The Cigar Maker

I knew a widow in Paraguay. She lived in the back country, two kilometers from a highway that snakes down from the capital to a small town named Ita. I stayed with her and her son during my first months as a Peace Corps volunteer, though I often traveled. I always returned to her house by way of the capital. From the main terminal, I boarded a bus with the name Ita scrawled across its side and an hour later I passed a small roadside community named Three Mouths. Here, I shouldered my pack and headed to the front of the bus. I lurked near the driver, waiting for my queue. At the top of a rise I spied a small yellow roadside stand a few hundred yards in the distance. “This is it!” I yelled to the driver, and he came to a stop in front of an unmarked dirt road. From the highway, I walked a half an hour to her house. When I arrived, I stood a few paces from the door and clapped. This was the Paraguayan way to announce one's arrival. The widow, whose name was Heriberta, would open her door and say “Ah! David!”

I met Heriberta my second day in Paraguay. The Peace Corps arranged for the new health volunteers to stay with host families, who were paid a stipend for our room and board during our first three months. During the days we attended health education classes at a nearby school and at night we returned to our families.

We met in her front yard. Heriberta was barely five feet tall and approaching her sixties, with short salt and pepper hair. We greeted in the traditional way, by kissing on both cheeks. She then offered me a seat under the shade of a large tree and disappeared through her front door. It was humid and hot. A thin wisp of smoke snaked through the trees behind her house.

She returned shortly with a pitcher full of ice water and a cow's horn that had been hollowed into a cup. The horn was filled with shredded yerba, a bush that grows in Paraguay and Argentina. Pressed into the yerba was a metal straw that had a large opening at the top and many small openings at the bottom. This drink was called terere. Heriberta filled the horn with ice water from the pitcher and handed it to me. I slowly sipped from the straw and tried to think of something to say. The cold water picked up some of the yerba's flavor as it passed through the shredded leaves into the straw. It tasted minty. I handed the horn back to Heriberta, who refilled it and took her own sip. Neither of us spoke. She handed me the horn, again.

A short distance away, a small brick structure caught my eye. I had read somewhere that the dead were often interred above ground in Latin America. “Is that where your late husband is buried?” I asked, pointing to bricks,
         "No," she said.  "That is where the electricity comes in."
         "Oh," I said, and took a very long sip.

After finishing our terere, Heriberta showed me my room, the largest in the house, and left me to unpack. A queen size bed stood in the middle. I hung my bug net above it and took out a can of insecticide.

I was deathly afraid of South American Trypanosomiasis, or “Chagas”, a fatal disease spread by the bite of a flightless insect called the Reduviid bug. Volunteers in Paraguay were instructed to sleep under bug nets and spray insecticide around their beds. Although Chagas is rare in Paraguay and no volunteer has ever been infected, my fear was not eased and I sprayed insecticide liberally around the bed and on the bed frame. Confident that I would pass the night unscathed, I unpacked the rest of my things and walked toward the kitchen.

On my way, I passed through an area of the house that served as a small store. Heriberta sold yogurt, rolls, eggs, and meat from behind a little counter and meat locker. Arriving at the kitchen, I found Heriberta seated at a crude, wooden table. At one time, the table had been painted blue, and a few strands of paint still clung to the legs. The top was buffed clean. The kitchen walls were made of bricks and a few old pictures were hung from nails that had been pounded into the mortar. They were not plastered.

At her right hand was a thick stack of tobacco leaves. Across the table sat a young man of about seventeen. This was Heriberta's son, Ariel. At first, neither noticed me. Taking a few leaves from the stack, Heriberta worked them over in her hands. Then, she slapped them on the table and in an instant rolled them into a perfect cylinder. She dipped her fingers into a small jar and sealed the roll with paste. I made a noise.

“Ah! David!” she said, “Sit down.” She went over to a small gas range in the corner and loaded a plate with strange food, our dinner. For the appetizer, we chewed on boiled cassava. The main dish was giant dumplings deep fried in vegetable oil, which she termed “tortillas”. Ariel ate them heartily and I tried to eat them as well, but my stomach churned as I attempted to force them down. After fifteen minutes, I had eaten only a third of what she had served me. No one spoke. Heriberta looked down at my plate. I tried to start up a conversation but was only slightly more successful than in my previous attempt. It was difficult for me to understand her, as her first native tongue was Guarani, the indigenous language of Paraguay. The Spanish she did speak was mixed with Guarani and inflected with an Argentine accent. After twenty minutes, I told her I was full and she seemed to understand.

