Sixteen years old on a Guatemalan cattle ranch gave me experiences of a lifetime.
Old Tio Chema lived to a hundred and five years old, and beyond…
As a young man, I worked as a cowhand on a large cattle ranch in Guatemala on the south coast. The land was hot, swampy, most of it back then still virgin jungle. Riding through the countryside and spotting caimans, deer or armadillos were not unusual, neither was seeing ten-foot boas wrapped around a branch as you rode just beneath them.
It was wild ground. One memory is of riding close to the edge of the murky swamp waters covered in green growth in what the locals called lechuga, literally: lettuce. Looking along the green covered shore, there was a commotion below the tannin tinged surface. The water burst in a frothy explosion and two snakes surfaced, roiling in a fury of power and energy. The big one was easily ten feet long well on its way to swallowing whole the smaller snake! The smaller snake was a mere six feet.
Chiquiuitan was an old Mayan name whose meaning I never learned. The ranch was fifteen square kilometers and held over two thousand head of beef cattle, mostly Zebu or Brahma and some Santa Gertrudis. It would require a book to adequately describe and explain life on this honest to goodness cattle ranch. I was sixteen and seventeen 1968 and 69 when I spent two summers working as a cowhand. I had five horses at my disposal; I rotated them to allow them to rest up and get them freshened up for another three or four days of hard work.
As I was just there for the summers, I didn’t have to break and train my own horses. Were I a real cowhand employee, I would have to catch my workhorses from the wild and break them myself. One day I went to catch a wild horse from the pastures. Out in the wild underbrush and after a chase that seemed like it lasted hours, me and several other men threw lassoes around her and took her back to the Main House. She was Dun colored and had the standard black legs. The ranchers along the coast in southern Guatemala referred to their locally bred horses as Costeños, or literally ‘of the coast’; I suppose they were a mix of many horse types. She was mine to train.
She and I would swim together in the river near the Ranch House during lunch breaks if we were near the house around noon. I’ll always remember how she’d come to me from across a pasture and enter the river with me. Allowing me to climb onto her bareback and swim about the cool water.
The big day arrived that I was going to mount her and more than likely get thrown. I’d gotten her used to wearing a saddle and bridle. She jumped a bit too. My legs were shaking, and the men were yelling catcalls at me when I climbed on from the top of the corral and landed on the saddle. My mare just stood still, never threw me; and almost immediately took to being ridden and followed the reins. The men explained to me that my mare was ‘noble’, and that every once in a while a horse turned out that way. Tame and wonderful.
One Sunday I was hanging out with a fellow cowhand named Goyo. We’d had something to drink, like white lightning, they call it Indita. Goyo saddled my Dun and claimed that my piece of shit mare couldn’t throw him.
“That piece of shit mare of yours doesn’t scare me, just watch.” Goyo had me saddle her up as he discovered that she wouldn’t let him do it.
No sooner had Goyo jumped on the Dun that she took off at a wild gallop out into the far pastures. The mare came back in fifteen minutes. Goyo showed up a couple of hours later with a stupid grin on his face. She had thrown him.
The cowboys explained that a horse will often trust the one who spends the most time with them.
There was the day when we tracked down, encircled, and held at gunpoint cattle rustlers. At first, I thought it was a joke, then quickly realized that it couldn’t be more real. To end this short anecdote a deal settled things between my boss Mundo, our group leader, and the rustlers, no one was hurt, serious threats left them wide eyed. The rustlers repaired the barbed wire they’d cut to gain entry, and we were on our way. One younger rustler cried. I knew then it was no playacting. My guess is that had I not been present, a gringo kid whose parents were close friends of the ranch owners, the story may well have ended much worse. There were so many loose ends that could crop up such as did the rustlers that day. The rustlers only happened once during my two summers there.
Our task as cattle hands was a list of typical workday chores which included fence repair, branding, curing injuries, separating cattle depending on age, bringing cattle ready to truck out to the main house corrals. Constant were daily saddle repairs, horse training, cutting paths through jungle connecting one pasture to another. Patrolling. We rode nonstop when not on a specific task.
