1.
La Situacion
(THE SITUATION)
And so, it was done that morning, as it had always been done since the first kernels were laid upon the gray, black volcanic rock of central Mexico and ground into the moist, white, life-giving paste, masa. The muffled grinding of the metate, being used to prepare the water and lime-soaked corn for the days’ worth of tortillas, drifted out of the small adobe structure, mingling with the cries of roosters and the distant bellow of a hungry animal. From the top of the little building, smoke rose from a rusting, tin chimney in a straight line up into the cool October air, high above El Rancho, La Felicidad.
Red, golden-yellow light being birthed on the Eastern horizon had not yet cut the darkness of the shadows of the shed’s interior. The sole occupant, a dark skinned, handsome woman, yet still, looking older than her thirty plus years, pulled and pushed a stone bar across the worn surface of a stone grinder. She bent at the waist in scrub board fashion. Her once blacker than black hair, now peppered gray, was split into three parts, and woven into a long ponytail that stretched down her back to her waist. A thin, pink, scarf-like reboso covered her head.
She wore it crossed in front with one end hanging down and the other swept back over her left shoulder. A sky blue, puffy skirt with a multitude of pleats that gathered around her slim waist covered the woman’s legs to her ankles. The collar of her white blouse could be seen beneath a black, wool sweater that was dotted with embroidery of small, yellow flowers.
In one corner of the tiny room a wood fire danced nervously inside a rectangle-shaped, mud stove caressing the underside of the comal; a large, round, tire size, flat metal plate; it’s dark, oiled cooking surface full of round, thick, browning tortillas. Pungent aromas of the corn and lime mixture permeated everything, sliding through the air like butter across a hot piece of bread.
The main house, constructed from the same naked, brown, two foot long, sun dried blocks of mud, animal dung and straw, appeared to sprout from the earth like a natural occurring geologic feature. Amazingly enough, most of its curved, warped, red terracotta tiles still clung on with stubborn defiance to the swayed roof of the single-story structure. There were a few, however, that had given up to gravity, still laying in pieces where they had crashed upon the hard, rocky ground.
Comprised of three rooms placed side by side the single-story structure consisted of a kitchen and two bedrooms. All had but one door which entered out onto a long covered, patio, its floor made of concrete, its entrance gated to keep the farm animals from wandering in.
In the entire house the only window was in the kitchen above the washbasin offering a view of the road and the cornfields to the west. There was no indoor plumbing. A hand-dug well was the only source of drinkable water with a bucket and ladle for the thirsty. For those whose modesty required it, there were a few scattered trees and bushes as well as a twelve-foot-high patch of prickly pear cacti that lined the edge of the reservoir, bordering the ranch to the north. The reservoir’s turbid waters supplied irrigation for the meager crops that were the life’s pulse of the tiny farming community of perhaps fifty homes and ten families.
The thick, stockade-like, wooden door of the middle bedroom opened slowly. Its bulky, iron strap hinges creaked with a mild complaint as the first rays of sunlight escaped the horizon. One large, chocolate-brown eye, crusted at the corners with sleep, peered out squinting at the brightness. Another was hidden behind a small fist, that was rubbing away the sand of dreams.
“Teeko, Teeko donde estas,” said the little girl standing at the door.
She was dressed in a well-worn but clean pink sweatshirt with matching sweatpants. On the front of the sweatshirt, Pooh was dancing with Piglet, Tigger, and Eeyore.
“Teeko, where are you, Teeko?”
Disappearing from the doorway briefly she returned holding a pair of well-worn sandals made of hemp and cowhide.
“Teeko what am I going to do with you?”
The six-year-old walked purposefully from the room with sandals in hand, her bare, dark brown, callused feet not bothered by the chill of the concrete floor. Her small but strong hands pulled herself up onto one of three pine chairs that had at some time long ago been painted gloss white. The chairs were positioned around a square pine table of the same aging color. On the wall above the table in a frame without glass was a wrinkled, hand colored picture of Christ. His lips and cheeks were bright red. Just below the picture on a small shelf was a blue, white, and gold statue of the Virgin Mary. Toward both, the little girl crossed herself quickly.
She slipped on her sandals with one finger on the back straps not bothering to undo the buckles. Her small, brown legs were not able to touch the floor. Jumping down from the chair she ran out the gate of the porch across the yard, stopping here and there, looking for Teeko. Around her she saw the strong, colorful homes of her ranch. She also saw the green, lush bountiful gardens between each family dwelling, filled with vegetables and fruit. She saw her own home strong and secure against the land, within her community. With her eyes she also saw beautiful flowers in the yard, many chickens, and pigs in the pens. The sky above her was a brilliant blue, cloud spotted pallet of red, gold and yellow, spanning an incredible arch from horizon to horizon.
