Fio Dental - Chapter 15: Pequeno Nazareno

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Still ponds draped in vines and submerged palm trees create a natural and paradise-like backdrop for the exploration and appreciation of a tropical Brazilian island. Neat rows of corn are ready for harvest, as is the ripe and exotic (but sour) fruit of the acerola tree. The children who live in Pequeno Nazareno get around by foot or bicycle. The adults who look after them make use of very little motorized traffic themselves. On lazy mornings before class, the boys fish for freshwater shrimp in the central pond near the slide and diving board. It is the focal point for living quarters, schoolhouses, a cantina, and the main entrance of the compound. Well maintained ashen brick roads connect these and other points to form a model community of which its founders and managers are extremely proud. Pequeno Nazareno knows no noise pollution, contamination of any sort, and its footpaths are free of any refuse. At first glance, it is an ideal camp in which a child can flourish happily.
Sadly, such a place should not have to exist. Twenty-five kilometers north of Recife on the Island of Itamaracá, it is a haven for the lost, forgotten, abused, and abandoned. Dedicated staff strives to offer a way out for the street children who have become victim of, and have survived on Recife’s nasty and vicious streets, some for years. Founded in 2002 by German Berndt Rosenmeyer, the camp houses a maximum of forty boys. This number represents only ten percent of the boys who currently live in Recife’s downtown region. Ages six to twelve when they arrive, they have decided of their own free will to come to Itamaracá, though with much prodding and urging from people like Martin and Rose Reiger.
While Rose looks after matters concerning the two schoolhouses on the premises, they both assume a more comprehensive role as the adults to whom everyone looks for answers and solutions. Having spent stretches of time at Pequeno Nazareno in years past, Martin left his lucrative position in a Munich insurance firm to devote his efforts to a cause more meaningful to him than the corporate world. His direct responsibilities cover meeting the tedious legal requirements of the operation and public relations. However, it has become rather clear that their direct day-to-day impact on the children is all-encompassing. The adults represent the only element of stability these boys have ever known. While driving into Recife for supplies, Martin enlightened me on the realities of dealing with Recife’s street children on a day-to-day basis.
“In what kind of conditions do the boys arrive, and why not any girls here?”
Martin did not hesitate. “Horrible. They have rarely bathed. They often have head lice and if they once possessed any social skills, they are all but gone. Most have never seen a doctor, dentist, optometrist, or had the most basic vaccinations. Nutritionally, they are underweight. Ah, it is true we cannot accept girls here. By the time these boys reach age eight, they have already started to display sexually deviant behavior. To have girls here would be a disaster.”
Martin’s tone was slightly cheerless. Six boys had just fled the camp to go back to Recife. One of the boys was very close to Rose, who has been upset at his departure. Hugo, a twelve-year-old, had become very attached to Rose, even to the point where he approached her one day at their modest home on site.
“Hugo went up to Rose and said, ‘Can you be my Mom?’ This put my wife in a strange position. She did not know how to answer. My wife asked him, ‘What do you mean by Mom?’ And Hugo, we miss Hugo and are looking for him now, he answered, ‘You know, to give me hug, and listen to me, and then tell me when I do something wrong.’
“How did you wife take that?” I seriously doubt I would have been prepared for such a request. Given that Rose was the closest thing Hugo had ever come to a Mom, his question was natural for a twelve-year-old who desperately needed a sense of belonging.
“She told him that, yes, she could be his Mom, but it would have to be a secret.”
This perplexed me. “A secret? How so?”
“My wife said, ‘I can be your Mom. But you have to call me tia, OK? We don’t want the other boys to be jealous.’ Ever since Hugo left, Rose has been heartbroken.”
On the surface, it is incomprehensible why anyone would choose to return to such hellish conditions. Martin told me of Hugo’s history on Recife’s sidewalks and alleyways. Once surrounded by a pack of children, he was doused in fuel and lit afire. After two weeks in the hospital, he was brought home to his family, but then fled back to the streets a few days later. The only constant in his life had been his grandmother, who not so long ago died of diabetes. The desperate and disenfranchised in Brazil actually die of a disease we consider to be extremely manageable and hardly life-threatening if looked after properly. Hugo’s aunt took him in, but he was too much for her to handle. He started robbing in the local neighborhood and his transgressions became so serious it got to the point where the local neighbors made threats to kill him.
“Do you think the neighbors would have actually murdered him, Martin?”
No hesitation: “In an instant.” His life to them is worthless and he would be one less nuisance to deal with.”
“Any word about Hugo recently?”
“No. We still cannot find him.”

