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seventeen Imiss my morning chats with Joselino very much. Even on days when the news he delivers is particularly grim, he has something to say about soccer, the rains, his girlfriends, Antigua gossip , or world affairs that cheers me up. I miss his quirky human touch. The anonymous manner by which The Globe and Mail arrives on my front porch in Canada does not compare. When I make my way through its pages the trace of Guatemala is as faint as the trace of Canada is there. Guatemala, I have learned to accept, unfolds in a trajectory of its own elaboration. It has become for me a peculiar habit of mind, a metaphor of life and death. The only thing I’m sure of is that its citizens deserve better than they get. I think of Isaías, a gardener who lost his job in an organizational reshuffle, and wonder if he’s found some other employment. I think of José, who shines shoes for a living, and wonder if the money I left with him secured him a place to live. I think of Beto, a tramp who sits outside the Hotel Aurora acknowledging alms with the smile of an angel. I think of the woman in Antigua who sells arroz, a delicious hot drink made of rice and milk, and wonder if inflation will cause her to raise the price of a glass another fifty centavos. I think of the nuns I visit at San Cristóbal Totonicapán, and wonder how the medicine they distribute is holding up. How was Guatemala? I’ll know better next time I visit. how wAs guAteMAlA? ...

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