Throughout our meal, I had the audience of two very attentive companions. Tigre and Tony were the house dogs. Tony was ancient, rail thin, and beset by fleas and other parasites. Tigre was a three week old puppy and looked the model of health. Heriberta took my half-eaten plate and lowered it to the ground. In an instant, Tony devoured the remaining tortillas. I went to bed hungry

When I arrived at the kitchen the next morning, Heriberta was drinking terere. However, instead of pouring ice water from a pitcher she poured scalding water from a kettle. This was called “mate”. She offered me a sip, but the hot water heated the metal straw and it burned my lips. I took a few sips and then told her that my stomach was bothering me.

Breakfast that morning consisted of desiccated rolls made from bleached flour. They felt like pumice. I also was provided water, for dipping. Tigre and Tony milled about beneath my chair, looking for scraps. Heriberta disappeared into the store and reappeared with a saucer full of milk. She knelt on the floor with the saucer and exclaimed “Tigre! Where is my Tigre?! There he is! Come here, Tigre! Come here!” Tigre bounded to her and eagerly lapped up the milk. As Heriberta petted her puppy, a look of pure joy spread across her face. I soon discovered that Heriberta talked to her puppy almost constantly. Her neighbors thought her an eccentric and I was inclined to agree.

A short while later, it was time for me to leave for my morning classes. The pumice rolls had not satisfied my hunger, so I bought cheap Oreo substitutes from Heriberta's store. They cost two thousand five hundred Guaranies, or thirty cents. Heriberta seemed a little surprised that I was still hungry, but did not appear to resent the business.

We attended language classes in the morning and health classes in the afternoon. There was only one other student in my class. Adam was from Texas, tall, with light brown hair. Our instructor was a affable, short Paraguayan in his mid forties, named Diosnel. I asked Diosnel if what Heriberta had served me for dinner and breakfast was typical. He assured me that it was. Adam affirmed that he had not fared much better.

That night, I helped Ariel with his physics homework. Ariel hoped to become an accountant; however admission to a public university required political connections. There were many private schools, but they were expensive. A short distance away from us, a small television was tuned to the national news. An ex-priest and current candidate for the Paraguayan presidency, named Fernando Lugo, was holding a rally. Lugo would later win the presidency, but become embroiled in a sex scandal. “I like him,” Ariel told me, pointing at the screen. “He cares about poor people.” Lugo stood in front of a large blue banner, pumping his fists. Behind him thronged a huge crowd, waving placards and chanting.

A few minutes later, Heriberta came into the room. She watched the rally for a moment and then rose to change the channel. She flipped through a few stations until she found a little known Sylvester Stallone film, dubbed into Spanish. In the movie, Sly bonded with a son he had just met by taking him to arm wrestling tournaments. “Ah!” she squealed with excitement. “This is Rocky!”

“No, Heriberta, it's not Rocky,” I told her. “This is Sylvester Stallone. He only plays Rocky in a few movies.”

“No!” she protested. “This is Rocky! This is Rocky!” I argued a bit more and then gave up. Ariel smiled and went back to his homework. “Rocky” was followed a short while later by “Isaura the Slave”, a soap opera from Brazil. Heriberta loved soap operas. She sat on the edge of her chair and whenever anyone did anything scandalous she would convey her umbrage by straightening her spine, taking a deep breath, and exclaiming “Dios mio!”

In a few minutes, it was time for dinner again. This time, I was served cassava and boiled cow intestine mixed with pasta. I looked down at the steaming pile. It was nine o'clock at night and still over ninety degrees Fahrenheit. Flies swarmed the table. I ate half and then told Heriberta that I was full. She gave Tony the rest. Tony did not have my hang ups.

In the following weeks I became intimately familiar with the Paraguayan diet. I was served bori bori, a pasta mixed with homemade cheese balls congealed with pig fat, sopa paraguaya, a heavy corn bread filled with pig fat, and chipa, a dry pastry baked with cassava flour and pig fat. I ate a lot of pig fat. Nevertheless, I began to lose weight. I tried to eat whatever I was served but found it difficult to force down. I went to bed either sick or hungry. One night, she served me blood sausage and diced pig skin fried in vegetable oil. Thousands of tiny oil pools had settled atop the fat. From above, they looked like countless yellow lakes sprinkled across white Alaskan tundra. I tensed, and then took a bite.

