JUAN PEREZ

                                                                     JUAN PEREZ

                                                  HARRY THOMAS DANVERS

 

                          "I was born on a finca on the coast. Costa Cuca,Palestina departamento Suchitapequez. I left that place seven years ago and came here. I was retired from the finca,"he remarked, as we sat together in the rear of my language school. We had a hard rainy season and I had hired him for the day to cut through the accumulated undergrowth. "I am seventy eight years old and I don't see too well. It's like a blur in front of my eyes. I can't hear very well either. My name is Juan Perez, "he continued in a desultory way, as a means of introduction.

             He was about five feet tall, with hands and feet equally calloused with time, while his arms and legs were toughened with years of hard work. He was accompanied by a big, white dog, which appeared to be as docile as he was. At the same time they seemed to silently understand each other, with a perfect match between canine and human sentiments.

                            "I had a wife and family but my wife died and the children all grew up and left the finca. I don't know where they are. I came here because my uncle, who is also called Juan Perez, lives here. He had land and a house, but he sold it. Someone swindled him and now he has nothing. So, I have no place to go. I'm too old for anyone to give me work and even when I do get it; it's not the same as before."he explained, through cataract eyes and not hearing a thing.

              He sat there, with his well worn machete across his legs. He must have had it for fifty years or more. He couldn't see it clearly, but he ran his ancient hand over it, almost with a caress. He was actually testing its sharpness, for if the blade was dull, he couldn't do the job.

                              "No, life changes and nothing remains the same. You are born, get married, raise a family and serve the owner of the finca. That is everything and then the finca no longer produces. The boss goes away and the people he owned either die or drift away. Like myself." he said, in the same monotone, through broken teeth and translating his thoughts from the ancient Maya tongue, to Spanish.

               I had been living in Latin America for forty years, so I knew what he was talking about. Yes, we all drift away, I considered, although I did not try to relate this to Juan Perez, the nephew of Juan Perez. This was partly due to the fact that I knew he would not be able to hear me. At the same time, it wasn't necessary, for he not only understood it, but had lived it as well.