Tuesday, November 07, 2006
How to be a successful beggar
As we were sipping our granadina fruit drink in Parque Central yesterday, the most darling little beggar girl came up to our table. Before she even opened her mouth, we waved her away. No, we said. No money.
It´s not that we don´t want to help out, but giving to one kid means giving to the other 25 who will descend upon you once you open your wallet, seizing upon your white liberal guilt.
But this one wasn´t deterred. She looked at Levi and said, Mister, I want five cordobas. This was a little surprising, as most of the kids ask for one cordoba with a look of absolute despair. But this girl, with her short brown haircut and tattered yellow dress, behaved like a Barnard woman in the making.
When I suggested one cordoba, she cocked her head toward me and said, I just told you I need five. I need to eat. One isn´t going to get me anywhere. She sighed a little as though I was an absolute dunce and then slapped Levi´s knee, causing the coins in his shorts to jingle.
OK, Levi said. How about two? She rolled her eyes, looking impatient. Two would be fine, she said. A little cheap, but she would deal with that. Levi ended up giving her five, and her big brown eyes lit up. She gave him a Bill Clinton handshake, looked meaningfully into his eyes and said, Gracias, señor. Levi looked like he wanted to give her skinny little self a hug.
This tiny one is clearly one of the more successful beggars in the Parque. The others wait to see how she fares, descending upon successful clients as their wallets are still open. The others come asking for only one cordoba though, the equivalent of about $0.06, and they look at you as though they´re going to cry. Some cry on command and most tourists become uncomfortable. Instead of opening their pockets, they walk away briskly.
Otherwise, Levi and I are in love with Granada. The plan was to be here for a day or two, and now it´s been nearly a week. We love the embittered old Dutch man named Ed who serves up a mean breakfast around the corner. We love the cheap rum drinks and dipping our toes in the ice cold pool. We love that the hotel ladies and night guard will talk politics and life. We love the heat, the architecture and that the sidewalks are tiled in various colors. It´s a rich city, of course, and we don´t fool ourselves that we´re experiencing Central America lite. Not quite Costa Rica but not as dusty and desperate as the Guatemalan highlands.
It´s not that we don´t want to help out, but giving to one kid means giving to the other 25 who will descend upon you once you open your wallet, seizing upon your white liberal guilt.
But this one wasn´t deterred. She looked at Levi and said, Mister, I want five cordobas. This was a little surprising, as most of the kids ask for one cordoba with a look of absolute despair. But this girl, with her short brown haircut and tattered yellow dress, behaved like a Barnard woman in the making.
When I suggested one cordoba, she cocked her head toward me and said, I just told you I need five. I need to eat. One isn´t going to get me anywhere. She sighed a little as though I was an absolute dunce and then slapped Levi´s knee, causing the coins in his shorts to jingle.
OK, Levi said. How about two? She rolled her eyes, looking impatient. Two would be fine, she said. A little cheap, but she would deal with that. Levi ended up giving her five, and her big brown eyes lit up. She gave him a Bill Clinton handshake, looked meaningfully into his eyes and said, Gracias, señor. Levi looked like he wanted to give her skinny little self a hug.
This tiny one is clearly one of the more successful beggars in the Parque. The others wait to see how she fares, descending upon successful clients as their wallets are still open. The others come asking for only one cordoba though, the equivalent of about $0.06, and they look at you as though they´re going to cry. Some cry on command and most tourists become uncomfortable. Instead of opening their pockets, they walk away briskly.
Otherwise, Levi and I are in love with Granada. The plan was to be here for a day or two, and now it´s been nearly a week. We love the embittered old Dutch man named Ed who serves up a mean breakfast around the corner. We love the cheap rum drinks and dipping our toes in the ice cold pool. We love that the hotel ladies and night guard will talk politics and life. We love the heat, the architecture and that the sidewalks are tiled in various colors. It´s a rich city, of course, and we don´t fool ourselves that we´re experiencing Central America lite. Not quite Costa Rica but not as dusty and desperate as the Guatemalan highlands.
