13
UNCP Today
Fall 2011
couple comes up toting a bag of clucking
chickens. An old pick up drives by with
a load of people in the back heading the
other way. At last, the brightly colored
striped bus comes, turns around and stops
with a screech. Hoping for a seat on the
aisle side, they board in turn. Given a
choice, the volunteers don't sit by the
window, not since the time the child a few
seats up vomited leaning out of the bus.
There are several seats left, but at the
next stop the bus will be full to bursting.
The driver has his front seat altar gaily
decorated with fringe, hanging dolls, balls,
a supply of guardian saints and Marias.
This all will bring us all luck as the bus
meanders through the countryside picking
up people at rural stops and in villages
and towns along the route. The people are
stuffed into the tight space wearing freshly
pressed clothes with splashes of white
baby powder on their black
skin, ready for the heat that
will become oppressive
as the day goes on. At one
stop, the lady vendors
come with baskets filled
with "arepas con huevos"
on their heads. They shout
and rush to sell their wares,
quickly reaching up to the
window of the bus as folks,
anxious to get something to
eat, strain to squeeze with
their fingers on the latches
and slide the windows low
enough to send a few pesos
out and grab a cornmeal-
covered egg.
As the bus takes off, tired of the bumps,
she lays her head on the back of the seat
in front of her trying not to awaken her
stomach to nausea and sleeps a while
to make the time go faster. Her young
husband puts his arm around her resting
his hand on her shoulder as he thinks
about the ducks and how he will convince
the camposenos to pen them up and
feed them. At least it is not rainy so the
bus won't get stuck. Soon they will arrive
in the midst of the market, and the bus
driver will throw off the heavy loads tied
on the bus roof onto the ground. The
Volunteers will be off to do their work,
heading for the office then to lunch: a
huge plate of pork and rice at the Chinese
restaurant. Perhaps they will run into some
other Volunteers, and they will go to the
beach after lunch before their return to
the village. After a day of business and
pleasure, they will hurry not to miss the
bus, edging their way through the market
to find the right bus to return to the
village.
The market place is booming and noisy
with people, animals, baskets, cooked
food, smelly fish, fruits, and vegetables.
A vender carves ice off a block and adds
purple coloring for the first child in a line-
up for cones. A man stripped down to his
loose pants walks by with three wooden
chairs stacked up on his shoulders. A child
chomps on a mango: thick orange-colored
juice runs out the corners of his mouth
and onto his distended stomach. Men
push carts by the crowds, miraculously not
crashing into the women turning sideways
to get through. She remembers the day
in rainy season when they arrived at the
market to catch the bus in a downpour,
and how they sat hunched in a cart as it
took them to get to the bus, thus avoiding
murky waters up to their knees. People
gesture and bargain at every stall.
A pregnant woman who sits on the
ground selling her wares holds another
baby. Attempting to fan the pesky flies
away from the oozing eye of her baby
girl, the swarm zeros in, and several
reach their goal despite her efforts. The
daughter cuddles into her mom's side with
a big-eyed smile, ears already pierced
and a mal ojo leather bracelet around
her chubby little wrist to protect her from
harm. Intense noisy bargaining fills the air
with shouts and catcalling. A man leaning
on the corner of a stall leers at her as she
walks by and says something; she tries not
to hear what he says under his breath. She
stares ahead and doesn't acknowledge
his presence and soon stops to buy some
carrots. She starts to walk away saying,
"Hey, too caro" but then returns, buys
some limp carrots to drop in her bag. He
calls out, "Here's the bus."
The two scurry up the bus steps, but
they are too late as the seats are nearly
full. They can't sit together, but at least
they won't stand. He goes on toward
the back, and she sits on the aisle in the
middle of the bus with a young girl next
to her and a skinny man by the window.
A heavy woman, old and fat with dirty
fingernails comes along, places the board
between the two aisle seats with one hand
and settles in, her buttocks up against the
person on each side of her. The woman
holds a bundle, which seemed to be more
of a burden. Occasionally her flabby,
rough-skinned arm would come to rest on
the Volunteer's knee; they share the load.
The young white woman studies her
face and would vividly remember it for
the rest of her life. The Costenian woman's
face was not ugly. Her face was stern,
but not unkind. She held within it all that
she had suffered. Her eyes were glazed
with sadness and hopelessness. Her fat
neck and lopping chin fell to her swelling
breasts with exhaustion. Her dress had
been new, but those were other days.
It was cut low, but had
a collar that exposed
a hanky clinging there
between her breasts. Her
ears were pierced and
her ear lobes seemed the
only part of her that was
slim and young, with
little dainty turquoise
jewels, their gaiety in
stark contrast to the
preoccupied sorrow
smothered deep within
the figure. The feet were
large and covered in part
by chartreuse tennis shoes
meant for a man.
Her bundle was well
covered with a green and white towel. It
was shouldered with strength and pride.
At last a few tears escaped across the
nose and down the chin to be quietly
wiped away upon the collar of her dress.
The dust was thick on the road with an
endless parade of bumps and lumps. The
ride was eternal. At last the woman shifted
positions; she hoisted her burden upon
her shoulder taking care it stayed well
covered. As she rose slowly, the gringa
looked back at her companion behind
and smiled. She thought about how when
she finished working with these villagers,
teaching health and nutrition here, he
would ranch and she would be an artist
when they returned to the states. The
encumbered woman pushed off the bus.
As her foot left the last step and she hit the
ground firmly, she threw back the top of
the towel, which revealed the baby's head.
She began the whining chant of a woman
who had lost her son. Other women took
up the chant that met her cries, "Antonio
Segundo Sanchez is dead."