaria, hepat.i.tis A, and toxic chemicals in polluted water. I also knew that these children lacked access to even the most basic health care to right a lazy eye, set a broken bone, or kill intestinal parasites.

Back on the streets, I pa.s.sed packs of boys s.h.i.+ning shoes, and a little girl-maybe eight years old-selling gum from a box that hung from a strap over her shoulders.

"Chicle?" she asked.

At night, I went into the streets with a group of Americans who gathered in the city, sang songs to embolden their spirits, and then walked down the small dirt paths to where children of the street lived. They brought with them bandages, hot tea, and bread.

We saw children lounging together in packs-their arms draped over each other, glue bottles in their hands. A boy stood next to a dumpster reading a newspaper, lifting a bottle of glue to his nose with his free hand. The children drank the tea and accepted the bread. I had expected them to be voracious, but they chewed slowly and looked left and right as they ate. Most of them were high.

The volunteers bandaged wounds, and when they rubbed alcohol on an arm they cleared away layers of grime. Brown, rotten bandages were replaced with new white ones that stood out against the children's unwashed limbs. The kids smiled when they were handed tea, and some of them smiled at my camera, but never before had I walked among children like these, children who seemed so much like zombies, their brains wrecked by drugs, the light of their spirits barely flickering under years of daily pain and abuse.

As I walked home that night, I found myself breathing shallow in and out of my nose like I was preparing to fight. What's the matter with me? What's the matter with me? At first I thought I was angry about the street children, angry about their lives. But I soon realized that my anger was selfish. I wanted to see-as I had in Croatia, Rwanda-cause for hope. I wanted to believe that the children's situations could be improved, lives saved, wounds healed. But I didn't see any hope on these streets. Many of these kids were too far gone. Drugs had rotted their brains, and they were already buried under a dozen years of bad habits and locked in a cycle of misery and addiction. Miracles were possible, but it would take a miracle. At first I thought I was angry about the street children, angry about their lives. But I soon realized that my anger was selfish. I wanted to see-as I had in Croatia, Rwanda-cause for hope. I wanted to believe that the children's situations could be improved, lives saved, wounds healed. But I didn't see any hope on these streets. Many of these kids were too far gone. Drugs had rotted their brains, and they were already buried under a dozen years of bad habits and locked in a cycle of misery and addiction. Miracles were possible, but it would take a miracle.

In the Mano Amiga home, though, it was different. As one lesson began, Caroline explained to me that during school time, "we teach the kids art and music and painting and sculpture and dance." Eddie ran by, holding a paper plate that had been glued with construction-paper arms and legs and head to make a monkey.

I loved the arts, and I loved watching the kids create art, but I considered whether for these kids, a focus on basic reading and writing and maybe some math would be better. I asked Caroline, "Why do you teach so much art?"

"It lets them see that there are beautiful things in the world, and that they can create them."

Kids like Adolpho and Eddie were incredibly intelligent. Some had survived for years on the streets, and I often saw in their narrowed gazes an emotional maturity that far exceeded that of comparable American children. Yet these kids had never had someone who believed in them enough, loved them enough, to teach them that they they had value, that had value, that they they could create beautiful things in the world. They had never learned what they were capable of. could create beautiful things in the world. They had never learned what they were capable of.

In the home, they had to learn the most basic habits. We played a game that the volunteers called, in an English-Spanish mix, the Sniffing of the Manos. Before the kids were allowed to enter the dining hall, they had to line up and hold their hands up, palms out. The volunteers would then inspect each pair of hands to see if they'd been washed.

When Carlos, a ten-year-old, bright-eyed kid, held out his hands to me, I sniffed. I scrunched my face as if I had just smelled something rotten. Carlos and the other kids around him giggled.

"Good. You pa.s.s." Carlos danced into the dining room.

I sniffed Pablo's hands. I put a pensive look on my face and Pablo giggled. I stroked my chin and began the interrogation in my simple Spanish.

"Tell me, did you wash your hands with soap?"

"Yes, Qui Que. I did."

"And how long did you wash your hands?"

"Twenty seconds, like you told us."

"Are you sure it wasn't nineteen seconds? Because if it's nineteen seconds, you'll have to go back to wash your hands again."

"Yes, Qui Que."

"How fast were you counting?"

"Real slow. Slow ... like ... this, Slow ... like ... this," he said, carefully drawing out each word.

