The Hankerchief
September 10, 2012. I walked outside the International School and down the road. What used to be a pretty entrance is now a scraggly cut up walkway that will soon be consumed into this huge highway project. Highway. The name of the road that connects all the little towns out my direction. It has always been a two-lane road. One lane going in, one going out. But they are doubling it, and using quadruple the space. And so, like many things in Brazil, this project has been ten years in the making, and will take ten more to finish. The dirt and dust blow past me as I wait for a ride to Living Stones.
A kombi (VW bus) stops. It is a gamble to grab a kombi, because some of them will stop in Paudalho and wait until they are full of people. And all you can do is sit. But I like to sit in the front, and the front is empty, so I hop in. the driver blows his nose. Again and again. Some kind of nose issue. But when he pulls out a handkerchief, I instantly like him. I like him because of a million reasons that have nothing to do with him.
Because my grandfather used a hanky, because my father still does. Because I folded them in the fresh laundry. Because he used them to wipe my tears. And that is my biased opinion on why all men who use hankies must be good. But I felt an instant comradery with this man, as he tucked it into his pocket. I still think they are unsanitary.
They have flattened the road to Cajueiro Claro a little better. When riding by motorcycle across it, I no longer almost fall off from the steepness. Funny how things change. How Flavio and I started off walking, then got a motorcycle, and now he has a car. Funny how even the road seems to lose a couple of its bumps. But I still remember how it was. And sometimes…I miss it. Simple and having nothing is something you cannot buy.
Flavio is busy getting ready for tomorrow, so there is no “projeto” today. But the kids see me coming and run back. We color and play soccer a bit. I sort out the closet and all the donated things Flavio let accumulate there. Donated broken dolls and underwear with holes in it. I throw out a couple bags of things I could, in no way with a conscience, give anyone—and yet, the bags disappear before I manage to get them to the trash heap. Someone will use them for something.
Things are so much more structured at Mussurepe, and I can get so much more done—like actually teach a lesson! Imagine that. But I like Cajueiro better. Maybe I always like the bad ones best. Maybe it is all about the amount of time you invest in it.
It is so beautiful to see the kids sing. Something miraculous in song. In sitting there with 25 kids, clapping in the afternoon sunlight and singing “aqule que esta feliz, diga amen: AMEN…” it makes me know that no one could be so lucky as me, and want to film it so as many people as possible could join in.