THE PLAZA DE
SAN SEBASTIAN
Invisible.
The word
invisible has taken on new meaning for me in recent weeks. It is a simple
enough concept to understand, being invisible, yet to be a person or group of
people who exist in a state that is marginalized by most of society except for
brief moments of disgust or pity might be one of the most terrifying realities
I can imagine. Such is life for the inhabitants of the Plaza de San Sebastian.
The plaza is
home to a group of homeless people commonly referred to as cleferos. Their namesake is derived from the bottles of glue
(called clefa) they constantly seem
to have in their possession. Sniffing the glue provides a cheap escape from the
harshness of reality and is often supplemented with more traditional inebriating
substances. Overall, the cleferos appear to be both pitied and feared by the
local community, having earned a reputation for violence and hopelessness. On
numerous occasions while spending time with these people I’ve been warned by the
locals about the danger the cleferos pose to all around them. I’m also told
some of the locals even go as far as to propose the best method of dealing with
this population is extermination. Sound unimaginable? It’s not. Regardless,
some of my favorite experiences thus far have taken place in the plaza while
tending to wounds and becoming familiar with its inhabitants. The truth is the
cleferos are people exactly like you and I. The difference between us is that
they are victims of life events so terrible that living amidst the filth and
feces of the plaza is a more desirable existence than their homes and pasts.
People of
all ages call the plaza home. There are men and women, old and young,
boyfriends and girlfriends, even babies birthed into a life of depravity amidst
its soiled green spaces and broken benches. Life there is unstable: the same
hands that share also steal, those that assist also assault, men who protect
also rape. It’s a life defined by people doing what is necessary to live while
constantly seeking some measure of pleasure to escape their reality. Some
manage, and some die. Such an existences is nearly impossible for me to
comprehend, except that I’ve seen it for myself. It is not that we do not have
equally needy populations in the States, for we certainly do. Unlike the
States, however, there are precious few if any places the cleferos can turn for
help. There are no 24-hour Emergency Rooms in Cochabamba legally obligated to
treat their wounds. There are no feeding ministries or government aid programs.
In truth, there are precious few who even seem to care.
Hope remains.
Hope visits
the plaza every weekend in the form of two American nurses, Rachel and Shelly.
These two have spent the better part of the last year bringing food, medical
supplies, and loving hearts to the people of the plaza in an effort to build
relationship with its inhabitants. As anyone who has seen them in the plaza
will attest, to say they have been successful would be an understatement. The
need is great though and they are now working with a group of similarly
motivated Bolivians to form a Bolivian/American NGO with the mission of working
here fulltime to providing a pathway to rehabilitation to the cleferos of San
Sebastian. I don’t believe I’ve ever personally known a team more devoted to
living out the words of Isaiah 58: 6-9a.
I certainly
don’t expect anyone reading this to instantly understand the plaza or feel
moved to it. Your experiences are not mine and visa versa. However, I do think
there is value in being aware that such places exist in this world, especially
for those of us in America. Hopefully the following introduction to a few of
the people I’ve been fortunate enough to meet there will help make this
description of the plaza a little more tangible …
Jorge Luis: Jorge
Luis is 28 years old and has lived in the plaza for the past twenty years.
About a year ago Jorge has struck by a car and now can only move short
distances with the aid of a decrepit old walker. Often times Jorge is carried
by a friend in the plaza and placed in the middle of a busy intersection where
he sits begs for money. His hand was recently run over by a passing car, but he
seems to be able to earn enough money by begging to sustain himself in the
plaza.
I don’t know
the complete details of Jorge’s family history, but I know he misses them and
wants to go back. Last week he even made an effort to do so. With the help of
some volunteers Jorge took a bath in the plaza fountain and, after donning a
new shirt and pants brought for this purpose, set out to return home to his
family. Sadly, upon finding his family they refused to let him return home as
he was. Instead they insisted he go through rehabilitation, but with their
support. Was this an understandable choice on their part? Yes. Heartbreaking?
Also yes. As of now Jorge has returned to the plaza. While there are people
willing to help in this process only time will tell if a rehabilitation house
can be found that will accept him or if Jorge will possess the willpower to see
it through. I think he does though. Each time I’ve seen him since he pulls a
piece of paper from his pocket containing his mom’s name and phone number and
says he wants to talk to her.
Margarita:
Margarita is a twenty-three year old girl who has lived in the plaza for a couple
years now. In my opinion life in the plaza has made her look like she’s in her
mid thirties and she has an 8-year old daughter who I’ve yet to meet. When I
was first introduced to Margarita is was to examine an abscess that had formed
on the lateral aspect of her neck. At the time it had spread subcutaneously and
was causing the left side of her face to swell to the point of impairing her
ability to open her mouth. After talking with her for a while a group of
volunteers and I decided to return the next day and help her seek medical
attention for the infection. We did so and with the services of a local doctor
the abscess was lanced and drained. The only problem is that the antibiotic
therapy he recommended involved taking a pill four times a day, a feat that
would have been challenging enough for a health person in normal living
conditions. The sad truth is that Margarita is simply not up to the challenge
nor does she seem to understand its importance. I returned to the plaza to
visit her the day after her abscess was drained in order to check on her wound
and ensure she was taking her antibiotic. Apparently she had gotten drunk the
night before and had removed both her dressings and the drain left in place by
the doctor. I was able to clean and re-dress her wound but have had enormous
trouble finding her since then despite numerous visits seeking her out. To my
knowledge she is still receiving her antibiotic therapy thanks to a friend of
hers’ in the plaza that has agreed to help deliver the medication to her and
tells us she is. As of now there’s no way to know for sure other than to keep
seeking her out. We are doing so and time will tell. She remains in our prayers.
The
situation is both sad and enormously frustrating. I can’t help but believe she
might have been better off had we done nothing at all. Could we have
anticipated this at the time? I don’t believe so. Margarita expressed a desire
to be helped and I believe the doctor treating her gave care according to the
best of his ability; it just wasn’t well suited to her situation. She is the
perfect example of the dire need for consistent and sustainable medical care
for this group of people.
Miguel: I
have only seen Miguel once and he was not a pretty sight. I was visiting with
Jorge Luis when I noticed Miguel stumble up to a group of cleferos a short
distance from where we were sitting. Blood streamed from a beaten face and a
broken nose and worse his eyes had been glued shut with the very clefa he now
held to his nose as he sobbed through the pain. Apparently he had crossed an
older and stronger man in the plaza and this was his punishment.
Few people enjoy watching true violence play
out in front of them and I certainly don’t count myself as one of them.
However, what was worse than surveying the damage inflicted on this young man
was the fact that he resolutely refused to let me tend to his wounds. So I was
forced to sit there with a backpack full of medical supplies has he blindly
sniffed his glue and blew blot clots out of his nose every time they formed. To
him I can only assume I was an outsider and, not knowing me personally, he
didn’t care how much I knew or desired to help him. Instead he preferred to let
a friend rub oil over his eyes in an attempt to help. When I try to put myself
in his shoes and frame of mind I can’t say I blame him. I don’t think I’d have
trusted me either.
My intent in sharing these stories is not to
be dramatic or creating a feeling of depression and desperation. The truth is
that I’ve seen beautiful things take place in the plaza as well. However, these
are some of the people I’ve gotten to know and their short stories accurately
depict the need for the ministry Shelly and Rachel are working to provide. The
inhabitants of the plaza need consistency and their trust needs to be earned. I
really think that can only be done by investing in them daily as they intend
to. To learn more about what they are doing please visit:
