Paraguayan Letradismo

Paraguayans often call each other “letrado.” It’s a little difficult to translate directly to English, but “letrado” most nearly means cunning, sneaky, or possibly mischievous. The people here talk about small precocious children as being “letrado,” and it’s a good thing. But with adults, it’s not quite the same, unless it’s said with a smile and a wink, it’s almost an insult. And recently, I was the victim of some very “letrado” behavior. To wit: 

This story starts with Antonio. I’ve written a little before about him. He is short, with a shock of hair more pepper than salt, but which he dyes to hide the gray. He is the director (pronounced “directooor” in Spanish) of Potrero Pucu’s elementary and middle schools.

Like many Paraguayans, he wears other hats: he is also the president of Caballero’s city council, Caballero being my district capital. And of course, he is my contact. He is also one of those back-slappy, trickster types, and he loves to play the mischief maker with me.

One story he is always telling is about the time he invited me to eat some fresh barbecue at his house. I walked the three kilometers to his house only to discover that he hadn’t cooked barbecue at all, but a Brazilian dish called fleichao. (Don’t get me wrong, it’s delicious. It’s just not barbecue.)

Several weeks ago, while I was visiting Victorina and Nestor – my host sister and her husband – in Asuncion, Antonio called at almost 10pm. Twice.

When I called him back, he told me, “Santo, I’ve heard that a couple of people are really angry at you. I need to talk to you tomorrow about how you messed up.” The word he used in Spanish was “fallaste,” or, “you failed.” It was a very strong way to phrase things.

This is the last thing I wanted to be hearing with less than a month before swearing out.  The next day I ran into him and he explained that my host dad had called him that night – totally drunk – and said my house was always dirty and he didn’t want other volunteers living here.

“I’m just telling you because I’m your contact,” he said.

This should have been my first hint that something didn’t smell right.

My host dad – Tesho – doesn’t have a phone. He never talks on one. And he never gets aggressively drunk.

I asked him, he denied it. I asked his daughter, Victorina. She was as mystified as her father. Perhaps Antonio just did it because he felt threatened by my leaving, and wanted to reassert some authority? Perhaps he just wanted a laugh?

In the states, I would have probably blown a fuse, and ripped him for screwing with my head. But in Paraguay, that would just get me a reputation for being disrespectful and disagreeable. So, like I have done so many times before, I swallowed it.

But that incident did remind me that I’d better tidy up my house and lawn for Holy Week.

So I asked around for a couple of weeks, trying – without success – to find someone to mow my lawn.

Then one day last week, I traveled to Zorillakue, to visit my neighbor Alejandra, and help her start painting a world map at her neighborhood school. While I was there I ran into the directora’s husband, a guy named Mingo.

Mingo had cut my host family’s lawn once, I remembered. Oh, Happy Day! We chatted and he agreed to come cut both lawns the next week.

A week later, I was back in Zorillakue painting. Mingo called me from my house, and told me he was starting the work.

“How much are you going to charge,” I asked.

“I’ll do both for 200 mil,” he said.

It physically stopped me in my tracks. Paying 200 mil for a job like that would be like paying 20 dollars for a loaf of Wonderbread. It’s more than three times a typical day’s labor.

“I can’t pay that, Mingo,” I told him.

“Ok, ok, ok,” he said. “I’ll do it for just 180 mil.”

“Mingo, just do half,” I said. “I can’t pay that much.”

Now it’s important to note that prices are pretty standard here. Except in the tourist markets in Asuncion, there isn’t really a lot of haggling. My entire time in Paraguay, I’ve only been ripped off once or twice.

So inevitably, I started over-thinking it. Did I underpay him last time? There’s a lot of lawn, is that work possibly worth that much? And as a foreigner, you get comfortable, but, things are never totally clear-cut here. I'll never know for sure that Tesho didn't borrow my host brother's phone and call Antonio.

When he came to Alex’s house to collect, he asked for 100 mil, which I paid. “It’s probably fine,” I thought. “I’m working for free for his wife, he wouldn’t screw me.”

I arrived at my house to find the lawn not even half way mown. He’d mowed my host family’s, and then done a cursory job on mine.

The final straw was when I found out he had also charged my host mom an additional 50 mil.

“I don’t ever want him back on the property,” I practically spat. (Which is funny, since I’m leaving this country in two weeks.)

I later found out my host dad heard him talking to me on the phone.

“Why didn’t you say anything to him,” I all but yelled at him.

“You’re right to say that to me,” he said, looking distinctly shamefaced.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter. I got played, badly. It’s a phenomenon that happens with Peace Corps Volunteers. You get comfortable, settled into a place, thinking you almost belong. And then something happens to remind you, no, you’re the gringo, and as much as some people like – and even love – you, you’ll never quite be the same as them.

But it's sad to think that even after two years here, you still always have to be on your toes and you can never fully trust people.