We have internet! Yay! The router doohickey thingie was not wanting to work, and it is back in action! Here is my blog from our clown trip to Eastern Market yesterday morning. Thanks for reading!

March 9, 2009

The Alley of Death

I have been afforded the extreme pleasure of reflecting on our descent into Nicaragua’s inferno. While I am currently writing this at the latter portion of our day, the memories of this morning’s experience are freshly brewing in this ever increasingly expanding cranium. Clowning makes me feel smart, and kids loving on you makes your head grow infinitely larger, so hence the dome expansion. This bunch learned a lot this morning, and each step through hell somehow brought us closer to our own personal demons, and to each other. Each person’s experience is different, but today I’m sharing mine.
Upon our arrival to our clown loading dock (more formerly known as a dirt parking lot), we unloaded, and almost immediately, the confusion set in. Perhaps this was merely my own experience, being that I speak Spanish at the 101 level, but I recall seeing some perplexed faces. We were met by an eager man named Jose, who had an explicit addiction to glue. Clutching a gerber jar with cobbler’s glue in it, he proceeded to introduce himself to us, one by one. We knew that something was not okay with Jose. We felt prepared for this. We knew about the location. We knew that we would be meeting young folks just like him. Nothing could truly prepare us for what we were about to experience.
Lillian was a fantastic leader, and chose two wonderful guides named Ricardo and Bergman. Their friend Syd was also very helpful, and was quite informative on the street lifestyle. Do you know the type of person that does their job so good, they either make it look super easy, or you don’t realize they’re actually working? That’s these four. Thank goodness we had these wonderful sages to guide us into the treacherous abyss that was the alley of death. I am not sure we would have emerged intact if it were not for these people. I think I can speak for all of the clowns when I say that we are infinitely grateful.
My favorite thing to do (aside from being completely silly and crazy), was to approach the street vendors and give out hugs. I waved erratically, blew kisses, made silly faces, and sent good vibes all around. We had some scragglers (is that a word?), myself among them. At one point we adopted the buddy system, and it gave us great opportunities to twirl with support and watch out for mud holes. After a good long trek through the market, we squeezed into a small, dark, alley. When I say alley, I mean an evil labyrinth. Think David Bowie minus the fuzzy creatures and hilarious bad acting.
I have experienced sad situations. I have witnessed devastating poverty. This alley tops them all. When I looked into the eyes of my trusting wanderers, my heart pleaded for their souls. In the eyes of those children, I saw tremendous suffering. I saw a yearning for happiness being strangled by the power of addiction. I sometimes saw nothing. The power of the high overtook the will of their individuality. Their imaginations no longer functioned naturally. Their eyes only told me that their experience of what was going on was so different from my own, that I could not begin to comprehend it. My most humbling experience yet, came when we happened upon an addicted female, looking to be about five months pregnant. Her body was going through the unthinkable, supporting another life while simultaneously fighting the urge to sniff glue. Additionally, a suffering mother whose alcoholic and drug-addicted partner was unable to truly function as a father for her pint-sized four month old, who was visibly an addict, as well. As our kindhearted fellow clown, Chrissy, commented: “I searched for some acknowledgement in her eyes, and for just a split second I had it.” At some point, we all searched for that moment. And maybe our moment came with the Parade of Hope.
The Parade of Hope deserves caps because it was truly heaven in the deepest depths of hell. I feel confident in reporting on this experience, because I, myself was merely a humble observer. While John and Levi provided inspiring tunes, clowns grabbed hands and formed a large circle of joy and laughter. Dancing in a circle, I witnessed young children reclaim their right to joy and happiness. I also saw the flickers of hope in each clown’s eyes, that they may have seen our wanderers’ souls return. It was truly a divine moment. I was able to wander off a bit, hoping to draw some wallflowers into the beautiful swirl of color. I met two brothers, each with reluctant eyes, but with curious smiles. I shared some bubbles, and dispersed stickers. The stickers were a big hit, and I got to know Mom a bit. She was obviously struggling to make a better life for her sons, and seemed to appreciate a break from the monotony. What says anti-monotony better than a barrage of multi-colored crazies?
The time finally arrived when we had to march on, and off we went, with our Parade of Hope, dancing through the mud. I recall happening upon a busy crossroads, my buddy in tow (yay Cara!) and made an Italiano friend that really wanted to dance with a clown. I’m not sure if she had a secret list of “things to do before you die” stashed away somewhere, with “dance with a clown” highlighted, but I didn’t have to try hard at all. She set out to dance with me, and it made my job way easier. Thank you Maria!
It was shortly after this point that we approached our final destination, the baloncesto court. For those of you also entering Spanish 101, “baloncesto” means basketball, and the Spanish version just sounds way cooler. We were nearing dehydration, treading on weary feet, and on we marched in the pursuit of more smiles. As we rounded the corner, a young boy dropped his jar, and immediately lapsed into rage. His lifeline was smashed, and the unthinkable would have to be repeated in order for him to acquire more. He took his hurt out on Bergman, feeling as though he was to blame because he had bumped into him. Clowns were able to carry on into the fenced courts, but somehow our mood changed. The sun beat down on us, and seemed to give the young wanderers a more aggressive spirit. We managed to be blessed with some more smiles, but felt the need to move on.
As we walked back to the clown loading dock, I saw some clown faces I don’t normally see. There were weary eyes, and bruised hearts. Empathy was bursting at the seams. In the company of friends (and with a little bit of privacy), we were able to support one another with hugs and encouragement. I saw tears. I felt sadness. I witnessed more confused faces. This day of clowning was difficult for many of us, but it will be with us forever. May it always dance through our memories as the day that Hope Paraded through the Alley of Death.

¡Besos!

Alison