That's My Story

PUBLISHED THE WEEK OF SEPT. 25 WESTERN OUTDOOR NEWS

LIFE AND DEATH IN THE PUEBLO

Sun shimmered off the hot asphalt road and a never-ending coat of Baja dust gave the impression that everything had a fuzzy velour on it. Not many trees out here. More like overgrown bushes that rose maybe a mans-height taller than the concrete block homes in the little pueblito. They were enough to provide some shade and some definition and shape to the yards of the inhabitants who did their best in what most would call an impoverished environment.

But, if you never had it, you don’t know what your missing. Occasionally someone long ago had been able to paint a home here and there with a splash of color. Windows were often sans glass but colorful sun-bleached sheets fluttered in the apertures and children’s toys missing a wheel here and there and the smell of something always cooking were tell-tale signs of Mexican family life. Somewhere a radio was always playing the unmistakable rancho music with it’s polka-accordian beat and the bright fuchsia of bougainvillea exploded with sparks of color against otherwise drab backgrounds.

Normally, it was a vibrant little village of fishermen and farmers, housemoms and laborers. Children, dogs and chickens did what children, dog and chicken do. Any visitor could count on a “Que onda?” (What’s up?) greeting that often ended in a social visit. But not today. Eyes met eyes. Nods were met with nods and people went about whatever it is they did to keep busy. Even the chickens and dogs sensed it opting to lie in the shade of a bush or under rusty car chassis.

It was a sad week in the little pueblito.

There were two funerals this week out here in the Mexican outback far from the city lights. Both were sad. Both were tragic. Both deaths came a day apart and the sense of loss in the pueblo settled as thickly as the palpable Mexican dust.

They don’t have modern facilities out here so there’s no long period of grieving or viewing or waiting for all the relatives to show up. The furnace of the Mexican sun doesn’t take a break for the living or the dead. After a hurried Mass in the chapels, the deceased are quickly interred.

One of the deaths had been to a young man. The pride of the family, he had actually come back during the summer to spend it in his old colonia (neighborhood). He was on his way out of this. No long days in the pangas for him. No backbreaking work in the chili farms either. He had been attending a trade school for accounting and had already been working in an air-conditioned office in the city while living with relatives. He had a girlfriend. No dirt under his fingernails. He was living the dream. Up and out. Viva Mexico.

At 22-years-old doing what many of us did at 22, his car was speeding along a serpentine cliff road at 3 a.m. With a treasured Ipod blaring in his ears he was not able to avoid the big truck coming the other way and his car went over the cliff. Open cans of beer were found throughout the vehicle. He had many friends and everyone knew the young man. The funeral was large and well-attended with understandably much grief that a life so bright was snuffed out.

The other funeral was for “Abluelito” (little grandfather). I never knew his real name. Deaf in one year and blind in one eye, he spent most of his days sitting on the porch of his grey cinderblock home using his cane to rock himself back and forth. He loved watching kids with that one eye and he could still hear the kids laughing quite well with his one ear. And he could still smile and laugh.

His skin wasn’t tanned. It was sun-dyed permanently the color of chocolate. It was more like jerky with creases frozen on his features by hours in the Baja sun. Those lines tell you when a man has spent most of his life frowning or smiling. At one time he might have been rather tall for one of these folks but when I last saw him alive he was perhaps only to my shoulders. Tough old guy. In his day, I’m sure he could’ve outworked, outdrank and still kicked my butt. I was told he was quite the hellion as a young man. They said he was 106 years-old. He only laughed when asked about it.

As things go, the United States was pretty modern at the turn of the century. Rural Mexico in 1900 might as well have been another planet. Calloused gnarled hands attested that Abuelito had worked as a fisherman and had rowed to his fishing spots to drop nets or fishing lines with his father and brothers. He worked the fields barefooted, not to sell to market but so that they could eat. Going to town was a week-long excursion with the family burro. A brother and a cousin fought with Pancho Villa in the revolution. He was already in his 30’s the first time he talked to a gringo and thought they looked pretty funny. He never rode in a vehicle until he was in his 50’s. He never had electricity or running water until he was in his 90’s. He had never spoken on a telephone. He didn’t like TV, but loved his portable radio. He had one wife for 40 years and never took another. His kids were long gone to the big cities.

Abuelito died peacefully in his sleep and that history went with him. No big ceremony. All his friends were long gone. Immediate family bid goodbye. He was put in a simple box; loaded in the back of a rickety pickup truck with two friends sitting in the back to hold him in. I watched them bump down that seared asphalt to the cemetery somewhere out in the bush. One had to sit on top of the coffin like an ice-chest you’d toss in your own pickup. No disrespect meant. There was just no other place to sit. A dog missing a lot of it’s hair trotted after them barking for as long as it could keep up.

Two lives ended in the Baja countryside. One with a future that will never happen. One with a past that will never happen again. Two sad losses for different reasons.

That’s my story. If you ever want to reach me, my e-mail is riplipboy@aol.com.