We burned up lots of time, far away from the ranch administrator’s eye. Stopping under a group of fruit trees in the middle of no-where we’d pick mangoes, oranges, jocotes, tamarind, and coconuts to drink the fresh water. Riding steer, another activity to pass idle times, I lost count of the times I was thrown. One of our favorite was holding on-the-spot horse races; on one race the man ahead of me fell and as I passed him at full speed, I was sure I wouldn’t be able to steer my horse clear of the man’s head. I just missed.
One time the men were trying to have a stallion breed with a mare in heat. The two were in a small corral and the men cheered them on. I think the mare was the more interested of the two. The stallion eventually took a great interest, as evidenced by his incredible shaft. The men's cheering grew louder; they made sure I joined in. Though it took a little while for the idea to sink in it was over in a moment. The stallion mounted the mare and buried itself deep into the mares' wetness. I do not exaggerate when I tell you the mare’s eyes rolled back in delight. To this day I recall the pleasure the two horses showed, there is no doubt. The mare’s rear shanks shook and shivered with her powerful aftermath and the stallion strutted as though he was Moses himself come from the mountaintop this after a pronounced and guttural delivery of mother nature’s prime.
Chiquiuitan was one of those ancient ranches that had been around for as long as anyone could remember, over the years changing hands. The current owners were friends of my parents, which allowed me to go work there. I’d ridden horses since I was four years old in Nicaragua. For me, it was like fish taking to water, love at first try. I was sure ranching was my future.
The ranch was so big by Guatemalan standards, sure there are far bigger ranches in the USA, our ranch would take most of two days to cover it on horse. If one was to get around all the coastal swampland, then that would take another day. Near the main ranch house, where I lived, there was a small settlement made up of employees’ shacks. A small store for minor supplies, a one-room medical center, and a one-room school next to the homes. In those days taking the bus from Guatemala, the chicken bus as young American adventuring tourists called them years later, took the whole day to get to Taxisco, the nearest town to the ranch. Getting off the bus, it was another four-hour walk to the ranch. After spending two days off in the city at my parents’ house, I’d arrive at the main house close to eight that night.
But this story is about Tio Chema, or Uncle Chema. I wanted first to give you a feel for the ranch.
Old Tio Chema was 105 years old. He had the yellowed and brittle papers to prove it. On the ranch, he worked as a chapeador and was a member of the workgroup called the gente, or the people by the cowboys. His job was chapeando or chopping all day long, clearing tall brush so we could lay down more pasture land. In those days, the pastures used were Pangola and Estrella.
Every day he’d rise before the sun, eat a breakfast of beans, cold tortillas and eggs, and a strong cup of coffee made through a cloth strainer. Over his shoulder, he’d loop the rope with his canteen of water made from the dried gourd of the jicaro tree with a wood stopper. He’d tie his long machete called a Colima to his slim waist. Said goodbye to his wife, his twelfth according to rumor.
His tire soled sandals tied firmly to his feet, he’d start walking to his workplace which depending on where the work detail was could be 5 to 10 kilometers away.
He seemed a kindly man, made of pure fiber. His brown skin, taut and free of any added weight, despite his years and because of his hard work, he had a body like Bruce Lee. When I was around him, I never heard him say much. He was a very proud man and was greatly respected by everyone, including the cowboys. The cowboys told me that the old man chose to walk rather than take the tractor hauling the trailer with the other workers. He said that he’d walked all his life well before the tractors showed up and he wasn’t going to change his routine.
I remember early one morning, the tropical heat already apparent, the cha cha birds off in the distant underbrush singing up a raucous fuss as they did this time every day. The bright sun was streaking through the trees, mostly Ceibones or Silk Wood trees full of wild parrots chattering up a storm. A slight coastal breeze cooled our already sweat-covered faces.
We were at the Main House, at the stables, getting our rides ready for the day. All fifteen riders were going in a group to round up the massive Brahma bulls to move them to fresh pasture. In case a bull had an open wound, we had to ‘cure’ it. As these are so huge, six or seven guys have to circle the bull and lasso ropes around it and bring it down. While it was down and held in place one of us cleaned the maggots from the wound, then applied a purple uncture then covered it with mud to form a cap. As this kind of roping was beyond my skill level, it was my job to apply the medicine.
While we were at the Main House and just about to mount up suddenly loud voices reached us from the ranch office just off from the house. Someone said Tio Chema was in there raising hell about something. Mundo, our crew boss, sent Mario Lucho to listen in to what was going on. Nothing like a raw and new scandal to start the day. Lucho stood near the window of the office.
