To Know the Rainforest

By Paul Mathes

In 1965, Mike Peterson, an American Peace Corps volunteer midway through his two-year service in Colombia, is heading into the rainforest with friends. Thanks to a land-reform policyland without men for men without landhis friends intend to claim a parcel of free jungle land to homestead. Mike eagerly accepts the invitation to be a part of this life-changing experience with them.

No one could have predicted just how life-changing the experience truly would be.

While traveling overnight to the rainforest by chivathe rustic, open-air buses of the AndesMike and his friends are pulled into a situation they cant fully understand. They attempt to rescue a young woman from her abusive companion, a ruffian who turns out to be an employee and friend of Don Trujillo, the vengeful rancher and smuggler who controls the flow of contraband along the Urab coast. In payment for their kindness, the homesteaders may have provoked the wrath of the unpredictable Trujillo and his gun-slinging gauchos.

The mountainous forest they are heading into is a refuge for Indians, bandits, smugglers, and outlaws, as well as the many camouflaged, lethal creatures that inhabit the woods, swamps, and waterways. Mike and his friends must find the strength and courage to survive the many challenges of their new rainforest home, but the promise of love and hope keeps them going.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475964189

Paul Mathes

Paul Mathes served in the Peace Corps in Colombia from 1964 to 1966. Years later, memories of his Medellín barrio, the Andes, and the rainforest loomed larger and larger, and he felt compelled to weave these memories into his fiction. He currently lives in Berkeley, California.

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PART ONE

MUTATÁ

1

The rustic open-air bus, known in the Andes as the chiva or mountain goat, rumbled along the unpaved highway, weaving its way down out of the Andean foothills into the swampy Atrato River basin. The early morning sun glimmered through the tall trees as the bus slowed and turned into a clearing surrounded by forest. Several palm trees shaded an adobe building.

"Mutatá, amigos, announced Guillermo. Vámanos."

He climbed the short ladder to the roof of the bus, handed down the burlap sacks to Peterson, Jorge, Dario and Yolanda. They headed toward the building.

As they approached the adobe structure, Peterson heard some commotion behind him. Looking back, he saw the girl, the one who was with the big man, running toward them, carrying a small wicker case.

"Ayúdame, por favor! Please help me! she called out. Please, can I come with you?"

The chiva driver, seeing the girl flee, alerted the sleeping big man:

"Don Balthazar, la niña se va, the girl is leaving."

Balthazar drowsily sat up, then felt for his carriel pouch. He jumped up, stumbled down the ladder and pulled a pistol from the carriel. He fired a shot in the air.

Peterson’s heart started pounding.

"Esa mujer es mía! Balthazar cried out. That woman is mine! Lidia, come back here, now!"

The passengers in the bus were wide-eyed, watching the incident unfold.

The older heavyset man and the attractive young woman had boarded the chiva an hour earlier at the village of Cañasgordas. The man, obviously drunk, had been bullying and manhandling the woman as the chiva proceeded through the night.

Running to Guillermo and Yolanda, the girl pleaded:

"Por favor, señor, por favor, señorita, don’t let him take me! He will kill me!"

Guillermo turned to face Balthazar, who was coming toward them. Pulling a revolver from his carriel, Guillermo said firmly:

Stay where you are, señor!

Jorge then turned, pulled a revolver from his own carriel, and moved up beside Guillermo. They stood slightly apart, their long-barrel revolvers down at their sides, facing the big man.

Balthazar paused.

Peterson, groggy from ten sleepless hours on the hard benches of the chiva, his heart racing, not sure whether this was dream or reality, tried to decide what to do.

Yolanda and the girl, Lidia, were near the building, partially protected behind the palm trees. Lidia was sobbing, and continued to plead with Yolanda:

"Por favor, señorita, he will kill me. Please take me with you."

Dario pulled a machete from his gunny sack, and moved toward Guillermo and Jorge.