"OK.".

Pablo shot a crazy face at the other kids and ran into the dining room.

"Adolpho!" I smiled at him.

Adolpho, who was two places down the line, roared with laughter and pointed at me when he saw that he'd been caught. He'd purposefully covered his hands in mud and had them hidden-he thought-behind his back, ready to hold them up in front of my face when it was his turn for inspection.

Interacting with the kids helped me improve my Spanish. The children always made an extraordinary effort to be understood. One kid, responding to my quizzical look as he told a story, held up two fingers in a V behind his head and started bouncing around the field. Rabbit. Rabbit. I got it then. I got it then.

As I started to communicate better with the kids, I began to appreciate the importance that the routine of the home played in their lives. The volunteers and children led a life whose daily rhythms were shaped by religion. They recited the Lord's Prayer in Spanish before every meal.

Padre nuestro que estas en el cielo, santificado sea tu nombre.

Venga tu reino...

I took photographs of a priest in a white robe as he and several of the children-dressed in white to perform their duties as altar boys-prepared for Ma.s.s. For the kids, the rituals of the church and the rituals of the home provided steady, true ground in a life that had been racked by wave after wave of false promises and false starts.

My mom is Jewish, my dad Catholic, and as kids we'd had it great: Hanukkah and Christmas, Easter and Pa.s.sover. We had attended Sunday school largely because my parents cared that we grew up to be religious, moral people, but my parents weren't too bothered about theology. If you loved G.o.d with all your heart and all your soul, they figured that G.o.d would help you find your way.

Though I didn't have a very structured religious education growing up, I could see why it mattered to the kids. They needed something solid and constant, because the streets were always tugging at them.

One day Jason suggested that I take some of the kids to the soccer stadium in Santa Cruz to watch a game.

It sounded like fun, and when I mentioned the outing to a group of older boys, they started shouting and jumping around the room.

"Yes, Qui Que, yes!"

"Qui Que is the best, the best, the best!"

As we left the Mano Amiga home the night of the game, the kids had a bounce to their step. Pablo whistled at a girl. Rodrigo leaned back and let out an open-throated cheer for his team.

"Rodrigo, please, calm down."

"Yes, Qui Que, OK. Hey, Qui Que, give me the money for the micro, and I will pay." He looked at me theatrically with pleading eyes. I handed him the money and he stuffed it into the pocket of his red jacket, yelled, "Thanks, Qui Que!" and took two fast steps as he pretended to run off with the money.

Now that we were out of the home and on the street, the kids felt like they were teaching me. I was on their turf here, and they were full of advice.

"Make sure you put your wallet in your front pocket. You don't want to get it stolen."

"And be careful when stepping into the micro."

"Yeah, and if you stand right at this exact spot, you can jump on and get a good spot. You don't want to get run over. Stand back and watch me, Qui Que." The micro, a boxy little van teeming with people, pulled up through the dust. A kid hung out the door and shouted, "To the Centro!" Pa.s.sengers stepped out holding small children and plastic bags filled with groceries. I piled in after the boys and we crowded onto the seats. "Here we go, Qui Que!" I saw a string of rosary beads and a crucifix hanging from the driver's rearview mirror. Taped to his dashboard was a peaceful picture postcard of the Virgin Mary, and right beside it was a photograph of a leather-clad blonde straddling a motorcycle.

We drove through the heart of the city at high speed past beautiful multibedroom houses encircled by tall concrete walls. The walls were topped with the jagged edges of broken beer bottles to prevent the unwanted-like the kids traveling with me-from climbing over them. We flew past little stands selling tortillas, past bakeries, past hair salons. We crossed a bridge over a ca.n.a.l that carried away the sewage of the city and we saw a family picking through garbage in the runoff.

"Qui Que, look"-one of them would say, pointing down an alley-"that's where I used to live."

Laborers walked the streets, and mothers strolled along the thin sidewalks with their children following behind them as straight and careful as ducklings.

The energy of the boys had been building, and when we stepped out of the micro they bolted for the stadium.

"Hey!" I yelled after them.

They turned back.

"Let's be..." I wanted a Spanish word for "cool" but I couldn't think of one, so I settled for "calm."

"Hey, Qui Que, buy us seats, buy us seats!"

We already had tickets, but the boys wanted me to buy them cus.h.i.+ons-plastic shopping bags full of cut newspaper.