I
had returned from Lima a few days ago, where I went to lift my flagging spirits
by my many and annoying aches and to process my retirement. Extraordinary
family and friends I have are an infallible balm. Never before I had thought of
retirement and suddenly, I was facing a key milestone in my life. I am still
undecided as to my future and the feeling of uncertainty is not pleasant.
Nevertheless,
the following Saturday, already in my daily routine, I found a special day.
Rare.
Nice, but weird. Nothing presaged it would be that way. Wet and cloudy spring day
in San Antonio. It didn’t even seem pretty.
The
mist awakened in me the longing of Lima, with its permanent haze and the sky
color called by people in Lima "donkey's belly", indefinable, nor
white, nor gray, nor anything. Like an immense and dense veil you get used to,
but imperceptibly influencing the mood of people. In a way, people born in Lima
are like that, not white, not gray, undefined in the sense of always living
within the ease and comfort that uncertainty gives, not to take clear party by
anything or anybody, free from passions and resentments, nor change the life or
the attitude of anyone.
Already
said it by Don Hipólito Unanue, Lima’s illustrious doctor in the nineteenth
century in his treatise on the climate of Lima and its influence on the people:
"Limeños (people born in Lima) have a soft heart and a very speedy and
penetrating soul, but lack shaft in thinking and acting ".
Bolivar,
“El Libertador” dared to say that the Lima’s atmosphere was able to
"feminize any man."
Lima
is a spoiling city where it’s easy to find a comfort zone and commonplaces
without interfering with other people and really get involved.
The
words are smooth, often euphemistic and apparently innocuous. The limeños in
general, to paraphrase Bryce Echenique, make a great effort "not to
disturb".
I
was happy living that way. I managed with great ease my words and my views,
taking much care of "don’t disturb" anyone, unless doing it on
purpose. Even for that, I was delicate and subtle. Phrases like "I tell
you this because you're my friend. People don’t like you", said almost
sweetly, could have a devastating effect of a grenade without giving the questioned
any possibility to react. For example "My good friend, don’t tell jokes,
please. You do it very poorly and with all my affection I am telling you people
laugh just by education."
And
of course, the elegant "Not to talk bad, but ...," one of my
favorites.
A
good friend once told me that the problem with me was that after saying so, people
still had to thank me, and that was the worst part. He said this in public and
I, unaware of the power of that verbal hemlock, was very surprised when almost
all nodded in approval. Between comforting and very discreet smiles and laughs, of course.
That
deadly stabbing feature of my personality persists and I try as much as
possible to refrain from using it. That doesn’t mean I am politically correct,
simply ethical. It’s not easy, but I keep trying every day. It’s all I can do.
When
we moved to Texas 16 years ago, and although I speak decent English, I had the
usual second language limitations, so I tried to make my vocabulary simple and
concise. The hardest thing was to find the right level of translation from
Spanish, much more emotional language and impractical in relation to English.
But
it’s complicated. Speaking another language is not, as people believe, to know
the right word to translate, but which word to use in a culture that is very
different. It’s a matter of inculturation, that is, integrate into another
culture. In my case, the process has taken years and I think I have not yet
integrated myself in the way things are seen here. I am not saying it’s wrong; it’s
just not how I was raised. I ignore all kind of stuff, since ancient traditions
to major issues of values, principles and policies. Long ago, I realized there
are things in this country that everyone knows and I will never know. For me
that relies tremendously in the use of language the experience has been difficult,
tortuous and extremely frustrating.
That
old joke in Spanish that did translate "entre y tome asiento" to
"between and drink a chair " in some cases in real life that happened
to me becomes pathetically true.
I
see my granddaughter singing "Itsy Bitsy Spider" and "Five
Little Monkeys" while I think of "Matatiru-tiru-la" and
"Arroz con Leche". When she grows up, those beautiful memories will
awaken and the latter will not tell her anything. By the way, children's songs
in my time did much emphasis on marriage and work of women in the house, while
now they aimed to work hard and play hard. Matter for another story.
The
most curious and explosive thing in Texas is the racial mix. The major ethnic
groups that built and developed Texas, arid territory, with sudden climatic
changes, terrible droughts and appalling floods, not to mention tornadoes,
thunderstorms and torrential rains were essentially three, Germans, Poles and
Mexicans.
