Mar 23

Written by: reh
3/23/2004

Cesar and I walked across Central America Highway 1 (CA-1) a few blocks from the border crossing on the Honduras side. We entered a white with blue trim block building that is a general store in the front room and a restaurant in the back. Cesar’s greeting with the woman behind the counter was friendly; he had had business dealings with the owner in the past. We each took a Coke from the upright cooler next to the door and found a table by a window. Once seated, I said ¨ You know I didn’t come this far just to buy a scrawny little urchin some school clothes. Now what in hell do we do?¨

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I arrived at the house from my CA-1 trip on Wednesday, January 28, 2004 at 7:30 PM and finalized the trip log on Saturday, February 11. That was supposed to be the end. The trip log says ¨The End¨.

I don’t know why that little girl caught my attention. I have seen thousands of street urchins in many third world countries (and some in developed countries). Possibly, I noticed because I am at a stage in my life when I can. But I doubt that; the futility of attempting to improve the plight of the starving masses is clearly understood by me. Possibly I noticed her because my sensibilities are keener with maturity. But I doubt that; if that were the case, they all should bother me. They do not. I know it had something to do with the way she looked up at me with a questioning expression of confused innocence. The look stays with me.

Within a few days of returning, I told Elise that the image of the girl is staying in my minds-eye and I may have to do something, though I had no idea what. I started inquiring through relatives, friends, and institutions of my options. The various organizations and people are listed in an attached appendix to document the search. Believe me, the appendix is too dull to read. I arranged, with two different people, to have a Honduras native accompany me to the border to find the girl.

I purchased a non-refundable ticked to fly to Tegucigalpa, Honduras on March 7, 2004. Subsequently, I lost contact with one acquaintance that was to arrange for a relative to accompany me. The other contact is a Honduran resident. His cell phone was cut off early during our preliminary discussions so I communicated with him through his wife’s cell phone. That phone was cut off one day prior to departure. No matter, I would try some secondary contacts or drive to the border by myself. The ticket was in hand and the longer I wait the worse the odds that I could locate the girl.

Getting up at 1:00 AM to drive to Atlanta for an early flight is no fun. That was Monday March 22, 2004. Looking down on Tegucigalpa, as we circled around for our landing one sees miles of un structured shanty towns around three centers of tall buildings. One forgets what desperate poverty is till it is cast upon him again. 60% to 80% (depending on the survey) of the population live below the Honduran poverty level, that is, make less than $1 to $2 dollars a day (depending on the survey).
Desperately poor people will do desperate things. Why am I landing right into the middle of it without a clue of what I will do or, for that matter, where I will stay? But land we did.

The first customs entry station was long and slow but organized. I made it through the passport check line and through the next door into total chaos. In-coming luggage was scattered all over the floor. It was obvious that you find your bags then push yourself to the next security check line. Yet another two check-out stations were beyond that. I recognized that ¨runners¨ were helping passengers through the maze (for a fee). A woman next to me who had only a carry-on, small bag and purse said “I never understood why they x-ray bags after we land.” I said “This is Honduras, follow me.” This is where starting life as a pushy Yankee ass comes in handy. I stepped over, and around bags, pushed them aside, wedged myself between others, and stepped up to the conveyor and said to the lady “Get your bags up there now” while I blocked the approach of a runner. She put one bag up and asked “My purse, too?” like I know! “Yes, move it” I instructed with authority. As the bags came out of the x-ray I told her to go around the conveyor and throw her bags on that table, as I pushed our way through. As we approached the table an official said, as he pointed to a table “You two, over there, hurry!” So we did, our papers were stamped and out the door we went. What would have been (and I assume was, many times for the lady) 45 minutes to an hour was accomplished in less than 10 minutes.

The lady said “Thank you so much, a friend is going to pick me up, can we give you a lift to your hotel?” The lady’s name is Marcia Griffiths and he friend’s name is Vickie Alvarado. After introductions, once we were in the SUV, I explainer that I had come to find a girl. Both women work for a United Nations sponsored child assistance program. Vickie said she would see if her son could accompany me, if not she would find someone.

