A La Chureca Christmas

This is from a long time online friend I have never met.  Thanks Herb, you inspire us all.

My friend Michael popped into my office. When he told me he couldn't make it to Nicaragua this year for the Los Quinchos Christmas party his eyes welled up. My wife Pam operates two beauty schools in Managua and he knew that in a day or two we would be traveling there so she could officiate at the annual graduation. He took a deep breath, looked straight at me and said, "As a personal friend, please promise me that ‘all my babies' will get presents. It will be a great party, and you'll bring back plenty of pictures." I agreed, at least to the part about the pictures; but in my heart I knew that I would have to overcome some considerable disappointment from "Mike's Babies."

The Los Quinchos he referred to is a refuge for children in the mountains of Nicaragua, the second poorest country in the western hemisphere. It is one of the projects that are supported by Pronica, a Quaker sponsored organization in which my wife and I play a part. It is not a place for folks who have a passing interest in helping those less fortunate. It is a much tougher place than that. Los Quinchos is a place that, by its nature, melts the hardest of hearts and at the same time demands disciplined dedication. The children who live there were found alone on the streets of Managua, the country's capital. Until they arrived there they have lived a child's life without love, and many of them are addicted to glue which they inhale to quell the pain of hunger. To them, "Miguel" is a combination of father figure, rock star, and generous benefactor. He is their real life Santa Claus, who visits in Deciembre of every year. When he arrives it's officially Christmas at Los Quinchos.

I accepted his request, but I knew success would be in God's hands.

The two beauty schools Pam operates teach young women, who have been forced by poverty to work in the sex trade, a less dangerous way to support themselves. It is a big job and she had traveled to Nicaragua several days before me to work with the staff to prepare for their annual graduation ceremony. When I arrived a few days later she had already learned that the traditional Christmas party at Los Quinchos would not be carried out this year. The powers‐that‐be decided to do something different, and she knew I would be worried about my vow, "as a personal friend" to "Poppa Miguel."

Los Quinchos has several campuses, and the usual procedure was to pick the kids up at the larger campus in San Marcos, take them to Lake Managua, and let them swim, open presents, do a lot of hugging, wish them a "Feliz Navidad," and get them back to San Marcos.

This year's plan was that a busload of kids from La Chureca, in Managua, would ride up to San Marcos, where they would join the other kids and they would have a party together. Sounds simple enough but please let me point out what the arithmetic on this is: about thirty kids from La Chureca would join about forty kids from San Marcos.

Yes, that's a lot of kids and Christmas presents that weren't anticipated. It would also require several additional piñatas filled with loads more candy and a score of other details. If we could get those chores done in a few

hours, there was also the part about the two hour bus ride on unmarked mountain roads, followed by a thirty minute walk through the rainforest with a horde of Spanish speaking affection‐starved kids, who, shall we say, "don't get out much."

San Marcos is a small town some distance outside Managua. "La Chureca" Is not a town. It is a burning, smoking, mountain of stinking refuse about the size of a golf course, within the city itself. It is also home to many of God's poorest people. I am not sure that there are any census takers in Nicaragua, but I am certain there are none who are willing to walk around and count heads in such a terrible place. It is estimated to be more than a thousand souls who find themselves there. With a life expectancy of only thirty five years, by default, most of them are children. They make their way in life, sifting through trash for recyclables that can be sold, garbage that can be eaten, and "johns," who will pay meager amounts of money to sexually exploit the women and children.

When Jesus attempted to describe hell, he used the name Gehenna, which was the place south of Jerusalem where the ancients took children to be sacrificed to the God Moloch. During his time, it was a city dump that was constantly in flames. It is said that if a proper tomb had not been donated, after his crucifixion his body would be left there as refuse. La Chureca is the modern day equivalent of Gehenna.