I'm
sure it's one of the many jokes that God usually plays. You can hardly imagine
anything so absurd. It’s a forced, violent, stubborn and dangerous combination.
I say mix and not blend, because it’s irreversible. The generations who were
born here are German values, Mexican wittiness and Polish sense of humor, and
all possible interpolations of the characteristics of these three cultures and
ethnicities, as they like to call it now.
Germany,
with two world wars to its credit and numerous internal wars and with other
countries, obviously had to develop tremendous discipline and strength to
survive while Poland, which was partitioned three times and invaded several
more, has the impossibility of owning the minimum sense of humor. Mexico on the
other side has been an empire, colony, republic and bloody revolutionary
dwelling always having to improvise at risk of disappearing. And so was Texas born
and formed.
For
Peruvians who read me, Texas becomes for the US something like Arequipa to
Peru. Always thinking of the "independent republic". After all, Texas
was a country for a while.
I
have met great people, but also the other kind. Some very educated and other
ignorant to the core. Very interesting ways of seeing life or completely absurd
and incomprehensible to me.
I
worked with a Texan who refused to wear a seat belt because once his clavicle broke
in a serious car accident. I asked him if he considered that a broken
collarbone was a very cheap price compared to the possibility of leaving out
the windshield to crash on the pavement. He thought for a minute, a sign that never
crossed his mind, but he answered with great confidence: "That will never
happen." Irrefutable logic.
I
met one whom, despite having an automatic door in his garage working perfectly,
never used the remote control or the switch to open it. Moreover, didn’t leave
the car outside. No. He parked both inside religiously every day. Opening the
door manually. Stupidly and getting myself in somebody else business, I asked
if it was broke or something. He said it worked perfectly. But that someday it
was going to break and if he was using regularly the remote or the automatic
opener he would get so pissed off he preferred not using it. He stressed that he
knew himself and wanted to avoid that incident. I didn’t ask more, but I
preferred to avoid any approach. Such people are usually dangerous.
As
a child, I saw all Wild West shows on television The Rifleman, Lawman, The
Sheriff of Cochise, Texas Rangers, Annie Oakley, The Lone Ranger and many more.
I was fond of Roy Rogers and Gene Autry. John Wayne was one of my biggest
idols. Each movie the Duke starred made me quiver from start to finish. I was
in short, a cowboy at heart. At least I thought.
It
was only natural that when I came here I expected to meet some real cowboys, maybe
not as impressive as John Wayne, but at least such as the ones in the Marlboro
commercials. It was some months before my dream come true. One of my neighbors,
whom I had told him my dream, let me know that a "real" cowboy would
visit him. The guy wanted to buy a car that he had for sale. You can imagine my
excitement and the anticipated joy that came over me. It was a moment awaited for
many years, so the next day very early in the morning I showed up at his house
to wait for the cowboy, who gave his name as Jessie.
Around
noon, when my expectation was at the top, Jessie arrived. Excited, I rushed to
open the door and before me was one skinny person, shorter than me, and very
dark, betraying his Mexican origin. He introduced himself with a thick accent
saying: "Jesse Lujan, nais tu mit
yu". Of course, he had a very large hat, boots, worn jeans and very short
bowed legs.
Later
I learned that his name was Jesús, born south of the border and didn’t speak
English well. However, he had been a cowboy all his life, and had many broken
bones as any typical cowboy. I discovered that in South Texas people talk as much
or maybe more Spanish than English and many are actually really good cowboys. Nevertheless,
my disappointment was tremendous and so far, I have not recovered from the
blow. Not even rodeos, including riding wild bulls, have been able to restore
that bright and immense picture of John Wayne.
I
also discovered that life in Texas could be cruel and unforgiving. Droughts,
floods and rain are common and sudden. It can rain a fortnight without stopping
and then two months without a drop of water. My brother, who lives in Texas
since he was 17, said that on average, San Antonio received about thirty inches
of rain a year. I remember my first week here we had a torrential rain without
interruption for eight days. I complained to him that the figure he had given
me was ridiculously low. Sarcastically, he replied - I didn’t tell you it rains
all together ...- no further comment.
The
temperature can vary from 30 to 105 degrees and no one alters for this but me,
of course. A common phrase here is - "You don’t like the weather in Texas?