Just outside the doorway of the small utility shed where the tortillas were being made, a yellow, medium sized, mixed-breed dog was intently eyeing the grinding process. Its terrier-like muzzle was drooling on the gray stone pathway that led along the side of the porch of the main house to the shed.
“Teeko, there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
The little girl bear-hugged the dog’s neck, her presence having little effect upon the concentration of the animal. At that moment a baseball size wad of corn masa flew out of the doorway of the shed and was quickly snatched by the waiting dog.
“Déjalo pues, hija. Déjalo el pero a comer,” said the woman inside the tortilla shed.
“Let the dog eat daughter. Let him eat.”
The houses of La Felicidad varied in color and size. Some were earth brown while others were stark white. Some were shocking pink or blue and others displayed the Green, white and red colors of the Mexican flag. Most, however, lined the dirt road that meandered its way over the length of the long, wide, barren, flat valley, bordered on both sides by weathered, gray peaks of extinct volcanoes.
Via Jiménez, the closest town and the closest market lay a half a day’s walk away to the west. However, there were few if any visitors to La Felicidad. Maybe because it was known or maybe it was only felt. It was alive, as alive as any animal, tree, or person. At best it was a jealous entity, protecting its joys, its sorrows and even its most unthinkable terrors possessively, cautiously allowing few outsiders to pass within the boundaries and fewer yet to know its secrets.
“Teeko, Teeko mio,” said the little girl still hanging on the neck of the unresponsive pet.
The mother of the little girl stopped her chores with her hands full of masa paste. Her typically stern manner produced a slight smile as she watched her daughter play with the dog.
Looking up from the child the moment faded and the line between her lips slowly turned downward. Beyond the child and beyond the dog, her eyes saw the small, twisted, abstractly painted structures of the ranch that sat like blistered pimples along a deeply rutted, wrinkle of road. A road that was difficult enough in the dry season to walk or drive on and impossible during the rains of the summer months. Her eyes saw the small scrubby patches between each home which granted only the sparsest selection of insect ravaged vegetables and fruit. Flowers in her yard that had been given to her during a visit to her sister fared poorly, needing more attention than she could give.
Above her a sky of faded blue, teasing with the occasional glint of color, hinting of the unreachable splendor of another world, of another dimension that she could not touch or even dream of touching. This was the same sky that she looked up into on that fateful day long ago. The same sky she did not, and would not, ever trust. She knew it only as a compassionless thing that could cook a person to their soul in summer or freeze bones to the marrow’s core in winter.
Looking back down at her baby she smiled again and resumed her work. The little girl’s mother wiped the masa from her hands. On one side of the stove was a large steaming caldron. The woman dipped a copper ladle into the hot liquid pulling out enough to fill a blue ceramic cup. She handed the hot, steamy brew along with two freshly cooked tortillas to the girl.
“Tomar, hija. Here is your Desayuno hija. Drink the champurrado slowly. It’s very, very hot.”
The small girl ate a piece of the tortilla and then took a sip of the thick, soupy mixture of milk, flour, cinnamon, chocolate and sugar.
Teeko followed on every move that the girl made licking his lip and staring at the tortillas in her hand.
“Here you go Teeko mio.”
Paloma tossed a small piece of tortilla into the air and watched it disappear with a snap of Teeko’s jaws.
“Don’t feed the dog your breakfast hija,” scolded the mother.
The girl looked up timidly.
“Sí mama.”
With lucrative movements of his large tongue Teeko began to remove the brown, milky mustache left on the girl’s upper lip.
“And don’t let the dog lick your face.”
Teeko looked sheepishly up at the mother then crouched away to the corner of the small building.
“I want to go for a walk with Teeko.”
“Ok, Paloma but don’t go far and stay away from the water’s edge. Do you hear me?”
“Sí mama, sí.”
“And don’t go near the ant mounds.”
“Sí mama, sí.”
Paloma finished the last bit of tortilla and opened the rickety gate that hung from the side of the shed. Teeko, being satisfied that no more handouts would come his way, followed behind the small girl. Together they walked across the short stretch of brown grass that lay between their ranch and the cactus wall around the reservoir. Up and down the grass corridor cows and goats tethered with ropes to wooden stakes, chewed at the withered grass. The mother watched her daughter from behind the gate and wiped her hands on her apron. A young boy some years older than the girl passed by, leading a steer with a rope attached to a ring in the beast’s nostrils. She studied the boy for a long moment then gently bit her trembling lower lip and turned away to wipe her eyes.
The boy’s once white T-shirt was full of holes and his trousers, which were two sizes too big, were gathered into wrinkles at the waist over his skinny hips by a length of braided hemp that hung halfway down to his bare feet. The boy’s medium length hair was disheveled sticking straight up in places and his skin was almost as dark as coffee.
“Buenos dias, Paloma,” said the boy.
“Good morning, Francisco,” said the girl.
“And how is Teeko this morning?” he asked.
