Little Boy In Nicaragua

 "Take the time
Think it through
Walk in wise
Leave the fool
And it can betray
Sometimes a beggar, has more to say."
 - Sometimes A Beggar, by Caedmon's Call

It was a nearly eight-hour bus ride to get to Granada, Nicaragua. I found a pay phone in a small internet cafe and called the friends whom I had traveled there to see, mission workers I had met a  few months ago in missions training. I was in the center of town, near a park/courtyard area in front of a large Catholic church. We agreed to meet there so I walked to the park and sat on the steps of the Catholic church.
I was dusty and tired from the trip. The park was bustling with activity: vendors selling food and hand crafts, children playing, lots of horses and carts, and tourists walking around with backpacks, like me. A tour guide approached me with a brochure. For a while we spoke pleasantly in Spanglish about where I was from and the attractions I could see in Nicaragua. Then he headed off and I continued to look around for my friends.

I was walking around when a little boy ran up to me. He held a flower made out of a thick grass which he pushed towards me almost urgently. I took it and immediately he whipped out two more long pieces of grass from a bag on his shoulder. He began to weave them together with quick, deft fingers. I stood and watched, trapped by his sweet insistence. Now that he had my attention though, he suddenly appeared a little shy. As he wove the grass, he glanced up at me from time to time, looking carefully and curiously at this stranger he had so boldly approached. It wasn't until he was almost finished that I realized what he was weaving: a grasshopper. The body was made of a tight, sturdy weave, with delicate legs and antennae to finish it off. He offered his creation to me and I looked it over wonderingly. He started to pull out another piece of grass but I gently stopped him and offered him money. He had latched onto me with such a quick trust that I would pay him, yet my friends could be there at any time and I didn't want to cut him off in the middle of making something new. All I had on me was Costa Rican colones, which I hoped would be okay. I offered him a 5 mil, worth 10 US dollars, and he took it, smiled at me, and ran off. I wondered how old he was: a little barefoot boy who could weave intricate things out of stalks of grass. Ten maybe? A ten-year-old out approaching strangers to make a little money for his family?

I admire that little boy. He is smart and brave and quick. The little boy probably has a difficult life, yet he can make things of beauty from free grass. A small street artist. I'll think of him glancing at me shyly and curiously, the way I looked at him: two people from very different lives.
I put the flower and grasshopper in my backpack and took them back to Costa Rica with me. They are dry and brown yet still pretty. Aren't many things still pretty long after they could be hoped to be, especially when they are unexpected?