Later, I curled into a ball and tried to sleep. It felt like a large rock was sitting in my stomach. I told myself that if I waited, eventually my body would digest the rock. However, after two hours I could no longer bear it. I went to the bathroom and made myself vomit.

I decided to talk with Diosnel, my language instructor, as I thought he might know a culturally sensitive way to stop her from serving revolting food. He said that he would talk with her that afternoon and assured me there was nothing to worry about. I felt relieved and fully expected the two Paraguayans to resolve the issue without any hurt feelings or discomfort. However, when I came home that evening Heriberta was horrified.

“David!” she pleaded, “Why didn't you tell me?!”

“I didn't want to be rude,” I told her.

“But David, I didn't know!” she pleaded.

“It's alright,” I assured her. “It's just a little greasy. That's all.”

“But, David! What do you want me to cook?!”

“Just try to use less grease,” I told her. “You know, boil more things.” I would have been more specific, but I did not know how to cook, myself.

Heriberta tried to cook differently but she did not know how either. Some days I could eat what she cooked and some days I could not. One night, I could not and stared dejectedly at the floor. The dogs looked up at me, expectantly. Heriberta looked down at my half eaten plate. “I can't cook with less oil!” she protested.

“But you could try, Heriberta!” I pleaded.
“Yo soy cigarrera! No soy cocinera!” she yelled, and stormed out of the kitchen. “I am cigar maker!

am not cook!” she had vented, in poor Spanish.

“I will cook myself healthy food when I get out of here,” I thought, “as soon as I learn how to cook!” I walked into the store, pulled some Oreos off the shelf, and slammed three thousand Guaranies on the counter.

A month had passed since my arrival, and it was still stifling. In the afternoons, I would escape the heat by studying Guarani under a large tree in front of the house. Occasionally, I would be forced from my favorite spot by smoke that came from the back yard. Heriberta burned all of her trash in an untidy fire pit behind the house. The smell of plastic would instantly rousted me from my refuge in the shade and force me to search for a shady refuge away from the smoke. Sometimes, the wind would change and I was forced to move a second time. As such, I viewed her comings and goings with apprehension. In view of the heat, dry weather, and number of trash fires set in the community, I considered it a miracle that the whole place had not yet burned to the ground.

One day, I was under my tree studying Guarani, when Heriberta came out from the kitchen. She brought me a bowl filled with flan, milk fat sprinkled with cinnamon.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You are welcome,” she replied. “Ariel is going to Ita to buy some things for the store. Do you want to help him?”

“There are no more buses today,” I said. “How will he go to Ita?”

“He is going on a friend's motorcycle,” she said. “They will have room for three.”

“I can't,” I told her. “The Peace Corps doesn't allow volunteers to ride on motorcycles.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“It's too dangerous,” I said. Heriberta thought for a moment and then walked slowly back to the house. I looked down at my Guarani text. A minute later, I saw Ariel emerge from the kitchen carrying five or six large burlap bags. He stood in the doorway for a moment, squinting in the bright Paraguayan sun. School would be ending soon. He had not spoken of plans to continue his education after graduation. In the distance, I heard the sound of a motorcycle. Ariel took a ball cap out of one of the bags and pulled it over his eyes.

After dinner that evening, I took my plate to the sink and began to wash it. Heriberta took it from my hand. “No!” she said. “I will wash them!”

“It's no trouble,” I told her. “I can wash it.”

“You go and watch TV,” she commanded. “I will wash the dishes. You do not need to help me with this!” I shrugged my shoulders and wandered into the living room. Ariel was watching “Isaura the Slave”. We acknowledged each other and then turned to watch the soap opera. Isaura was trying to escape, again. Ariel and I speculated about her chances. He thought she had a better shot, this time. I told him I thought it unlikely because if she ever succeeded, they would have to rename the show. Ariel agreed that this made sense. Then, he asked if we watched “Isaura the Slave” in the United States. I told him that certain people might have an issue with.

The following evening saw my strongest altercation yet with Heriberta. The family and I were seated at the table, eating bori bori, when Heriberta asked me to bring her a bottle of Coca Cola. I rose from the table and walked into the store. After pulling a 2L bottle off of the shelf, I grabbed some ice from the freezer, put it in a pitcher, and walked back to the kitchen. I placed the bottle on the counter and was about to open it, when Heriberta piped up.

