Ti tara ju!

Translation: I have a house! Gilberto constructed my house solo in about a week. I helped with what I could... but I m not a very good helper. I ve been cooking. I made cornbread last night! It tasted great, but looked more like scrambled eggs. I have been making some great soups with lentles and whole grain rice and lots of veggies (all I have to bring in from outside...) I did harvest the first fruit from my somewhat idle garden... a 4 inch cucumber. The members of the grain group came over the other day and had a good laugh. - a 4 inch cucumber for 30 men!- they laughed. Usually, I see the humor in situations like this, like the beans that grow better in the grime behind the kitchen sink than in my garden, but on that particular day it took significant effort to laugh and not cry.

I must admit that today I am not in much of a mood to write, nor would it be a very good idea. It was a long, hard, humbling week. But I want to jot one of those crazy moments that I had when I know what I m listening to is profound, but I am unable to understand why.

I mustered up the ganas to talk to Benida (the woman from the previous entry who asked for money) two days ago. I have been pasearing to every house in the community to let them know about the meeting that will take place next week with my boss. So I walked up to her house as the fog closed in around our hill and mist started to turn to rain. She s sitting outside her hut, picking lice from her grandkids hair. I sit next to her and we exchange the usual pleasantries. She comments on a bandaid I have on my thumb.
-What happened?- she asks
-I cut myslef.- It s a lie. It s from degraining corn, a testiment of how sensitive my hands still are. But I have pena to tell them the truth.
- But Bedi, You must be carefull. Blood is money.
-Blood is money?
-Si. Even a little drop... a little drop is like $50.
-Ah- I say. - So I should have saved it! In a little cup, or a bag...- I m joking now, but Benida doesnt laugh.
- Once,- she says, - I spent $150 on blood.

Finally I shut up and let her talk. Her daughter, at 16, was diagnosed with what Benida described as stomach cancer, but what I imagine was cervical, or ovarian, because the doctors explained that she would not have children in the future.

Benida told the story in a dry, removed way that let me imagine what this Ngabe woman had experienced in the cold, forgein environment of a hospital that may have as well been in a forgein country. She barely speaks spanish. The doctors told her that her daughter would die if they did not operate, but to operate they would need 3 pints of blood, at $50 each. They told her she must go to the bank to buy the blood. She left crying from her daughters room and walked through the hospital wondering where this bank was where one buys blood. Finally a hospital guard pointed her in the right direction. When she arrived, whoever was selling the blood told her, - yes, for $150 your daughter might get better... but for $200 it s almost guarenteed.-

Anyway. I feel like I{ve had verbal diareah all day. and I dont have much ganas to write. But... I do want to thank all of your for your letters, emails and boxes! Wow! Amanda! I ate chocolate chip cookies walking through the rainforest while watching morpho butterflies flitting around like they do. I had this debate: which are cooler? Gluten free cookies or morpho butterflies. I still cant decide!cookies taste better! It{s so great to hear from all of you!