Dirt, Trash, Puppies, and Soup

The trash dump. It is more impressive now because the city told them they can’t expand further. So now they are constantly sorting and then burning and sorting some more to keep using the same area for all the trash. When the garbage trucks come, they have to get close to help unload it, with all the liquid gunk pouring out over them, all the smoke blowing into their lungs and faces…all this without protection. Just simple people spending their lives in trash to make a living.

We drive past it and the smoke smothers the car. Even with the windows up. The barbwire fence holds a worn teddy bear—perhaps to be taken home after the man finishes sorting for the day. We drive past the sugar cane field, for they are everywhere, even at the dump, and see some houses. Some are basic homes, most are made from dirt and trash. Turn a corner and there is our little area. So dirty.

The dirt is inevitable. I teach the kids how to hold on my hands and step on my legs so I can flip them over. My shorts are covered with the dirt from their feet. They take me by the hand down the dusty road to their home. Puppies everywhere, “what are their names?” and they hold them up one by one for me. We play the stomp your feet game, where you go in a circle and when the word falls on you, you try to stomp someone’s foot—if you miss, they try, and so on…

We wait around and surely there must be some better way to do things, but I haven’t found it. Then one lady from the church tells a story with many interruptions and only quieted by the promise of popcorn and lollypops for those who listen. The boys run and hit each other in the background. I try to remember names and I sit on the ground to gather the kids to me to listen to the story. The mud cakes my shorts and hands and arms, and my legs fall asleep with two girls trying to squish into my lap. Chaos erupts when they both want to wear my sunglasses.

I am being poked from behind by a boy who is trouble, but just wants to be loved: Feliciano. So I love on him and he takes my bag of trash and empties  it out everywhere. It is a dump, I know, but must we always act like it? I want to pretend we are not here for a minute. Teach the children to put their trash in a trashcan, even though afterward the trashcan will be emptied out here. He is stubborn and wild, but returns to me where he knows he will get another hug and embrace. It is where he wants to stay. Until he is off to kick that other little boy.

Then the big pot of soup, and families and children from everywhere bring every container they have—every pot, and even a blender cup—to hold the soup that will feed over 30 families. Bread is passed out as well, and I introduce myself to the older boys. I forget their names quickly, and they move on even quicker. But some faces are familiar, and I remember from last time. More piggyback rides and flips and singing songs and “oh what more can I do?” feelings welling up in me. And then, me with my black feet and brown shorts get back into the car and drive home.

But not really. Part of me stays there. Part of me is frozen. Frozen by reality and time and wanting to do so much more.