Shoe Shine?

Shoe Shine?            February 14, 2015

Like so many places in the world where making a living is difficult (and where the climate allows), Guatemala has a culture of people who try to make ends meet by working on the street.  

Being a shoe shine boy is a way of life here for many impoverished boys. They roam up and down the street, their tools of the trade in hand. A small wooden box contains the polish and cloths and is useful, too, for propping up the customer’s foot. These guys are pretty shabby, and, of necessity, independent and plucky.  They range in age from 8 to 14, mas o menos (more or less).  The police and older men still wear leather shoes and avail themselves of this service. However, with most people wearing sandals and sneakers, the customer base is quickly shrinking.  This does not stop them from asking to polish your shoes.  I wonder if they hope to be given a small donation by the gringos whom they approach. Usually, we just say “No, gracias” and they move along.

On Sundays, home stays affiliated with Spanish schools take a break from serving 3 meals a day to their guests.  This past Sunday, Bruce and I were ensconced at the back of our favorite Sunday breakfast spot, glad for the chance to use the internet, since it’s not available at our home stay.  We had finished our eggs and tortillas and were typing away, each on our own laptop.  There was a side door next to us, and when we looked up,  a young boy was at our table, asking to polish our shoes.  We had thought that we were far enough away from the street to avoid being the targets of entrepreneurship.  It’s uncommon to be approached inside a restaurant.  But here he was, looking pretty hang dog and rubbing his tummy.  Bruce hesitated a moment and asked if he wanted something to eat.  Of course, the answer was yes.  That’s when his younger brother shyly appeared behind him.  Bruce handed them a menu and indicated that they should choose something to eat.  They started for an empty table but Bruce said, “No, aqui” (here), pointing to chairs at our table.  I wondered if they knew how to read, but they did.  The colorful menu photos probably helped, too.  They were certainly helpful to us!  

With our burgeoning Spanish language skills, we were able to communicate - somewhat - with the boys.  Henry, 11 years old, was the spokesperson, being the elder and fluent in both Spanish and Kakchiquel, the local Mayan language spoken in many homes.  Wilder, 8 years old, was not as comfortable in Spanish.  They proceeded to order the most expensive menu option, fruit-filled crepes, along with smoothie drinks.  I was happy to see that they ran off to the bathroom to wash their hands.  Either parents or school folks are doing a good job of teaching the importance of this ritual.

Their breakfast arrived, and the boys proceeded to eat while we chatted with them.  We learned that they attend the local school, Henry in 4th grade and Wilder in 3rd. They seemed to

either to not understand or to not have given thought to the question of what they want to “be” when they grow up.  I gave them a few options, and Wilder quickly said, “teacher”.  Henry followed suit but elaborated with “gym teacher”.  As we talked, it turned out that their real desire was having backpacks (mochilas).  They made the ask and we deflected for the time being.  At that point, Bruce was a little unsure of whether he had sufficient cash to pay for all four meals.  Our credit card was a back-up, but one which we use sparingly.  Beyond that, we also didn’t want to be easy push-overs (more than we were already), especially since we didn’t know these kids or their circumstances.   In the end, we did not agree to give them money for backpacks, though Henry asked quite a few times.  They were not able to finish their meals, so the crepes got packed up in containers to take home, and the boys returned to the street, with handshakes and thanks all around.  

As we reflected on the experience, we had conflicting feelings, probably not too different from encounters with street folks at home.  If we were honest with ourselves, the experience of talking with these youngsters was one that we enjoyed - and, in essence, we were willing to pay for the privilege.  By doing so, were we encouraging a mentality that begging is an acceptable way of life?  On the other hand, were we helping to fill a need on the spot, to share our food and resources with two hungry little boys?  Should we have bought Henry and Wilder backpacks in order to encourage education, which is their best way to a better life?  Should we say no to all of the street vendors and, instead, put our resources into programs that we know are reliable and effective, like those run by Candelaria and Gregorio through their school?  Like so many things in Guatemala, it’s complicated.  

I didn’t feel comfortable taking photos of Henry and Wilder, so you will have to imagine two dark-haired, dark-eyed, attractive kids, a bit small for their ages, with sooty-looking hands and t-shirts - and full tummies.  

Here are some other photos of mostly unrelated things:

Bruce is studying in our corner of the resto.

Hats for sale along Calle Santander, the main shopping street in Pana.

An indoor plaza with several businesses, including the Asian resto, run by a Malaysian woman, where we had a bite to eat on Sunday evening.

A small tienda, like many, many others along Calle Santander, selling items made by Mayan weavers.

The mayor of Pana has organized having light posts painted with words symbolizing various character qualities (like respect).

Well, that's all for right now. Bruce has been sick with a reaction to something he ate, we think. He's back on his wobbly feet today. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone, and Happy Birthday, to our oldest son, Matthew (Mateo, en espanol :)!