Don’t worry, it will change..." -
There
were some days in the summer where I felt as a descendant of Dracula, since it was
only possible to get out at night.
The
land? Cracked, full of rocks and clay. Due to inclement weather, natural trees
that are counted by the millions, don’t reach over six feet tall, twisted and
deformed in their struggle to survive and ready to inundate the city with
pollen causing epidemics of allergy. I am not immune to it, damn it!
As
any regular Peruvian, I am useless as long as the care of a house is concerned.
Here I learned to cut the grass, activity I still hate with all my heart, fix
plumbing, to repair walls, planting and pruning trees and other plants, making
installations and electrical repairs and I better stop because it will take me back
to depression. Besides, I am clumsy and have had awkward and countless injuries
in the hands and legs as a result of accidents trying to become a Texan. Oh, I
forgot: you also have to install fences, extraordinary, tedious and horrible
activity.
When
we bought our house, my wife fell in love with it. I looked out the back door
and I fell in love with a beautiful garden of about 5,000 square feet, all
mine!
In
addition, behind the garden, there was a small ravine full of trees and deer
appeared very early to eat the herbs soaked with dew. I don’t mean a few. There
are days when you can see fifteen or twenty. A wonderful view.
Soon
the reality hit me. Hard and implacable, without mercy. We had not finished
settling and grass grew from day to day like wheat. I could not believe it, but
it had rained incessantly for three days. Cut the grass lasts about three
hours, and in addition to cutting, you have to use the "weed eater"
damn machine that spins at tremendous speed a nylon rope and has left scars on
my two legs, and its whole purpose is to remove weeds adjacent to the fence and
walls, and the "edger" used to demarcate the borders. It's the only
thing I can handle easily. You just have to pass by the edge of the grass and
leaves a very clean and professional edge. Indeed, more than once I nearly lost
all the toes moving the instrument a few millimeters of my instep since it has a
small steel gear rotating at high speed.
Finally
had to match the bushes, cut branches from the trees, in addition to winterize
(land preparation for winter and same for the summer), combat the worms, bees,
wasps, spiders, termites, scorpions, bacteria, fungi and other pests, undesirable
inhabitants of my little paradise.
As
an antidote to fatigue, climate and a damn bad mood, I thought to myself how
many of my friends and acquaintances in Lima would be spending the whole
Saturday morning in this task. Mentally reviewed multiple and diverse images of
them always with the same result: None. The good thing was that when I felt the
anger of being the only one I would push the lawnmower with renewed vigor. Finally,
when I was ready to explode, it was over and I was so tired I could not even
afford a few more minutes of crankiness. One summer day, by trying to load recklessly
a few rocks taken from the garden I had what they call here a "heat
stroke". It’s frightening. But I got rid of all the rocks. When I say
recklessly, it means I decided to do it at four in the afternoon at about 100
degrees in midsummer. By the way, the words “heat wave” in Latin mean caniculis
that would translate literally as "dog day". It’s no shit. It’s true.
When
I planted my first tree, I tripped over a rock about three hundred pounds of
weight and about two feet in diameter (attached photo). It took me two weeks to
remove it. When I finally did, I painted the Peruvian flag and still have it in
my garden. Just to record the effort I made, I will say that I have planted ten
trees in my garden, nine of which survived and the youngest is nine feet tall
and the largest almost thirty six feet high. A Rottweiler puppy ate the tenth
tree.
I
spent a fortune on tools, machinery, pesticides and fertilizers. I felt well
served when after five years hadn’t lost a finger or received a transfusion for
severe cuts with saws (several), branch cutters, pullers and weed eaters.
Neither
was I poisoned with all the pesticides I used, but my hatred for outdoor
activities increased tremendously.
With
the monster apparently controlled, it was time to enjoy the garden that with
both work and dedication I had created. Only then I realized that mosquitoes,
no, I stand corrected; giant mosquitoes flying in squadrons showed up, and the place
was full of ants called "fire ants" from the Amazon rainforest that
according to recent research came to this land walking. These science fiction
insects are able to devour everything. Even local ants are in danger of
extinction. There was also the risk of tripping over one or another snake, but
fortunately just a few were deadly. I met with them twice but only half in each
case. My retarded dogs were somewhat effective.