Fortunately, the people of Nicaragua adapt to changes in schedules with ease. I am not sure how it came about but somehow presents were bought, Piñatas were loaded with goodies, and I, on Saturday morning, found myself sitting on the porch of the Pronica residence, Quaker house, having a casual morning coffee on the not so quiet residential street when a bus load of children arrived a full fifteen minutes early (perhaps a Nicaraguan first). I have always wondered what it was like inside those white busses that the prisoners ride in when one pulled up in front of Quaker house. I realized I was going to have my chance to find out.

Unlike the ones at home, this ancient, smoky, recently hand brush painted white bus, wasn't filled with prisoners as we normally know them. This bus was filled with prisoners of life: children, from the ages of a few months (accompanied by her three siblings and her twenty four year old mother), up to about thirteen, as best I could guess, who by bad luck were born into a life of impoverishment at La Chureca.

Most people confuse poverty with impoverished. That's because most of us spend our lives in a culture that deeply believes in the American dream of success. As such we usually can't accept as fact that the basic structure of some cultures self perpetuates poverty. In other words, these individuals live in poverty with no chance, no ability, and no hope of change; They live in a world where the conception of upward mobility is absent. Yes, I will admit, some do escape, with scars, but nonetheless, they do escape. Then again, some of us end up on MTV, "getting money for nothing and chicks for free." But I don't know any of those people personally. I suppose that given six degrees of separation we all are connected to someone living in both of these extremes, but they are still intangible.

The bus squealed to a stop in front of me with all the noise and commotion of a freight train arriving at a depot. It took me so by surprise that at first I didn't notice that all of the windows were open or absent and peering thru every one of them was a child who was thinking, "Donde es Miguel?"

I took a moment of silence and reminded myself that I had put this whole thing in God's hands. I got on the bus, smiled, waived, and introduced my wife, "Pam Ella" (in Espanola,) and myself as "Hereberto."

You may remember that I mentioned that the bus arrived a full fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. That is a situation so rare and unexpected in Nicaragua that our translator had not yet arrived.

In my panic my mind briefly went back to my arrangement with God reminding him/her that this is in his/her hands, and since that's the deal, now would be a good time to tell me how I inform thirty children who are

raging with yuletide excitement, that Miguel can't make it, Pam and I will have to do, and, oh yeah, they have to sit there and behave for fifteen minutes, and God, please remember, I don't speak Spanish.

I am here to tell you, that God delivered on his /her end of the deal. He/she reminded me that way back I acquired a few, very poor juggling skills (I mean that literally), so a set of keys over the shoulder and caught behind the back, got us through. I guess I should mention that the kids' fascination with my movie star‐looking, drop dead gorgeous blonde, gringo wife being on the bus with them put them a little bit in awe and bought me at least half of those fifteen minutes. I just know, they were wondering if they had ever seen her in a movie.

By being the world's most clumsy juggler, I had produced a half dozen howls of laughter mixed with finger pointing when a motorcycle, shrouded in a cloud of carbon monoxide pulls up, stops, and off gets a rider who even with a helmet on, is easily understood to be curvaceous female. As if she was born on a motorcycle, in one sweep, she dismounts, removes her helmet, shakes her head, and reveals her stunning long, flowing, raven black hair.

She walks over to us, gives Pam a hug, as they had met before and looks at me and says, "Hi, I'm Carmine, I am going to be your translator." My secret voice inside my head is saying, "Thank you God, again."

Back in the world outside my head it is clear that it is going to be a far from ordinary day.

So now everyone is aboard the prison bus which is completely full and, there being no seats left, I am perched on the very warm engine cover riding backwards, looking at a busload of adorable urchins who are looking at me.

I smile as my senses abruptly inform me that this year Santa is not the only one who is covered in ashes and soot from his head to his foot. The thirty elves I am about to spend my day with, spend their life that way, and guess what, every one of them wants to take a turn, sitting in my lap. Oh well, there's plenty of time. I have a pocket full of Purell. God has already proved himself/herself to be paying careful attention, so let's "dash away, dash away, dash away all, " as they say.

