On the same November day two hundred miles away an Indian farmer was plowing in a field near Putaman. Jorge Mercado in torn dirty overalls and covered with sweat stopped to speak to a neighbor farmer, Fabio Compas, passing by. “Fabio, I don’t know if this is worth it. But I have to plant or Pablo and me will starve.” Pablo Mercado, seven years old, was within sight kicking a large ball and running after it. “I need to sit down; tell me what’s new, Fabio, I know you have one of those television sets?”

     “The same news; the price of coffee beans keep dropping. The good news is the weather, sunny with afternoon thunder storms. The government’s aerial pesticide spraying for coca plants at Perez’s destroyed part of Mendoza’s maize. Then two more ranchers were kidnaped over at Anamar last week. And another cow was stolen from my barn Wednesday night. The lock was sawed off. I don’t know who the thief was. I pay protection money.” “I do too,” interjected Jorge, “How can we be neutral?” Fabio answered, “We can’t.” If we are neutral, the rebels, the military, or the socialists are suspicious that we are against them. And if you help one, the others...well, you know.”

     “All I have is Pokey my mule here; if someone kills or takes her, I won’t be able to survive; I have to keep her in the house with me. No one will help us poor farmers.” “The U.S.A. is trying to help us, Jorge, but the aid is not reaching us. The money is mostly going to agriculture classes in the university, but none is available to us working the land.” “True, we get poorer every year unless we decide to grow coca. My farm is all I have, Corona wanted me to sell it, but last year when she died, I decided to plant beans again one more time, see what happens, and think about it. How is your wife? I haven’t seen her since the funeral.” “Fabio answered, “She’s tired all the time; says I work her too hard.” “Maybe you both could come down to visit some Sunday afternoon. Maybe she could wear some of Corona’s dresses. Excuse me a moment, I need to call my son over here.” Getting up he called, “Pablo, come here!”