Brilliant Nothings

I sat down on the bus, exhausted. The Stevie Wonder fedora wearing guy across the way shot me a smile so warm I felt happy about being alive. In heaven there will be mangos like the one I just ate.

Yesterday, while passing out the soup, a family who lives farther away from the middle of nowhere Cajueiro Claro came. Their young child pulled one of the pots off the stove and burnt himself badly. Flavio rushed him to the hospital in Paudalho (about 30,000 pop.), where there were no doctors or supplies for burns. So he drove to Recife (about 4 million pop.) where he could receive treatment.

Why wouldn’t they have that care in Paudalho, I asked, knowing that this family couldn’t have been able to do that for their child without Flavio’s help. “What?” He said, “They barely had treatment for him available in Recife!” A city that boasts some of the best heart hospitals in the world can’t treat a burned child? “Oh, that is all private care.” Flavio includes. Oh. That is for those who can pay.

As we ride into Mussurepe, three or four children are coming down the hill with wheel barrels or jugs. “The water must be out.” Flavio comments, as I watch these children go down to get water from the pump in the center of “town” (about 700 pop.). I saw Claudia selling corn on the side of the road when the bus passed. She is 16 now, and can barely read. But she’s gone to work now. Another one.

I arrived at Leandro’s house by motorcycle, down the long road that is either a mud pit or a dust bowl, depending on the season. He turns 15 today. But he isn’t home, he is working, taking care of the horses on a nearby fazenda. Another one. Poliana is going to 10 soon. I remember her grabbing and hiding behind her mother’s skirts when she was turning six. “You have a cell phone? Can you give me your cell phone? You are rich.”

I have to stoop to get inside of Rodrigo’s house. Rodrigo who used to be so shy, he and his sister would never eat with the other children. They would eat, huddled together in a corner, trying to hide. He flunked kindergarten three times because he refused to talk in class. Ever. Rodrigo turned 16 two days ago. I think he got to 3^rd grade. He won’t come out to see me, so his mom invites me in.

I feel both honored and bothered that she would allow me to come in. I’d been in once before, and didn’t really want to see it again. I’ve been in some pretty shabby places, but you can’t get used to this. The heat from the open fire almost burns my face as I try to adjust to the dingy, smelly inside. Luckily the small window is open. I fight off flies with various family members sitting all over as I try to squeeze through the small space between the beds. I see bicycle parts and ragged clothes piled high in the corners.

Seven ragamuffins from the neighborhood follow me in and  don’t know how they fit. After I give Rodrigo his birthday card and present, we sing a rousing “Happy Birthday” and they remind me that I have cake. Rodrigo, at the end, gives me a hug. Vera, who turns 17 today, told me I was invited to her wedding next year. She is marrying Marcio, the boy who still doesn’t forgive me for pulling off his hat once in 2008. When I arrive at her house, the old man down the way yells that they don’t live there anymore. Another one.

As I walk back to the bus stop, I pass Marcone, my deaf boy who has grown to almost 6 feet tall. He grunts and waves, emptying out and sorting some trash. Sometimes I just don’t know what to do about my day, because it is too extraordinary to forget, and yet too complicated to fully explain.