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Published: September 7th 2006
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The gleam of travel, or maybe just Paraguay has faded in the three days passed. And this week started with such promise. It was monday, we spent the morning hauling 20 pound bags of shit to spread evenly among the 4 new beds we had just dug. We stood proudly over the earth we had shaped with days of shoveling, chopping and hacking. We rinsed off and headed towards the neighbors to work bees. We cut comb and stuck our hands deep into the hives. We sweated straight through our suits, but were none worse for the ware. Then, the farmer firmly stated, "It's supposed to rain tommorow." I hope it does, tim replied. Smiling at his use of new Guarani phriase. This phrase that hung over our heads, like the storm clouds above, mocking our every movement for the next three days.
As the clouds rolled in that night, Tim and I took in the sights and sounds of clapping thunder in the distance. Rain spit on us a few times, but never drove us indoors or depressed our spirits. We swapped stories of college. We unravleled the mystery of how I had hung from the goalposts and he lost
his shoes.
(I found Tim that fateful day. The crowd swaying in time with the steps of a drunken mass. His pants were shredded and we stumbled over greetings as fans fell in the pack. Others yelled and rushed to pick them up before they were ground face first into the green turf. About ten people hung from the indestructable goalposts. Tim and i worked our way below them. They rocked wildly back and forth, hypnotizing me like the flute of some snake charmer. Then Tim passed me onto the wide bars, and i hung carefree for a moment, feeling the sway. I swung my legs up, but couldnt seem to pull my body onto the beam. So i stayed suspended, hands clasped, Tim pushing at my feet. Then somebody stepped on my hands, then another, and another. So I fell off, crushing a few spectators below and fought my way out of the crowd. Tim was still stuck somewhere in the middle searching for a shoe never found.)
After the laughter and lightening died, we retired to bed. This week we were to work bees for three days straight, double his mulch pile, and build a table. We would
be what the Paraguayans call guapos (hard working men).
But when we awoke, the strong cold winds and grey clouds had driven the town indoors. The sole bus didnt run, and the children stayed home from school. We sat in his room and looked upon the empty streets, usually abuzz with workers and schoolchildren ildly passing the time.
The first day like this wasnt bad. I lost 3000 Guaranis in cards, but felt confident I wouldnt miss the 50ยข.
Then the second day swept in much like the first. We were room ridden and stir crazy. I ran out of chewing tobacco, so I chain smoked cigarettes while reading 4 month old newsweaks. Then the night came. I tried to sleep, but by now the clouds had finally begun to weep. Sheets of rain rattled on his tin roof. It started to leak, pooling water near my feet. The wind shook the shutter and the fridge switched on and off with the loss and gain of electricity. I awoke many times, the last before dawn, hoping to see the sun illuminate a new day. But alas, the grey ground on.
Most Paraguayans emerged from their house that morning to plant
crops in the wet soil. But this weather only afforded us an attempt at making a table. It was singular work, so as Tim hammered away at wood, I sucked cigarettes down at a constant rate. Sometime that afternoon I glanced upon my feet. They were a bit muddy and stinky, since I hadnt showered in four days. I knew I smelled, the stench crept out of my sleeping bag at night, as though I was wrapped in some comfortable cloth of rotting meat. But I still could not bring myself to bathe with a bucket and cold water on any of the 40 degree dreary days. It probably would have helped my feet. As it turned out, i found that my toes had turned into a parasitic breeding ground. I was horrified and scared at the thought of something living under my skin. So i took out a blunt sewing needle and hacked at my skin for an hour or two. My hankerchief became smeared with blood, and one sac still sat in my skin. But I couldnt poke myself anymore, so I alternatively stared at the gaping hole in on toe and the bulging sack in another. Weary
and worn, I was defeated.
Though there were highlight of these drenched days (the one sunny hour spent seeing shapes morph in the clouds, baking a cake and eating it in a single sitting, ravishly reading a full book, that last drag of a cigarette which tastes faintly of filter, a captured capybara hanging from the trees as dogs lap up the pools of its blood), i just wanted them to end. I find myself constantly wondering why did I quit my job? Why did I drop everything to come here? When will this depression end?
As I sat at my desk in the states, i used to count the down the days til i left. Now i cant stop counting til I return. Three more days until I leave the hard concrete floor alive with misquitos and fleas, three days until dollar wine with coke isnt the only luxury allowed. Three days until once again Im set free. The days until the dirt dogg shakes the water from his coat and lives life, instead of letting it slowly slip by. The good days, hiding behind grey clouds, like the sun, making a mockery of my life.
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