Life of Hardin Vol. IV, No. 18

The Club at the End of My Street

There are many things to do in Asunción, if you like to buy bootleg movies or sunglasses, drink strong coffee, or stare out of your back window at the haze as it rolls in off the Paraguay River. But after those two days are spent, you must find other attractions if you plan to stay longer.

You must do as the Paraguayans do, and that is to join a club.

Asunción has a variety of clubs, including but not limited to tennis clubs, gun clubs, boating clubs, exercise clubs, soccer clubs, and the like. Many of them are multi-purpose and offer a variety of available activities. The German club--where they speak Spanish--has an Olympic-sized pool, a gym, a boxing ring, a bowling alley, and a soccer field. The Yacht club has no yachts to speak of, but only launches and a few sailboats of a middling size. It also has a pool, tennis courts, and a golf course. The restaurant offers a wide view of the fiberglass dinghies as they sit in dry dock.

The king of all Paraguayan clubs is Rakiura. It has all these things mentioned above and more, except for the dinghies. It has three pools, a wave pool, and water slides. It hosts dog shows and professional tennis tournaments. My sister visited this club and refers to it as Hawaii. But that is misleading, and confuses me often, since Rakiura has no volcanoes.

The thing in common between each of these clubs is their insistence on the presence of gate security. They all have guards at the door. The job of these men is to smile and wave through anyone who smiles and waves back. I do not see how I can join any club that allows the riff-raff, such as myself, to come and go as they please.

One club I have not yet mentioned--the one club to which I would like to gain entrance so as to bring about its ruin--is located just across from my apartment building. This is Club Rowing. But they do not row. They are landlocked. They have one wading pool, which has never been filled with more water than it collects from a good rain.

They have a basketball court, which is used to host political rallies and debates. When I say political rallies, I mean fights. They begin in the morning. A crowd of people parks itself in the street so that no cars can move. A brass band begins to play music at around 8 a.m. They continue until about 5 p.m. when the debate begins. The police arrive in riot gear around 6 p.m. The debate ends at 7, and then the fight begins. It is a fine way to conduct politics. Everyone has their fair say and throws their share of punches. Then they all go home tired and happy with the disagreement settled.

What Club Rowing needs is a doorman to keep their members in. It displeases me when their little club meetings block my door. I prefer, in regard to their politics, to remain like Switzerland: completely neutral. But when I run over a few constituents on my way to the garage, they invariably believe I have taken sides. They threaten me with brickbats and beer bottles.

The last time this happened I planned to fill several balloons with cold water, carry them to the roof, and hurl them down upon the throng. Alas, by the time I took my shower, sat down and rested, it was too cold outside and I was too tired to go to the effort. I regret that I did not take pains to carry through the plan. On the next occasion I will start my own club to see it through, and, as president, will make sure that all members fulfill their duties.

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.”