We don't think of poor people as being pleasing to the eye, but that's the reality with Latino children. They live inside magnificently beautiful brown skin; they always have bright eyes augmented by long eyelashes and perfectly proportioned Latino body shapes. By the time we arrive in San Marcos, we all smell the same, and I am in love with every one of them.

I am filled with the sheer joy of it all and my inside voice says, "Sorry Michael, with God's help you have given me this day, and I am very grateful for that."

Although I have noticed that none of the dashboard gauges work, and we have to always park on an incline because the starter doesn't work either, the prison bus does its job and after and hour or so we arrive in time for lunch at the Los Quinchos Pizza Parlor.

Every time I hear the oh so popular expression, "Teach a man to fish... etc, my mind conjures up an image of a skeleton on a small deserted island, long dead, but still clutching to a fishing pole. But I must say that popular philosophy is alive and well at Los Quinchos. The Pizza Parlor serves as local restaurant and a vocational program for the kids who work rotating shifts from 11:00 to 7:00 every day. They prepare the dough, wait on tables, etc. It's a potential occupation for them, it puts money in their pocket, it makes money for the school, and it doubles as the bakery for the kids' meals. I should mention it is considered the best pizza in all of San Marcos a town of maybe a hundred people.

I am intrigued and I take my place at the grownups' table, my mind is reeling with potential names for the place: ‘Pizzas for Peace, a slice for a life," or maybe, "we knead money," and on and on.

I didn't have time to find out why we were served bologna sandwiches at a pizza parlor because we were late getting to the party which began with disappointment. The kids were led to believe that they would be able to swim in a real live swimming pool, as opposed to the drainage ditch back in the city. However, when we arrive, the pool is still being cleaned, there is no water in it, and there will be no swimming.

When you live in a dump that is constantly on fire in the relentless heat of Central America, not getting your annual chance to swim in a real pool is a big disappointment. But to my amazement, or should I say, "but what to my wondering eyes should appear," in front of me are thirty kids who take it in stride and move the whole party over to the soccer field and quickly choose up sides. Once again, I am reminded that these kids are in many ways very special, and in case I was doubtful, God has now reassured me that he/she stayed on the bus and is still the guest of honor at our party.

Things went well; there was soccer, dancing, piñatas, smiles, laughs, and presents, lots of presents. All of which required batteries. What a feeling of being a grandfather to these kids as the director of the program, Carlos and I put battery after battery into the toys while long lines of children patiently waited to find out what it is the toy actually does once powered. Oh yes, note to the powers that be, even though they were joyously received, Quakers don't do toy guns. Next year we need to stipulate a peaceful alternative, strange as that may seem to some.

Even though everyone was enjoying themselves, and nothing was wrong, I felt that something was lacking, I had an unfulfilled feeling. Something inside me said that we had not achieved that special status that the Christmas spirit demands. Little did I know that the spirit of Christmas within us had just begun to do its work.

Suddenly an idea popped into my head that was so radical I felt my inside voice screaming "Oh, no!" Please God I know you have been helping out all day, but please don't lead me to that traveling Mexican Circus we saw back in Managua! We can't do that, it's too much, over the top, beyond my ability, and way too scary. I must have sounded to God like Moses saying he/she had the wrong guy, there must be some mistake.

I calmed down a little when the inside voice said, "The bus driver probably won't go for it, maybe that will stop this foolish idea in its tracks." No such luck. For a mere fifty American dollars and a ticket for him and his son, the bus driver had plenty of time. Rats! What other possible deal breakers can I find? How about we can't afford it! The inside voice quickly reminds me that I have a garage full of motorcycles, and taking these kids will cost less than a few of my motorcycles getting an annual oil change; ok, maybe a new engine.

"Ok God, maybe you can stop being so helpful. I want to remind you that once a bus full of deprived kids stops in a parking lot anywhere near a circus, there is no going back."