With
all the goodwill and good cheer of the world, I decided not to be intimidated
and nothing would stop me from enjoying the garden for a while. I even put a
small vegetable garden that harvested tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce and only one
huge cauliflower. My wife made me throw it away because in their view that size
had to be the work of the devil or some evil sent. On the floor, it came above
the knee, definitely wider than my waist, and that's saying a lot.
However,
gradually the everyday tasks wore me out. I left the area to its rightful
owners, in addition to the small inhabitants that swarmed in the area. These bigger
beings were not previously mentioned: possums, raccoons, moles, rats, rabbits,
hares, squirrels, ferrets, skunks, armadillos, a horrible animal whose name
escapes me, like a giant rat and thousands (yes, thousands) of birds, mostly
black and ugly. Almost nothing, for God’s sake.
After
the fence, the territory of beautiful and devastating deer eventually coyotes,
bobcats and the occasional wild boar appeared. Of these, the descendants of
Bambi are the worst. They eat everything from the roots to the trunk and
branches of trees, fences and orchards showing no respect for anything or anyone.
It
was a long time before it disappeared from my mind the obsession of living lost
in Yellowstone and I will only say that every time there is a reprisal of
Bambi, that beautiful Walt Disney movie, that I am forced to see by my
tyrannical granddaughter, I do superhuman efforts to not encourage the hunters.
The huge eyes of porcelain, white tails and stylized ears don’t move me at all.
To
round out the picture, if I remained in the comfort of my home, with my dear and
demanding family, I should repair toilets, faucets, schedule alarms, change air
filters, and finally, any task that the female sector of the population
considered unworthy or impossible for them. Killing roaches, trash removal,
scaring a wasp, load anything and drill ten times on each wall for the perfect
place from which to hang something. I had to put curtains, blinds, more curtains,
install automatic doors, network cabling the house, arrange furniture, sockets
and multiple small fixes.
One
day the garage door fell through and I thought I could fix it. I was very
careful not to annoy myself like my Texan acquaintance early in the story, but
that it sucks, it sucks.
In
this country, any repair or service is dauntingly expensive, and of course, the
whole family thinks that being male, you can fix everything. Nobody knows that
Marita is capable of tuning a car (I give testimony of it), while I caused a
disaster measuring the oil or filling up a tire. I went to Google to search for
"Repairing ...."
The
first thing I read in big letters was "If you haven’t done this before, do
not start here." Below, a note that read: "This is only if you don’t
want to risk your life Otherwise, go ahead."
A
few hours and $500 later, the problem was solved.
I
was between Scylla and Charybdis. Outside, facing a hostile flora and fauna at unbearable
temperatures. Inside not even five minutes without receiving a request from one
of my daughters or my beloved wife. I thought several times to come up with fictitious
trips to go to a hotel for a few days, but concluded that it was too risky. As
a brave man and full male, I faced the family mob, wielding my most
sophisticated weapons; my idleness, the fibs carefully crafted and vile handling
of my poor neighbor to help me. How I love him, my God! He saved me from many
family troubles and deadly feminine attacks.
Perhaps
it is worth explaining the main cause of my troubles and growing pains in this
country. I say this because for several of our neighbors, the tremendous
obstacles I had to face, perfectly understandable and justifiable from my point
of view, made no sense. Somebody that couldn’t turn on and manage a grass mower
or use the "edger" in the right direction or unable to build a desk
that came in a box (certainly news to me) had more to do with physical and
mental retardation.
I
think at least for a long time, estimated at about two or three years even I
became convinced that a mysterious virus or an unknown insect had infected me.
Neighbors became convinced that, after seeing a poor “cholito” (Peruvian red
neck), short, chubby, disheveled and sweating profusely, with inappropriate
dress for a hundred degrees, wandering around the neighborhood unsteadily and
completely desolate staring with empty eyes, trying to find a human being that
could explain to him how to put the damn cord extra-extra-extra-giant size in
the "weed eater". I was very cordially informed that its name was
"trimmer line" and had multiple shapes and sizes, and not all were
made for my damn device. I solved the problem always buying the blue. If it
didn’t work, I bought another, and so on.
Had
it not been for the great help of my brother, able to build a cabin on a long
weekend and many of my neighbors I would not have survived this cultural
challenge.
