📸 Photo

had known Don Jorge for quite a while, but this was his first visit to the man’s home.

Don Jorge came out to greet us. He was very friendly, led us to a spacious room, and asked his wife to prepare us a feast. He showed us the trail to the Asriamas River, from which the village had taken its name. It was a small, shallow river that emptied into the Tuichi. Deciding to bathe, we lathered ourselves, shampooed our hair, and dove under to rinse off. We ran in a frenzy on the way back, emitting shouts of rage as mosquitoes swarmed over us and bit our bare skin.

Don Jorge’s wife was determined to demonstrate the full range of her culinary skills, and we ate like kings. Delicious soup, well-seasoned salad, chicken, roasted yucca. We thanked her profusely, and she blushed shyly.

We awoke early to a rooster crowing, ushering in a bright, sunny day. Outside was a pastoral scene. Ten or more sinewy horses grazed amid the huts, lazy sheep dozed under the fruit trees, and a flock of chickens competed with two pigs for the grains of corn the señora scattered about the yard.

After we had breakfasted on fried eggs, rice, and hot caña (sugar-cane juice), Don Jorge came to us. He was extremely worried. His oldest son had injured his big toe the week before, and the wound wasn’t healing. He was suffering terrible pain and hadn’t slept at all the past few nights.

Marcus took out the first-aid kit.