Hunger

I passed an old man smoking a Cuban cigar in shafting light.

Well-heeled Cadiz women with and without children in wheeled prams shoveling sweets into infantile mouths paraded past palms on Iglesias de San Juan de Dios navigating inlaid stones near a cafe with Novelty metal chairs holding tired tourists and relaxed locals smoking, drinking coffee, talking in tongues, devouring soft hot pastries and studying creased maps filled with historical referential diagrams.

Furrowed foreign brows watched humanity find its way.

Shirt starched waiters scurried from table to table. They placed orders with women behind counters wearing white lab tech coats.

The lone plaza resident, a tall black-bearded Romani madman with untied tennis shoes roamed perimeters looking for someone to hustle. Looking for Charity’s leftovers.

A sign around his neck said, “I came here in the 9^th century and I’m not going away.”

I remembered the Bedouin woman in her heavy black chador revealing her eyes to the world hovering in Marrakech shadows. I ate chicken, rice, and bread away from birds basting on gas fired yellow circles.

Her motivation? Hunger. Hunger for freedom, dignity, and love. She approached me with her hand out, speaking Arabic, “May you have blessings and prosperity.”

“May God make it easy for you. I will leave food for you. Wait.”

She stood across the street seeing through fabric slits. Her eyes were the world. She was silent and invisible.

Wild cats roamed malnourished skeletons around tables escaping a waiter’s swift shoe. She watched and waited. I fed scraps to hissing cats fighting over bones. We were all surviving in frail circumstances.

Remembering Omar’s wisdom about consumption and hospitality I didn’t eat everything. I left to pay. The waiter couldn’t clear the table because he was figuring the charges. Her blackness closed in. We were a team. She was free to collect everything. She produced a plastic bag from her chador, picked up the plate and dumped in bones, meat, rice, and tomatoes. The works.

She glided into shadows. I walked past. Our eyes locked. I was naked. She was covered in her belief. Her invisible clear eyes flashed a brief recognition. I nodded. She smiled under her veil. Our relationship of mutual respect ignored verbal language.

ART

Adventure, Risk, Transformation - A Memoir

Bhaktapur, Nepal