The
lifestyle that we had in Lima could not be more different. Since the services
are much cheaper, it was possible to have one or two employees at home, in
charge of cleaning and cooking. Some of them became part of the family and we
still see them when we go, and we are always in touch. In the early morning
came the guy who washed the cars, Monday through Friday. Then came the baker,
leaving freshly baked bread, and Saturdays and Sundays, the lady with some “tamales”.
Don Rodrigo, our gardener nearly eighty years old, arrived religiously every
other Saturday to take over the garden with its old and rickety bicycle. It did
not fail even once. Don Rodrigo used a manual lawn mower, the kind you push by
force.
Max
was the name of our "expert in everything" and appeared once a month.
Tiny and smiling, he told me - Don Fernando, what is there to do? -
Electricity, plumbing, masonry, painting and any other eventuality, we knew
that Max would do it very efficiently. Sometimes, I had to conceive a small
project, for fear that not having more work he wouldn’t show up next month.
Carmencita
went every week to handle the washing and ironing and if we had a party, we
called Secundino, who would prepare the buffet or food, would be responsible
for cocktails and drinks, impeccably dressed in his white jacket and black
trousers.
In
my life I hadn’t changed even the light bulbs in my house. Those who know me are
aware that I am clumsy and loose with the solemnity of a sacristy. Moreover, I
never knew, even now to turn the screwdriver clockwise or counterclockwise to
tighten or loosen. Also, unknown to me was the knob for hot or cold water. As a
kid, I thought the letters "C" and "H" in the knobs meant “Caliente”
(Spanish for Hot) and “Hirviendo” (Spanish for Boiling).
Back
to the story, that day we went to meet a couple of very nice friends, he was Mexican-American
and she was of German descent. He was short, dark and robust and she was tall,
blonde and thin. They are both Texans and inexplicably get along quite well. We
were going out of town.
This
trip opened my eyes to the true heart of Texas. The racial mix is perfectly
suited to the combination of the three cultures.
San
Antonio keeps still the mentality of a small conservative town with a special
charm despite having more than two million inhabitants. To complete the
picture, many villages, even more traditional and conservative, surround it.
Some are predominantly German, Polish and many others speak more Spanish than
English.
That
day, at about six o'clock in the morning, Marita showed me the garden faucet that
was leaking and I had promised to fix it this weekend. Cursing her good memory,
I had to go and buy a spare faucet in "Home Depot" immense chain of
hardware stores that sell everything imaginable related to house repairs and
improvements. This impressive and to my eyes dreadful place, is the favorite
shop of many male “gringos” doing projects at home that are not needed.
Of
course, these nightmare places are open from early morning, so before seven, I
was looking for a non-rotating, red lever tap, according to the specific
instructions of the inflexible householder.
`I
looked up the aisle that said "Plumbing" and found it easily. I also
knew I had to buy "Teflon" to seal the connection. If someone has
been in one of these places and has faced these intimidating shelves twenty
feet high, and dozens of divisions, knows it can be a bit tricky to find what
is needed.
But
very quickly I found what I wanted; a lever faucet, and red as Marita wanted
and I was about to leave, when I heard in Spanish with a strong Mexican accent
-
Hey my
friend you found what you wanted?
Beside
me was a man in his 40s, dark and a little shorter than I was. I immediately
assumed he was Mexican and honestly, his appearance did not inspire me any
confidence. Plump, sloppy appearance, and mustache in the style of Errol Flynn, his head crowned with a cap of
the "Spurs" and a thick shaggy hair struggling to get out at both
ends, in the most opposite directions. I got the impression that he had not
brushed in months and showered in pretty much that time.
-
Yes, thank
you - I answered sharp and heading to the cashier.
-
If it is
for the “yarda”, I think it's very small.
-
Indeed, it
is for the backyard - I replied, a bit intrigued by the observation. (“yarda”
is the mexicanization of the term "yard”).
-
That's a
quarter, and usually it’s a half. Is it male or female?
I
turned to look at him to see if he had a badge indicating that he was an
employee of Home Depot, but no. You could see he was in work clothes and by elementary
deduction, engaged in the construction business. Quieter and less suspicious, I
said
-
Honestly,
I have no idea. I know what you mean but I didn’t think they had various types.
-
You are
funny, there are over 20! Will you have to go “pa la'casa” again!
-
Well,
thanks for the advice. I will find out what I need.
