Innocent

On Sunday afternoon we sat in the Plaza de Armas and spent a couple of hours observing tourists (eating icecream, reading their travel guides and taking photos) and watching families. Mothers and fathers sat on the sidelines whilst their young children took centre stage, racing each other and feeding rice to the fat pigeons.

There was a small boy, no more than seven years old sitting about half a metre to my left. Every so often he raised his eyes to watch two slightly younger boys run up to the steps where we were sitting and then back to the bench where their family was.

Resolutely he dropped his head and continued with his task. From a tatty jean backpack he took a small handful of rice. In his free hand he held a long and narrow plastic bag which he had opened by blowing into the top. Carefully funnelling rice into the bag, holding it up to check progress and sometimes to compare the portion of rice with a completed bag, he worked patiently.

Judging there to be sufficient rice he tied a neat knot at the top of each bag and delicately placed the completed parcel over his thigh. Quite proudly he smoothed his hand over his growing pile of thin rice filled bags, now numbering six.

After a time he zipped up his bag, tossed it over his back and got to his feet hoisting his grubby blue pants up as he did so. The bottoms were brown with dirt and torn.

Eyes on the younger boys he gingerly started towards them, the rice parcels swinging from his hands. Half way he stopped. The boys had started a new game which involved balancing with two hands and one foot on the ground, trying to get their free leg higher in the air than the other could. The boy with the rice watched for a bit, made to walk towards the boys´ parents, hesitated and then dropped to the ground to have a try himself.

For the briefest moment he was playing in the sunshine, smiling, looking for recognition at his aerobics.

Focused again he began making his way around the Plaza, offering his rice and exchanging a bag for 50c. Children younger than him tore into the plastic, dumping the rice on the concrete and staring dumbstruck as the pigeons feasted.

Watching this young child go about his business with precision and concentration belying his young age pulled at my heart. What broke it was seeing the expression on his small face moments after his face alit with a smile, one leg cocked in the air.

I saw a look of wistful reflection combined with a simple shoulder shrug, an outward acknowledgement that work could not wait, not really, not even for a chance moment of play.

Mrs R