Imagine Yourself Living in a Poor Village....

I was thinking of the lovely neighborhood I live in with all its inconveniences and filth and I sat down and wrote this. Hope you enjoy it.

Life in  Poor Village

Picture this.

You walk home from the store carrying two gallons of water, one in each hand. You turn off the main road and head down a dirt one where wooden houses--built on stilts and wearing curtains for doors--sit back from the road and make room for half-dressed children to play. You pass the furniture builder working in his little shop and he waves at you and says hi through the bandanna wrapped around his face to prevent him from inhaling wood dust. A teenager rides by on his bicycle, his hat on backwards, and smiles at you, A momma rides by on a bicycle too. She steers around a puddle in the road and almost loses her balances as she makes sure to wave. 

You turn off the dirt road and onto a narrow sidewalk. You can see through the cracks in the walls of some of the brightly colored houses. Laundry is strung up everywhere because the day is sunny and the clothing will dry. A pit-bull barks at you, practically scaring you out of your shoes, and three colorful chickens run by, crossing the sidewalk and ducking under the leaves of a flowered bush. Two boys come running up from behind you. They ask where the ball is. They want to play. You tell them to stop over later. They wave and keep running.

You open the chicken-wire fence that guards your house and you pass the mango and banana trees and take a peek at your garden with the new row of tomatoes. You put the water jugs down on the cement. Their handles have left imprints in your hands. You fumble for your keys and open the painted white gate that lets you into your enclosed porch—the one with the hammock. You pick up your water, walk across the porch, put the water down again and fumble for more keys.

It’s cool inside. Your home is built of cement. You open the windows and put your water on the counter just as the lady across the sidewalk calls your name. You stick your head back outside and answer her kindly.

“You want I give you some of the limes from my finca?” she asks in her thick Creole English.

You are blessed. She thinks of you often.

“Oh, I would love some!” you answer.

You leave your water to wait and go meet your 60-something-year-old neighbor at the fence.

She hands you the limes and confides in you.

“I saw someone come and knock to your door,” she says. “I think he was wanting to cut your yard. I told him you were no home and to come back some nother time.”

You thank her for looking out for you. She has taken you under her wing. She knows this territory and says you are now family.

You listen as she tells you about her day. She had a call from her sister and her niece came to visit and help with the wash. She has an appointment to see the shoulder doctor in the city next week. She is sure he will fix her aching arthritis. You picture her carrying heavy loads up the stairs and into her wooden house. You remember her scrubbing her painted walls and pruning her trees and you wonder how a woman of her age has so much strength.

You cannot image she really needs to go see a doctor. You think it is just the modern technology that draws her. In spite of her deep understanding of culture and self-sufficiency, she seems enthralled at the new gizmos and gadgets that she sees on TV.

She finishes her story and apologizes for molesting you. You love the word. Its the Spanish word they use that means to bother.

You assure her it’s no bother and you tell her you have two star apples that look like they will be ripe tomorrow. You promise to give her one and she smiles.

The water still sits on the shelf, forgotten.

Life in a poor village is so rich.

To My Lovely Ones,
laura

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