Multiple fight-or-flight instincts were flashing through Peterson’s head. But seeing Dario, he suppressed everything, snatched his machete from his sack and moved toward the men.

Guillermo addressed Balthazar:

"Which is more important, amigo, this girl or your life?"

This is none of your business, Balthazar answered. That woman belongs to me.

It is our business now, said Guillermo. It is the business of all of us. The girl stays here. Put the gun away. Get back on the bus.

Balthazar did not move. He continued to stare at them, eyes full of hatred.

Guillermo and Jorge started to raise their sixshooters.

Balthazar stared.

The sixshooters were now leveled at the big man.

Balthazar continued to glare at Guillermo and Jorge. A long minute crept by.

Guillermo cocked the hammer of his revolver. Jorge cocked his.

Balthazar glared at his opponents, weighing his options.

Then, very slowly, he placed the pistol back in the carriel. He took one step back.

This is not over, he called out. I have friends; you don’t know who you’re dealing with here.

Slowly, he backed up two more steps.

I will be back. You will pay for this. Especially you, Lidia! he shouted.

He backed up slowly, two more steps. He turned slightly, climbed the ladder onto the chiva, still glaring at Guillermo and Jorge. The driver started the engine, put the truck-bus in gear, began to pull out, pausing by the dirt road. Balthazar was at the window, staring back at the group. At this distance, Peterson could still feel the hatred in those eyes. The chiva moved onto the road, picked up speed, passed out of sight behind the towering trees.

It was 1965. Mike Peterson had been in Colombia for ten months, approaching the halfway point of his two-year service as a Peace Corps volunteer. He was working in Barrio La Paloma, a squatter community on the outskirts of Medellín. Guillermo Zambrano, current head of the Barrio’s Junta de Acción Comunal, had invited him for dinner. Peterson and Zambrano worked together often on community projects.

It was dark when Peterson arrived at Guillermo’s house.

"Éntrese, Don Miguel. Está en su casa," Guillermo welcomed him.

The brick-walled rooms were dimly lit by weak electric current, illegally obtained by tapping into the grid of the neighboring middle-class community. Zambrano escorted Peterson to the patio, where Jorge Plata, another Junta member, and Dario, Guillermo’s sixteen-year-old son, awaited them. Guillermo’s daughter, pretty eighteen-year-old Yolanda, brought out Pilsen beers. The men sipped, and talked mostly about the sewer system, the current barrio project.

The men were finishing their beers when Gabriela, Guillermo’s wife, stepped in from the outdoor cooking area:

"Bueno, señores, siéntense por la mesa, vamos a comer," she called the men to sit down for dinner.

The women brought in plates of beans, yuca, plátanos. The men ate and chatted.

As they finished eating, Guillermo called the women in:

Ladies, I am going to tell Mister Miguel our plans now.

Gabriela and Yolanda came in and sat by the table.

"Miguel, you and I have talked about INCORA, the land reform agency. Right now, they are offering free land to colonos, homesteaders, in various parts of the country. You’ve heard the politicians: Land without men for men without land. One of the locations is in the rainforest near Mutatá, up by the Caribbean coast of Antioquia. We’re thinking of going up there.

As you know, Zambrano continued, "Gabriela and I and Jorge come from Guainía in the Amazon. You can create a very productive finca, farm, in the rainforest. We were doing well in Guainía until La Violencia began. We came to Medellín in 1952 to escape the fighting. We have been happy in Medellín, and we have done well. But now it is getting crowded in La Paloma, we have to wait in line for polluted water at the barrio faucet, it’s hard to find jobs, we don’t have enough land to grow our food, there is crime, disease. In Mutatá we would have plenty of land, clean water, clean air, the beautiful forest. We are farmers at heart: this is an opportunity for us to get back to the land.