The dog barked then snarled at the hearing of its name. The young boy laughed and waved a willow stick in the face of the dog. The yellow dog barked and growled even louder.
“Don’t tease him or he’ll bite you.”
The young boy withdrew his stick but continued to taunt the dog.
“Where are you going?” asked the boy.
“Over to the ant hills to play.”
Paloma did not look at the boy again, walking quickly away with the dog at her side.
“Hey, wait.”
“Wait for what,” said Paloma over her shoulder.
“Can I walk with you?” asked the boy.
“But you have your chores. You must watch that cow for your uncle.”
“Ha! This is no cow. This is a ferocious bull. Un toro salvaje. I must watch the beast to make sure that it does not hurt anyone.” he said, crossing his arms in a serious manner.
The little girl giggled, as the mustard-colored steer looked up at them. The creature’s eyes and nostrils flared wide as it belched. The bony animal slapped its rump with a long, manure encrusted tail causing several dozen flies to reposition.
“What are you laughing at? Every word is true.”
Saying nothing the girl continued to walk with the boy and the steer close behind. Together they made their way along the strip of brown grass beside the large rows of cacti that guarded the reservoir. From a nearby home a forty-something year old man emerged onto a porch pulling up one side of his suspender-held black, cotton pants. Sticking out from his blocky, chiseled, whisker-face was a rolled, corn tortilla that wiggled side to side as he chewed. His dark-brown, acne-pocked skin looking out of place against the neat, shocking-white shirt he wore.
A pair of dark compassionless eyes, underscored by the long, bubbling scar on his cheek, watched the young children with disdain. Next, the black, iris pits shifted, bringing their acrid gaze upon Paloma’s mother. Slowly, the man brought his hand to his face raking dirty, long fingernails across the red scar in an effort to quell an ever-present itch.
Spitting out the last piece of the rolled corn disc he looked up at the sky and saw absolutely nothing. Before him there was a ranch that he and he alone must own and control. The only ounce of goodness that this human being once possessed had left him long ago, fleeing to escape the black void that was his soul. In the distance he could see the men of his community slowly making their way west up the road from the ranch to the fields beyond.
Paloma’s father, Miguel, walked at a slow, deliberate pace up the dirt road away from them. Few words were passed between him and the men around him. The day promised to be fair, possibly warming quickly removing the night chill that still lingered. A bit further and the group turned off the road heading toward a stretch of rusted barbwire fence suspended precariously in the air by twisted, gray weathered posts. Upon reaching the fence they stopped to plan the day’s work.
Paloma’s father looked back at his ranch and saw with his eyes the place where his father, and his father and his father before him were born. He saw with his eyes the sturdy rows of homes that made his community strong. He saw the unity and the safety in their numbers. Between every home were the gardens that helped make the people of his ranch independent from the outside world. He could see with his eyes the brown buildings that comprised his home, which was his family’s home for many generations.
He looked up into the sky resolute and satisfied. The sky was his clock. It told him when to rise, when to go to bed, when to plant and when to harvest. The earth and sky; one spoke, and one gave. Most people of the ranch knew Miguel as a good man, a good man who knew nothing more than that. Nor did he feel or say anything else to the contrary. In it he found solace and a refuge from the only torment that marred the simple fabric that comprised his life. Between the two is where he, his family and his people lived, in this place, a place between heaven and earth.
Paloma and Francisco reached the far corner of the cactus barrier. The little girl’s house, though still visible, was a small brown square behind them. Turning west they walked a short distance until reaching the large, half-meter high conical mounds of earth. Around all sides of the mounds a meter wide strip was laid bare of all organic material by its inhabitance. As they moved closer, they could first smell the colony of small creatures.
A pungent wave of citronella-like aroma stung their nostrils. Closer, and they could see the translucent red and orange bodies of the insects scurrying up and down each mound. It was a micro world within the world, a brilliant order confidently going about its business gathering and building, building, and gathering. The red-amber, scurrying specs did not see the ranch, its people, the sky or anything as humans do for that matter. They simply knew their purpose, and their reason for being, following it out in excruciating detail every day, day in and day out.
The young boy found a spot away from the ant mounds beside a small tree where the grass was still green and lush. He tied the steer’s rope tightly to the base of the tree and left the skinny animal chewing contently.
Paloma was gathering small pieces of stick. When she had a hand full, she began throwing them one at a time at the sides of the mounds. Teeko stayed back remembering from a previous experience the vicious and painful bites that the little creatures could exact.
The first twig hit the side of the ant mound. Immediately the tiny red machines sensed an intrusion and moved quickly to attack. The twig was covered within seconds by a red wave until it could no longer be seen. The little girl laughed while making sure that she stayed just outside the cleared perimeter of the mound. Paloma watched the mound’s inhabitance twist and wiggle over the foreign object pinching it ferociously with their mandibles.
