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A Brazilian feira is no place for the
timid. An open-air market where craftsmen and farmers bring their
goods out for sale, a feira attracts shouting throngs of buyers
who pack the streets, eager to find a deal. Me, I like to keep a
low profile, but sometimes circumstances just get the better of
me.
On this particular afternoon, I was standing in front of a bright
red banana cart, around which a healthy crowd had gathered. The
bananas were green and firm—the best I’d seen that day
—and I imagined them being blended into cold, delicious smoothies.
Beside me, a small boy, no more than five or six years old, chased
a spring chicken around his father’s legs, giggling as he
tried to get his hands on the indignant fowl. The boy looked up
and saw me watching him. He smiled, and I tipped my hat. In that
instant, the chicken fled beneath the cart. The boy looked back
just in time to see his prize vanish. He sighed, then disappeared
under the cart himself.
I turned my attention back to the bartering. The fellow in front
of me was trying to get an unfair price for the bananas, but the
old woman at the cart was resolute, refusing to take less than she
deserved.
Suddenly, I heard a small, shrill voice cry out behind me.
“Papai!”
I turned and saw the boy, squirming chicken in hand, staring out
into the frenzied crowd behind us. It only took a second for me
to understand what had happened: his father had disappeared.
The boy dropped the flapping chicken and took a step forward, clenching
his little fists. His eyes grew wide, and his voice trembled as
he shouted again, “Papai!” With no clear direction,
he darted off into the crowd.
I hesitated for a second, not wanting to lose my place at the banana
cart. With a longing look at the fruit, I turned and chased after
the boy.
For a moment I thought I’d lost him -- but no, there he was,
darting back and forth between busy legs. Nobody else seemed to
notice as he scrambled through the crowd.
With a few deliberate strides I caught up with him. I gently grabbed
his wrist, squatted down and looked him in the eye. I took my hat
off, put it on top of his head and said, “Don’t worry.
We’ll find him.” I don’t know if he understood
the words, but I think he knew what I meant. He grabbed my hand,
and I could feel the blood pulsing in his little fingers. Together
we made our way through the crowd.
His father had been wearing a blue shirt with bright yellow flowers
on it. It should have been easy to spot, but the marketplace was
a living jigsaw puzzle, the pieces constantly rearranging themselves.
After a few minutes, I began to think we might be in real trouble.
Then, suddenly, I spotted a tin-smith under a jacaranda tree. He
was selling large metal water cans, the kind the village women sometimes
carry on their heads.
“C’mon, kid,” I declared. “I know what we’ll
do.”
We made our way over to the tin-smith, who was busy closing a deal.
With no time to wait around, I grabbed one of the cans and dragged
it to the trunk of the tree, then jumped up and tested the low-hanging
branches. They were sturdy enough.
I reached down, grabbed the boy’s arm, and pulled him up.
I scooped him under my arm and swung up into the tree. We were only
ten feet off the ground, but it was enough to give us an overview
of the market. The little boy understood what I was doing. He cupped
his hands around his mouth and called down into the market below.
I saw something, thirty feet away—a flash of blue and yellow.
The boy’s father was zig-zagging through the crowd, frantically
looking for his son.
I pointed out at the blue and yellow shirt, and the boy squealed.
He shouted and waved his arms so wildly I thought I might drop him,
but it did the trick. His father’s head snapped in our direction.
He looked up and saw his son.
“Gaspar!” he cried, and pushed his way toward us. The
confused tin-smith turned around and looked up to see what was going
on. I just smiled and waved sheepishly.
Within seconds I was lowering Gaspar down into his father’s
arms. As the man’s fear dissipated, he began to lecture the
boy, and by the time I’d climbed down, they were already walking
away. Just before they disappeared into the throng, the man turned
his head and smiled at me. He snatched my battered fedora from the
boy’s head and tossed it. I caught the hat, and settled it
back on my head. When I looked up, the boy and his father were gone.
Life is full of choices, some more difficult than others. This had
been easy one. Sure, I’d wanted those bananas, but taking
care of people has always been a guiding principle at Scooter’s,
and that’s a commitment I carry with me everywhere I go.
Peering out into the market, I caught a glimpse of brilliant mangoes.
They were piled high on a creaking mule-cart, and suddenly I had
smoothies on my mind again. With a grin, I pulled the brim of my
hat down and strode forward.
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