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An Island in Costa Rica

06.04.07 | 8:25 AM ET

Javier stood four feet in front of me, eyes narrowed into slits and nostrils flared. Clenching his jaw, he drew his right arm above and behind his head. The arm remained there for a moment, suspended like a loaded slingshot pointed directly at me. The others gathered around Javier. Like a pack of wolves they watched their alpha male, poised at the ready but not daring to act without his consent.

I was outnumbered. I braced myself against the closed door behind me. I knew that I must not, under any circumstances, allow this door to be opened. At that moment, Javier released his arm with terrible speed. I flinched at the sharp stings on my face and body.

A 10-year-old orphan had just assailed me with a barrage of broken crayons.

The others let out a battle cry. Alejandro rushed to peel my fingers from the doorknob. Carlos kicked at my shins and pounded my waist with balled fists. Natalia pinched my arms and curled her lips as though preparing to bite. I gripped the doorknob, blocking access to the patio where the fresh paint had not yet dried. That’s when a thought hit me with more force than these children could possibly muster: This is how I had chosen to spend my only vacation of the year.

It had started as a fine idea: My boyfriend and I needed a break from the mechanized pace of Silicon Valley, a break from grey cubes and pushy clients and crowded freeways. We often talked of lazy vacations in beachfront villas, but when it was time to purchase tickets, our itineraries always turned up with destinations like Cuzco and Belgrade, our packs always stuffed with hiking boots and rain jackets. This time, we chose to volunteer in Costa Rica. I committed two weeks to an orphanage, and he would spend his time across town in a nursing home.

When I reported to the orphanage the first day, my stomach quivered. I had no illusions about what kind of place an orphanage must be, but I suffered plenty of delusions about the children it would hold. I envisioned them starving for love as a bud starves for sunlight, needing only the missing ingredient to flourish. This is what I had come to believe of humans, growing as I had in the rich soil of my Midwestern youth. But I arrived to find tiny, broken people bursting with rage and sadness. And by the time the mob had pinned me to the door, wanting only to play outside rather than be trapped in this stark house that smelled of bleach, I had to consider that love might not be enough.

The orphanage was a three-bedroom house on the outskirts of a central Costa Rican city. The yard was large and scattered with secondhand toys. The seesaw’s green paint was cracked and peeling. The swings hovered above poured concrete. Ten pairs of eyes peered through the bars on the front window when I approached on my first day, and the children spilled out of the house when I entered the front gate.

At first, they fought over who would hold my hands. They raised their arms, wiggling 10 fingers in a frantic request to be picked up and held. All of them, save the toddling 1-year-old, pelted me with questions. Where was I from? What was my name? Would I be their friend? Did I have any candy in my bag? Did I bring any paper and crayons?

I was pulled in 10 directions, each child growing impatient with unhidden envy when my eyes left theirs.

They seemed like typical children, each overflowing with personality. Jonathan, the new boy, touched and spoke gently. Daniela Cristina twittered with infectious energy. I felt instantly protective of every child, but the girl with the cold look in her eyes piqued my interest. She kept her distance. It was up to me to approach her.

“Hello, love,” I said in Spanish as I kneeled before her. “I’m Tara. What’s your name?”

She pursed her lips. She twisted side to side and stared at the ground.

“I bet you’re 5. Is that right?”

She nodded, still refusing eye contact.

“Do you know how old I am? I’m 27! That’s pretty old, huh?”

She shrugged, caught my hand, and tugged me to the dilapidated swing set. Those were the only introductions necessary when I met Catalina.

Some children at the orphanage had been relinquished by parents who couldn’t care for them. Some had been removed from abusive homes. Many had been sexually abused by men, so men were not allowed inside. My boyfriend, Misho, was allowed to work there once, provided that a chaperon accompanied us. I never learned why Catalina was there.

The children often tried to hurt one another. Conflicts began as simple jealous squabbles but quickly escalated into violence that wasn’t normal child’s play. One day, Natalia became furious when another child would not hand over his crackers. Others joined in the fight, and Natalia put on a single inline skate to stomp on their hands and kick a few in the head. We volunteers tried to stop the pile-ups when were around, and I acquired a few scratches and bruises that way. I don’t know what happened when we weren’t there.

Some mothers occasionally visited the orphanage. These brief meetings usually went the same way: The child would sit on the front patio with his mother for an hour and then cling to her desperately, sobbing and swatting at hands that tried to wrench him away. He would remain inconsolable for a time after she left, and suddenly reappear in the middle of the action with a newly toughened exterior.

But things were different when Catalina’s mother came.

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Photos Courtesy:  REUTERS  |  iStockPhoto  |  flickr  

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