The day I decided to buy a cow was, strangely enough, shortly after I’d eaten a hearty midday meal of beef at a roadside comedor enroute from the Maya ruins of Tikal to San Vicente.
The heavy rain of the previous night had turned the bumpy road into a sea of mud. The truck slipped through impressions filled with soft cinnamon-coloured goop. Within 50 yards we realized we had a problem. The wheels of Beto’s truck were wider than its body and protruded beyond the wheel wells, the deep tire treads of the tires grabbing handfuls of mud like cookie dough and instead of kicking it under the truck, shooting it out in splatters 10 feet on either side of the vehicle.
The faster we drove, the more the mud splattered as though we were inside a child’s Fisher Price popper push toy. Laughing wildly we sprayed pigs, signposts and chickens who ran for cover.
Before long, we came up behind a local in a white shirt, pressed pants and shiny dress shoes riding a motorbike.. He was carefully navigating the potholes, driving on the edges of the roadway attempting to keep his clothes clean.
“Pase, pase,” he waved indicating we should pass him.
“Trust me you don’t want us to pass,” I thought as even bigger globs of mud flew past my window like wet snowballs. But the motorcyclist didn’t have to worry about getting hit. At the next deep puddle, we heard a thump from under the truck.
“Dios, there goes the muffler,” said Javier. By the time we made it to the town of La Reforma, we were such a noisy mudpie on wheels we didn’t even have to ask directions to the repair shop, the locals heard us coming and pointed the way.
Mecanico Sanchez was an open air garage with flowerbeds made of discarded tires out front. The mechanics – all brothers – worked on an assortment of trucks and cars in four crude bays. A Massey Ferguson tractor, a Dodge Ram truck, several Toyotas and even a Mercury outboar engine lay scattered in various states of disrepair.
Javier created a chair by upturing an old gas can and laying cardboard across it so I could read while they worked. Sparks flew from welding torches being wielded by a mechanic beneath the car in front of me. In between the revving engines and the click click of ratchets, another mechanic in flip flips and cut-off shorts slid under another vehicle on a piece of cardboard, his shirt sliding up to reveal taut brown abs.
“Not a bad way to spend the afternoon,” I thought, admiring the view.
I could hear Javier laughing and joking with the owner as though they’d been friends their entire life. Three hours and $25 later, the muffler had been fixed. At a roadside stand, we grabbed some beef carne asado plus tortillas with black beans topped with dry cheese to fortify us and were on our way.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the comments Chef had made at La Lancha about how highly he prized the dry cheese from Zacapa. I’d spent time with women in their homes while they were making it and it didn’t seem that difficult to make. Formed into wheels and air dried for a month before it is grated, it is white, crumbly and somewhat stinky.
“What makes it so special?” I asked Javier.
“The arid climate affects the grass the cows graze on here. It’s like when a tree is dry, it produces its best fruit. Sort of an attempt to procreate before it dies.”
At Rio Dulce, we stopped to grab a dozen pineapples from a roadside stand and soon the SUV was filled with their sweet fragrance. As we headed back down the highway, our three cell phones started ringing. The family had given us a cell phone with two more as back-ups in case we needed help. Now that we were scheduled to return, it seemed everyone was calling to learn our estimated time of arrival or to update us on what was planned for dinner and ask whether I’d like it. They added minutes to the cell phones remotely so the phones beeped and vibrated every few minutes signifying even more minutes had been added. It was easy to get caught up in the dinner discussions and I realized I was looking forward to spending more time in San Vicente.
As the miles went on, I even began to daydream about becoming a cheesemaker. It wasn’t so totally far-fetched. I’d registered to take a course in cheese-making at the agricultural college in Gloucester England the previous fall, but it had been cancelled. Why pay thousands of dollars and go overseas when there was perfectly good cheese and plenty of enthusiastic teachers here? It would be a good source of income for the people in the village. The more I thought about it, the better the idea seemed.
In fact, I could partner with 10-year old Victor who would soon be needing monies to go to school. Rather than pay for his schooling outright, it made sense to share the profits. He was already looking after a dozen dairy cows for Mama Tayo (plus the bad-tempered one we’d received as a wedding gift) so an extra few bovines wouldn’t make much difference. Javier’s family had once had a herd of 65 cattle so there was plenty of room in the corral.
“How much does a cow cost?” I asked Javier.
“Why?
“Well, maybe, I’ll buy one.” I ventured. He started laughing so hard that the next person who called could barely make out what he was saying. Word got around – with much laughing - and Yemo his brother finally called. Rosabelle, his wife had 15 cows of her own and his father-in-law had a ranch with several hundred head of cattle.
“We can give you a cow,” he said.”Just pick one.”