We talked it over, Guillermo went on. We’re planning to go up to Mutatá next week to take a look. You have mentioned, Miguel, that you are interested in the rainforest. As you said to me yesterday, you want to conocer el monte"—to know the rainforest. We were hoping that you might join us; we could certainly use the extra mano de obra, manpower. It would be me, you, Jorge, Dario, and Yolanda. The kids were born in Guainía, now they want to see the jungle again. Gabriela will stay here and look after the place. We’ll be up there about a month. We’ll cut down some trees, build a small ranchito, look around the area, see if it’s really what we want. Qué parece? What do you think? You want to come along?"

Fascinated by the jungle, hoping to spend some time in a rainforest area sooner or later during his stay in South America, Peterson was nevertheless not sure if he was ready for an excursion there next week. Peace Corps brass was constantly warning volunteers that travel in the countryside could be dangerous. Most of Colombia outside the major cities was lawless and primitive. And anti-American sentiment was not uncommon: recently an American diplomat had been kidnapped for ransom in Bogotá. But in the camaraderie of the moment, Peterson heard himself answer:

Yes, I would like to go, and thank you for inviting me. I’ll have to check with the Peace Corps office. I’m going there in a couple days.

Two days later, Peterson rode the bus into town, did some shopping, went to the Peace Corps office. He checked his mail, chatted with a couple other volunteers, then knocked at the open door of Larry Walker, Peace Corps head for Medellín.

Come on in, Mike. How are things in La Paloma?

The two men shook hands. Peterson took a seat, told Walker about his invitation to Mutatá.

I know it’s a bit risky, Larry, out in the sticks. But I always wanted to see the rainforest, and it’s also an opportunity to see land reform in action. The Alliance for Progress is always talking about land redistribution for these countries. The folks I’m going with know what they’re doing.

Walker stood and stepped to the large map of Colombia on the wall.

Pretty rugged country out that way, he said, pointing to a large green area on the map. This whole northwest corner of Colombia, where it connects to Panama, is nothing but jungle and swamp, and a couple precipitous mountain ridges. You’ve got the Chocó on the Pacific coast: dense rainforest, four hundred inches of rain a year, one of the wettest places on the planet. Then the Baudó mountains, not high but steep. Coming inland, the Atrato River basin, a huge swamp. Then it’s all jungle from the San Jerónimo mountains up to the Caribbean coast. And it all butts up against the sawtooth Darien Gap mountains of Panama. Jungle, swamp, and mountains together form a barrier so daunting that, in spite of international cooperation, the Pan American Highway still hasn’t been completed through there. It’s complete all the way from Mexico to Tierra del Fuego, except for that leg.

Looking out the window of the sixth floor office, Peterson could almost make out La Paloma nestled in the hills across the valley.

Walker pointed to an airplane symbol in the middle of the green area on the map.

Here’s Mutatá. There’s a landing field, probably a fifty-yard strip of dirt for bushplanes—which can’t take off if it’s muddy. But I guess we could fly you out in a pinch, if it’s not raining, or fly in some assistance.

Walker was thinking out loud.

There are no Volunteers out that way, you’d be pretty much on your own. I suppose I could reach the INCORA people up there if need be, or they could reach me. Tell me again who you’re going with.

Guillermo Zambrano and Jorge Plata, the leaders of the Acción Comunal Junta in La Paloma. I’ve told you about them: solid guys, they grew up in the Amazon, in Guainía, they know the rainforest.

What’s going on in La Paloma now? asked Walker. Anything important happening in the coming weeks?

No. The main project now is the sewer. The ditch-digging will slow down some when we leave, but there are several other guys who will keep at it.

I’ve spent some time in the rainforest, Mike.

Is it true what they say about the tropics? said Peterson.

He couldn’t resist interjecting the tongue-in-cheek cliché, see if he could trip up Walker in mid-soliloquy. Walker was a knowledgeable guy who liked to display his expertise.

