Las Extranjeras (The strangers)

From the moment they walked under the crumbling archway there was
bound to be trouble. Three figures looking round with virgin interest,
their pale skin glowing under the force of the sun.

Through the window I can see small puffs of dust kicked up by their
sandals as they approach. A maddening confidence is etched into the
delicate lines of their squinting faces.

They enter the courtyard, picking their way carefully into the almost
featureless quadrangle. The unforgiving concrete, cracked and hot
before it has reached ten o'clock, glares up at them, increasing their
discomfort.

They try to quell the shock of the almost non-existent sanitation. One
working toilet. No door. A gaping, pungent cavern. They take in the
thought of sixteen year old girls who have not been given the luxury of
shitting in private. Rusting taps, and basins are encased in a layer of
tenacious grime. Those rooms with doors are all locked.

Cooing maternally, they approach the children, who are cluttered
haphazardly in the narrow bands of shade around the edges of the
courtyard. A group of girls bicker in whiny voices. Senora Sospechosa
surveys the newcomers balefully.

They do not look appropriate for orphanage work. The three girls in
front of her stand awkwardly, unsure of how to approach the harsh
looking mistress. She says something in a commanding register to the
children and they fall silent, sitting upright like automatons.

She does not smile in welcome. She leads them to a room off the
courtyard. It has a chair, a window and a desk covered with papers. A
fan clatters overhead. Her eyes drift over and beyond them. Her posture
is rigid, almost military, as she swivels the chair to face them. Is
she disinterested? Or unaccustomed to making eye contact?

Her arms are folded in what looks like a guarded, sceptical gesture.
Many things are still new to the girls, including the delicate
operation of reading the Mexican countenance. Many subtleties of
culture and conduct are still a mystery. However, they have come to
work with the children and want to get on with it.

Three big girls came today. They want to play with us. They don't shout
much. Why can't they talk properly? They sound funny. They say words
wrong.

They kept trying to feed Jorge, even when he bit one of them. It's nice
they have come to play. I hope they come back tomorrow.

All is astir. The children are shouting and screaming. Some bash their
little heads up against the wall, the floor and each other as often as
not. A large group of well-meaning Americans from a charity
organisation turned up today. They are enraptured by the children, who
are doing their utmost to frantically squeeze every last drop of love
from the visitors.

The younger toddlers grasp at it, with hands stretched desperately
through the iron bars of their spartan cots. Their imploring deep brown
eyes, overly large and brimming with shiny tears, are like the obsidian
orbs touched with soft light.
Some of the locals try to overcharge tourists for these orbs on the
Malecon.

The clutching fingers pull at you irresistibly. Some have calluses and
sores that make you wince, impossible to keep clean in this desiccating
environment. The Americans, arriving from comfortable lives where their
mothers never leave them wrapped in a blanket on a rubbish tip, are
powerless.

Who could not be moved, humbled by overwhelming emotions, witnessing
this all-consuming craving to be loved and looked after? Some of the
adults turn away to hide tears of their own.

Smiling bravely, they pick up the children, press them close into their
chests and encircle their spindly bodies in their arms, giving
themselves totally for a few fleeting moments. They want to return.
They want to take the children out to the beach for an unprecedented
day of sand-castles, ice creams, golden sand, palappas and the gently
swelling Pacific ocean.

They want to leave gifts, as others have done before. Toys for the
children, books, writing materials and anything to keep them amused and
educate their bruised minds and confused egos.

The Americans leave. Teroceta begins to wail, soon followed by fifteen
upturned faces, tonsils raw with the rage of betrayal and desertion.
After a while they quieten down. But some mouths are still working
soundlessly, unconsciously blowing bubbles of saliva, their faces
contorted, hands clenched.

We move amongst them, soothing, comforting and exorcising the
children's loss. All at once there is complete silence. Except for the
gentle trickle and warm stickiness of urine soaking through musty
undergarments onto my arm.

Why do they leave? No matter how much we cry - they still leave. Why
are there no toys to play with? I want to go outside. The girls say we
can't. They're horrible. I'm hungry. Why don't they look at us when
they tell us we can't go outside?

The girls approached me again today. Again asking questions. Always the
questions. Why can't they accept things the way they are? Why make
changes? It is better for the children not to be spoilt. Too much
attention and excitement makes them wilful. It is damaging in the end.
Besides, I have a lot of paperwork to do. I must look after my
business.

What is the use of explaining this to strangers who are themselves
wilful and disrespectful? I am busy, much too flustered to think about
changing their lockers or giving them keys to their rooms. Only I
should have keys. Perhaps I shouldn't have taken them on.

The children loved the beach. Even the cynicism of some of the older
ones dissipated within a few minutes. It was wonderful to see them
pottering about, idly letting the sand run through their fingers. Ice
cream was smeared across chins and cheeks in random patterns and
colours. What a pity we could not take them to Neuvo Vallarta to see
the turtle hatchery.

The children grinned mischievously at one another. Little princes and
princesses who were determined to milk their royal status for as long
as it lasted.

The organisation wanted to give us money to buy toys. We accepted. In
town, it was a strange experience choosing children's books. We bought
hundreds of them. We will take them into the orphanage a few at a
time.

The tendera looked mildly aghast as armfuls of brightly coloured books
were placed on the counter in front of her. "Eso muchas libros!" she
protested.

Various misty-eyed children and cuddly anthropomorphic animals,
brandishing glazed smiles, stared hopefully up at her from many
covers.

Senora told us today. She said the big girls are thieves. She said they
stole our toys. They are bad. They mustn't steal our things.

The children acted strangely this morning. The cracked flags and dusty
walls of the courtyard where they are almost entombed in a crude
sacrifice to some long forsaken Sun God, resounded with an extra
sombreness. The air is very thick. A tropical thunder storm is on the
way.

Picking up Edwardo, his little body was tense. He buried his head on my
shoulder, giving my tee shirt a token rub with his streaming nose. He
rocked angrily in my arms, clicking the roof of his mouth with a
constantly roving tongue. His bare feet kicking into my back, not
viciously, more distractedly than anything else. None of them will
speak to us.

There are no helpless eyes drawing us to their aid. No wails of
anguish. No clamour for attention. Only an alarming sullenness.

Any attempt to raise them out of this peculiar, sulky trance is
pointless for a while. It takes a whole afternoon for them to resettle
into the familiar patterns of smiles, fights, wants, tears and need for
attention.

We put the younger ones down on a faded blanket and try to get them to
take a short sleep. One girl, around four years old, sitting quietly in
a corner, watches our every move. Her forehead, partly shadowed and
only semi-visible between two jagged, rusting metal posts, is creased
with a frown.

Her head remains perfectly still but her hands pick at the frayed ends
of a gnarled twig. She must have been biting it, tiny splinters of wood
churning chaotically inside her pretty, thin-lipped mouth. We will have
to ask Senora what is going on.

They brought some books today. They put them down on the ground and
asked us if we wanted to look at them. They were sweaty from carrying
them. Maybe they stole them. Maybe they had to bring them back.

But they haven't been here very long. How could they have stolen our
toys? They look upset. Maybe they'll cry. They are going now. It is
time to sleep. I don't think they will be here when we wake up.