-
“Pere,
pere” a little bit, is your wife at home? (“pere” is a Spanish abbreviation for
“wait”)
-
Yes, in
fact she is waiting for me to fix so we can go out.
-
Call her
and tell her to take a picture of the pipe with the phone and send it over
here. Here's my phone!
-
Thanks. Don’t
worry. I’ll use mine.
Surprised
but happy to find a rescuer who would save me 45 minutes, I called Marita. Art,
my new friend began to give her directions to measure the diameter of the pipe
with a measuring tape finally found by my wife. Very patiently, and smiling he
answered questions as how many wide or thin lines in the tape and how to place
it. She took the picture and sent it.
Grateful
to the core with Art (Arnulfo) we began a nice conversation. He was born in The
Valley, as the South Texas border with Mexico is called, and was fully
bilingual. Like many Texans, mixing the two languages without realizing it, and
like many people of Mexican origin, had seven children, worked in construction
and ran his own company. The two oldest worked with him. Despite being
Saturday, he was thinking of working the weekend, "as always".
Although jovial and friendly, his face full of freckles and sunspots and
calloused hands and all sorts of scars, reflected a very hard and painful life.
A Cuban friend made me realize that the only Hispanics working in construction
on weekends are Mexicans. He added that therefore they deserved much respect,
because the Cubans, "Nunca chico. ¡Ni loco…!” (“Never man, not even
becoming crazy ...!"
In
short, Art spent nearly an hour of his time helping a stranger who could not
hide his rejection and dislike to his initial approach. This was the first
incident of the day and made me feel guilty of judging someone by first
impressions.
Thankfully,
installing the faucet was very simple and the technical inspection was passed
with honors. Is just that all manual works I do must be reviewed and I don’t
say this as humiliating disrespect I have to suffer but as a healthy good
practice my wife has to avoid further disasters. It’s just... not my thing,
Freed,
we went to pick up our friends and we set off. We stopped for breakfast at a
restaurant famous for having the best "brisket" in Texas, a type of tasty
meatloaf, located in what was a stagecoach station in the time of the
"Pony Express".
In
true "country" style, the meat is served on a piece of wax paper,
like meat, sausages, chopped pork and other Texan delicacies collected directly
from the kitchen and then sitting at long communal tables with old table
covering . The place does not pretend to impress at all. It's just a typical
Texan place to eat. Fortunately, the old custom of hanging the carcass of the
animal at the door to show that is fresh has fallen into disuse.
The
first time I took my wife and my daughters there, they were so shocked of the
wildness and hygiene of the place who refused to sit at a shared table, much
less eat greasy chunks of meat on a piece of paper. Marita murdered me with her
eyes and my two daughters quietly expressed their disappointment with a
parental authority rundown. It took some time to change their mind. Food is
delicious. They gradually assimilated to it, all with greater success than me.
Already
accustomed to the environment, we ate with pleasure and enjoyment, and at the
end, I went to throw away the disposable tin tray in which they had served the
meat. Before I did, a woman in her 50s stood up in front of me with a bad
attitude. She stopped me lashing loud on a very chewy Texan accent.
-
What are
you doing? Give me the tray now!
I
delivered it automatically while she yelled at me as if I was a little boy.
According to my typical mindset of years of matriarchy, I knew I had to be
polite, but the only ones authorized to treat me that bad were my wife, my
daughters and my granddaughter.
I was
visibly mortified and she was very annoyed, it was precisely the kind of
situation I've always strived to avoid. I didn’t know how to react. The lady in
question would measure barely four and a half feet, tousled hair, a rictus of
bitterness on her lips and small and very piercing blue eyes. You could see
that her life had been difficult. She wore plaid blouse and jeans almost her
age. By the apron, I realized she worked there.
-
Don’t you
know that these trays are worth more than three dollars? You can’t throw money
away like that! Here, I've already cleaned it. And don’t forget it!
-
Err... yes
ma'am, thank you very much!
With
that feeling one seldom has of not knowing how to behave, I went to sit under
the amused gaze of the parishioners and the surprise of Marita. In these cases,
I keep silent and put my expressionless face. There were no further comments
and I jumped in the car with my used tray.
We
arrived at our final destination, a town called Bandera, very small and typical
village. We went to the museum, crammed with tiny and historical pieces not
only from the Far West but also throughout the world, a prodigious chaos. I
went from reduced heads by the “Jivaros” to a manual press of 1800. And a Texas
bank safe next to a Nazi helmet of World War II.