That’s right, Walker replied without missing a beat. "Everybody loves the tropics … except the people who live here. And yes, in the tropics you can become fixated on the scantily clad señoritas parading around. If this happens, Walker continued, half serious, half in jest, do what the British Boy Scouts do: exercise the upper half of your body, and take a cold shower."

But as I was saying, Walker went on, when I worked for CARE, I lived in the Amazon, in Manaus, spent time in Leticia, Iquitos, Pucalpa. That’s where I got sick: I puked in Pucalpa—poetic, if unpleasant. The rainforest is a paradox, Mike. It’s one of the most beautiful places on the planet, and one of the most dangerous. Paradise, Garden of Eden for some; Green Hell, Heart of Darkness for others. Teeming with animals and plants, but often deadly to man. I could give you a dozen reasons to go, and another dozen not to. Do you have a compass?

It took Peterson a few seconds to register the question.

No.

Take this.

Walker took a compass from a desk drawer, handed it to Peterson.

"It’s easy to get lost in the forest: you can’t see the sun, you get disoriented. Try to always be aware of what direction you would have to go to get back to the road, the river, the campsite. Worst comes to worst, go with the flow: find a creek, follow it downstream to a river, follow that downstream, eventually you’ll come to a settlement.

Anyway, Mike, in four weeks you hopefully won’t get in too much trouble. Be careful. Check in with me when you get back.

Four days later, Peterson found himself with Guillermo, Jorge, Dario and Yolanda in Guayaquil, the large open-air market place in the center of Medellín. Each of them carried a burlap sack containing tools, machetes, extra clothes, pots, pans, utensils, a lightweight hammock. They purchased seats on the chiva bound for Turbo and the Caribbean coast. Mutatá was on the highway towards Turbo. The group strolled among the market venders buying bags of rice, cornmeal, beans, bananas, other staples, adding these to their sacks.

"Turbo ya sale! Vamos pa’ Turbo!" shouted the chiva driver.

Peterson and the others hastened to the chiva, handed their gunny sacks up to a man on the roof. Along with a dozen campesinos, peasants, they climbed the short ladder and boarded the bus.

"Ya somos Equipo La Paloma, contra el monte, proclaimed Don Guillermo: Now we’re Team La Paloma, taking on the jungle."

The excitement Peterson felt was heightened by the anticipation of traveling by chiva, the picturesque buses that traversed the Andes: wooden benches jerry-built on a flatbed truck chassis; deck overhead, typically loaded with sacks of grain, caged animals, bales of hay, sundry bundles and cargo; open-air windows with roll-down canvas curtains reminiscent of the stagecoach; garish exterior paint job; rotund differential gear box drooping between its four rear wheels like the genitals of some gigantic beast; the driver-owner’s name—Celedón El Mono Ochoa—inscribed on the cab door like on a speedway racer; dingle balls adorning the windshield; religious statuary and pictures of La Vírgen mounted on the dashboard. A motorized stagecoach, the chiva promised to transport them back in time to an earlier epoch, on a rugged adventure to a remote wilderness.

Moreover, the chiva, along with various antiquated aircraft—DC-3s, de Havilland Beavers, Cessna bushplanes—as well as World War II era jeeps, vintage Johnson outboard motors, a wide variety of outdated vehicles and machines—the workhorses of the Third World—seemed to capture the essence of South America as Peterson was coming to know it: a land where salvage from the industrialized world was ingeniously re-adapted to more rugged terrain and purpose, and continuously reincarnated to last, in one permutation or another, seemingly forever.

Peterson viewed South America as a time machine, a microcosm of earth’s epochs: the Amazon, primeval forest where Indians still lived in the stone age; rural estancias where a feudal patron ruled over peasants as in medieval times; frontier regions similar to America’s Wild West era; modern cities much like those in Europe and the United States. So what better medium than the chiva—partly from the modern era, partly from a former epoch—to travel from one time zone to another. The chiva would convey him toward a destination not unlike that of its horsedrawn Old West predecessor: a harsh, largely unexplored region of wild Indians, bandits, dangerous animals and unforgiving terrain.

