Another month goes by...

Here are some more portraits of life and friends here in Paraguay. Enjoy!

--Ramon: One of the older guys who lives at the Hogar. I think he is about 18 or 19 and still in high school. He is loud, athletic, and a total ham. He loves to invite all the little girls to come and punch him in the stomach as hard as they can. Before coming to the Hogar he lived in the Chacarita, a favela in downtown Asuncion. He has a number of tattoos and will speak openly about the sort of life he had before—the things a person does to survive while living in a place like that, the “friends” that he did those things with and how it makes him sad to know that they are all still in there, how he knows how to fight because he had to. He actually left the Hogar for a period of time and returned to his old neighborhood. After being arrested again, he (like several other boys there) was given a choice by the judge: go to jail or go back to the Hogar. After knowing him it is hard to imagine how he was before--proof that people can and do change.

--Majo: Short for Maria Jose, a common name here. She is 13, cheerful, sweet, and sensitive. Majo is uncommonly fair-skinned for a Paraguayan, has freckles, and has lightish brown hair as well. One of the older boys, Fernando, referred to her as my sister because we look a bit similar—that is, we both look white. Majo now refers to me as “mi hermana”. Her birthday was a week ago, and I was able to be there for the little celebration in the evening. As such, she had “Happy Birthday” sung in three languages: Spanish, Guarani, and English.

--Marco: Just turned eight years old. He is terribly precocious and inquisitive—he always has a million questions. He loves to learn English (He can already count to 15!) and could spend hours asking me how to say different words. Marco is having some trouble with his vision. He has been going blind for a few months now, but a surgery is in the works to correct this (hopefully). The surgery has been scheduled and delayed at least once, and the procedure will take nearly an entire day when it finally does take place. When I asked him if he was scared, Marco insisted that he is not but sighed deeply immediately after answering that question. I will keep you all posted on that one.

--Paolita: Paola is one of the girls who consistently hangs out with me and even gets a little jealous when I show attention to the other kids. She clings to my side almost as soon as I arrive. She is 13, and everything that goes along with that--a bit dramatic and even a bit snotty at times. (So glad I was never like that…right, Mom and Dad?) But she can also be very kind—she likes to steal my journal and write me little letters in it. One of the first interactions I had with her was making bread one night. By the end of it we were both covered in flour, and I had learned that her father’s name was Ricardo and that he “had gone to be with Jesus” several years ago. About a week later she informed me that she was going to the city the next day for a medical procedure. From what I could understand of her explanation, it seems that she goes to the hospital twice a month for dialysis, which she naturally hates. I am unsure exactly what her condition is, and was rather surprised since she seemed to be in perfect health. Since then, though, I have noticed that she gets very tired at times, as if her body just shuts down on her.

--The Chickens: As soon as you are outside of the city, even just a little, you start to see chickens everywhere. The Hogar is pretty far outside of the city, which means there are a lot of chickens wandering in and out of yards and along the dirt roads. Don’t ask me how anyone knows which chickens are theirs and which ones belong to the neighbor. And these aren’t clean white chickens either, but colorful, speckled, dusty chickens. The other day I watched the chickens for 45 minutes—something this city girl has never done before. I was waiting for the bus (and there was really nothing better to do), so I sat down on the ground and just watched. Have you ever noticed how small a chicken’s head is compared to its body? Once you take away the fanfare of the crests and waddles surrounding the head, the brain in there can’t be any larger than a single peanut. Which I suppose explains the urgent, single-mindedness in their scratching and pecking, running along with their tiny heads bobbing in the air.

--Jorge: The man who owns the eyeglass shop I visited today. I had the unfortunate luck of having a broken nose pad in need of repair. Jorge helped me out, while talking my ear off in the process. He is 48; originally from Argentina; loves rock and roll, especially “Gun and Rose”; has lived in Paraguay for nearly 20 years; is Catholic in a ‘born again’ kind of way; has four nieces and nephews in the United States who work a dishwasher, a bank teller, a bar tender, and a nanny; and has a 15-year-old daughter named Florencia. As every proud father would, he showed me Florencia’s picture. I must admit that from her photo, a small mug-shot style image, she seemed like a very disagreeable sort of person. But I said, “Que linda!” as one is obligated to say when shown such a photo. Much to my chagrin there was also a large poster-sized image of Florencia modeling glasses when she was 13. Can’t do much for business. She looks like the exact opposite of her smiling, talkative father. Anyway, my glasses are fixed now, and I got a good deal too.