In Pinglo, as I had expected, the plane was not there, and we went to the farm on the opposite bank of the Río Santiago to bargain for the cattle that a farmer wants to sell; he has lived here for twenty-five years and is starting to find it too lonely. A cloudburst drove me onto the porch of his house, where I played with two newborn puppies. Not even the death of a chicken shall have been in vain.