“Aren't you going to pay for it?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You're not going to pay for it?” she asked again. I stood for a moment, my fingers still grasping the cap.

“Let me get this straight,” I told her. “You want me to buy you soda from your own store?”

“You're not going to?” she asked.

“No!” I told her.

“Take it back!” she said. For a few moments, I tried to make sense of what had just happened. Then, I took the bottle and stormed back to the kitchen. When I returned, Heriberta was fussing over the stove and Ariel was looking at the floor.

“David doesn't like Heriberta's food!” she yelled. “David doesn't like Heriberta!”

I turned, and walked back to my room. “That insufferable woman!” I vented under my breath. I sat on my bed and wrote at a furious pace in my journal. Then, in an almost religious trance, I took out my insecticide and sprayed it around the bed. I did not, however, spray the aerosol on the bed frame. The insecticide that I applied when I first arrived had damaged parts of it. The finish had been eaten away and the wood underneath was bleached white.

The next morning, I approached the table with caution, but Heriberta said nothing of the night before. She quietly served me the warm milk and pumice rolls and then left to roll her cigars. The flour was dry in my mouth, but I ate what I could. Before leaving the table, I stuffed a few rolls into my pocket. I decided to skip the Oreos that day.

When I returned from school I found Heriberta seated at her table, rolling cigars. She gave me a brief smile and returned to her work. I took off my backpack and sat on one of the kitchen chairs, watching her hands.

“How much do they cost?” I asked.

“200 Guaranies for a pack of ten,” she replied. I worked the math in my head. A dollar could purchase about two hundred and fifty cigars.

“Do you want to buy some?” she asked.

“No, thank you,” I told her. “I don’t smoke.”

“Neither do I,” she said.

That evening, I watched “The Body of Desire” for the first time. It was a soap opera from Argentina. After washing the dishes, Heriberta sat and watched with me. The show always began with a slow motion video of a muscular man taking a shower. “That's the body of desire,” she said, pointing to the chiseled torso on the screen.

“You don't say,” I said, sarcastically.

“Of course!” she said. “Do you want the body of desire, David?” she teased.

“That?” I said, pointing to the screen. “No! Of course, not!”

“Ha! Ha! David wants the body of desire!” she said.

“I think it's you who want the body of desire,” I told her.

“Of course, yes!” she exclaimed. “Heriberta wants the Body of Desire!” and shrieked with laughter, putting her whole body into it. She looked at me and I smiled. Then we turned back to the television.

And so began our tradition. Every night, Heriberta and I watched “The Body of Desire”. We followed the travails of Salvador, a wealthy land owner who was murdered and then reincarnated in the Body of Desire. This was unfortunate for the previous inhabitant of the Body, a poor farmer whose soul simply disappeared, leaving behind a mousy wife who was endlessly confused as to why her husband kept calling himself Salvador. Heriberta liked the wife. I did not.

                                                                     *****************

Four things were certain to get a person kicked out of the Peace Corps: drug abuse, leaving the country without permission, using a firearm, and riding a motorcycle. Driving a vehicle on Paraguay's crowded and poorly policed roadways was always dangerous. Riding a motorcycle was akin to playing Russian roulette. Any volunteer found to have ridden a motorcycle was sent home immediately. Despite their horrendous safety record, rural Paraguayans loved their “motos” and rarely wore helmets.

Adam's host father owned a beat-up old motorcycle. He knew about the Peace Corps rule and had been needling his host son about it. One day, I visited them and had my camera with me.

The father, a burly man named Bernardo, suggested that he take a picture of me while I pretended to ride the motorcycle. I liked the idea and gave the camera to Bernardo. Then, I mounted the motorcycle and started to take off my shirt. “Whoa! What's this?” he asked me.

“I'm going to punch it up a bit!” I told him.

“Wait a minute,” he said, and disappeared inside the house. He emerged, a moment later, grinning from ear to ear and carrying a black bowler hat, a hunting knife and a box of cigars.

“Now that's the idea!” I said, while putting on the hat. Bernardo lit a cigar for me and I started to puff away. Then I mounted the motorcycle, grabbed the knife, looked at the camera, and did my best imitation of a wild man. Bernardo triggered the shutter.

I developed and framed the photograph in Asuncion and signed it “To Heriberta, from David.”