With that thought, the spirit reminds me that, earlier in the week I received word a friend of mine had quite suddenly lost his son whose name was Andrew, during what should have been a routine operation. This friend had shown a genuine interest in these kids from the dump. I had been thinking all week about what I could do to honor my friend's son. This idea was so far out that I knew in my heart, I was being led to do this. God was up to his/her mysterious ways again. And a way had been way put in front of me. Perhaps I had simply lost my mind but I felt that Pam and I were being led by the spirit to take thirty beautiful, but strangely smelly orphans to a Circus in honor of my friend's son and we were now on a "mission from God."

If I live to be a hundred, I will not forget the look on the guy's face at the ticket office. He looked at me, he looked at the long line of obedient but excited ragamuffins standing behind me, then back at me and his eyes said, "Ok, let's see if I get this, you're an American, who, with your movie star wife, is going to take thirty poor

Hispanic kids to the Circus, and in case that isn't enough, you don't speak Spanish?" Shaking his head, he handed a fist full of tickets to me, and I could have sworn I heard him say, "May God's love go with you."

I thought it would be real grandfatherly to be the one to show these kids their first acrobats, magicians, and white tigers, and it was.

What I hadn't counted on witnessing were the things that will stay with me forever.

The first thing that hit me was that for perhaps the first time in their lives they were in a large crowd of people. Not only was it a large crowd, but in this crowd everyone was well dressed and wearing shoes that fit. These are children who live their lives either outside or in small shacks with no windows. Now they found themselves not only inside the largest indoor space they had ever seen, it was a tent. To them it was magical! One little girl kept looking around at the roof and the stage and the lights and the seats, repeating to herself, "big top, big top."

Pam and I were trying to understand why, regardless of what was happening on stage, they kept running to the door in what seemed to be a panic. They would take a quick look outside, and then run back to their seats. We could only guess that being inside was such a new experience, they had to constantly reorient themselves. It was much more they were experiencing than a circus. They seemed to find it incredible that they were sitting in their own seats legitimately; they hadn't conned anybody to get there; they hadn't snuck in; they hadn't stolen the tickets. No one was going to throw them out and they were free to enjoy the show just like anyone else. They weren't sure that it wasn't a dream.

Pam and I constantly held back tears while the kids showed us a constant stream of what we have long since ceased to appreciate:

Did you ever try to explain cotton candy to a kid who relies on dogs to sniff out a snack among the garbage?

Why are people clapping their hands?

Where does the poop go when you flush a toilet?

What is a concession stand?

You have never been humbled until you have watched children who should be old enough to know better, follow the popcorn vender, and picking up whatever falls to the floor and eating it as naturally as other kids eat French fries at McDonalds.

I realize that I am watching children who have honed the skills they need to survive inside Gehenna, but once outside, they are nearly helpless. It is breaking my heart but Pam and I are witnessing the process of impoverishment. It is no longer a theory to me, all I can think is, "thank you Lord, for the blessings you have given me today."

When the show was over, we moved cautiously amongst the throng and made it back to the prison bus. The Christmas party now seemed complete. One little girl of about three fell asleep in my arms on the way home, as she did, I came to sympathize with Angelina Jolie, and Madonna. In her sleep she would cough every few minutes; it was tough to give her up and I will always pray that she got well, and lived a good life.

The bus stopped outside the dump to waiting parents. There were thirty, adioses and thirty graciases and then it was over. It was starkly sudden. I wanted to hug them one more time and tell them things like, "it will be ok if you work hard; do well in school; I will always love them." But all too suddenly, it was over.

Now, as I sit tapping away at my computer, it is late, I am alone, and I no longer need to push back those tears. Tomorrow I will be back in St Petersburg wondering if all of this really happened. But for now

Merry Christmas Muchachas, Muchachos, rest in peace Andrew, thank you Michael, and God bless us every one