Life of Hardin Vol. IV, No. 17

A Day in the Life

The sights and sounds of a day in Asunción, Paraguay

I live five stories up in an apartment building. Still the cries of the chipero, the little man who sells chipa bread for breakfast, wake me up at seven. Through his electronic megaphone, mounted on his horse cart, he shouts, “Chipaaaaa! Chipa so’o caliente! Chipaaaa!” I would like to strangle him with his own chipa.

I leave my building at 8:15. The portero, or doorman, greets me with, “Buenos dias, Señor José.” My name in Spanish is “Josué” (Ho-Sway). It is hard to pronounce. I cannot pronounce it. No one can. So I am José to everyone.

Everyone except my neighborhood fruit vendor. He is on the corner every day as I leave the building. He has stacks of apples, oranges, mandarins, bananas, lemons and pineapples. He slaps me on the back. “Mi amigo, Ho-Chay.” He once asked for a gift from the U.S. I gave him a pack of dried cranberries. He may have sold them. I do not know.

Dogs bark on the street. Ugly dogs, mostly. I bark back.

A truck whips by. Black diesel fumes engulf my body, invade my lungs, burn my nose. I hold my breath until the fumes dissipate. Another truck whips by. The driver hangs his head out the window, tongue out, and twists his neck backward to watch the girl on the sidewalk. He honks. The girl, dressed in a shirt two sizes two small and form-fitting lycra pants, throws her nose in the air, spins away from him, and smiles.

The truck wheels screech. The driver’s head snaps back around. He swerves to avoid the car parked half-on, half-off the sidewalk. He honks. The car behind the truck swerves to avoid the truck as it swerves. He honks.

I return home to eat. “Mi amigo, Ho-Chay!” After lunch I leave in the car. At a stoplight a girl with a window squeegee pretends to ignore me. Suddenly she spins and tries to slap the wet sponge on my windshield. But I am ready. I have my hand out the window to stop her. So she props her arm on the car door. “Dame moneda.” Give me money. I say no. She walks around to the passenger side and pretends to drop her squeegee. Then stands back up and stares me down. The light is green. I swerve into the far lane and dodge the glass bottle she placed under my tire.

I stop at a gas station. The attendant asks, “Quer- que limp- el vid-?” and never completes a word. He washes my windshield. I pay him for the gas, tip him for the wash. I say, “Mucha- graci-.”

At night I go to the mall to hear a band play. The food court is full of Paraguayans. They cheer and clap their hands to the rhythm of “The Old Chisum Trail,” sung by the group The Wyoming Pals, from Wyoming.

I return home for the night. I can barely drive down the street. A crowd has commandeered it to listen to the concert in the club across the street. A small market, sprung miraculously from the sidewalk for the event, sells beer and rank hotdogs. I try to drive. “La calle esta cerrado!” The road is closed, they shout. But I live here, I shout back.

I lie down in bed. The light from a bare bulb in a house below shines in my eyes. The music from the club shakes the window, pounds my ears. Thump. Thump thump THUMP. Thump Thump THUMP. The same song plays for an hour. Thump. Thump thump THUMP. Thump Thump THUMP. I put my hands over my ears. My heart says Thump. Thump thump THUMP. Thump Thump THUMP. I let out a hard sigh.

My wife opens one eye. She looks at me. “Shh. I’m trying to rest.”