“You better be careful, Paloooooma,” chided the boy.
“Just take care of your cow, Francisco,” Paloma snapped back.
The boy wrinkled his nose at the girl and did not reply. He found a shady spot on the retaining bank of the reservoir below the huge branches of the cactus. There he laid down, leaned back against the sloping ground, crossed his legs, and began to chew on a long piece of grass. The boy grabbed at the earth beside him retrieving several small stones that he tossed at the steer.
The first stone hit just behind the animal causing it to stop in mid chew and turn its head with curiosity. The second stone was thrown with more conviction. Arching its way up it appeared to hang for a brief second in midair before it started downward toward the beast. It struck the animal with a hard thump on its rump causing it to rear its hind legs and kick the air. Francisco laughed hard at the sight. Paloma, who had turned to see what the young boy was doing, scolded him.
“Leave that poor animal in peace.”
“You’re a fine one to talk,” said the boy pointing at the sticks on the ant mound.
The little girl lifted her nose in the air and tossed all her sticks at the mounds. Staring at the sky for a moment she went to the shade to join the boy. Both retreated from the Mexican sun that was now higher in the sky and much warmer.
Side by side together on their backs they laid looking up at the passing clouds pointing out shapes of animals and people. Paloma leaned over and covering the side of her mouth with her open hand whispered into the ear of Francisco.
“That one looks like my tia, Lupe. Look. Do you see the big nose?” Giggles.
Francisco leaned over guarding his whisper with an open hand.
“That one looks like my cousin Juanita. See it has a large behind, fat head and big ears.”
More giggles.
The likeness of several more family members drifted by as the two young children whiled away the early morning. Pigeons flew overhead on their way to the cornfields while finches scurried about the branches in the dark shadows of the prickly pear. There was a strange stillness in the air that both children suddenly noticed. A loud silence like a bell ringing within a vacuum announcing the undeniable presence of something mysterious and new.
The dog’s head swung quickly with its ears coming to attention. Teeko began with a slow, guttural growl that quickly changed to a loud, snapping bark. The steer turned its head to get a look at what the dog saw. Its mouth filled with protruding shafts of dry grass stopped in mid chew. A fair distance to the west along the bordering wall of cactus a large dust devil had sprung from the dry earth. It broke the deafening silence with a low swoosh and rushing wind sounds.
Its frantic tail whipped and stabbed angrily at the ground until it passed into the stand of cactus like a spirit through a wall. Slowly transforming in a vibrating, vexing manner a solitary figure took the place of the spinning vortex. It floated on the heat waves rising from the ground then disappeared several times causing the children to rub and squint their eyes. Francisco and Paloma watched as another dust devil came and went. Then, as if by magic, a solid figure appeared.
They watched the dark silhouette grow larger and larger until a walking man passed between them and the ant mounds. In a painfully slow manner, sprinkled with the occasional hops and skips from bare, bony legs, he made his way to the children. His gate was like an old steam locomotive pulling into town after a long, long, tiring journey.
Finally, he arrived stopping a few yards away from the large cacti under which they laid. His dark brown, reddish face lay within the shadows of a wide brim made of split reeds and parrot feathers. The headpiece was secured by a fine leather strap in the back at the base of his skull. Thick, silvery white hair covered the top of the old man’s head protruding through the center of the feathery brim. His whiskerless cheeks and lower jaw were a wormy mass of wrinkles. However, the stature of the incredibly old-looking man was firm though slightly bent. Hung on his shoulders was an unusual looking poncho made of gray, woven tulle reeds. Through its open sides below his armpits a slim, bumpy rib cage furrowed his shirtless upper body.
Covering his lower stomach and private areas hung a colorful, multi pattern loincloth made of fine threads. A belt of green, braided hemp appeared to barely hold the cloth from falling to the ground. The front and rear flaps hung down almost to his knees, leaving his wiry, muscular thighs bare.
The old man’s feet, welted and peppered with corns, resembled cracked, parched earth, and seemed as if they would fall apart if not for the worn straps of his leather sandals. Toes sprung from the primitive looking footwear, mimicking the front legs of a desert tortoise.
He did not turn to look at the children at first, leaving them to wonder if he had seen them at all. The stranger stared off in the direction of the road and the ranch, his mouth closed to a tight line, his eyes squinting slightly. The little girl hiccupped then grabbed her mouth.
The old man slowly turned as if floating on a cloud. A wall of dust blew between the children and the man. He reappeared again, now much closer. With an other-worldly gaze, he looked directly at them, deep within them. Seemingly into their souls.
Francisco sat up and pushed himself with the heels of his feet instinctively back into the rows of cactus. Paloma gasped and covered her mouth again with her fingers.
The old man’s eyes appeared to be missing and in their place two glassy black chunks of obsidian seemed to shimmer and dance with fire.