I spent the summer of 1995 in Paraguay, working with a public health organization Amigos de las Americas. The following is a re-worked exerpt of my jornal (8-11), the night before I left the town of Sapucai.
"So, we've finished our talk on AIDS. Any questions?"
As usual, there are the usual questions high school students ask about AIDS, such as the method of the virus' action, how it spreads unnoticed, and the multiplication factor. On our way out of the class room, it hits me -- my partner, John, and I had just given our last charla (presentation) in Paraguay. "Is that it?" I ask myself. I'm in a sort of daze as we navigate the streets of Sapucai to John's house. After two months of living in this rural cow town, I've grown rather attached to my family and our immunizations project -- the imminent prospect of departure tomorrow is unreal and scary.
So, my farewell to John's host family is neither sad nor happy for me, just confused. Raquel, John's sister, cracks her usual jokes about me as we say good-bye. Even as I say "ciao" to her, a part of me believes that I will be back tomorrow, ready for more of her comic abuse. I can tell that John wants to spend time with his family, so I exit through his rusty front gate, step onto the street, and head towards the one-lane dirt highway which leads out of town, towards my home.
The sun set an hour ago, so the air is getting cold. I dig my hands into my pockets and look forward to sitting in front of the fire with mamá, laughing and telling stories like we always do. I love living on a farm with such kind people.
Memories of my host family fill my mind as I cross the narrow footbridge over a canal. I stumble onto the main highway, slipping as usual in the soft dust-clay which lines the road. Behind me lies the glow of Sapucai. Darkness quickly extinguishes this glow as I walk farther from town. I look back, once. I see a tranquil scene; cows resting under street lamps, people preparing dinner, children being herded indoors. In the back of my mind I know this is my last gaze at Sapucai. I drink in the view, and feel unbearably sad. I turn from this scene, look down the dirt highway, and stoically place one foot in front of another until the town can no longer be seen in the murky night.
I'm not afraid of walking this road at night. I've walked it at least four times a day, so I know it like an old friend. I like this red clay road. I know its secret ruts, the sound of the crunch of my feet on it, the way it smells, the way it feels. The moon comes out, adding pale illumination. The road assumes an ethereal quality, as trees along the side come to life as moving silhouettes and the little streams appear to be of the deepest black water.
Tonight's walk is no different than last night's walk, except I know I will never travel this road again. Only now the realization of "never" hits me. It's over. Seeing the sights along the road for the last time bathed in a pale light seems an oddly appropriate ending.
I pass a lone roadside stand. I know the owner quite well -- she likes to visit my family. My passing salutation her is mechanical, forced, since I can't find the words to express my feelings.
Never. Never again will I see this stand. Never will I see the huge tree by the side of the road which houses innumerable little red birds. Walking on this dark road for the last time is like losing a part of my life; the road has come to symbolize my attachment to my town. What will I do without this road? Each day it led me to new mysteries. Now, all that is over.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a brief flicker. Then, another to my leftÉ I turn towards a field by the side of the road, and see it lit by innumerable little glinting lights. Fireflies! It is a beautiful display, one I never noticed before.
I suddenly feel better. The road taught me a lesson, that even in endings one can discover new things, new beginnings. As I open the gate leading to my house, I am heady from the sudden rush of joy which fills me.
After all, nothing says my amazing experience will ever end.