I got a room at the Honduras Mayan, an up-scale hotel in the down town district. Vicky’s office is just across the street. I agreed to meet her in her office in 20 minutes. By the time I got to her office she had arranged for her son to come over to talk with us. Her son´s name is Cesar Manadiaga, he is 30ish. He speaks impeccable English and has a fairly new 4 door pick-up. We will leave at 6:00 AM Tuesday. I had started the trip at 1:00 and it was now 4:00 PM. We said our farewells and I went to bed.

(remember to fill in the watch episode)

Cesar picked me up at 6:00 AM, Tuesday, March 23, 2004. The road from Tegucigalpa to CA-1 is a mountainous, well maintained 2 lane road that twists and turns as it drops to almost sea level. The temperature increases. CA-1 is hot. We reach the border at 9:00 AM. It took 3 hours to travel approximately 120 miles.

We park the pick-up and walk to where I was standing when I noticed the girl. I told Cesar “I was standing here, the girl took the change and went to a street vendor over there.” Cesar went over and described the girl as I had told him. When he said “freckles” the women knew who it must be. One walked with us to where she (if it is here) lives. A little girl was called for and she appeared. She had the same straight teeth, and freckles but she is taller than I remember and her hair is wet so it lays dark and flat against the head. I asked if she has a younger sister. A toddler was pointed out. I asked if there is a girl between the two. There is but she is in school. I was still looking at the older girl for something more, a better indicator. Cesar said we would take the girl to the school and find her sister. So the three of us climbed into the pickup and went to the school. Nobody showed any concern about the little girl riding off with us.

The school is a two room block building with broad window openings for light. There is a doorway to each room. The building was designed and built without doors or windows. The teacher came to the doorway and all the kids flocked around, but stayed inside the room. A girl was presented but it was clearly not the girl. Cesar and the teacher talked for a while. As the three of us talked the older girl stood off to the side. I don’t know about boys but I do know (having two daughters) that each little girl has a characteristic stance when waiting without direction. I looked over as we talked (actually, as Cesar and the teacher talked) the girl’s hair had dried, the stance was exactly as when I shooed her away. Even the distance that she stood and the angle I was glancing from were identical (her stance is similar to that of my daughter Krista’s at that age, except Krista added that impatient look that said “Well, what am I waiting for!!?”). This is definitely the girl.

I don’t know why I remember her as smaller with smaller hands. Possibly the enormity of getting through the border while in this den of thieves and liars that is border and the fact that I was giving no intended attention to the girl; possibly, it is her vulnerable innocence living and surviving in this part of purgatory, that caused my minds-eye to see her smaller than she is.

We went back to the girl’s house and asked to talk with the mother. The mother washes laundry someplace by the river. A child was sent to get her. While waiting, Cesar asked some ladies around a communal outdoor kitchen, about brothers and sisters (between 4 and 7, I never was clear on that). About the father; it seems that ¨they¨ were looking for another man but shot the father by mistake about two years. During the ride home I asked Cesar if he thought the police shot the father by mistake. Cesar said his impression was that ¨they¨ did not refer to the police. Cesar explained that there is no structured authority in these poorest of neighborhoods. The father may have been shot by mistake or on purpose for various reasons. This is not a gentle society and the little girl lives on the harsher fringes of this not so gentle society. Before the mother arrived the other women (there were 3 of them) said the mother’s boyfriend drinks too much and provides nothing.

The mother arrived. Cesar explained that I had noticed the girl while passing through and wanted to help her. How can we help her? Cesar made it clear that my interest was only the girl. Cesar expressed concern about the presence of a deadbeat boyfriend. The mother made it clear that her children came before the boyfriend, he was of no significance. The mother is clearly overwhelmed with providing for too many and said very little. She had no specifics. I told Cesar to ask why the little girl, who’s name is Anabel, Anabel Garcia Padilla, is not in school. The mother explained that there is no money to buy the necessary uniform. Anabel is 8 years old. It was obvious by the demeanor and interaction that Anabel has very close ties with her mother and siblings. I asked Cesar what he thought of an orphanage where she would be schooled. Cesar didn’t think that was a good idea, which confirmed my sensibilities. Cesar asked if I noticed the look on Anabel’s face when he mentioned going away to school. I had not followed the conversation, so had not noticed. Cesar said Anabel was petrified. ¨Well, lets get her some school clothes so she can go to school then we’ll go to lunch and regroup. We are bogged down with information right now.¨