I
ended up with multifarious saturated images in my head, and with a slightly
surreal and confusing feeling. Well, you always learn something.
We
continued our walk and went to a country music bar, where, as soon as we
entered, some "cowboys" invited the “ladies” to dance (translation of
a very common term in Texas to refer to women, "ladies"). I always thought
it sounded outdated, but you get used to it soon.
Always
uncomfortable and trying to observe the slightest incident, the dance ended
very properly and respectfully and the two cowboys accompanied them to the
table. Then I wondered what would have happened if they took some liberties
with them. What could a short and chubby four eyes old fella have done against
two individual almost six feet tall and certainly in better physical condition?
I made a mental note to completely ignore what happened around me the next time...
After
listening to some country music, we decided to return to San Antonio, but first
we went to take a few photos in the village street.
I
was about to take the first picture of Marita and our friends when I heard
behind me a very loud "Hey" and turning, I saw about sixty feet away a
strange and very unfriendly looking individual responsible for it.
According
to my rules of etiquette learned from experience and oral tradition, a shout
out to someone unknown has two meanings: the aforementioned is in imminent
danger or has committed a negligence or wrongdoing. Thus, seeing nothing out of
place concluded that I had committed a fault, but could not understand what.
With
determined and resolute steps, he came to me quickly. As I said, I hate these
situations and I have tried to avoid them all my life. My forebodings were the
worst. This man, tall, with a big cowboy hat, boots, jeans and plaid shirt,
like many in the town, showed a grim countenance, full of rage and his eyes
were those of a hungry coyote. He either had no lips or had closed his mouth
with such force that they were gone. I only saw a thick line rather than the lips.
At a thousand miles a minute, I checked everything we did during our stay in
the little town. No image gave me a warning and I could not understand what had
unleashed the wrath of this character.
-
Give me
the camera now!
In
seconds, he was inches away as I tried to prepare for what would be my first
fight in over 25 years, and then he abruptly snatched the camera from my hand
and snapped a loud and aggressive
-
You, stand
beside them! - While he was preparing to take a picture of us four!
Naturally,
I obeyed without question. With a face of suffering and unbearable pain, he
took pictures of the four in different scenarios and positions, couples, men,
women, is summary a complete photo shoot. Every indication had a flavored
military tune, which left no choice but to follow without hesitation or
grumbling, as I was taught in ROTC.
When
finished, he handed me the camera, didn’t say a word and left the way he had
come. All of us thanked him effusively, but the guy didn’t even turn or made
any sign of having heard this profuse thanks.
Once
back, and thinking of this great day, I realized that what had made it so
special and made me feel so good had nothing to do with the place, the food and
the gorgeous scenery. Neither the great times we had spent together.
It
was the day I understood the harsh reality of deep Texas. A land who stubbornly
opposed their colonizers and those who did their best to tame this terrible and
rebel land to any taxation or exchange.
The
pathetic characters of that day, only a few of the many I have met here, showed
me how important is for Texans to help
others, no matter what circumstances or mood they may be. And it’s more for
survival than anything else. Who knows if it’s something atavistic in Texas,
but it’s now clear that to conquer this land it was important that all people
could survive.
Since
then, my perspective of Texas and its people changed. And today I respect and
admire them more.
Sure,
there are idiots, and important ones, such as those previously mentioned, but
that happens everywhere. What happens here is that since Texas is bigger, the
idiots are also larger.
Maybe my mistake was looking at it from the outside. Viewing
this place through my behavior, my hobbies, my defects and even my moments of
sadness and joy. However, always as somebody else, like watching a movie with
me as the central character. 
I cannot feel the heat of the jungle, the shrapnel whistling
or the rain that seems to cover everything. Even more, your friend is not a
serial killer and you are not dying of cancer.
Lately I had begun to linger a little longer with
numbers, or I reread the paragraph "just to be safe" and I thought it
was legitimate to go through a very gradual and slow process of aging
concessions. Nevertheless, the mind plays tricks with me. Imperceptibly I
adapted to slight changes and my mind was telling me – Don’t worry, it’s going
to be fine, just let it go this time - Suddenly I realized that it wasn’t going
to be “just this time”. It will be more like “from now on…”