Hugo resided in one of the communal homes for the boys. Each of the three residences contains six rooms. In each room, two boys sleep. There is a common room for gatherings. Come study time, many boys prefer to take a chair and desk outside. Every residence has a housemaster, an adult staff member who oversees the daily running of affairs and also ensures that the boys stick to their daily agenda. It is the housemaster who has the most consistent contact with the boys. In order to remain at Pequeno Nazareno, the boys must adhere to rules and restrictions. Without rigid and stern adult reinforcement, the boys will not obey them. They are:

1. No drugs. Interestingly enough, drugs do appear. This policy is often enforced within. The boys often police themselves, so as not to risk being dismissed or having their friends asked to leave. Of all the rules, this one is paramount. If not enforced, drugs will destroy the camp from within.
2. No littering. Good luck trying to find a single piece of trash anywhere at Pequeno Nazareno. There is none. The boys stray from this rule at first. But, it is clear all are on the same page. Many of the boys pick up stray pieces of paper on their way to class every morning. The camp’s spotlessness is the converse of what lies outside the camp and the rest of Brazil’s towns and cities.
3. No swearing. If I were a boy here, this would be the one rule I would have the most trouble with.
4. All boys must perform house chores on Saturday. This includes sweeping, emptying trash, cleaning the toilets, dusting, and mopping.
5. Boys must do their own laundry by hand and hang it out to dry. After swearing, this rule might also get me in trouble.
6. No boy can leave the camp at anytime without permission. No exceptions.
7. On school nights, it’s lights out at 8:30 pm. Weekends and holidays, it’s up to the housemaster to decide when the evening is over.
8. The boys must bathe at least once a day and brush their teeth. What comes as second nature to most in the States must constantly be reinforced on those who never had personal hygiene as a part of their daily routine.
9. Attending school is absolutely mandatory. In addition to daily lessons in mathematics, Portuguese language, science, and history taught by trained professional staff, boys also receive extracurricular activities. Mondays, it is art. Tuesdays and Thursdays it is computer science. Boys meet with psychologists on Wednesdays for group sessions. Boys learn Capoeira on Fridays. Saturdays, they meet for catechism lessons.

Enforcement of the rules is a subtle art of convincing to downright bribing. Some refuse to go to class with other boys whom they do not like. Some hate their teachers. Others have issues with authority. Miraculously, attendance is nearly perfect. Schoolhouses are single room classes furnished with student desks that should be radio carbon dated to determine when they were constructed. A single aluminum filing cabinet stocks meager supplies, of which the camp is in need. In one classroom, the letters of the alphabet run across the top of a chalkboard. In chalk, a boy has legibly written the primary and secondary colors.

“Martin, how do you measure success under such insurmountable odds?”
“They only way we can measure success is if a boy chooses not to leave. Ideally, we want him to go back to his family. Sometimes, the family situation is so poor. Success is what you make of it. That they not go back is why we are here.”
“But, boys cannot stay here forever. They grow up. What then?”
“Yes, we are working on that right now. We have our ideas and plans.” For example, Pequeno Nazareno is lobbying the State of Pernambuco to change the law prohibiting boys from declaring the camp their permanent residence. Dealing with state officials frustrates Martin frequently. They offer few solutions to help the boys yet resist in making legal requirements easier for the camp. Beyond changing the law, staff works with child and family to place the boy back in the home if at all possible. If all efforts fail with immediate family, Martin, Rose, and staff attempt to find a distant relative willing to help. After this, adoption is considered. But few adoptions come to fruition given prospective parents’ preferences and the difficulty of the boys’ history. Their most realistic goal for the boys who stay at Pequeno Nazareno over the long term is job placement. Efforts are underway to establish a relationship with recruiters for military service. But placing boys directly into the army is still a long way off.

“They go back for the drugs. All the children are involved in drugs one way or the other.” Martin and I sped across the bridge connecting Itamaracá to the mainland. The channel is full of mangrove trees. At the first town we come to, children walk around topless, scurvy, and disheveled. An elderly man laid in anguish by a storefront. At no more than eighty pounds, he looked half dead. Pedestrians paid no attention to him. They walked past him as if he were a potted plant.
The next set of questions I had for him, Martin has answered dozens of times. He did so without pause while dodging motorbikes, potholes, and menacing flatbed trucks.
“How many of the boys have done drugs, more or less?” He replied before I could even finish my statement.
“One hundred percent. Half of those are dependent.”
“What is the drug of choice?”
“At the very least, all sniff glue with alcohol. All! Every single one.”
“Then?”
“It depends, Martin continued. “Marijuana, mostly.”
I wanted numbers so I could apply the statistics to the angelic faces I see running around the camp before morning classes. “The percentage that have used marijuana?”
“Oh, fifty percent, minimum.” Martin went on to inform me of the following:

20% have experimented with LSD and/or heroine.
80% have committed theft.
100% have begged for either spare change or food.
100% come from dysfunctional families.
30%, and this is only Martin’s guess, have been sexually abused.