I must take a minute to describe the living conditions. after an army destroyed their village in some conflict in 1969, many families took up residence in this concrete building that was abandoned by the army. The roof is also concrete (that’s why it has survived all these years with no maintenance). There is no electricity, no running water, and, of course, no inside bathroom. Anabel’s family lives in two rooms about, about 10’x10’ each. The only light comes through a small glassless window high in the wall of the first room. The rooms are dark and musty, like a cellar or cave. The walls are a sooty black/gray from years of neglect. The door is thatched from bamboo, so that some draft goes through. One room has a hammock and a small table pushed against the wall. The other room has a bed frame with springs. Cardboard is put on the spring to serve as a mattress. A baby goat was sleeping inside, behind the door (presumably, so the dogs wouldn’t get it). The only thing hanging on the walls is a framed kindergarten diploma earned by Anabel’s sister. While we were there we, sat around the outdoor communal kitchen/dining area. When wash water came available, it was sprinkled around this area as dust control. Some chickens that were collected when a truck crashed and chickens were available for the catching, were pecking around and staying away from the children. (As I read over this, it sounds too melodramatic and contrived. Believe me, things look worse than my description. If you doubt me, come see for yourself.)

The mother went back to work. We walked to a dry goods store about two blocks away and purchased a dark blue skirt, 2 white blouses, one pair of black shoes, 3 pair of socks, and 3 pare of underwear. The only thing Anabel mentioned was a backpack. I learned later that a backpack is very important at that age. The total price, including the backpack, was $26. Cesar told the mothers at the ¨kitchen¨ that we would be back after lunch.

Cesar and I walked across Central America Highway 1 (CA-1) a few blocks from the border crossing on the Honduras side. We entered a white with blue trim block building that is a general store in the front room and a restaurant in the back. Cesar’s greeting with the woman behind the counter was friendly, he had had business dealings with the owner in the past. We each took a Coke from the upright cooler next to the door and found a table by a window. Once seated, I said ¨You know I didn’t come this far just to buy a scrawny little urchin some school clothe. Now what in hell do we do?”

We sat there kicking ideas around. None worked because the mother would be compelled to help all her kids equally and there is always the drunk boyfriend. Then Cesar asked me what I want out of this. I thought for a minute and said that if the Anabel doesn’t finish high school and falls back into her present life style, we have accomplished nothing. We both sat there for a while. I said we should ask the teacher how we can help, she may have a fresh outlook. We went to the school, the gate was locked. Cesar asked a lady where the teacher lives. It seems that she lives in the ¨Good side of CA-1¨just across from Anabel’s house on the ¨Bad side of CA-1¨.

The teacher knows Anabel. “She is a smart girl who pays attention, never causes trouble, and gets along well with others. She is not in school because the family cannot afford a uniform. In fact” the teacher continues, “many times she came to school without eating. You were at her house, you know that neighborhood is the poorest among the poor. Anabel has gone to school one year out of the last three. (Am not sure if that was one full year or parts at different times that equal one year) She would come back in first grade.” Cesar tells me that being two years behind is very common among the poor and she will fit right in.

Cesar told the teacher we had bought the necessary clothing and that Anabel would be in school tomorrow. I told Cesar to ask the teacher if she would fix breakfast each morning for Anabel if I paid for it. The teacher said she would. The price she quoted was a dollar a day. Cesar told her that the price is awfully high but we could work with it. Could Anabel shower, brush her teeth, etc each day before going to school? Yes, that would be fine. The teacher’s middle daughter is the same age and will enjoy the company.

The teacher went back to Anabel`s house with us. The mother was summonsed. With the presence of the teacher (who is a true authority figure in this society), Cesar, who carries himself with authority and a tall gringo (that’s me) everybody in the communal kitchen listened carefully. The teacher and Cesar explained, with clarity and authority, that school clothing, breakfast, and any necessary medical bills will be handled under three conditions:
• Anabel must be at the teacher’s house at 7:30 each day for breakfast.
• Anabel must continue her schooling.
• Anabel must not go out begging.


It all sounds pretty straightforward but it was a very intense day. We were both emotionally and physically drained as we rode the three hours back to the capitol.

As you remember, the story of Don Quixote is a story of one who went into the world to right perceived wrongs. He ended up making every situation worse than he found it. I am so afraid of doing just that.

I have to catch a plan. Will finish notes of Wednesday, March 24, 2004 later.

Ron

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