There are 100 thousand Bolivians turning into the city. I speak not of individuals but of Bolivian official currency of Bolivia. In Santa Cruz de la Sierra, every day - I think - a hundred thousand Bolivians are delivered. They passed from one hand to another.
Hands are next to the sidewalk. The other, are gripping the steering wheel. Or the portfolio. Or are passengers. Donations walk. Those that are made every day. From one moment to another. They are made out of pity. For charity. By Catholic obedience. Religious. State of mind. Whatever. It does. Some take advantage. Others really need.
Among those who reach out they are: the elderly. Elderly people who are on the streets begging. They are supported by a cane. For wrinkles on your face. By the disease that they note. They slow roads. They attach themselves to vehicles almost crawling. They go on foot. Van wheelchair. They are lying on the sidewalk.
The others are those across timeline. These are the children. Girls. That subject for a daily trance, poke their faces through the windows of vehicles. They look inside. Like another world. They poke your nose. Show their dark circles. His sad eyes. slowly away. But they leave wet glass. Always extend the hand. Blurred smile. The look is somewhat disturbed. They do not understand why they do, but they do. Many of them play while asking. Gives the green light and return to the stick and land. The tuja to hide between parked cars. They are half-naked. With pancita the air. With the snot that fall through the mouth.
The disabled. They also leave open hands to drop them a couple of fifths of that cake over a hundred thousand - imagine that you are a hundred, may be more-some are scattered in wheelchairs. Others are held on crutches. Walking devoid of rhythm, they have no essential parts of the body to work. They are disabled. Defeated his main weapons. Without hands. Without legs. Without eyes. They walk the streets. Zebra cuddle up to the steps. There they feed their illusions. Corrupt themselves. Forget their misfortunes. They are tempted by easy money. They are asking survive pity of others. Because being disabled for some it is the end of the world. Not for everyone. If for some who see an opportunity to touch the heart and pocket of citizens.
They are fools. Or those who are fools. They talk and shout. Schizophrenics rant and accelerate the passage of many people who encounter them on the sidewalks. Many are not. They strive to write up a sign. A disguise himself blind. A sold as paralytic. Sick. Many families live on that. Others act to give them grief and quintero take out the coins. It is something aberrant, they pretend to be sick in the head for no remorse for them then when they touch confess and ask for forgiveness.
One hundred thousand Bolivians. Or hundred thousand dollars. Or a hundred thousand intentions to make money every day.
(Clarified that the data is purely fictional, untested. It is an approximation of the number of times we donate each day, weight for weight, people who come to us on the street to beg. Personally I only give to people the third Age)