“Thankfully, so far as we know, not one boy has killed another.”
I interjected, “Would it surprise you if one had?”
“Yes.” He paused for moment and looked up briefly at he van ceiling. “No, sorry.” Now that I think about it, no.”

If you’re at Pequeno Nazareno for more than twenty minutes, prepare to be unconditionally hugged. What the boys never received elsewhere, they get and give in abundance here. By early morning before Martin and Rose have arisen, boys arrive at the front door of their home to call upon them. As I answer, three line up to wish me good morning. They are all smiles and I have never met any of them. Word has spread about the camp of my arrival. “Ricardo! Bom Dia!” One by one, they reach out their hand to shake mine, but then firmly grasp it and my waist to embrace me. Each one nudges their head into my chest to welcome me. Pleased I could speak Portuguese and surprised that I was not German (Most of the volunteers are from Germany), the hugs kept coming. Initially I was thought it was a ploy of some sort, but it took only a few seconds to realize that they truly were delighted that I had come. A few argue about which one would give me a tour of the camp. Like any group of boys, they bicker and have disputes. But their attitude towards me and the attention they are starved for was as genuine as the hugs they gave out. In each it was easy to tell that a hug deeply satisfied a psychological need. Many struggled to let go of me. I choke up very rarely. This time, I came awfully close.
Martin and Rose let the boys print out composition assignments on their computer or offer their kitchen table as a study area. One boy often arrived to copy a Portuguese assignment from a textbook. His concentration never wavers from each word. Mindful of where he his, he remains silent and on task. You would not even know he was there.

After breakfast one morning, Martin set me up with Alexandré, a charming and outgoing twelve-year-old whom he and Rose keep a particular eye on. So innocent, pure, and sincere is his demeanor, it is mind-boggling how he managed to survive in Recife. Like any other boy, he enjoys burping contests among his friends. He is especially proud of his belches and does not think twice about offering me a demonstration. I follow him to the schoolhouse, where my presence is a welcome distraction from the boys’ lessons. One chestnut-skinned six-year-old asks me my name. His smile is infectious. “Ricardo.” I reply. Before I can ask him his, he has already interlocked his arms around my thighs. He follows me over to my backpack and I rip open the packaging for the lapel pins I often give out when someone is especially helpful or considerate to me. They are a way to say thank you. This boy did not qualify as such, but was thrilled with his gift. Immediately, after yet another hug and a hearty obrigado, he shot off to show it off to his friends. He indicated to all where I had attached it on his collar. Rather jealous of his shiny reward, another boy strutted to meet me at the back of the room. “Do you have one for me?” I did. I had brought about two dozen. No sooner did I go for one more, all the boys sprinted over to peer into my daypack. I clearly had a predicament.
“Single file! Everyone!” Their obedience to my command was instantaneous. One by one, they stood straight up in front of me while I was seated to get their pin. This is what royalty must feel like when knighting a subject. Every boy patiently waited in line, a trying feat for about half of them. With every pin applied, I received a thank you and a hug. The boys cleared me out of every one I had. Though, to the disappointment of one, I had to mention they were not of gold and had no monetary value.
“Ricardo! Come on! There is more to see!” Alexandré yelled. Unlike the others, his knowledge of the camp’s flora and fauna is unmatched. He brought me to a pond behind the cantina. It is undisturbed but for the noise birds make when flying overhead. Some fallen branches poke up from the surface while dragonflies skim across, stop, and walk on the top without getting wet due to water tension. Bamboo trees provide cover from the sun.

