Slashed apart Hector

We were walking through La Paz at night when a man came up to us and gave us an intricate story why he needed money. Randy offered to buy him some bread but when we got close to a bread shop he said, “You can just give me the money and it will be easier for you.” Randy said, “No, we’re only going to buy you food.” The guy said forget it and walked away, throwing insults back at us.

A few minutes later a kid came up to us and started to tell us what street we were on for some reason. We looked over and saw something was wrong with his face. As we walked under each dirty light pole we saw the blood crusted on his face, hands and shirt that had seeped out of the many slashes across his face. It looked as if someone had held him down and slashed him ten times across his face.

We asked him what had happened and he said it was a fight. He continued to mumble to us what street we were on and what street was going to intersect it. We finally stopped him and tried to get things straightened out. His name was Hector. He was drunk… or I suppose he could have been in shock too. He had gotten in a fight and gotten his face all slashed up with nails and he said something about getting stabbed in the leg.

We started asking people about hospitals in the area and found out there was a clinic up the street, but he said he didn’t want to go because they treat his type of people differently. I told him, “We will go with you. I will stay with you the whole time. I will make sure they give you the best of care.” He finally agreed to go.

Randy, Keith (Randy’s visiting friend), Hector and I got in a taxi and went to the clinic. As the doctor got ready to dig in I went to him and said, “Please give him the best service possible. We will pay, whatever the price.” I stayed in the operating room as they stitched up his face for the next forty five minutes. Sometimes he would begin to squirm or ask where I was and I would say, “Hector, I’m still here.” They checked out the wound on his leg and it was big and swollen. They told me it must have happened a couple weeks ago. The opening was about half the size of a quarter, but his thighs were full of similar scars. This must not be rare to him.

When they finished we went and bought him the prescription for pain and scheduled a time to meet up a few days later at the hospital to get the stitches out. We asked where he lives and he said he is homeless but lives up by the river. We bought him a drink and left him on the Prado, as he walked home.

I gave it a 50% chance that he would show that Saturday to get the stitches out. I waited at the clinic for about an hour and he didn’t show up. I asked how much getting stitches out would cost, and then left twice that for whatever need he might have if he showed up and I left.

I thought of the good samaritan several times that night and was glad this story looked similar to what had just happened. “But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, took him to an inn and took care of him. The next day he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.