To reassure himself, Peterson imagined the chiva as a kind of rolling chapel: rows of pews faced the dashboard-altar, with its religious images; the driver-pastor guided his flock along the hazardous and uncertain road of life. And with no guard rails, speed limits or highway patrol along this unpaved, precipitous, winding mountain road, there would certainly be abundant devout prayer for deliverance by the parish during the course of this journey.

The chiva’s big truck engine came to life, revved for a few moments, the driver yanked the floorshift lever into gear, the bus lumbered out of the marketplace heading for the highway.

With ruana raked up over his shoulder, molasses-sweetened Pielroja cigarette dangling from the lip, gazing out over the surreal beauty of fold upon fold of lush green Andean hills, Peterson imagined himself as his movie idols, now Gary Cooper, now Gregory Peck, now wincing for effect like Bogart in Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Balmy breeze in his face, landscape rushing by, the chiva made its way through the countryside, up out of the Medellín valley, heading into unknown territory, the romance, dangers and sights waiting around the next turn limited only by one’s imagination.

2

Peterson was sitting on the steps of Royce Hall on the UCLA campus. It was November 22, 1963. He was resting in the sun between classes when an announcement came over the PA system: President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas. Peterson did not believe it at first: nothing like this had happened in his lifetime. Students around him began to talk. Like him, they could not believe what they were hearing.

Peterson was preparing to graduate with a major in English the following month. He was wondering what to do next. Kennedy had created the Peace Corps, and famously said: Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country. Doug Singer, a friend of Peterson, had recently joined the Peace Corps. He passed through Los Angeles en route to his assignment in Ecuador. Over beers, he enthusiastically told Peterson about the Peace Corps, and what he was learning about Ecuador. It sounded exciting.

In junior high and high school in west Los Angeles, Peterson had started to get an ear for Spanish listening to the Chicano kids. He studied Spanish in high school and college. He figured two years in Latin America, he could really master the language. Whatever career he ended up with, Spanish fluency would be an asset. And he liked the idea of Latin America: the tropics, the girls, the beaches, the rainforests, the girls. Peterson found Latino girls attractive, he had dated several in high school. He decided to ask what he could do for his country: he applied for the Peace Corps, Latin America. A couple years in a developing country, gain Spanish fluency, get some distance from middle class USA, attain a wider perspective on life, on who he was, what was important. He would come out with some ideas about what to do with his life.

He was vaguely aware that for the last year or so young men were being drafted for a war in a place called Vietnam. He was not opposed to being drafted, he knew guys his age get called for military service. If he got called he would go. But now that Singer had introduced the Peace Corps possibility, that sounded more interesting than the military.

Peterson was accepted into the Peace Corps. He was assigned to an urban community development group heading for Colombia. The group trained for three months in New York City, then flew to Bogotá in June, 1964. After a week of orientation, Peterson was sent to Medellín and placed in Barrio La Paloma. The Peace Corps office helped him rent a small house in the barrio and arranged for him to have meals with Doña Inelda, a widow who cooked for several bachelors in the community. They also introduced Peterson to the staff at the local Centro de Salud, the Health Center. Peterson started out by accompanying the health inspector on his daily walks through the neighboring barrios and veredas, villages.

After a few weeks, Guillermo Zambrano, current head of the Barrio’s Junta de Acción Comunal, invited Peterson to start participating in their meetings and projects. The Barrio was beginning the street by street installation of a sewer system. La Paloma was one of many squatter communities in the hills surrounding Medellin: dirt roads, no electricity, no sewer, no water except two faucets that supplied the entire community. The first step to obtain public services was to build the sewer system: the city would not install water pipes or pave the roads until the sewer was in place.