She shrieked with laughter, when she saw it. “Ha! Ha! David on a moto!” she exclaimed. Then, she showed it to Ariel. “Look at this!” she said. “David on a moto! How handsome!” Ariel rolled his eyes. Heriberta walked over to the wall that abutted her cigar table. After looking for just the right spot, she hung the picture from one of the nails that jutted from the mortar.

After that, Heriberta and I fell into a routine of sorts. She made greasy good. I tried to eat what I could. Eventually, my stomach toughened and I could eat more. For her part, she began to serve more fruits, salads, and soups. She also learned which foods I could not tolerate. When she cooked tortillas or fried pig skin for herself and her son, she served me something else

One afternoon, I arrived back from the school before Heriberta had finished cooking our lunch. I sat at the table and began to munch on pumice rolls. Heriberta looked at me, quizzically.

“You shouldn't eat those by themselves,” she said. “They will make you fat.”

“But I eat these every morning,” I said.

“Yes, but you eat them with the milk and yerba,” she said. “If you eat them alone, they will make you fat.”

“So if I eat them alone they will make me fat,” I said, “but if I eat them with milk, they will not make me fat?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Alright,” I said, and continued to munch on the rolls. Heriberta shook her head, and went into the back yard. A few minutes later I smelled burning plastic. I put a few rolls in my pocket and took a walk. “It's about time I do something about those fires,” I thought.

The Peace Corps training program included a number of days of practicum. Adam and I decided to use one of those days to teach a class about proper trash disposal. We invited many community members to attend and had high hopes for turnout, but on the day of our presentation only three people showed. One of them was Heriberta.

We arranged folding chairs for our audience under the shade of a tree in the school yard. Adam and I and stood in the front, next to a large easel. Pinned to the easel were sheets of butcher paper and scrawled across the paper were a series of bullet points, written in Spanish with large block letters.

We asked those seated to tell us how they disposed of their trash. As expected, they said they burned it. We then explained how burning plastics and other modern products produces toxic smoke. Then, we explained how the community's current method for disposing of trash caused cancer and other diseases.

We continued by outlining the differences between organic and inorganic trash. We made two columns on a blank sheet of butcher paper, one for organic trash and one for inorganic trash. In each column, we listed different types of common refuse such as leaves, magazines, plastic bottles, and kitchen waste. We explained that it was possible to compost the vast majority of their trash. This left only a small portion that needed to be buried. Finally, we explained in detail how to build a perfect compost pile and trash pit. According to the Peace Corps training manual, a perfect compost pile used moist layers of alternating nitrogenous and carbonaceous waste. A perfect trash pit was at least two meters deep and ringed with a fence to prevent children from falling into it.

Although the presentation seemed orderly to us, it did not go as we had planned. From the beginning, Heriberta appeared hostile. When asked to list types of organic trash, she refused to speak. The other woman in attendance tried to give an answer, but appeared to grasp nothing from our presentation. Flustered, I began the lecture a second time.

I went over each of the major themes, again, and pointed to the corresponding bullet points as I went. I patiently explained the importance of sorting one's trash. If everything was burned, toxic smoke would be produced. If everything was buried, the pit would fill quickly and soon there would be no place to put more trash. I pointed to the organic column.

“Let's review,” I said. “Tell me some kinds of organic trash.” They had only to read what was written in the column, but no one said anything. Heriberta scowled at me. For a few minutes more, I tried to make them understand. Then, I gave up and let the Paraguayans go home.

Later that afternoon, I ran into Herberta in her store. “How was your day?” I asked her, attempting to make peace.

“Awful,” she spat. “I wasted my whole afternoon at your talk.”

“It lasted only a half an hour,” I protested.

“It lasted all afternoon!” she yelled, and stomped into the kitchen.

Adam and I were at a loss as to what we could do for our last day of practicum. In the end, we decided that if the Paraguayans would not learn to dig trash pits on their own then we would dig one for them. I asked Heriberta for permission to dig a trash pit in her back yard. “Yes, yes, fine, fine.” she said, in a hurry.

Heriberta's back yard was such that a trash pit improved its aesthetics. A milking post stood in one corner. In another corner lay an area of blackened ground, where she burned her trash. Everywhere, in between, lay bits of broken bottles, straight razors, barbed wire, metal cans and other detritus that would not burn.

On the day we dug the pit, Heriberta busied herself in her kitchen. We dug it well away from the house, where the dirt was soft. In two hours, we dug a square hole that was one meter deep and two meters on a side. In the afternoon, we built the fence. We chopped bamboo from a stand near the school and hewed posts and slats from the cuttings. Then, we used tie wire to work the bamboo into a small fence around the hole.

