16 October 2010

It has been looming on my mental calendar for days now.  Friday night.  My shanty lies right on the path that leads from the dorms to Water Street, the bar district.  I was lamenting this evening because I know what goes down.  There was a time when I too called up all of my “of-age” friends for a favor.  The end of a long grueling week of tests and projects often times culminates in one, sometimes two, nights of pure debauchery. 

While I love community involvement, last night I had a few too many unwelcome guests stop by the shanty.  The night started out calm, a few mildly cheerful young co-eds popped their curious heads in.  We shared some laughs, they tried to give me pizza; it was delightful.  I went to sleep around 11:00 pm I’m guessing, and shortly thereafter I started hearing the party just down the street. I don’t have room to mention every late night visitor, so I will skip to the last, and the worst. 

Around bar close, a young man in a button-down shirt started stumbling around the perimeter of my shanty.  He saw my wooden chest and immediately began digging around.  I bolted up in bed and yelled at him.  He stumbled backwards, tripping on a nearby rock wall, clearly out of his mind.  He picked up a stone and cocked back, as if he was going to throw it at me, and I yelled again.  He abruptly turned and threw the stone at a nearby tree with a mighty heave.  The stone crashed into the bark, leaving a scar, but it fell harmlessly to the ground.  He kicked another wall and then bolted off towards Water Street with the most maniacal laugh I have ever heard outside of Hollywood.

At first I was livid.  I wanted to chase after him with the stone he had threatened me with and hit him over the head with it.  Then I got to thinking about Nicaragua again. 

I thought of kids on the streets begging for change not to buy food, but to purchase food.  Huffing is a major problem in Latin America, especially with street children.  Glue is cheap, its legal, and it helps you feel numb: the perfect narcotic for someone to escape their own reality. I remember the first time I saw one of these street children with his eyes glazed almost shut and his chin drooping to his chest.  It tore me up.  I thought of myself at that age: watching cartoons and building forts in the woods behind my house.

Huffing, like alcohol, shatters all inhibitions.  On top of that, shanties, while there is usually not much to take, are easy to break into.  Families regularly have to be on watch for gangs of these street children at night who break into homes to steal, to rape, or perhaps just to feel the power linger in their adolescent bones days later. 

I never want to say that I completely understand, because I don’t think I ever will.  But last night, I got a taste.