The spirit and self-sufficiency of the people of La Paloma impressed Peterson. Ostensibly he was in Colombia to teach and help Colombians, but it was the Colombians who were teaching him. The average campesino might be illiterate, but he could build his own house, grow his own food, raise livestock; he knew the rudiments of carpentry, plumbing, electrical circuitry; he and his wife could make clothing for their family; they were knowledgeable about the medicinal properties of local plants, knew various home remedies which seemed to be effective: they were resourceful and self-sufficient in a country where there was little commercial employment. Peterson was impressed, too, at how families and neighbors worked together, to build their houses, and on community projects like the sewer system.

Guillermo and Jorge, in turn, were impressed by the work ethic of the quiet young gringo who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty, in fact seemed to enjoy it. They noticed Peterson’s interest in learning Spanish expressions and learning about local construction techniques. He became a sort of apprentice to Guillermo and Jorge.

The road took the chiva north. They would travel down out of the central cordillera, ridge, of the Andes, descending into the steep gorge of the Cauca River. Crossing the Cauca, the chiva would climb up and over the western cordillera, and finally descend into the valley of the Atrato River. A hot, wet, tropical lowland, the Atrato basin was a vast swampland south of Panama, between the Pacific and Caribbean coasts. Along the eastern side of the valley were the jungle-covered San Jerónimo mountains. Mutatá was on the highway at the edge of these mountains. They would get off at Mutatá and hike up to the INCORA area opening to homesteaders.

As they descended out of the central cordillera, they traveled through forest, passing hillside cafetales—tracts of coffee bushes, green velvet pastures, here and there a few cows and the tile or thatch roofs of fincas visible through the trees. They drove through the village of San Cristobal, and awhile later Palmitas. At each village, they picked up and dropped off several passengers. Few other vehicles on the road, the chiva wound up and down the hilly dirt highway at an alarming speed. They stopped briefly at Nicolás, then continued on toward Sopetrán.

Peterson had come to know and trust his companions on this expedition. Guillermo, whose close-cropped gray hair and mustache contrasted with his dark skin, was a carpenter. Like most barrio dwellers, originally from rural areas, he combined part-time work with small-scale subsistence farming, growing corn, beans, plátanos (plantains), yuca (manioc), coffee, raising chickens, several goats and pigs. One of the leaders of La Paloma, he often served on the Acción Comunal Junta.

Jorge, another leader, had a husky build and thick boyish dark hair falling across his forehead. He had been the foreman of a brickyard in Medellín. His wife had died three years ago. He had two grown children, married and living nearby. Retired now, he had time on his hands. He visited Guillermo’s house, was active on the Junta, worked often with Peterson on Barrio projects. He was forty two, two years older than Guillermo, but could pick and shovel all day without apparent ill effects. Peterson and Jorge chatted as they worked together in the trenches, comparing their backgrounds, discussing current Barrio matters. It felt to Peterson as if he had known Jorge for many years. They agreed they were both disciples of Guillermo, who had started referring to Peterson, Jorge and himself as Los Tres Callados, The Three Quiet Men.

Dario, Guillermo’s sixteen-year-old son, with slender build and a disarming toothy grin, had taken it upon himself to educate Peterson about the girls of La Paloma, and also about the music of Latin America. In the evenings, Dario often dropped by Peterson’s house. They listened to records on Dario’s 45 rpm player, while Dario talked at length about all the young women in the Barrio.

"Miguel, have you ever seen Gloria Yepes when she leaves in the morning for her job? Tight skirt, freshly-ironed white blouse, her hair up like that. Hombre, ésta es pura panela, Man, she’s pure brown sugar."

Dario always referred to his favorite girls, of which there were dozens, as pura panela.

There were many attractive young women in La Paloma. To Peterson, they looked good whether they were dressed up or not. Some had jobs in town. Peterson was amazed when he first saw sophisticated young women wearing the latest styles emerging from the dirt-floor hovels of the barrio.

