A choice of suffering

Unearned suffering is redemptive.

- Martin Luther King

I had been in Barra do Bugres for about six months when a stranger knocked at my door. I could tell he was American by the sensible shoes he wore.

The man lived in Paraguay but owned a tract of land about 40 miles from town. With his wife and son, he had come to take a look at it and to see what he had for squatters. My Brazilian counterpart had told him that I would go along.

So the next morning we left, knowing only the general location of the property. After scores of questions to people along the road, we learned we had to go to a place called Boi Morto (Dead Steer or Ox), then get across the Rio Paraguai and down the other bank for a good distance.

The trip of six or eight miles from the county road to Boi Morto took hours. We were constantly stuck, with no tools of any kind. Instead we broke little twigs, then jacked the car up, one wheel at a time to get a little traction. It seemed impossible, but the fellow was insane, never speaking without profanity and screams.

We finally arrived at the river and two or three mud houses. My companion made arrangements for horses and a guide. The river was running bank full and over 200 meters wide, and I knew we'd never get the horses over. My companion (I never knew his name) made arrangements for his family to stay at Boi Morto until we got back the next day.

A young man leading three horses walked up and we headed for the river which looked lethal. We inched into the tippy, hand-made dugout canoe where I sat in the rear, holding the horses. The river was fast, and I didn't expect to ever see the other side. But the guide was a master, and the horses were amazing. It was an easy trip, and my suffering began after we landed.

The Brazilians use a McClellan type saddle and the horses are slab-sided. These were old, decrepit saddles, and when I went to get on my horse, I realized that mine didn't have stirrups. We had 26 km. (about 16 mi.) to ride over muddy jungle trails, so I knew that life was not going to be good to me.

It was worse than I expected. Sometimes I sat on the horse's rump, sometimes I sat sideways, or even backwards. Nothing worked for more than 10 minutes, and the trail was too mucky and full of deadfall for me to walk. To add to the torture, I discovered that I had lost my cigarettes when I crawled on the horse back at the river, and it would be the next afternoon before I could get some more.

But at least I had my choice of sufferings. I could dwell on my burning legs, or I could revel in my need for nicotine. At least it offered a change.

We arrived about dark at a little enclave of squatters on the man's property. Looking back, I know we were well at risk of getting shot and our bodies being left for the anacondas for which the area was famous. But the leader of the group was an intelligent man and willing to have a dialog. We were lucky.

They killed a chicken and fed us, then I lay on a homemade bench while my companion and the squatters talked. My legs were still burning - even hours later.

We left early the next morning. The ride back was a killer, but it seemed to go more quickly than the day before. I had the leg situation almost figured out, but it was still difficult. My tobacco craving waxed and waned, so at times that was my priority.

Back at Boi Morto my legs got some rest, but most of the people who lived in that remote place had probably never even purchased a pack of cigarettes, smoking the Brazilian rope tobacco, instead. So, they had nothing for me to beg from them.

The trip back to the county road was worse than the day before. We got stuck a myriad of times, always with yelling and ridiculous measures to get out of the mud holes.

We finally arrived at the little crossroads of Porto Estrela, that offered a couple palm-roofed bars. I hobbled into one of them, and luckily the man had cigarettes to sell. I bought a pack and had a cigarette lit before the man made change.

We got back to Barra and the family dropped me at my house. I never heard from the man again.

Good.