Last night I slept with don pancho

Chapter 33: I Take a Beating

We returned in June to construction chaos. Chepito’s house had been completed and painted a bright tangeriner, a colour chosen by his new bride.

“If you get lost at night, at least you can use it to find your way home,” he said looking faintly embarrassed by its brilliance. Compared to the faded white homes in the other parts of the village, it was a shining beacon and boded well for their marriage I thought. Others thought it ostentatious. Public opinion mattered in San Vicente. One cousin had built a grand home on the outskirts of town and then abandoned it when rumours circulated that la llorona, a plaintive female ghost that lured men to their death, had been spotted flitting about its front door. The cousin, a single guy no doubt susceptible to la llorona’s charms, refused to move in and left the house empty rather than risk eternal damnation.

Yemo had begun construction of an equally grand weekend home on a parcel of land carved out of Papa Nico’s property across from our home. Its construction had drawn the ire of Samuel, a disenfranchised cousin, who lived on the remaining piece of land. Samuel had done a stint in the army – and whatever deeds he’d done had left him with post-traumatic shock disorder. He was unpredictable and angry – a bad combination – and threatened to shoot someone if Yemo didn’t stop building. But Yemo had paid for Papa Nico’s funeral and the land was in exchange, so there was nothing anyone – even Javier-- could do.

As for the Sanchez property, the corral was empty, my cow along with others, moved to a new corral at the edge of the village.

“Take a look,” said Victor, showing off the renovations on our building. He was now supervising the family’s construction projects when he wasn’t tending crops. In spite of this extra responsibility, he appeared much calmer than he had earlier in the year. No doubt relieved Papa Chalo was confined to bed and no longer able to chase him with the machete unannounced.

I was impressed by the progress. The bathroom had been renovated and a new bedroom constructed near the horno, the enormous clay oven. Tucked beside the chicken coop, it couldn’t be considered quiet or, thanks to the horno cool, but it had been freshly tiled, painted and sealed so there was little chance of mice sneaking in and eating the cotton out of my pillow while I slept. The fresh paint also seemed to banish the spirits of the uncles who had been murdered in the room. At least that’s what I hoped.

“This will have to do for now, until we build the second story,” said Javier, joining me in the doorway “Then we’ll have a nice view and some fresh breezes.”

We cracked open a bottle of Gallo beer and each grabbed a hammock on the patio. A few chickens clucked past and, as I swung lazily to and fro, I could see our bedroom. It actually looked much improved.
The next morning I awoke to the sound of Javier shouting, as he is prone to do when talking on a cell phone. Whether working or joking with his friends, when it comes to cell phones, he never talks in a normal tone of voice. It’s always as though someone has just reached the Antarctic and the satellite connection is about to slip out of range.

“I can’t believe my bad luck,” he shouted, recounting a recent string of experiences in Canada. He’d had three car accidents (none his fault) and almost severed a finger when a freak wind blew a steel door shut at a construction site.

Javier tapped his foot and listened to advice from Juan Carlos on the other end of the line.

“I’d forgotten about la chilca,” he laughed, looking at the six black stitches twisting up the length of his finger.

Juan Carlos had recommended a pilgrimage to la chilca, a willow tree in San Vicente where locals went to rid themselves of bad luck or bad spirits. In Guatemala City, even the sex workers of La Linea revered the plant and were known to make holy water using willow sap to sprinkle across their doorways as a protective talisman. But Juan Carlos had no idea where la chilca of San Vicente was actually located.

“Tia Maria will know,” I said, happy to have something to do besides swing in a hammock all day. Not only was she an incredible gossip, knowing everything that went on around town, but she believed in miracles and had personally done the pilgrimage to the statue of the Black Christ in Esquipulas four times. She told tales of how she walked the 120 miles and slept by the river, rising at dawn each day and fasting on the final leg of the journey. That gave her considerable street cred when it came to matters of local spirituality in my books.

It was a short walk to Tia Maria’s cantina, conveniently located in her living room. She was on the front terrace as usual. Now 72 years old, she looked unchanged over the years. Still a twinkle in her eye and a button undone on her dishevelled blouse, she took a swig from a bottle of Gallo before rising to greet us.

“You’ve grown so gorda (fat),” she said, as she hugged me and grabbed a piece of my waistline with her strong fingers in the process.

“Even your face is rounder. And what a tummy!” she continued, walking around me as though I was a new car about to be purchased.

“Um, Tia,” interrupted Javier. “In Canada, everything you’ve said is an insulto.”

“Really?” she continued, undeterred. “But look at the roll around her waist.”

“Que chula!” she added, making a shapely female form with her two hands. Her husband, Don Amado, lying in a nearby hammock, also a bottle of Gallo in hand, nodded approvingly.

It was true that my pants were a little bit tight but I wasn’t that much fatter than I’d been earlier that year. I decided to change the topic.

“Do you know where la chilca is, Tia?” I asked. “Javier needs to get rid of some bad luck.”

She paused to serve two patrons. While she was inside, I took a look at her garden. The tiny lopsided clay house, which had stood with poinsettias growing out of its roof since the earthquake of 1976, had been torn down and replaced by a shiny new bedroom. In the Guatemalan style, bedrooms were free-standing buildings, separated from the main house. This one was especially pretty as it had white lattice work around the windows and a nice terrace out front.

“You could rent that out,” I suggested to Don Amado, who just shrugged. He spent most of his time in the hammock, a consequence of unidentified enfermedades.

“Hurricane Mitch and Hurricane Edna changed the route to la chilca,” said Tia Maria, returning to the front terrace. “Most people just go to the farmacia in Cabanas if they’re sick. But it’s still there.”

