By Jacqui Reed.
It’s one of
those memories that stayed with me, even now some years later. The little boy and the look on his face is
what I recall the strongest in my memory of that journey to Aguas Calientes, just below the ruined Inca city of Machu Picchu.
It began as the train slowed
down to a complete halt, they had to let another train pass and then move on to
the single line, or something like was said as the announcer had spoken in
broken English.
Gazing out the window and
taking in the wild landscape, I notice the ramshackle houses that clung precariously
to the hillside on stills with clothes hung from makeshift clothes lines like
faded rainbows.
As the train stopped
children’s laughter drifted in the small openings at the top of the windows and
everyone in the carriage turned to see where it came from.
Four children, an older boy
of about eight, two young girls about six or seven and a smaller boy all
jumping up and down, chattering to the passengers and laughing.
They began to make hand signals,
small outstretched hands, begging and then putting them up to their mouths.
In the packed carriage no one
moved or said anything at first. Then a woman stood up and threw something out
her small window to them. The children half slid, half ran further down the
banken and scrappled about till one grabbed and lifted what was thrown out to
them. It was a bread role wrapped in cling film and the victor, one of the
little girls was shrieking with glee.
It was then that I looked down
at the cardboard box on my knee, recalling when the rectangular boxes where
handed out to each passenger, how it filled my heart with a pleasant feeling of
simple joy to open it up and see the neat little compartments. Each filled with
something tasty to eat, a bread roll, butter, cheese, crackers, grapes and
plastic cutlery wrapped in a white napkin with the trains logo embossed on it,
all neatly packed in plastic.
After eating some cheese and
crackers I had closed the lid, planning on saving the rest till later. It was when I closed it I noticed
in block red letters “DO NOT THROW CONTENTS OUT THE TRAIN WINDOWS”.
At first I though it was odd
to put on them, as if anyone would litter this beautiful place, but now I
realised it was the contents they meant. Do not to throw them out to the
children along the line, wither to feed them or save them from dangers of the
train or just the sight of children begging from tourists. Who knows which
reason was the real one?
So I opened the lid, lifted out
the remaining contents and threw them out my window, I threw them far so not to
bring the children close to the track and just like before the kids ran
excitedly for them.
All except the older boy, he
held back.
I looked at him; he returned
my gaze and held it. I took in his jet black hair, his skin the colour of coco,
his t-shirt with some logo on it, his shabby trousers and finally his shoes.
He had two different shoes
on, one black, scuffed leather and burst open at the side, no laces and the
other, a black rubber sandal made from recycled tyres. I noticed these before;
a lot of the local people wore them in other towns I’d visited.
I look up into his eyes
again, and he looks deep into mine, suddenly a quick movement catches my eye. His
hand moved quickly down to his side. I followed his hand and saw that he was
trying to cover the long rip on the side seam of his trousers from me.
His small hand could not
cover the whole long tear.
It was when I looked back
into his eyes I saw his embarrassment, his realisation of his poverty for the first
time in his short life.
His innocence gone in a
glance, taken by a gesture of kindness.
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