We had invited community members, but only one Paraguayan came to view the pit. A neighbor girl, who looked about ten, came over to see what we were doing.

“What are you building?” she asked.

“It's a trash pit,” I told her.

“Oh,” she said. “What do you put in it?”

I noticed that she was barefoot and walked gingerly among the bits of broken glass. It told her to put some shoes on and she left. “These people are careless,” I thought. After we had finished with the fence, Adam and I threw some glass into the pit. Then we quit for the day. Heriberta never left her kitchen.

I took a shower to wash the dirt off. The cold water felt heavenly in the hot, humid air. I had fantasies of showing Heriberta a one hundred dollar bill and explaining that it was worth six hundred thousand Guaranies. Her eyes would grow wide with wonder. I did not know why I thought this. I wondered if Heriberta knew how large a million was. Then, I wondered if she had been able to read what I had written on the butcher paper. I knew I had made the letters large enough, but could she read it? I stepped out of the shower and felt the cold tile underneath my feet. As a dried, I glanced to the medicine cabinet above the sink. It was made of plastic and looked cheap. Taped to the small doors were old, faded pictures. I peered closer and saw a younger and chubbier Ariel. A man, who looked to be in his mid sixties, was standing next to him with his arm around him. They held a strong resemblance to each other and were both smiling.

I wandered into the master bedroom and closed the door. I sat on the bed, on which Heriberta and her husband had once lain, and ran my hand over the bleached wood. “Should I refinish it?” I thought. Perhaps later. It was too much work and I did not know how.

Periodically, the Peace Corps talked with the host families of volunteers to see if we were adapting. I sat with Diosnel one afternoon to talk about my progress.

“She says that you're doing very well,” he told me. “She says that you're always respectful and that you help around the house. She has no complaints.”

“Really?” I said. “She didn't have anything negative to say?”

“No, she didn't,” he said.

“Nothing at all?” I inquired.

“No,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” I said.

In fact, we resumed our normal routine rather quickly. She continued to serve me greasy food and I continued to eat what I could. Every evening after dinner we watched “The Body of Desire”. She even began to use our trash pit. However, instead of sorting her trash, she dumped everything into the hole, including leaves, sticks, and kitchen waste. I did not try and stop her. It grew colder. Winter was coming.

One evening, I sat under my tree in Heriberta's yard, studying Guarani. A few feet away, Tigre was coiled into a ball on a few bricks that had been warmed by the sun. Every week, he looked thinner and sicklier. A few chickens wandered about the yard. Heriberta and Ariel came out of the house. The sun was setting behind them. Ariel held his school books. In Heriberta's hand was a small bone, covered with gristle. She saw her dog. “Tigre!” she yelled. “Where is my Tigre? Come here, Tigre! Come here!” Tigre bounded to her and tore into the bone. She slowly crouched to the ground. Placing both knees on the bricks, she reached out to pet her puppy, but Tigre had moved away. I saw her hunched form in silhouette. Ariel put his books aside and helped his mother to stand. It occurred to me, in that moment, that she would never leave that house, the house her husband had built for her.

Two weeks before I finished my training, I was told where I would live for the next two years. I was assigned to a tiny community in the Paraguayan Cordillera. I gave the news to Heriberta and Ariel, over dinner.

“That is far,” she said, while serving me boiled cassava. “Will you visit us?”

“Of course,” I said.

“I don't think you will visit,” she said.

“Of course I will visit!” I said.

“Okay,” she acceded, although she did not appear to believe me. We sat in silence for a while. In the background, the radio was broadcasting a rally for Fernando Lugo. “David,” Heriberta said, suddenly. “What is your political party?”

“I don't have one,” I told her.

“Just like me!” she said. Then she flexed her right bicep. “This is my party!” she said, and flexed her left. “And this is my color!” She shrieked with laughter. Ariel rolled his eyes. Heriberta walked over to the stove. She was making tortillas for herself and Ariel.

“Do you want a tortilla?” she asked me.

“No, thank you,” I said. She waited a few moments.

“Do you want a tortilla?” she asked me.

“No, thank you,” I said.

“Do you want a tortilla?” she asked. I looked at her and she smiled. I shook my head and she cracked up, again. “Now Ariel,” she said. “Ariel doesn't like cantaloupe.”