Hurricanes had altered the contours of the whole village. Flooding from the San Vicente River had washed away our family’s lemon grove and reshaped plots of land, further agitating Papa Chalo as he no longer recognized his property and accused someone – usually Victor – of stealing it.

“Take the Chaparral road to a small abandoned building where a foot path leads into the woods,” said Tia. “Follow that trail and you’ll see it.”

“The Bible says you shouldn’t praise false idols,” said Don Amado, attempting to rise out of the hammock in indignation. He was an evangelist and, while he was willing to tolerate Tia Maria’s Catholic beliefs in miracles, shrines and saints, worshipping a willow tree was really too much.

I was tempted to remind him that throughout history, dating back to the willowy maidens of British and Irish mythology, willow trees had been revered for their healing energy. Known as a tree of enchantment, its leaves and branches were valued for their sacred powers and more practically, for pain relief much like modern day Aspirin. According to the Bible, a willow tree even stood by the waters of Babylon.

Superstitions ran high in San Vicente so it wasn’t difficult to find people willing to make the pilgrimage to la chilca. Thelma, Beto and Javier joined me in the pick-up and Herardo acted as scout on a motor scooter. We overshot it three times, but eventually located an overgrown path leading into the woods. Once inside, we found the air refreshingly cool. Tall trees offered shade mixed with splashes of colour from the orange flowers of the trueno tree. Through gaps in the foliage we could see a steep cliff and the riverbed below.

“Look here,” said Javier, touching the feathery leaves of a shrub.

I watched its leaves close shut, like a fly eater.

“It’s a salsa dormilon or sleeping fern,” said Javier, always happy for an excuse to use his knowledge of tropical botany. There wasn’t much call for it in Canada.

The trail suddenly got steep so we needed to watch our step. Startled iguanas scurried off into the bush but there was otherwise no movement beyond our footsteps. Lost in the rhythm of our walk, I was startled to look up and see a suspension bridge before us.

“Are you sure it’s safe?” I asked. The bridge spanned the distance of a city block. I could see river bed through gaps in the wood slats. It was a two storey drop.

“I’ll go first,” said Javier, as he flitted across. The two guys followed, the bridge swaying with their body weight, and then me, walked heavily with both hands on the wire rails. Thelma in her high heels made it without a problem.

Once across, we turned as Tia Maria had instructed, and could see a large willow tree. The graceful weeping willows of the Canadian prairies bore only a passing resemblance to this tree.

Rooted in a dry section of the river bed stood a Mother tree, its gnarled trunk thrust into the stone. New shoots had taken hold and rooted themselves in a circular pattern like a labyrinth in a perimeter. Yellow butterflies flitted across a section of the trunk which lay on its side like a cow giving birth.

“La Chilca,” said Beto, in a hushed tone. We were all a bit surprised by what we’d found. We walked slowly across the gravel stones, our shoes making crunching sounds with each step, to get closer to the monolith. We’d given so much thought to getting here I hadn’t thought what we’d do once we arrived.

“Pass me a few branches,” said Thelma. She remembered la chilca from her childhood and took the lead with the ceremony. Javier nudged me to go first. Thelma gathered the branches into a switch and began sweeping them across my body from my head to my toes.

“Thank you for your gift and your help, la chilca” she said.” In the name of the holy spirit and the powers of la naturaleza we call upon you to banish the malevolent spirits in this body.”

With each whack of the switch, she called upon an element -- wind, sun, and water—each whack more vigorous than the one before it.

“Ouch no tan duro – not so hard,” I said, wincing as she beat me about the head. Then it was her turn.

“Chilquame,” she said, standing still, hands by her side. I repeated the incantation while brushing her in a sweeping motion. We got so into it we almost forgot about Javier who was the main purpose of our mission.

He looked a bit sceptical but I reminded him that willow wands have been used for protective rituals since Celtic times. Associated with the moon, water and feminine energy, it even made some sense that Thelma and I would play the role of la chilqueleras. Performing the ritual in spring, when the earth’s energy was at its most potent and during a full moon, meant it was a particularly auspicious time.

He stepped forward and took his beating.

“Think of it as a rebirth,” said Thelma as she swept the branches across his body.

While she swept the branches across his body, I gazed at the willow tree and thought about rebirth and how in a way, the willow tree represented life itself. When a willow branch broke off, instead of withering away, it found soil and water and began anew, teaching me that within loss there is the potential for healing and growth.

My own life had seen many new beginnings – husband, career, country. I’d been wary of love and afraid to commit to Guatemala. But like the resilient willow, tentative new roots took hold and flourished. Extending in every direction—across cultures, geography and life paths – they were still anchored in a care strong enough to hold. Much like the love I’d given and felt returned.

“Look how flexible the branches are,” said Thelma, curling the feathery willow switch in her hand “We can save them to clear out the horno.”

We walked slowly back up riverbed and along the trail with our willow bundles in hand, a world of possibilities stretching before us.


Christmas Hot Fruit Punch - Ponche de Navidad or Caliente de Frutas
In the weeks leading up to Christmas, residents of Guatemala City buy pre-packaged bags of dried fruit, all chopped and ready to go, in supermarkets such as Hiper Paiz. Vendors are on hand to ladle out free samples of ponche prepared using the brand being promoted. In San Vicente, people use mostly fresh fruit with sparing quantities of dried fruit. In Canada, pick up the ingredients at the bulk store or produce market. Just be sure you don’t buy candied fruit (used for fruitcake). Serve the ponche alongside a bottle of dark rum or venado.

½ cup dried apples

½ cup dried peaches

½ cup dried mangos

1/2 cup prunes (pitted)

1/4 cup raisins (soaked in boiling water)

1 fresh pineapple (chopped)

3 fresh apples (chopped)

4 cloves

2 stick of cinnamon

One whole allspice

3 strips of orange peel

2 cups white granulated sugar

10 cups water