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by Michael Johnstone
I had my alarm set for 4.45 a.m. but, with the usual truculence
of those infernal machines, it failed to go off. By sheer luck
I awoke at 5.05 a.m. Not that this left me with a great deal
of time to wash, dress and slither down the precipitately steep
road from Don Bosco City to the nearest bus-stop to catch the
5.15 a.m. bus to downtown Medellín.
I skidded round the last curve to the Salsimentaria (general
store) outside which was the bus-stop, only to see the bus's
red tail lights disappearing down hill round the next corner.
What was I to do? I had arranged to meet Father Peter at 5.50
a.m. to join that morning's Friendship Walk. I was dithering
about this when, ghostlike, a yellow taxi slipped over a cross-roads
further down the hill! I set off after it - careless of the possibility
of coming a cropper on the slope, and with arms flailing. He
didn't see me and I thought that surely there couldn't
be another cab at that time in the morning. But as I reached
the corner where it had disappeared, indeed another came gliding
towards me! Cab drivers won't take you up to Aures, one
of the most lawless barrios (districts) of Medellín, after
eight in the evening. Perhaps they are just as anxious to get
out in the early morning!
It was just after six when Fr Peter and I joined a group
of Sisters and volunteers outside the Patio - the day-time Reception
centre for the gamines, in the centre of Medellín. Two
of the Street Educators, themselves ex-Street Children, arrived
to let us in. In the elementary kitchen the large urns, which
had been left on a very low simmer overnight, were brought to
the boil. In them was a typical Colombian drink - Panela - a
form of crystallised or solidified and unrefined molasses: palatable,
I found, when taken with milk, but far too sweet without. Milk
was added, and packets of Saltina biscuits (another Colombian
favourite, not actually salty but more like cream crackers) were
picked up, and we were off.
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 By now at 6.15
a.m. Medellín was already wide awake. The gaily-coloured,
often open-sided Chiva buses were disgorging the campesinos bringing
in their fruit and vegetables from the countryside, setting up
street stalls and getting ready for market, while the streets
were filling with people on their way to work. We, however, made
our way just off the busiest streets to where the new ultramodern
metro is being built, and where there are piles of rubble and
heaps of rubbish and rotten vegetables, and it was there that
we began to find our quarry.
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For amongst the dirt and the trash and detritus were sausage-shaped
plastic and rag objects looking like untidy body-bags left behind
by some retreating army. One or two of them were stirring: dry,
tousled heads, and very drowsy glue-enhanced faces appearing
sleepily from them - many others were still dead to the world.
At each our little caravan stopped, cheery conversation begun,
joking, chatting, names asked, and - if the age was right - encouraging
noises made about the Patio and the daily activities there. Panela
was given in plastic cups, and a pile of Saltinas put into grubby
hands, a little smile would appear, and a wistful look come into
most eyes. Being short of Spanish, I had little part to play
in this activity, but I had been commissioned to take photographs.
Usually this is an activity I enjoy, but here I found myself
strangely inhibited. I felt as if I were a voyeur prying into
others' privacy, and into the intimacy of their lives: after
all, we were in their bedroom! Some passers-by, on their way
to work, clearly thought the same: they just walked straight
by, without even noticing a child or a 'body-bag'; in the
middle of the pavement. They only stopped to stare when our group
came to a halt, and it seemed as if 'something was up'.
As we carried on we were gradually joined by some of the
more alert gamines who acted as guides. They were known to Fr
Peter and probably frequented the Patio, showing us where to
find sleepers, for the children daren't sleep in the same
spots too often, for fear of being hassled by the Militia or
of being attacked by gangs. Most of those we came upon were young:
from 8 or 9 up to 13 or 14 years old. But quite early on we were
joined by Fernando. He clearly had nothing in this world but
the filthy vest and tatty shorts in which he stood; no hanky,
no comb, no shoes, no gang-mates. He was 15 or 16, friendly and
cheerful, longing for companionship - and mentally handicapped.
He became our companion, we became his gang, on the whole of
the Friendship Walk, loving the jokes and fun of Jaime and the
other Educators as we encountered more and more sleeping children.
Mostly they were boys, but one group of adolescents was mixed
- a large group sheltering together in the doorway of a shop,
one with gaping stab wounds, and the girls looking particularly
forlorn.
One could only be grateful that they hadn't already
been sucked off the streets and into brothels. |
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 And so after nearly an hour
and a half's walk, we completed the circle back to the Patio.
Our guides were still with us, and the Patio was opened so that
they, and others later, could come in for their day of fun, food,
exercise, washing and friendship in a secure and protected environment.
Fernando was standing, patiently waiting. We had to say Goodbye
to him, and he drifted off sadly back into the only world he
knows; for he is too old for the Patio, and as yet there is no
organisation equipped to cope with his age group.
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Contact had been made with more of Medellín's
street urchins, new ones who had not yet come into an orbit of
security, care and compassion. Some would in due course come
to the Patio and into contact with caring adults; more would
begin to learn that there is a way outward from street life into
which they had been sucked. Another Friendship Walk would be
taking place the following night, as the gamines would be bedding
themselves down for a night on a concrete bed. Other Walks would
happen on mornings and evenings in the weeks to come, with the
aim of somewhere breaking the spiral of degradation, and introducing
hope, love and faith into apparently futureless young lives. |
![[Vivant!]](images/vivant2.gif)
![[Picture]](images/greendot.gif){kind=small}
"In Tegucigalpa itself the river Choluteca, which runs
through the city, rose by some 20 metres in places, obliterating
streets on either side, and leaving others filled with mud, rubble,
trees, vehicles, excrement, rubbish, and the bodies of animals
and people. If this had happened in London, the Embankment would
have disappeared, buildings in the Strand would be ruined and
the water would have reached Covent Garden!
"The Ministry
of Education was flooded up to the third floor and lost all of
its records. Most of the bridges in Tegucigalpa - as throughout
the country - have also been destroyed. Now the main threat is
from Cholera, Typhoid and other diseases because of the lack
of clean water. The sewers are blocked solid, so the rats have
taken to the streets in some places.
"Let The Children
Live! feeds 120 children every day through Proyecto Alternativas
and Oportunidades. Fortunately, we have not heard of any deaths
amongst them, so far, but in the confusion they have not yet
all been accounted for. These boys and girls work as vendors
in and around the markets, mostly with their parents. Three of
the markets were badly damaged and one of them will have to be
demolished. The children and their families lost the stalls where
they worked and all of their stock.
![[top]](images/babytop.gif){kind=small}
