El Bolo
It is vital to include in one’s observations both the things that are wonderful and those that are heartbreaking, those that make one smile, and those others that are so maddening, saddening, and confusing, that I feel thrown out of everything.
This afternoon, as I was leaving my lovely, family-filled day, the group with which I was walking came upon a small boy, about 4, and his father, on the side of the one-lane dirt highway. The small boy was crying slightly, as he sat next to his father, who was sleeping in the brush. “Mira ese bolo,” Arlen said to me, “el pobre niño”. The poor child, I had been informed, was sitting there looking after the ‘bolo’, his drunk father. Byron went over and talked to the boy, Melkin, who informed him that they had been kicked off the bus that had been taking them towards their home, another 12 miles down the road.
After a quick reunion, we decided to wake up the man and ask if he would like us to take him and his son back to the house, a mere 3 km away. Upon waking him, it was clear this was no option. I have never seen anyone so drunk. He insisted that he could make it, with his four-year-old, walking the 12 miles. When we told him it seemed unlikely, and discussed with him for an hour, over and over again, who we were and that we would be happy to take his son if he felt incapable of walking, so that he could pick him up at the house in the morning. The boy sat at the side of the road, intermittently crying and trying not to cry. In the end, after refusing to let us take his son and to go with us, he got up, fell down, and then swerved his way a further 100 meters down the highway, where he again fell down in the middle of the road, leaving his four year old trying to pull him up.
After watching this for a few more minutes, we decided to try to help the man down to El Roblar, since it seemed to be the only way to avoid this four year old being forced to sleep on the roadside in what was clearly a gathering rain. I held Melkin’s hand and talked with him about he would like to go to school and his older sister, while Byron and Erick each took the man by an arm and dragged him, stumbling along the road. After about a quarter mile, he gave up, laid down in the road, and passed out again. Having left him a note with where we planned to take Melkin, we started on our way, at which point, the drunk man slurred at Melkin that he was to stay with him, not to go with us. Wavering for a few moments, Melkin let go of me and tried to pull his father up to come along. When he couldn’t, he decided he couldn’t leave. He simply sat there are cried, as the rain started to come down, but from that point on wouldn’t let us budge him, threatening to bite Byron if we took him away.
Melkin is definitely still sitting on the highway, with his father, who is no doubt still passed out, perhaps waking up once in a while enough to stumble a few more hundred feet of the 12 miles between him and the house he and Melkin and Melkin’s sister inhabit. While I am trying to be sensitive to the human condition, to poverty, to people’s difficult life situations, it seems nothing short of terrible to me to get so drunk that you force your 4 year old child to watch over you on a pitch black, rainy night, while you pass out because you were kicked off the bus. That you leave the child crying, and refuse to let him be taken a mile away to a place where he could sleep and eat, rather than be alone in the dark. What irresponsibility, what pain, what a disaster! I am so angry about it I hardly know what to do with myself, as that small boy fights with both the love and admiration he feels for his father and the loneliness and fright and anger he no doubt feels at being stuck in the cold, the rain, while his drunk father tries to sleep off the countless drinks he has consumed. Children should never be placed in that situation, ever. It feels unbearable the amount of pain and injustice that exists in the world, the lack of responsibility and support and awareness, unbearable the thought of that small boy, alone in the dark, waiting for his father to wake up.
This afternoon, as I was leaving my lovely, family-filled day, the group with which I was walking came upon a small boy, about 4, and his father, on the side of the one-lane dirt highway. The small boy was crying slightly, as he sat next to his father, who was sleeping in the brush. “Mira ese bolo,” Arlen said to me, “el pobre niño”. The poor child, I had been informed, was sitting there looking after the ‘bolo’, his drunk father. Byron went over and talked to the boy, Melkin, who informed him that they had been kicked off the bus that had been taking them towards their home, another 12 miles down the road.
After a quick reunion, we decided to wake up the man and ask if he would like us to take him and his son back to the house, a mere 3 km away. Upon waking him, it was clear this was no option. I have never seen anyone so drunk. He insisted that he could make it, with his four-year-old, walking the 12 miles. When we told him it seemed unlikely, and discussed with him for an hour, over and over again, who we were and that we would be happy to take his son if he felt incapable of walking, so that he could pick him up at the house in the morning. The boy sat at the side of the road, intermittently crying and trying not to cry. In the end, after refusing to let us take his son and to go with us, he got up, fell down, and then swerved his way a further 100 meters down the highway, where he again fell down in the middle of the road, leaving his four year old trying to pull him up.
After watching this for a few more minutes, we decided to try to help the man down to El Roblar, since it seemed to be the only way to avoid this four year old being forced to sleep on the roadside in what was clearly a gathering rain. I held Melkin’s hand and talked with him about he would like to go to school and his older sister, while Byron and Erick each took the man by an arm and dragged him, stumbling along the road. After about a quarter mile, he gave up, laid down in the road, and passed out again. Having left him a note with where we planned to take Melkin, we started on our way, at which point, the drunk man slurred at Melkin that he was to stay with him, not to go with us. Wavering for a few moments, Melkin let go of me and tried to pull his father up to come along. When he couldn’t, he decided he couldn’t leave. He simply sat there are cried, as the rain started to come down, but from that point on wouldn’t let us budge him, threatening to bite Byron if we took him away.
Melkin is definitely still sitting on the highway, with his father, who is no doubt still passed out, perhaps waking up once in a while enough to stumble a few more hundred feet of the 12 miles between him and the house he and Melkin and Melkin’s sister inhabit. While I am trying to be sensitive to the human condition, to poverty, to people’s difficult life situations, it seems nothing short of terrible to me to get so drunk that you force your 4 year old child to watch over you on a pitch black, rainy night, while you pass out because you were kicked off the bus. That you leave the child crying, and refuse to let him be taken a mile away to a place where he could sleep and eat, rather than be alone in the dark. What irresponsibility, what pain, what a disaster! I am so angry about it I hardly know what to do with myself, as that small boy fights with both the love and admiration he feels for his father and the loneliness and fright and anger he no doubt feels at being stuck in the cold, the rain, while his drunk father tries to sleep off the countless drinks he has consumed. Children should never be placed in that situation, ever. It feels unbearable the amount of pain and injustice that exists in the world, the lack of responsibility and support and awareness, unbearable the thought of that small boy, alone in the dark, waiting for his father to wake up.
posted by Hilary King at
8:23 PM
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