Clean shoes
Walking through the streets of Quito, I was approached by a 10 year old boy. He came running up the hill, panting away just to catch up with me. I was starlted at first, thinking that perhaps I may have dropped something. With his head arched right back to the sky so as to make eye contact with me, he pointed to my shoes.
“Hay sucio!”, which means “Thy're dirty!”. Perhaps a little, I thought, but how on earth could he expect to clean suede? Usually, the custom is to use polish. After contant nagging and convinicing, I gave up any thought that my shoes could possibly be clean in the first place and was led to some church steps.
We sat down next to some local teenagers, who sniggered at the thought that I had given to this young pretender. But as he unpacked his tools, I began to feel an overwhelming sense of tranquility.
Asking me to place my trainer on the next step down, so as his head was level with my foot, he first took out his brush, and dusted off all the dirt that I had accumliated from the streets. His eyes followed the brush carefully and with consideration.
I glanced over at the teenagers and they were now as intrigued as me and perhaps a little jealous of the careful attention I was getting. I looked at their shoes. They weren’t suede.
Having brushed off all the dirt, they did without doubt look better, but was still anxious of how the little one would clean suede. There was a line of different coloured pots each, as the boy explained, having the corresponding colour. He had done his homework. He had one for every colour of the rainbow, and turning this kid down would have been nigh on impossible barr having pink shoes.
Openining up the black one, to match my shoes, which by now looked like they needed serious attention, he dabbed his cloth into the powder and started to dab around my toes.
It was a similar feeling to having a hair cut. For no certain reason, you are safer in the hands of strangers who look after you’re appearance. Immediately there is trust. This little boy was no different. In his eyes was the purest of pure concentration, just making sure there were no fowl-ups.
Once finished, they were clean and could even have been mistaken for being new, if the white laces weren't so grubby themselves. It was a work of a precise vendor and promptly paid him double.
It crossed my mind that I should give this boy more. My inquisitive nature made me want to ask whether he went to school. He replied in the affermative to my relief and started to ask what he wanted to do.
He had ambition, focus and intended to go to college.
Sticking around as I walked through the streets, he started to ask for more. It was casual at first asking for a bus fare for example. But sensing a weak tourist, he began to ask for objects, photos, clothes or food for his family. Of course I had to turn him down and eventually asked him to leave. He was fine, I continued thinking, until I was approached by another kid. Similar looking, just as sweet and who claimed that my shoes were dirty.
“Hay sucio!”, which means “Thy're dirty!”. Perhaps a little, I thought, but how on earth could he expect to clean suede? Usually, the custom is to use polish. After contant nagging and convinicing, I gave up any thought that my shoes could possibly be clean in the first place and was led to some church steps.
We sat down next to some local teenagers, who sniggered at the thought that I had given to this young pretender. But as he unpacked his tools, I began to feel an overwhelming sense of tranquility.
Asking me to place my trainer on the next step down, so as his head was level with my foot, he first took out his brush, and dusted off all the dirt that I had accumliated from the streets. His eyes followed the brush carefully and with consideration.
I glanced over at the teenagers and they were now as intrigued as me and perhaps a little jealous of the careful attention I was getting. I looked at their shoes. They weren’t suede.
Having brushed off all the dirt, they did without doubt look better, but was still anxious of how the little one would clean suede. There was a line of different coloured pots each, as the boy explained, having the corresponding colour. He had done his homework. He had one for every colour of the rainbow, and turning this kid down would have been nigh on impossible barr having pink shoes.
Openining up the black one, to match my shoes, which by now looked like they needed serious attention, he dabbed his cloth into the powder and started to dab around my toes.
It was a similar feeling to having a hair cut. For no certain reason, you are safer in the hands of strangers who look after you’re appearance. Immediately there is trust. This little boy was no different. In his eyes was the purest of pure concentration, just making sure there were no fowl-ups.
Once finished, they were clean and could even have been mistaken for being new, if the white laces weren't so grubby themselves. It was a work of a precise vendor and promptly paid him double.
It crossed my mind that I should give this boy more. My inquisitive nature made me want to ask whether he went to school. He replied in the affermative to my relief and started to ask what he wanted to do.
He had ambition, focus and intended to go to college.
Sticking around as I walked through the streets, he started to ask for more. It was casual at first asking for a bus fare for example. But sensing a weak tourist, he began to ask for objects, photos, clothes or food for his family. Of course I had to turn him down and eventually asked him to leave. He was fine, I continued thinking, until I was approached by another kid. Similar looking, just as sweet and who claimed that my shoes were dirty.
posted by Tom Nicolson at 3:15 PM
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