To have and to give

Almost every day last summer I ventured down the dirt road leading out of my village. One particularly dry Sunday morning I met Aventina on that path. She, her husband and two of their sons were fetching firewood. Curious how far she had to go, so I asked if I could join her. She consented.

She could have made an excellent preschool Portuguese teacher. She spoke slowly and enunciated every syllable. She was the embodiment of patience as I assembled questions in Portuguese. She repeatedly called me her friend and seemed delighted that I was going with her to gather wood. I didn't realize at the time that we would be gone for three and a half hours.

We hiked along the dirt road, through corn fields, across a dry creek bed and up a hill she referred to as the mountain, dotted with skinny tree stumps. She started chopping with the axe her husband had carried. I offered to help. She laughed and refused. Perhaps it was hospitality. I suspect it was my wimpy arms. She hacked away at the stumps for an hour, until the family decided it was time to go home.

Aventina, as perky as ever, hoisted the wood on top of her head. I couldn't resist asking, in broken Portuguese, why her husband was not carrying any wood. Oh, no, she didn't want him to do that. She respects him, so she carried the wood. Apparently, this was women's work.

I had not cut nor carried any wood that day, I reminded myself as we journeyed the hour back. I shouldn't be so tired or thirsty, but I was. I couldn't even force conversation with the natural-born preschool teacher.

She insisted I visit her home, meet her daughter who was my age, and her grandson. I lacked the energy to refuse. We didn't go inside her reed-walled hut, but sat in plastic lawn chairs on her dirt yard. She had her son bring a shallow tub of water to wash her hands and her infant grandson's face. Then she tied the baby to her back and took me to meet her brother. He was in a car accident a few years ago and is paralysed. She bathes him, dresses him, feeds him. We just stopped by to say hello.

She knew the family with which I lived and was intent on walking me home. But first, she took me by a small market and bought me a cold drink. I tried to decline, but she was insistent. She could have bought the cheaper glass bottle of Fanta orange, but she opted for the can. She didn't get one for herself. I thought of a million other ways she could have spent that money, but she seemed pleased to be treating me. It was hard to swallow.

She reiterated her joy that I was her friend, had met her on the road and gone up to the mountain to get firewood with her. I couldn't figure out why she was so delighted. She had lavished herself and her money on me.

She accompanied me all the way to my cement block house. I was suddenly starkly aware of how much wealthier my family was than hers. But as she left I saw how freely she gave and how much I received from one poor woman I met along the way.