“Really?” I asked Ariel. “You don't like cantaloupe?” He made a face.

“It's disgusting!” he said.

“But everyone likes cantaloupe!” I teased.

After dinner, Ariel went to bed and Heriberta and I sat in the kitchen. It was April, and the temperature dropped quickly in the evening. We sipped warm milk mixed with yerba.

“Ariel is going to try out for the national police,” she told me.

“Is it difficult to earn a place?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “They accept one out of every twenty who apply.”

“I hope he makes it,” I said.

“So do I,” she said. “He's a good boy.” I nodded.

“Is the academy far from here?” I asked.

“It is about an hour away,” she said.

“That is not far,” I told her. “Can he stay close to here when he graduates?”

“Perhaps,” she said, “but they could send him anywhere.” For a brief while, we sat in silence. I glanced over to the wall made of crude bricks. My motorcycle picture was hung slightly askew. Six inches to the left, another picture was hung. It was a portrait of a man in his mid sixties, the same man I had seen in the bathroom. Heriberta glanced at the wall and her gaze lingered.

“It must be difficult, with him gone,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “He was a good man.” She paused. “Will you visit?” she asked.

“As often as I can,” I said.

On the day of my departure, I packed my bags and stood with Heriberta in front of her house, waiting for the SUV that would take me to the capital. At the embassy, my training group would swear in as official Peace Corps Volunteers. Then, we would travel to our assignments throughout the country. I saw the Explorer pull into the drive. I suppose it would have been culturally appropriate for her to kiss me lightly on both cheeks, but instead she gave me a hug. Heriberta was never one for conventions.

*****************

I moved to a tiny brick house in the Paraguayan hill country. My village sat on a moor. During the winter, thunderstorms roared across the heath. In summer, the Paraguayan sun baked the earth. There were plenty of things to keep me busy. I taught health classes at an elementary school, fixed up my house and planted a garden. And, every few months, I would visit Heriberta. However, as time passed my visits became infrequent.

I last saw her in the winter of 2007. It had been a year since my last visit. It was cold by Paraguayan standards and I wore gloves and a hat. I was in the capital for a meeting and after it concluded I went to the terminal and took a bus toward Ita. An hour later, I passed through the intersection known as “Three Mouths”, where I moved to the front of the bus. When I saw the yellow road side stand I motioned to the driver. He slowed and let me off. I hoisted my backpack and hiked through soft red dirt to Heriberta's house. When I reached the end of the road, I walked up to her front door and clapped. I had not told her I was coming. A few moments later she came out. Her eyes lit up. “Ah! David!” she said, and gave me a hug.

Heriberta showed me to my former room. It looked the same as when I had left. She told me to unpack and then left to make dinner. I took out a change of clothes and placed it on the bed. I thought to look for Ariel, but remembered that he now lived at the police academy. Looking out the window, I could see that it was growing dark.

I left the room and wandered about the grounds. Eventually, I found myself in the backyard. I searched for the trash pit, but there was no trace of the hole that Adam and I had dug. It had been filled completely.  A few broken slats and barbed wire littered the ground. For a brief while, I walked amid rotting bamboo in the twilight.

It was dark when I went back inside the house. Heriberta was seated in her wooden chair, rolling cigars. My gloved hands were shoved deep in my pockets. Her hands were quick over the table. “Ah!” she said, when she saw me, and went over to the stove. I sat at the table while Heriberta made soup for me and tortillas for herself. When I had finished the soup, I started to snack on some of the left over tortillas.

“You like tortillas, now?” she asked.

“Yes, I do,” I said.

“Ha! David likes tortillas!” she said, and smiled.

“And pig skin?” she asked.

“Still no pig skin,” I told her.

“Ha! Then we will have pig skin tomorrow night!” she said, and winked. We passed the rest of our meal in silence. When we had finished, I gave the leftovers to Tony and washed the dishes while Heriberta boiled water for the mate. Then, I sat at the table and served to her while she rolled cigars. I filled the cow's horn with shredded yerba and scalding water from the kettle. Then, I worked the metal straw into the yerba and offered it to her. She took a long sip, handed it back, and reached for the tobacco. The house was quiet.

“Where is Tigre?” I asked. Her hands stopped, for a moment.

“Tigre died,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“I don't know,” she said. “He was sick and then he died.”

“Will you get another puppy?” I asked.

“I don't know,” she said. “I don't want another to die,” and she began to roll another cigar.