The rest of us grew quiet as the drama unfolded. It seems that Primo, one of the cowboys, tried to have his way with one of Tio Chemas daughters. Everyone wondered which daughter as Tio Chema was going on his twelfth wife and had children with all of them. We noticed Primo didn’t show up this morning.
We heard Tio Chemas voice explode, coupled by the unmistakable sharp metallic ring of his big machete as he smashed it on the office clay floors. The old man was furious, and no one doubted that he would have used his machete to mete out justice.
I recall feeling bad for the old man. Mundo looked over at me and I saw a glimmer of mischief in his eye and the start of a smile.
‘Clang!’ would go the machete on the hard clay. It was over almost as soon as it started. My guess is that Tio Chema realized that the evildoer, Primo, wasn’t around, must have figured it was time to get to work. This happened in the first few days of my first summer there, and I knew I was in for some amazing experiences.
This was to be the case, and years later, now, that was back in ’68, now in the ’20s, the experiences I had and witnessed are hard to believe. Most people I tell the stories to smile politely as they just figure they result from youths’ active imagination.
This story is about the night Tio Chema died. To put it into the right context, I will preface it with an experience I had a year ago riding in a cab from Antigua going to the international airport in Guatemala City.
The young man was talkative and curious. He wanted to know about me, this old gringo with near-perfect Spanish, and how it was I’d lived in Guatemala all those years ago. The conversation eventually drifted to the cattle ranch called Chiquiuitan near the country town of Taxisco. Before I could continue he interrupted and said: “Well, I have family from those parts, that’s where the best milk cheese comes from. That’s also a place made famous because of a man, a legend that used to live there named Tio Chema.”
“Tio Chema, you say? I knew a Tio Chema young man.”
The cab driver slowed and turned to get another look at me. “Serio Señor? You knew Tio Chema? He was related to me, he was related to all of us from Taxisco. Please tell me how you knew him.”
Well, I already told you so I’ll move on with the story of the night he died.
&&&
Early that morning Tio Chema left his small home to walk the many kilometers to his workplace.
By the time me and the other cowboys returned to the Ranch House after a long day of riding, we’d already heard from a chapeador out in the field that Tio Chema had died. Later that evening Mundo, my crew boss, and several cowboys came to the Main House and got me and we walked to Tio Chemas place about a kilometer away on the main dirt road entrance to the ranch.
Along this dirt road lived a number of the cowboys in humble dwellings with thatched roofs made up of two or three shacks. These were privileged spots and Tio Chema who was probably one of the early settlers there probably always lived there too.
We soon turned into a dwelling that had tall underbrush growing around it. Tall trees covered much of the property, nearby a small field of corn visible in the dim light from the house was ready for picking. Dogs approached us, barking and wagging their tails. Several guinea hens voiced alarm at our appearance, as did two free wandering geese.
A group of pigs grunted about contentedly, carefully inspecting the visitors. One man reached out and grabbed a baby pig, and it let out a squeal of surprise. Everyone laughed.
Tio Chemas widow greeted us, shoulders bunched up and her thin, frail body showed exhaustion, she was grief-stricken, didn’t say much, she soon went back into the kitchen hut where the other women were making coffee and tortillas. This was my first velorio or vigil for a deceased one. We drank coffee and ate hot tortillas; the men smoked as we sat outside in the warm darkness. Crickets filled the air as though in honor of the old man.
A parrot was stirring on its open perch, past its bedtime the low screeching and murmuring seemed to show dismay.
A handful of other visitors were already there and paying respects to the widow. Around a dirt-floored patio area, some boards on short stumps were arranged for sitting in a semicircle. We made greetings as we joined in.
The tropical night seemed to hold everything still in a thick, mosquito-infested humid blanket. Above, bright stars lit the night sky.
There was no lighting as there wasn’t any electricity. The Ranch House had electricity provided by a diesel generator that someone fired up every night around 6:30 PM. It would go until ten, then the place would be swallowed by the long night. The lights were numerous candles and small kerosene lamps made of little cans with rags for wicks. A fire was ablaze in the middle of the patio area, which added to the heat and helped with the mosquitos.
The dogs that belonged to Tio Chema lolled around, mostly ignored the visitors. I gave some of them bits of tortillas.
