Shoes and socks were tossed in every direction as children and adults hurried down the concrete stepping stones into the roaring rapids. Soon they were in the depths of the pit where the liquid coolness rushed around their feet and the roar of the waterfall drowned out the sounds of their laughter. Camera shutters clicked all around, recording and preserving these special moments forever.
The park was also crowded with street people; the homeless ones, the down-on-their-luck wanton wayfarers. Hundreds were around, some laying out in the grass, some hidden behind rocks asleep or just crouched in out of the way places. Each had his own bag of belongings. All of their worldly goods were stuffed into plastic bags that became pillows to lay their heads upon at night.
The concrete walls were lined with these people, sitting, listening to a man in a tan colored suit, who, seemingly oblivious to the heat, was preaching about the hardships and uncertainties of this life. The hair on the preacherman's head was wet with sweat, and beads of perspiration slowly trickled down the side of his face.
As I watched the people I noticed that many of them were not really hearing the preacherman; they were not really listening as he bellowed into the microphone, because today was also a feast day and they were hungry. Their eyes were set upon the tables lined in a row across the patio where the food was piled high and the scent of freshly baked bread hung in the hot sultry air.
Babies were crying. The heat was excruciating, and the preacherman kept rumbling on and on about following in the ways of the Lord.
I stood back among the trees at the top of the waterfall clutching my camera and watching the people. They seemed to blend together into sort of a huge mirage of tired worn faces. As I looked around at them I spotted a strange little man sitting on the wall not far from where I stood. Somehow he captured my attention. Something was different about him.
Although splatters of dried paint spotted his clothing, this man was probably dressed in the best way that he could for this day. His hair, badly in need of a cut, was combed into a sort of rude neatness as was his unruly beard. His Fu Manchu mustache gave him an ineffaceable frown and the dark glasses that covered his eyes concealed the depths of his inner soul.
Here was a man who was trying to do good, to do the best he could. He held flowers in his hand. Little yellow forget-me-nots picked somewhere along the way...perhaps an offering...to be left in return for a meal and the heartfelt blessing of the preacherman.
Apparently he also spotted me and my camera, for he assumed a pose, a sort of body language that signaled to me that he wanted to be photographed. He remained in that position until I had him in focus and he heard the shutter click, recording and preserving his special moment forever.
I nodded to this strange little man as I walked away. I regret that I never asked his name.
