Sucre Musings

As I entered the main square in Sucre, Bolivia, I noticed a very well dressed young man donning a white shirt and dark sweater and pants, wearing a backpack and holding a book.  He was sitting on one of the many park benches placed around the edge of the square, talking to another man who may or may not have been a local.  I immediately recognized backpack-boy as a Mormon, the book he was holding half-open, his Bible.   The two men seemed deep in converstion and the "victim" did not seem to be bothered by his Bible thumping companion.

I chose the next bench over, not caring where in the sqaure I sat, as long as I was left alone.  The minute I sat down, a small dirty boy, no older than 8 years old, approached me with a portable shoeshine kit and a box of gum.  After he quickly realized my sneakers were not suitable for a shoeshine, he put the kit down and brought forth the box of gum.

"¿Habla español?"
"No"
"¿Habla inglés?"

I thought about this for a split second before replying in the negative.

"¿Francais? ¿Aleman?"

"No. No... Daneis."

"¿Que?  ¿Italiano?"

"No, Daneis"

"¿Pero, entiende un pocito español, si?" 

"No."  And with that I quickly tired of this game and pulled out my Lonely Planet to give him a clear sign that I wasn't interested in the 4 flavors of gum he was now regaling me with, for the low, low price of 1 Boliviano (about 14 cents) each.  After I landed on a very interesting article on Lake Titicaca, he gave up and walked away.

No soon after the little boy deserted his mission and I was deep in a paragraph about the Isla de Sol, did an even dirtier old man come my way.  He was bearing a traditional Bolivian blanket slung across his back, carrying what was probably his whole life, or wares he was trying to sell.  I didn't even bother looking up to see if he was selling something or just begging but I quickly shook my head no.  Not even getting a verbal reaction out of me, he gave up and walked away.

At that point, I kind of wished the Mormon would approach me.  I probably wouldn't buy what he was selling either but at least I could reject him with a little dignity.

My reprise came when a little girl came up, selling magazines.  Before I could reject her, she shoved a laminated card in my face, in English, explaining how the sale of the magazine helped the working children of Sucre and that half the proceeds went to them and their families.  I told her in English that she shouldn't be working in the first place, but playing.  She just stared at me, her big, brown, innoccent eys, hoping beyond hope that because I was actually talking to her, she had reeled me in. 

She was right.  I took 3 Bolivianos out of my change purse and handed them over to her, getting in return a 15-page English/Spanish magazine with articles about the plight of the local children, including one editorial from a 94-year old woman who believed that three of her children had died because her husband was cursed when he inherited a bit of land.

As the little girl was pocketing her fortune, I told her again, this time in Spanish, that she shouldn´t be working, but playing.  She gave me a strange look before she ran across the way, to join her fellow salesgirl and compare recent incomes.