Bethy Luz

There is a lady who idles at the hostel where we are staying whose name is Bethy Luz. Bethy is 25 years old and she is fitting to burst with the pregnancy of her second baby. Her due date is in two days.

"But this one will be late," she tells Carly and I, "I can tell."

We sit and chat with her on the narrow little porch of the hospedaje, looking over the plaza of Masisea. It is dusk, and our view of the plaza is from the backside, a slanting downward sort of view.

We slap at mosquitoes, smearing the blood over our shins. The sphere of Betty Luz's belly is imposing. She shifts awkwardly around it, uncomfortable.

I try to think of anything I can give her. In this corner of the world, prenatal care and prenatal visits are almost unheard of.

We do have a few cartons of women's vitamins, which come in the form of foil wrapped chocolate cherry flavored chews. They are a donation item from the United States. Our Peruvian Doctor makes fun of them, this extravagance of American culture.

For the same amount of space and weight, hundreds of compact, bitter multi-vitamin pills could be sent down, instead of these sweet vitamin-enhanced candies, which turn into goo in the jungle heat, and come in clumbersome cartons of 60.

Or better yet, the kind people in donation countries could send chickens. Chickens to lay eggs that could be traded for fruit or vegetables to give pregnant mommies natural vitamins. Chickens to produce more chickens to be sold to finance an education or put a tin roof on a house.

But for today, we have chocolate vitamins. They may seem frivolous in the face of so much need, but Bethy Luz accepts them with sweet appreciation. For this moment, it's the best I have.