The night around Tio Chemas brought night sounds typical of the Central American coastal regions. Ciccadas frogs going ‘ledl, ledl, ledl’, mosquitos zooming in for a constant meal. An occasional call of a night bird, a roosters crow, and dogs barking up and down the roadway. There were hushed conversations, the women rattling things in the kitchen. The men spoke softly but joked and there was laughter, not disrespectful. This is how velorios went.
Toribio, one of my fellow workers, handed me a Payaso, a filterless cigarette, and said it would help keep the clouds of mosquitos away. I didn’t smoke, but neither could I throw away the cigarette, knowing that it was an expense to Toribio. I sat there and puffed away and had coffee.
I recall when an attractive young lady walked from the kitchen carrying a pot of coffee and Mundo's elbow jabbed me in the ribs. He looked into my eyes. I nodded to him and decided not to make more of it. Mundo was asking without asking what I thought of the pretty girl. Remember where we were and when no harm was meant.
A quick note here. I recall another vigil in the 90s, in a US city, and likewise, an attractive woman went about greeting and so on, and yes, the men also took notice. I’m not about to throw dirt on those wonderful men from those days now long past. It’s just the way it was, is…
Mundo led us in conversation. The men waited respectfully for our boss to present the next topic for talking. He said that tomorrow we would ride all the way across the ranch to where a small rancher lived named Palomo Monroy. There were some loose cattle that had strayed into the swamp, and there was a danger that they could get caught in the quicksand in the area. It was dangerous as it was sometimes hard to spot the quicksand until too late. He added that I should take my rifle along as there were plenty of iguanas there that live in the massive trees. Iguanas were a source of nutrition.
In the middle of the hut on the black sodden ground was a long table upon which they had laid Tio Chema. A mosquito netting hung curtain like all around him which strangely seemed fitting, ceremonial, around the edges of the table burned candles which was the only lighting in the hut.
I watched Mundo as he led us on a slow walk around Tio Chema resting place. Now, this was my first dead person. Oh sure, I’d seen deaths on the highway, You don’t grow up in Central America and not see death. But this was a novel experience for me. In my mind, I prayed for Tio Chema and felt terrible for his wife.
The men told me that Tio Chema had the documents showing that the man had lived 105 years. I thought about his growing up in what was a much wilder place back then. It was still wild. Very much like the American Wild West. All the cowboys still carried pistols at their waists. Rolled their cigarettes way before it became a hip thing. Their survival depended on their guts and skill in roping cattle as huge as the Brahma, humped bulls, massive animals with the power to tear off the top tier boards of a corral fence with one sweep. Something I’d seen with my own eyes.
All the men shared stories of gunfights they’d witnessed, a couple told of gunfights they’d been in.
I questioned death, what it was, how it visited us just once, and how families dealt with the harshness of it when it came to call.
Tio Chema was gone to the world. Next to his head was his old threadbare hat, mouth was open and his eyes closed. His old gnarled hands down along his sides, he was barefoot. Next to him sitting together were three women and voicing their lamentations, at moments loud, almost shrieking, punctuating the otherwise stillness of the hut.
We went back outside to sit a while longer on long simple board benches. The tropical heat was imposing, it sort of wrapped around you as though muffling you. Mosquitos could get through the thickest cloud of fire smoke which had been set up around the bare ground patio. A radio played low ranchera music. I recall there was a slight disagreement and one of the women prevailed and the radio then blared religious music.
At one point a drizzle came and cooled us, soon stopped, and the heat was even more overbearing. Mundo suggested it was time to leave, and we took one last walk around Tio Chema. After paying our final respects to his family, we departed into the black night going in our different directions.
The following day while we were riding fences, repairing barbed wire a chapeador working nearby told us that Tio Chema had woken up on the table and quite upset called out to his wife asking for his coffee and beans. He picked up his big Colima and gourd, some food, and went to work.
The chapeador told us Tio Chema said this: “Hey woman, where the hell is my coffee and food I need to get going damn it?” That’s how he put it.
Sure enough, later that day and the following there he was walking the hot trail to and from work.
&&&
The cab driver pulled up to the busy International Airport and as I went to climb out, I looked at him to say goodbye, and his eyes were swimming in tears. So then, were mine.
