Travel in Mexico: Esperanza

February 2006 | by Anna Laird Barto

She appears to flit about without the aid of feet, born along by the wide white fan of her skirt. Her pink sash flows behind her, like a long serpentine tail. When she sees us she gives a shriek of recognition, as if she has been waiting for us all day. She holds her hands out urgently, a midget goddess, demanding tribute. They are exquisite hands, with palms scarcely larger than cats' paws, and juicy dimples which sprout dainty, pink-tipped fingers.

"No tengo cambio," I say, averting my eyes. "I don't have change."

The child waits, hands outstretched like a beggar or a preacher. Fountains of black hair spout from the pigtails on either side of her face.

"You don't think she takes traveler's checks?" says my friend Becca.

"We really should get going," I say, glancing at my watch, my link to linear existence, easily ignored in the zócalo, where the passage of time barely seems to penetrate the shadowy laurel canopy. It is eleven o'clock on a Sunday night, yet children of all ages hold sway in Oaxaca's city square. They slide shrieking down the green iron railings of the bandstand, and play catch in front of the Cathedral with the long tubular balloons that the street venders sell for three pesos. Their laughter mingles with the sound of mariachis and distant thunder.

Becca and I exchange anguished glances while the urchin waits confidently. I am determined not to agonize over the plight of every unfortunate waif I encounter. What are the few pesos I might toss her way against the global mechanisms of oppression? I take a determined step forward, my eyes aimed high above her head. But instead of vanishing, the girl launches herself into my arms, her scrawny legs clenching my waist with surprising force. She nestles against me and pets my blond streaked hair with the same wonderment as if it were the coat of an exotic animal.

"Cómo te llamas nena?" I ask, stroking her soft cinnamon colored skin."What is your name little girl?"

We lean in close to make out her high wispy voice. "Esperanza."

"Qué lindo!" Becca exclaims. "Cuántos años tienes? How old are you?

Esperanza holds up three resolute fingers.

I feel something brush against my blue jeans. I look down expecting to see one of Oaxaca's feral dogs, pitiful, flee bitten opportunists who haunt the streets wagging their tails in the face of death. Instead I see another niña, not much older than Esperanza. In fact they are all around us, little girls of all ages, in long white traditional dresses embroidered with bright flowers.

"Tus hermanas?"

"Sí." Esperanza bounces in my arms, holding on to my hair like a horses reins.

"Vuéltame!" She orders. "Spin me!"

Her sisters chant: "VUELTA! VUELTA! VUELTA! VUELTA!"

We begin to spin. She tilts backwards as far as she can, until her hair drags on the cobblestones, reckless inches from smashing her tender skull like squash. She shrieks with laughter as I cling desperately to her legs.

We spin until I can't tell whether it's me or the zócalo that's rotating. We spin until the white tree trunks look like the poles of carousal, until the bandstand's green railings fuse together in an infinite circle.

"MAS! MAS! MAS!".

"Lo siento nena, ya no puedo, estoy mareada," I say, staggering, the ground tilting around me like a ship in a storm. "I'm sorry honey, I can't anymore, I'm dizzy."

"VUELTA!" She screams, eyes aflame.

Her sisters echo her with uncanny synchrony. "VUELTA, VUELTA, VUELTA..."

"No puedo..." Vomit is starting to sting my throat. I try to set Esperanza down on the pavement, but she grabs my hair and won't let go.

I scream in pain.

"MAS! MAS! MAS!" I believe that she will wrench my hair from its roots if I don't obey.

I look to Becca for help, but Esperanza's sisters have clamped firmly onto her arms and legs like snapping turtles. Esperanza reaches for Becca's ponytail and wrenches the barrette from her hair.

"Regalo para mí!" "Present for me!", she proclaims, holding it out of Becca's reach.

Where is their mother? I think. The most likely candidate is a pretty indigenous woman seated on a park bench, surrounded by unsold wares: woven blankets, beaded jewelry, and useless trinkets made of wood. She doesn't acknowledge our plight, but sits rigidly, staring at nothing, as if sleeping with her eyes open.

We have to go. We are half an hour from home - if we don't get lost again - and lightning extends its teasing fingers ever nearer. I promise Esperanza an even better hair clip if she lets me go, and earrings to match, and candy, pesos, dollars ... the moon. Then I make a run for it. I grab Becca's hand and we run, scattering startled tourists and trinket venders. The sisters throw themselves at our ankles like human shackles. We drag them for several feet before leaving them behind, prostrate and shrieking in the street. For blocks I can still feel their hands clawing at my ankles, but soon I am safe inside my host family's compound. As I lay in bed and the linear world starts to disappear in sleep, I hear Esperanza's shrill laughter mingling with the harrowing howls of the feral dogs outside my window. - ALB

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Esperanza