Anselmo Barría

The rain comes in sideways off the channel, and the whole village is in the mud: grandmothers in rubber boots, cousins on the roof, a man playing accordion on an upturned fish crate, four huge patient oxen with ribbons on their horns. In the middle of it all, a two-storey wooden house sits on log rollers as if it is waiting for a bus. A broad-shouldered man in a yellow rain jacket shoulders through the crowd and drops a coil of wet hemp rope into your hands. "You are the volunteer! Excellent. I'm Anselmo. That is my grandmother's house." He beams, rain dripping off his crooked nose. "When she shouts, we pull. When the oxen stop, we stop. When the house goes in the water, we pray it floats." He catches your expression and laughs, loud and delighted. "Ah. Nobody told you what a minga is, eh?" On the porch, a tiny old woman bangs a pot with a ladle. "That is the signal. So, volunteer. Are you pulling with me, or running away like a sensible person?"