Today on the way to the river as I passed by the casa behind that of José Vidaca, a stumpy little boy with bright agate eyes called to me, “Gringo, Gringo,” followed by some words I could not make out. I nodded and shrugged and continued on my way to the river. Returning, as I passed the same casa, the little boy called to me again, running his words together, but this time I understood, “Gringo, Gringo, no tiene nada para catarro?”

“¿Para quien?” I asked.

“Para mi,” he replied.

“Pués, vamos a hablar con tu mamá,” I replied, and he led me through the gate and into the casa.

“Buenas tardes. Pásele,” said the mother, bringing a chair, “Siéntese.”

“¿Es que su hijo tiene catarro?” I asked.

“Ay, muy mal catarro,” replied the mother. She also pointed out the “boquilla” (open sore by the mouth) and “llagas” (sores) on the legs of the infant. I told her I had medicines for these, too, and stressed the importance of eating fruit, vegetables, meat, eggs, milk, and the like, in short all those foods that were difficult to come by and the family could scarcely afford. The mother asked me next if I had anything for “lombrizes,” and told me sometimes this same little boy evacuated giant round worms “como así,” and she held her hands more than a foot apart, indicating the length. Now the worms were not as bad as they had been, she said, when the child’s body had wasted away while his paunch had become distended with the bulk of hungry worms. Not only had he passed the giant worms in his excreta, they had emerged from his nose and mouth as well.

I told the mother that I had medicine for worms as well, and if she would step around the corner with me to the casa of José Vidaca I would give them to her. She hesitated, and then said, “Es que nosotros no vamos alla.” I could not resist asking “por qué” but got no more answer than, “Estamos enojados con ellos. No hablamos.” I told her I would bring the medicine.

Similarly I encountered another family, living not far from the house of José Vidaca who wanted medicines but were “annoyed” with the Vidaca household and refused to go there, even to pick up medicines. When I asked why they mentioned something about one of the girls there striking one of their children, but the annoyance seemed more deep-seated than that.

Back at the household, I asked about this annoyance between the families but could get no more specific responses than, “Es que hay gente que le gusta pelear” or simply “Son tontos” or “locos.” I asked how long these annoyances had been doing on.

“Hace años.”

“And how long were they apt to continue?”

“Años…”

But never could I obtain any specific reasons for the annoyances. I think they have long since been forgotten.
Perhaps the, old abuelo is right, “Es que hay gente que le gusta pelear.” *

Sofía told me that “la mujer” of one of the families which is annoyed was spreading the word in the village that “Las medicinas del Gringo son malas. La gente que las toman van a morir. “

But until someone dies—and it can happen (sooner or later it is inevitable)—I am not worried. The people still greet me with welcome as I walk down the street, they still call me onto their verandas to give me a couple of eggs, or a handful of peanuts, or a piece of cheese, or a “lima.” They still send their children with a plateful of “cochetas” or of “buñuelos.” And where there are mumps, or fever, or boils, or mouth ulcers, or arthritis, or dysentery, or hemorrhages, or cuts, or pelagra, or ricketts, or epilepsy, or stuffy noses etc. etc., they still come if they can, or send a child to fetch me.