Physical contacts with children were a routine element of my fieldwork. Hugs, taps, handshakes, strokes, I received even a kiss or two … Also bumps, kicks and spitting once. I was instructed by the Centre staff that there were no strict formal rules about touching children – such as that one could not hold them or hug them. However, there were some principles I was supposed to follow – to be very careful about initiating bodily contact with children and rather let them decide and perform when and if at all they wanted any bodily interaction; to consider what impact this could have on children, especially if performed frequently/regularly – for example whether it could instigate too intensive attachment by the child or s/he would receive too much attention if compared to other children; and, not least, to monitor my own boundaries beyond which I would feel uncomfortable – that is, to do what I feel at ease to do.

I became a highly appreciated member of the staff as I usually did not mind lifting the children or carrying them around the neighbourhood, either on my back, shoulders or in arms. I had to monitor and limit such behaviour as the kids were often overenthusiastic, fought each other for a chance to be carried (so I had to organise a queue) and with some, this became too much the core in our relationship (and yes, my back often ached). After a couple of weeks, however, I began to reflect also broader dimensions of physical interactions with children, those that went beyond the actual interactions between two (sometimes three or more) of us.

I was carrying Rebeka (13) on my back around the lodging house and we chatted about some recent events when suddenly a man roared from above:

‘REBEKA!!! WHO’s THAT PERVERT?’

‘HE’s NOT A PERVERT, HE’s FROM THE CENTRE!!!’ – Rebeka yelled back.

‘You are not a pervert, are you?’ – she asked.

‘No. I’m not.’

‘Great. Let’s go.’

(Extract from field notes, October 2008)