Sloths to a Flame

 

Felix and Gilbert were hanging in a tree doing what sloths do best, relaxing in the hot afternoon sun. They were also observing Dale, who was busy collecting buds that were particular to the season and also considered a delicacy to the species.

“That Dale! Who does he think he is, making us look bad for doing what we’re supposed to do?” Felix grumbled.

“It ain’t natural, Felix” Gilbert lazily answered.

Dale overheard the conversation but he didn’t let it bother him. He was used to it. Ever since he was a kid, he had more energy that the other sloths. He was never content just hanging in a tree.

The council of elders tried many interventions. There was counseling, homeopathic therapies, even pseudo-medicinal rituals involving chanting, rainforest plants and dancing. Nothing took the wind out of his sails. The elders reluctantly gave up and let him be an active sloth.

Dale spent weeks collecting and stowing buds in hollowed, fallen trees. He garnered enough buds for many times more sloths than were in the group in which he lived, yet he felt compelled to gather more. When he slept he dreamt about buds.

A few weeks later Felix and Gilbert were hanging in their favorite tree when the sun was slowly covered by a thick grey that wasn’t cloud formations.

“What do you think that is, Gilbert?” Felix asked.

“I don’t know, Felix but it don’t look good” was his only response.

Little did they know, the rain forest all around them was ablaze. Pure coincidence protected them. A few geographical features, like a wide stream to the north and a sheer rock face to the east were keeping them safe.

Close to evening a massive group of foreign sloths slowly dragged themselves to their safe spot.

“We’ve made it! We are safe!” the leader said as he looked back to his comrades. The news was met by a hail of cheers.

“Not so fast!” Felix said, “What do you all think you are doing here?”

“We’ve escaped unthinkable horrors! The forest is burning. There has been a lot of death and destruction. Please, show mercy, let us stay. At least until the fires die down…” he pleaded.

“There aren’t enough leaves in this patch of land for all of us! You might have survived these fires, but we’ll all die from starvation if you stay!” Felix shot back.

“Can I say something?” Dale meekly interjected.

“What could you possibly have to say, you busy body?” Felix snapped.

“With all due respect” Dale said, “We most certainly do have enough food for us and them. And for a good while”

“How so?” Felix asked, genuinely curious.

“I have buds stored all over the place. Almost every fallen tree from here to the outer edges is stuffed with them. There might be enough for months” he answered.

The group was so quiet one could hear the distant crackle of the burning jungle. “All right, you can stay until the situation improves” Felix said.

The crown roared with joy. In a few weeks the rains put out the remaining fires. The displaced sloths found a suitable home fairly close to their new found friends.

 

Game Over!

Foot volley, which is a mixture of soccer and volley ball is a way of life in Guarã, a small city in a remote part of the Amazon valley in Brazil. Players use their legs, feet and head to get the ball over a net. It sounds like a fun way to pass the time and it can be, just not in Guarã. There, winning a game can mean you get to live another day or will be burned alive bound by old car tires and doused in gasoline. It harks back to the worst days of the Roman empire but instead of Caesars presiding over the tournaments, there are drug dealers deciding the fates of athletes.

If parents see that their child is particularly good at foot volley, they sometimes will sell all their possessions to ensure their child has a bus ticket, one way, out of Guarã. The child will sometimes grow up in the company of relatives without their parents because the parents are too poor to make the bus fare to get themselves out. In some cases, parents end up dead for sending away a good prospect.

José had no parents to care for him or to sell possessions to get him out of Guarã. José lived on the street in a pack of about 10 boys. He was the best of around 4 really good players. When they weren´t playing foot volley, training foot volley or trying to get something to eat from the trash, the pack was usually either sniffing glue or trying to get their hands on it. Not José. Some time ago, José found some text books in the trash while looking for dinner. José was taught to read by the church and he was grateful and did not want their gift to go in vain.

José had won so much that he had built himself quite the name in Guarã. He was like a local celebrity. He was forced to go to the big outdoor “funk parties” as they were called, thrown by the local drug dealers. He was paraded around like a mascot. He despised them all. He despised the drug dealers who he saw as poisoning the community. He despised the party goers and useless people lowered even further in his eyes for idolizing such horrid people. He despised the cops who were easily bribed by the drug bosses and would abuse street children in every sense of the word for their own pleasure.

One night José lay in his concrete bed, in reality a sewer tunnel opening, trying to get the images out of his head of what he saw that day. He had won a major day long tournament closed with not only the murder of every loser but their depraved torture as well. José had seen a lot up to this point but this was worse than anything he had seen. His mind went back and forth from the torture to the faces of the spectators who watched in ecstasy and cheered on the torturers. He was forced to watch from a rickety homemade throne that was spray painted gold and had worn purple pillows fixed to it to make it look like a real king´s chair.

As he laid there, tears rolling down his eyes, he smelled smoke. It was not the usual smell of bonfires which were frequent during the nights after a tournament. It had a more chemical smell. He went out from his makeshift bedroom and climbed an electrical tower. A few thatched roofed houses were on fire. There was little to no response, probably because of the level of intoxication of the people. For the most part of the population, they were passed out drunk.

José thought quick. He knew how he could help. Help himself, help his city, help his country, help the world. He made his way to the police precinct which looked no different than the front office of a land fill. He went to the patio where the few broken down vehicles were parked. He grabbed two 20 liter canisters and went running. As he approached the burning huts he poured some of the liquid from the canisters into discarded water bottles and aluminum cans. He then proceeded to throw them near the flames.

Where the bottle and cans hit, great little explosions took place and the flames quickly spread. He was throwing containers of gasoline into the flames! He then moved on to huts that were not on fire and started to throw flaming soda cans onto the roofs. When they were sufficiently ablaze he went to the only houses in the village, slipshod building decorated by what looked like by psychopathic children, and started to fling his mini Molotov cocktails over the walls. In no time they were on fire as well.

José, satisfied with his work, started for the outskirts of the village. It was getting hot as the fire was spreading rapidly. He was surprised by the lack of commotion on the street. Surely some people were not so drunk as to burn to death without waking. He didn´t care either way. He made his way to the outskirts of the village, climbed a little foot hill and watch the fire do its cleansing.