It was Eva’s birthday party so naturally the men sat in the corner drinking cheap Paraguayan beer bought by the liter.
“I can’t believe he gave you the school books,” said Juan “What did you say?”
“I told him I was a Peace Corps volunteer and the school needed books,” I said.
“You know why he gave them to you?” said Juan, “because you’re an American.”
“Probably,” I said.
“Do you know why he didn’t give the books to us?” said Juan, “because in our country the politicians are corrupt. That education official was going to sell those books. He gave them to you only because he hopes you’ll pay him back.”
“He’s going to be disappointed,” I said.
“Every year the rich get richer and the poor like me suffer,” He grabbed a large bottle of beer from the ice and filled a small glass, then handed it to me. When Paraguayans share a beer they share the glass as well.
“You seem to do pretty well for yourself,” I said, and took a sip.
“In spite of the politicians,” Juan said, as he waved the air.
“Why do you think the politicians are so corrupt?”
“Because they know they can get away with it. The people accept it.”
“Why do the people accept it?” I asked, and handed him the glass.
“Because it’s the way it’s always been,” he said “and they know it will never change, and it’s the poor like me who pay the price.”
I looked over my shoulder at the birthday party. Eva admired a new pair of shoes, bright red Pumas. I saw her every day at the school but saw Juan only twice a year.
“You work for the health ministry in Caaguazu?”
“Yes,” he said. “I go out to the countryside to administer vaccines.”
“In a van belonging to the ministry?”
“Yes,” he said.
“You drove your family here in a van with ‘Ministry of Health’ written across its side. Is it the same van?”
Juan took a long sip from the communal glass. “No one cares if I take the van,” he said.
“Who paid for the gas?”
“I have ministry business here.”
“My point,” I said, “is that corruption is allowed because it is acceptable in your culture to take advantage of the public trust if you are given the chance. This is true for both the poor and the rich. Both are corrupt.”
“No one cares if I take the van,” he said, and straightened himself in the wicker chair.
“That is precisely the problem,” I said.
“Who the hell do you think you are to be judging me?” he said. “You’re rich. You’re only down here because your government pays for everything!”
“When I travel I take the bus.”
“Try paying for bus fare for eleven people on my salary,” he said. “The only reason you’re not corrupt is because you can afford it. Well, it’s hard here and many are poor and if they can find a way to take care of themselves then they get to. That’s the way it is.”
“And if their children can’t get school books?” I asked.
“The official who gave you those books is rich,” he said. “He’s an important man. He doesn’t need the money he steals from the people. Not only that, he profits off the welfare of children. Don’t compare what I do to what he does. It’s not the same and you know it.”
“You’re both corrupt,” I said, “and it’s corruption that keeps the people poor.”
“It’s bad corruption that keeps the people poor,” he said, slamming the communal glass on his knee and spilling suds on his jeans. People from the party looked over. Juan took a few deep breaths. “There’s bad corruption and then there are people trying to survive,” he said. “Until you’ve tried to survive here you should focus on getting school books.”
“It shouldn’t be so hard to get those books,” I said.
“No,” he said. “It shouldn’t.” He refilled my glass with weak beer.
“I still think you can do better,” I said. “You’re not hard off.”
“You don’t know me,” he said. “Don’t pretend you know me. That van is the nicest thing I pretend to own.”
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