I’m
sitting on a piece of torn cardboard with my legs crossed around
my homemade water pipe. I carefully unfold the little square
packet of crystal powder known as shabu. I fold the foil from my
Marlboros in half and place the sparkling, rice-like crystals
along the crease of the fold. I reach for the lighter lying on the
floor beside me and light up. My hands shake. It is difficult to
steady the flame under the foil, but I manage. Slowly the crystals
transform into ash as the smoke rises up through the nose of the
water pipe. It filters through the water, turning it a light shade
of green. I inhale the cooled smoke deep into my lungs. In an
instant, the ethereal vapors travel to my brain. Reality is
transformed into illusion. I am at peace. Everything around me
vanishes as I sit and stare at nothing. The noise from the
ever-present traffic overhead fades into silence. The shouts and
curses of the other junkies, prostitutes, begging children, and
dope-dealers under the bridge are muted. The stench of human waste
and garbage disappears as my mind escapes the hardships and
realities of my world. A thousand memories die.
I
started smoking “shabs” four years ago when I left home
because of the fights and the beatings. Our home wasn’t very
much. A few square meters with plywood walls, a dirt floor and a
corrugated iron roof for ten people. There was no sanitation. We
used the toilet on the bare ground away from our house or the
waterway just behind it. My father was an alcoholic and a
compulsive gambler. He spent whatever money he had on his vices.
Sometimes we didn’t eat because he would force my mother to give
him our food money or he would force my siblings and I to go out
and beg to support his habits. My siblings and I did not go to
school. We were out day and night selling flowers, newspapers,
candies and cigarettes. If we didn’t bring home enough money, he
would beat us black and blue. When he was drunk or if he lost at
gambling, he would let his rage loose on us. Many times I thought
of running away, leaving that hell-hole called home, but I held
back the thought because of my mother and my siblings.
One
day I could not take it anymore. My father beat me so badly that I
had no choice but to run away. I was just ten years old when it
happened. It was in the evening when I came home. It was dark
inside of the house and I was groping my way around searching for
the kerosene lamp to make some light. I accidentally tripped over
my father’s legs. He woke up in a rage. He reeked of alcohol.
Despite my pleas, he beat me unmercifully with his fists on my
face and my head. I fell to the floor. He didn’t let up but
started kicking me. I don’t know how I made it out of the house,
but I ran and ran into the dark night, until I couldn’t run
anymore. Tired, aching, lonely and hungry, I met some children,
who like I had been forced out of their homes. Some of them had
been on the streets for years and some for a shorter time. They
were friendly and shared the little food they had with me. They
showed me how to survive on the streets and how drugs can make
even the most miserable life bearable—at least for a while. The
children became my friends. My barkarda.
First
I tried rugby. Rugby is just shoe glue. It comes in bottles. Most
children who live on the streets do rugby. We pour it into plastic
bags and sniff it. The high helps us to forget about the hunger
pangs, the painful memories and the loneliness. It makes us feel
strong and powerful, like we can do anything. When we’re high on
rugby, we usually see colors. These are our powers. We use them to
control people and things. With just a look or a point of a finger
we can knock down buildings or freeze people. Rugby’s good. But
the only thing is that the high doesn’t last long. So, to keep
the high, we must sniff all of the time.
When
we have money, we buy better and stronger drugs. Sometimes we buy
grass (marijuana) or better, shabu. On the streets it is called
shabs, ash, bato, tabo, MTV, or hits. It’s everywhere and it
gives a really strong high. Like it makes you feel really
energized. Like if you are a painter, then you just want to paint
and paint. If you want to be alone, to concentrate, it can help
you to focus your energies. Or if you like talking, then you can
talk all night. You can stay awake for days; it is really intense.
When I am high, I just want to sit alone and stare at nothing.
Shabs also make the body act funny. Like if you’re high on shabs
maybe you’ll constantly roll your shoulders, crack your neck
from side to side, shake your feet, wiggle your toes, make chewing
motions with your mouth, make weird body contortions, or roll your
eyes. Lots of funny stuff.
But,
it’s not so funny coming down from a high. It is awful. I feel
totally wasted. I’m really hungry, tired and sweaty. Instead of
eating, sleeping or bathing, I leave my hole to go back for more
shabs. We call that a “follow-up.” To afford the habit, we
join the drug syndicates as runners or watchers for the dealers.
Or we sell our bodies in the “meat market.” I did both. I was
a runner for a dealer. I picked up the stuff and made deliveries.
A lot of runners get caught by police. Some just disappear. Others
cannot resist the temptation of taking the stuff themselves and
end up in deep shit with the dealers. You don’t mess with the
dealers.
Out
of desperation, I also sold my body. My manliness. Just to have a
follow-up. I didn’t care. Cause all I wanted was that next high.
When you’re hooked nothing don’t matter anymore. You don’t
eat; you don’t sleep and you don’t wash. You lose everything.
Including your dignity.
My
mind starts to slow down. I can feel the sweat on my body as the
sounds of the traffic overhead break into my thoughts shattering
my high. I feel tired as the shouts and curses from the other
junkies, prostitutes, begging children and dope dealers pierce my
ears. I can feel my stomach moving telling me I’m hungry, as the
stench of human waste and rotting garbage offend my sense of
smell. Anxiously, I grope for my foil and the small packet of
crystals lying on the floor. I shake it over the foil already
blackened from the first hit—nothing comes out. It’s empty. I
must have a “follow-up.” I crawl through my dark, damp hole
from under the bridge. I emerge to the surface of the street
looking pale and bleary-eyed, like a vampire in a crypt, afraid of
the sun. Plenty of dealers around, but I have no money. I set out
for the “meat-market.”
“I’m My Own Man”
For
ten years back
I have been my own man
I told me what to do
Even how to tie my own shoe.
The
streets took me by the hand
And I became my own man
Every
step I took
Was that which I had to look into myself
No one told me of the dangers
No one told me of the pain
No one told me of the loneliness
No one told me of the shame
Of
giving away the worth I possessed...
my innocence and my manliness
For
ten years back
I have been my own man
I told me what to do
Even how to tie my own shoe
The
streets took me by the hand
And I became my own man
One
day I was given a bit of hope
But sometime later I awoke
I saw that I was still me
Deep, deep inside
I knew then I couldn't run
I couldn't hide
From me and my reality
So,
I’m retracing my tracks
And I'm lowering my goals
I'm giving up my hope
I'm selling my soul
It's the last thing I posses
After
my innocence and my manliness.
MDR
10/96
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