That wasn’t really the idea. I wanted to add to the family’s wealth not just transfer it.
Eventually he disclosed that one could buy a cow for around 3,000 quetzals or $500. I just happened to have that much set aside. I was considering Botox on my forehead.
“How much milk does each cow produce?”
“Eight litres per day. For around six months a year.”
“How long do they produce milk for?”
“About 10 years, and then you eat them,” he said looking at me gauging my reaction.
“Not mine,” I vowed. “They’d be retired. Do the cows have names?”
I thought about choosing bovine names from my favourite cumbia songs – la negra thomasa or la sonora dinamita
“No, locita not names like that.” he laughed “More like “short ears”, “long tail” or something that describes its appearance so you can track it down if it goes missing.”
The cell phone rang again. It was his brother calling to remind me that I’d have to go to the town of Cabanas to get a cattle brand with my name on it.
“No,” I shook my head remembering a photo of a steers’ tortured face as it was getting branded and smoke rose off its haunches as it burned.
“Maybe you can get a GPS in your cow’s ear,” said Yemo, as his howls of laughter echoed through the vehicle. Javier’s family found me the subject of much hilarity. Between my fear of cockroaches and propensity to feed stray dogs, I was known as a real wuss. Family members were sent to my room to distract me with conversation or take me for a long walk whenever an animal was about to be slaughtered.
“A GPS is actually a good idea,” I said.
“He’s just joking,” Javier said. “Someone would steal your cow and cut off its ear. You’d be wondering why your cow hadn’t moved all day.”
The next phone call was from Daniel who had managed to reach the woman selling the property next door to his. She was going through a divorce and was willing to accept the price we’d offered. It was like a positive omen for our new life in Guatemala.
“Can you get back to the city tonight?” Daniel asked. With several rental properties, a cantina, various fruit trees and a half-dozen construction projects in progress, he was the family’s go-to guy when it came to city business.
“If you get back tonight, you sign the papers at the notary before you return to Canada.”
This meant we’d have to cut short our trip to San Vicente. There’d be no time to stay overnight. We pushed on through the mountains and the miles slipped by. We arrived in San Vicente as the sun was setting behind the mountains. The whole town glowed as a pomegranate sun reflected its rays off the stucco homes. Herds of cows returning from pasture blocked passage as they lumbered along led by small children who swatted them with switches to make way for us. Groups of campesinos with rumpled white cowboy hats and beers in hand slouched at street corners. As we passed, a shout would sound out.
“Javier! Sunsa!” they called using his nickname.
Unlike my part of Canada, where people’s nicknames were most often an abbreviation, such as Peggy or Sheri, in Guatemala almost every male has a colourful moniker they carry from childhood through life. The names usually reference something in their appearance. I’d met Chillillo (aka Oscar the muscular security guard) as well as the ominous-sounding Muerto or “Dead Man” named on account of his pale face and erect body posture. There was the culturally-inappropriate Chino or “Chinaman” and the inexplicable Dente Frio “Cold Teeth”. Javier was named after the sunsa fruit which had a shock of black which resembled his hair that had once stuck out at angles.
“Sunsa,” shouted someone from a cantina.
“Want to see my huevo (ball)?” Javier hollered back. This generated howls of laughter from several of the women. Grandmothers now, they’d been young girls when Javier’s hernia -- acquired at age nine from hauling heavy bushels of lemons -- resulted in a swollen testicle the size of a grapefruit. Until operated on, his one jumbo ball had garnered much notoriety about town.
“A cousin. Another cousin. The mayor,” he said in explanation of the most notable figures who greeted us. “Make sure you wave back.”
Feeling like a cross between ridiculous and returning royalty we made our way through the narrow streets and the final ascent up the steep hill leading to the ranch. Tia Maria stood at the gate wiping her hands dry on her apron.
“Get the hose and start washing that truck” she shouted at a group of neighbourhood children.
Mama and Alba had on their hairnets which meant that some serious cooking was going on. Beyond the chicken coop, the enormous clay oven was blazing and a steady trail of smoke curled out of the corners. Alba slid in a wooden lifter to slide out the first tray of quesadilla. Unlike the Mexican quesadilla which is a tortilla stuffed with melted cheese, in Guatemala it was a dense cheese sponge cake. I took a bite and enjoyed the dense cornmeal-like taste. It was substantial and hefty but light in flavour.
Javier’s father had tears in his eyes. He patted my arm as we readied. Although many people found it hard to figure out what Papa was saying since his stroke, because he spoke so slowly I could often understand him when others couldn’t.
With the truck loaded up, we headed back out. The stars were already rising over the darkened mountains and the winding road to the main highway was deserted. It was quite peaceful with the silhouettes of tuno cacti like upraised arms flanking our passageway. Halfway to Guatemala City, we got stuck in a cola, a line of cars crossing the mountains through road construction. Opportunistic vendors sold bags of cashews and provided traffic updates as they walked from car window to window. By the time we hit the city, my body was aching and sore.