“Do you have corn in America, Ricardo?”
“Yes, Alexandré. And we it eat just like you. I did not know the word for cob, but told him we eat the corn boiled with butter and salt. This brought a smile to his face.
“My favorite!” I thought at first the question to be a silly one. Then I remembered a few years back that some American teenagers in my class asked a European visitor if she knew what the moon was. You cannot imagine the embarrassment I felt. I wanted to dive under my desk when the girl looked at me in shock. So, Alexandré’s curiosity didn’t bother me at all.
He and I continued along the footpath around the lagoon. “Be careful, Ricardo! Cobras sometimes hang from the bamboo! It is their favorite tree.”
Cobras? In hopes that cobra in Portuguese meant playful rabbits, I looked up and saw no snakes. He was serious, but also took pleasure in instilling a little concern in me. “Are they poisonous here, Alexandré?” I know I should not have even asked.
“Very! That is why you have to be careful.” Though I learned later that anti-venom is widespread on Itamaracá, I suddenly wished to visit a shopping mall. Yet, every twenty yards I glanced over my shoulder and cowered just to make sure there were none. As I passed each bamboo tree, I kept my distance and was on full alert. We went on in the direction of the camp entrance, but he was unconcerned. His steps were thunderous and confident. His eyes looked straight ahead. My steps, on the other hand, were gingerly taken and my head faced down to ensure that it was solid ground my feet were making contact with at all times. I ignored his next comment about boa constrictors.
Along the trail, Alexandré came to a split-second stop and his head jerked violently to the left. He dropped to his hands and knees, then took notice of commotion in some vegetation. “Ricrado, come here quickly! I want to show you something.” Like him, I got a glimpse of the creature, but only by its dark hind legs. Oh, a toad, I said to myself. Or at least that’s what it appeared to be.
Alexandré stabbed at it from behind and managed to grab a hold if it with a twig within a few feet of his hands. Out came the creature clenched to the twig. Its hind legs were thinner than that of a toad and hairier. In fact, all eight legs were rather hairy. Upon realizing what he had seized, there was no need to ask what it was or if it was poisonous. I instinctively took five steps back. Then I slowly tip toed closer, as Alexandré held the arachnid up at eye level for me to view. “Whoa! We only see those in zoos behind glass cases. What do you call them in Portuguese?”
“Tarántula.” Some words need no translation.
I marveled at the absolute size of the animal. I knew better to ask if they were dangerous, but not did not know well enough to ask, “Are there a lot of them around here?” Please say no. Please say no. Please say no. I silently begged him.
“Lots of them! They’re everywhere! I ran through my mind not where I could find the nearest mall, rather an airport with connections to the Arctic. There are no tarantulas there. My fear of it rivaled the awe I felt when observing its dexterity, ugliness, and bursts of speed of which it was capable from a still position. He toyed with it for a while, only to place it in a rotted tree trunk, where it could go on with its existence, no longer indiscriminately scaring the crap out of unsuspecting Americans out their element.
After dinner and ready for bed later in the evening, I jammed a towel under the door to my room that led into the hall. I remembered that Martin advised me to wear flip flops in the house because the rare snake can come in by accident. Before turning out the lights, I turned over the mattress, tossed about every pillow, and lifted every loose article of clothing. I made sure the windows were shut and locked, no matter how warm the room got. I bent down to confirm nothing was under my bed. With the lights out, I twitched as the air from the fan floated over the fine hairs on my leg. I spent most of the night in the fetal position with the image of the tarantula etched in my memory. Morning could not have come quickly enough.

Pequeno Nazareno is privately funded by the generous donations of private citizens and corporations, primarily German. It has an active relationship with the International Lions Club. Yet, funds are tight. The biggest challenge is to pay staff. Firms are willing to offer goods and technical support, but cash is also needed to run the operation. Its sister camp in Fortaleza finds itself in the same situation. When not attending to the children’s immediate needs, Martin seeks private donors. Their next step forward will be a copy machine. Martin and Rose wish to acquire more computers and build a laboratory for the boys. Soon enough, it will be time to build another dormitory, as Pequeno Nazareno projects the number of children to continue to increase. Volunteers arrive, primarily from Germany. Pequeno Nazareno accepts volunteers prepared for the tribulations of working in such an environment.

“When are you leaving?” I was asked this question rather often. Never did I have the heart or honesty to tell the boys that my stay was to be far too short. Something inside me told me I would disappoint them. Maybe that was true. I do not know. I left Itamaracá without bidding a proper farewell to a group of youngsters who made me look at Brazil in a different way. When Alexandré and I finished our tour, Martin inquires about my thoughts. I stated that I was impressed.
“With what, Richard?” Well, just about everything.
“These boys are cheerful, respectful, and needy of constant affection and discipline. You provide them with a home, security, hot meals, and a sense of community.” The camp covers all of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. “Pequeno Nazareno is the only thing in their lives that has ever made sense. In a world of absurdity and dysfunction, this place makes their world better. That, Martin, impresses me. You gave up everything to come here, Martin.” Months ago, I wondered why anyone would do such a thing.
I wonder no longer.

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Photos

Pequeno Nazareno
Central pond, bountiful fruit...

Pequeno Nazareno
On campus, to classrooms and dorms...

Pequeno Nazareno
Recreation, very natural...

Schoolhouse
Most who arrive cannot read or write...

Innocent Faces
But from mean streets...

Lagoons
A five-munite walk away...

Seriously...
That belongs behind a glass cage!

Recoil
I barracaded my room that night!

First-class tour guide
It was hard to leave him behind...