A serious jazz fan, Peterson was enchanted by Latin American music. The radio stations played music from all parts of Latin America, the latest popular tunes as well as old standards: mariachi music from Mexico, Carlos Gardel tangos from Argentina, Colombian cumbias, Cuban mambos—all dance music, sensuous and irresistible. The sophisticated Cuban orchestras reminded Peterson of the American swing bands of the Forties.

Peterson and Dario frequently took runs around the barrio and up into the surrounding hills. Peterson had run crosscountry in high school and college. He didn’t break any records, but he came to enjoy distance running. It turned out Dario had a good stride, could stay with Peterson fairly well on their four- or five-mile jogs.

Yolanda was eighteen. She helped Gabriela with cooking, cleaning, gardening. She also took care of some neighbor kids each afternoon. Peterson would see her playing with the kids when he visited Guillermo. She had smooth light brown skin, long dark hair, expressive, sometimes mischievous, glittering brown eyes. She was a tomgirl, playing hide and seek or rough-housing with the kids. But she was also gentle: when the little kids fell down or needed reassurance, she held them tenderly. She had an easy rapport with the children. They could hardly wait for her to come out in the afternoon. When she appeared, they all ran to hug her.

In his early weeks in La Paloma, before he got involved with the various projects, Peterson was often alone in his house in the afternoons without much to do. Gabriela, Guillermo’s wife, was concerned.

Maybe Yolanda could go there with her little kids, Gabriela suggested to Guillermo. Help him clean house some afternoons. Make him feel more at home.

Guillermo was beginning to like Peterson.

Why not? he said.

Gabriela talked to Yolanda:

Take the little brooms the kids like to play with, she said, and some of these cleaning rags.

Mamá, protested Yolanda, I can’t go over there. It’s too embarrassing.

It will be fun for the kids, said Gabriela, and Mister Miguel will appreciate it. He doesn’t really know many people yet; he’s learning Spanish. He’s a nice boy.

Yolanda protested, but actually she thought Peterson was cute. She finally agreed to try it. She took Clarita, Dulce, and Toño to Peterson’s house one afternoon.

We came to clean your house, Clarita announced at the door.

"Qué bueno, said Peterson. How nice."

He smiled at Yolanda.

This looks like a good cleaning crew. Clarita, how old are you now?

Six, she said. And Dulce is five. And Toño is my little brother, he’s four.

I see you brought your brooms, said Peterson. Shall we start in the living room?

The kids started sweeping. Little Toño followed Clarita with his tiny broom.

Peterson got out his own broom. Yolanda tried to take it from him, but he held on. She pulled, he pulled. Peterson and the mischievous tomgirl started laughing.

Alright, said Peterson, you sweep, I’ll go wash the dishes.

I better help you, said Yolanda. You’ll just mess them up.

She gave the big broom to Clarita.

At the sink in the kitchen, Yolanda washed, Peterson dried and put the dishes up on the shelf. There was some playful pushing and shoving during the process.

The cleaning crew dusted around the house with the cleaning rags. The kids tried on some of Mister Miguel’s shirts and jackets. Then Dulce discovered some combs on the bureau.

We have to comb Yolanda’s hair, said Clarita.

Yolanda rolled her eyes at Peterson and sat down in the chair. Clarita and Dulce, each with a comb, full concentration on their little faces, carefully stroked Yolanda’s long hair.

Now me, said Toño.

Clarita instructed Toño how to comb the long hair.

Now Mister has to comb Yolanda, ordered Clarita.

Peterson, secretly longing to comb Yolanda’s hair, accepted the comb. He slid the comb through her long smooth hair.

Now we have to comb Mister, said Clarita.

Peterson sat in the chair, Clarita stood behind him and combed. Dulce climbed into his lap and carefully parted and combed from the front. Toño meanwhile discovered and inspected the hair on Peterson’s arms. Peterson felt foolish, but enjoyed the