“I really must have had a workout climbing those pyramids,” I groused. My whole body ached. Every inch seemed as though it had been beaten with a rubber mallet. My joints were especially stiff and I just couldn’t get comfortable so matter how I maneuvered my body. We’d been travelling for over 12 hours and I was more than ready to get out of the truck. .
“It’s going to take awhile longer too” said Javier. “December 7th is El Dia del Diablo (Day of the Devil) so there are a lot of people on the street.”
Celebrated in various parts of Catholic Latin America, the day precedes the Feast of the Virgin Mary. But before Mary can be welcomed, the devil must be cleared away. Like many fiestas in Latin America, El Dia del Diablo has pagan roots. In Guatemalan folk traditions, the devil is a protagonist of authority, establishment and suppression. As such, it symbolizes all that is oppressive such as economic problems, corrupt government and bad health.
Bright red piñatas of mini diablos strung together like ropes of garlic from roadside stands. Their pudgy Yosemite Sam bodies seemed more comical than diabolical to me
“Wouldn’t they make cute souvenirs?” I’d suggested thinking of taking a few back to Canada for Halloween.
“They’re stuffed with firecrackers so forget it,” said Javier. He didn’t need to remind me of when I’d purchased a good luck charm in the witch’s market of La Paz, Bolivia for my mother Mom had taken the offering into the back yard of our home in Winnipeg and lit it under a full moon as instructed. The parcel had erupted in a flaming pyre of smoke so voluminous that my father had been forced to call the fire department. Apparently it had been stuffed with llama fat and gunpowder. I guess I was lucky to have made it past customs and that she hadn’t been injured.
“Tonight, they’ll place los diablos on top of garbage, douse it with gasoline and set the whole thing on fire. You won’t want to be anywhere near it.”
“It actually sounds like something I don’t want to miss,” I thought.
Bonfires were already burning and cheers echoed through the streets after each series of explosions. By the time we drove into the darkened slums of the colonia of San Jose Villa Nueva, fires burned on both sides of the road. Silhouetted in the shadows were women with babes in arms, old people bundled in parkas, men swigging litre bottles of Gallo beer and deeper within the shadows, couples pressed against each other necking hungrily. Tendrils of smoke curled upward. The streets looked like a war zone with a bacchanalian feel.
“Roll the window up,” Javier advised as he noticed me trying to catch a breeze. I felt hot despite the chill in the air. The general rule for driving through San Jose Villa Nueva was that once you got to your own barrio or neighbourhood you were safe, but until then it was best to keep your windows rolled up, your doors locked and your speed steady.
We squeezed the truck down the narrow streets to Daniel and Thelma’s where we’d be spending the next few nights. As we slowed to navigate over speed bumps, I peered into the open doorways of homes, storefronts and shops, their interiors illuminated by solitary dangling light bulbs. A sense of intimacy infused the streets as though residents were offering strangers glimpses into their everyday lives. In the peluqueria or hair salon a woman was getting her hair blow-dried while next door a woman sold the last of the day’s tortillas. Inside the evangelist church, in a former garage, people sat on lawn chairs singing hymns.
Although I was tempted to walk around the neighbourhood and take part in el Dia del Diablo rituals, deep aches were taking over my body and I felt strangely exhausted, shivering despite wearing my coat, jeans and socks. I went straight to bed at Daniel and Thelma’s.
Weary yet unable to sleep, I blamed the 13 hour drive through the mountains and the noise in the kitchen for my discomfort. I could hear Javier laughing and drinking venado, the clear colourless rum that looks like hooch. He and Daniel talked on and on about politics, family and the past. Finally by 2 am, and several buenas noches and flushes of the toilet later, everyone headed to their bedrooms. I used the opportunity to slip into the washroom. As I sat on the toilet, I raised my feet up to keep them off the damp tile floor.
As my eyes idly scanned the shower door I saw the unmistakable shape of five cockroaches - each the size of my index finger - silhouetted on the inside of the shower door. They sat motionless in the shadow of the shower stall. I hurried out before they moved.
By now, I was shivering so hard I could barely walk. Plus, the aching in my bones had intensified so that it felt as though someone had beaten me with a stick. I felt bruised even though there were no marks on my body. I couldn’t remember ever having been so tired. I could feel tears welling in my eyes. .I wished with all my heart I was back home in my own bed in Canada.
“Tomorrow we sign the papers for our new house,” Javier whispered as he climbed into his side of the bed.
“Good, then you can move into it after we split up,” I snarled.
Share with your friends: | 
