His name was Yader.
“Mmm comida….” Pacing around the outdoor tables, pesky as a fly, he asks again and again for leftover scraps from abandoned plates. “Sientase.” We have him sit with us and we offer him my plate. Shoveling with both hands, he takes brief brakes to answer our questions. Though he clearly wanted to continue his quest for food, he took the time to explain that his parents cannot work due illness (asthma & feet issues) so he has to fend for himself and his sisters. He’s fourteen.
He has to fend for himself too.
We went to the Mercado today. Lost in the maze of booths selling everything from bras to matches, mangos to soaps, we found ourselves in the raw meat section where flesh cut who-knows-when sits under a sweaty sun blood-soaking wooden tables. The meat is swatted by a rolled up newspaper in a vain attempt to keep the flies from first dibs. I hold my breath until I find my way out.
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