We Hate It When Our Friends...

When I first got to my site, one of the most depressing things for me to observe was the family across the street from my host family’s house. It consists of 3 little girls (I refer to them as the muchachas) and their mother (who is just a few years older than me) and their father (who drinks all the time and is in his 60s.) She screamed all day long at them, he was never around, and when I did see him at home he had a bottle of rum with him, and the girls treated one another pretty recklessly, even going so far as to earn the littlest of the bunch the nickname of “the football” since she was treated as such. (The incident that cemented in my mind that name for her was one day when they came to play at my host mom’s house. The older 2 sisters had the baby loosely on a chair near the kitchen table. All of the sudden they were no longer near her and though her chin was resting on the table, her body wasn’t being supported by anything and was slipping. She banged her chin down hard on the table and crumpled underneath it. Of course, she was very shook up and cried, which was very unlike her because usually, like most footballs, she didn’t cry when treated roughly.)

But perhaps the most disturbing thing to witness about the family was when the father sent his daughters (of just 5 and 7 years) to the store to buy him some things. Those things: a bottle of rum and a few cigarettes sold individually (commonly referred to in the US as “loosies.”)

Tonight I witnessed an errand even more despicable. At the fried food stand where I spend most of my evenings, a little boy came up with something in his hand. I couldn’t see what it was but he stared intently at the fire going. He reached into the pit with what I guessed was either a cigarette or a cigar, no doubt having been sent to light it for his parent. I was right; when he withdrew his hand from the pit I saw that he held a now lit cigar. But there was something wrong, the flame hadn’t caught. So back he went with the cigar in his hand to attempt to light it again. Again, it wouldn’t take. Finally he withdrew a lit log from the flame and held it up to the cigar which he had placed in his mouth. By inhaling on the cigar while lighting it on the log he was able to get the cigar lit, and this was clearly not the first time he had performed this act. He replaced the log and as he was leaving I asked him how old he was. Six.