Birds of Paradise: part three

As part of our orientation to ranch operations, Don Glen trained us in how he handled the cash and kept the books. While he may have been a bit dim and tipsy most of the time, Don Glen maintained a sharp eye on expenses as he envisioned the dollars flowing in to ensure a comfortable, if not extravagant, lifestyle at some point down the road. We appreciated his business like approach, but never have I felt so immediately mistrusted by an employer. It felt bad as he watched us over our shoulders when completing basic accounting tasks or making change for customers.

Despite the lack of trust on his part, Don Glen assigned my partner to do the “Buy.” Doing the Buy required driving an ancient truck that creaked and groaned as it made its way down poorly paved roads, angry to have been started from its resting place.  My partner agreed to drive the truck to town accompanied by Valentín, staff who took care of the horses and led guests on daily rides around the property. Valentín was the only member of the staff with whom we didn’t quickly get to know in a positive light. His wife and two children lived on one side of town; his mistress and her children on the other. He believed himself to be first in line to inherit the ranch upon Don Glen and Doña Margarita’s demise, and told us so, with a shake of his head.

I sighed, watching them drive away, certain that nothing too good would result from this trip.

Later in the day, my partner described the Buy (which I later observed firsthand). First, they hit the milk stand, a kiosk like structure filled with large tubs of unpasteurized yogurts and cheese, fresh and delicious, and occasionally, tainted. Then, they stopped at the central market to select what they needed from rows upon rows of fruits and vegetables, boxes of live chickens, and the occasional goat or sow. Snacks included steaming corn on the cob doused in chili and lime. Indigenous women huddled on the floor beneath a large crooked roof to sell produce and products. Negotiations over price often took place in whispers, making this the quietest market I’ve ever visited.

A couple of small groceries were also a part of the Buy, where we sought out cans of olives, cream cheese, dried pasta and other imported goods. Depending on the number of staff and guests present at the ranch at a certain time, we procured entire boxes of produce and fresh meat. The streets were dusty and filled with people walking, vending, talking. More than one near miss took place as passengers mingled alongside bicycles and old cars and motorbikes.

The Buy was exhausting, particularly when one had to listen to endless tales of conquest and bravado by Valentín. But the town was actually quite marvelous in its rainbow like collection of dress and food, its pungent aroma and hush hush nature. The local people were mostly tranquil and respectful. Once when we needed to buy several chickens at the last minute, a lady named Paulita sent her son home to slaughter six more birds for us to take back for dinner. Unaccompanied, I liked shopping in town and at the market. My partner loved the tiny stores selling soccer jerseys and knee socks. I embraced the park, a self-effacing square famous for the Zapatista uprising of 1994. Years later, it remained much like other central squares in small Mexican towns except for the solemn Mexican soldiers who marched or stood at attention, their eyes focused on the petite local people who socialized or conducted business in the square. I disliked the soldiers’ demeanor as they were unfriendly and suspicious of strangers, and perhaps rightly so.  But rumors of assault on buses and in the alleys upon young, single women were frequently a subject of local conversation. I did not care to be under the soldiers’ observation as I walked through the park.

The men in uniform and I each suspected the other of some type of unfamiliarity and misunderstood purpose for both being present in the same place in the world. In knowing this, I generally kept close to my partner in the park and I infrequently traveled by public transport alone, and never at night.

Yet despite our best efforts to just do our job and get to know the local environment in an unassuming and respectful manner, we found ourselves being pulled over one day by a large military vehicle, lights flashing, horn blaring.

The interrogation of the gringos began.

2 thoughts on “Birds of Paradise: part three

  1. […] a brief interrogation by Mexican soldiers, we agreed to stop driving the owners’ truck to do the Buy. Not in possession of a Mexican driver’s license, my now-husband had unintentionally broken a […]

  2. […] written about this experience in Birds of Paradise, Part One, Two and Three. Fresh out of the Peace Corps, we were thrilled to have the opportunity to live and work in a piece […]

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