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 One Barefoot Story from El Salvador

by Fidel Marcelo Moran Lopez 

Nobody wears shoes in our home, except on Christmas, Epiphany, and Sunday. Every Sunday my family and I, make the long trip into El Salvador’s holiest city, Santa-Tecla. There, we sell our pottery at the local market. For the rough trek, over mountains and dirt-trails, shoes are necessary. On most Sundays grandma-Lidia buys Pupusas and Marzipan candy with the extra pennies we make from our sales. The long walk leaves us hungry and Pupusas are just perfect: steaming corn tortillas, filled with cheese, refried beans, or flavored pork. Mom makes my sister Yani and I wear our sandals to school. But as soon as we are halfway we take them off, they are uncomfortable and make the feet sore. Children around here walk barefoot, and the soles of our feet are as tough as cured-cow-leather. So snakes are a problem. If you step on them, they bite, and your leg swells like elephant’s. Also, you can catch a bad-rash from stepping on a winter bug or a slimy-toad. Worst of all are sharp-stones and broken glass.     We have an adopted dog. He came around so often, we no longer saw him as a stray-dog. White all over, he is, white as a cloud; except his eyes, his eyes are sad and murky, like puddles of rainwater. My brother calls him Aguacatero which in Spanish means, an avocado eating dog. That’s also another way for calling a stray dog. San Judas is the name of our village. We are nationally known for having many avocado trees. Stray dogs love to eat the ripe fruits that fall under. My sister Yani and I watched this dog many days but never saw him eat a single avocado. Once we even tried feeding him one and all we did was color his face and whiskers avocado-green. Yani thought that the dog’s owner had probably moved away. We feed him day-old tortillas, bones… And try to make him happy, so he doesn’t runaway to look for his former owner. Many things in our village have special names. For example, the great tree in front of our house is called Madre-cacao or mother-cocoa, our old mare’s name is Ruby, and the shrub grandma uses for her tea manzanilla or tiny-apple. Grandma Lidia says that Marcela, my name, means ocean-sky and that El Salvador, our country means The Savoir. One day mom was hanging the wash to dry in the sun and the dog was getting in her way. She pushed him off and said “Andate Lechoso!” which meant “Get out of here Milky!” I thought that Lechoso made a nice name for the dog. In October Yani will ask grandma-Lidia to take Lechoso to be baptized at the St. Francis of Assisi’s mass. Being that St. Francis is the patron of all the beasts.     In our country El Salvador, we have six months of summer, from November to May everything dries up. Most rivers shrink to small streams, grandma calls culebritas or little snakes. And the clouds blow a steamy-dusty wind from midday until dusk. It is our good fortune to have a well in our home, where the liquid is kept crispy and cool, and many people come to borrow water from it. Mom says this village is blessed by the holy trinity because all things seem to flourish without much nursing, even children. The iguanas from our woods are so heavy and long, they sometimes fall off the tree-branch. Angela my aunt, who lives in the faraway volcano-skirts of Santa Ana, argues that San Judas is a lucky village because it’s near the ocean. And morning breezes fetch-in yodo or iodine from the sea, inland. My ant believes this is the reason custard-apples, around here are so enormous.My school teacher Mrs. Chila says that El Salvador has no real winter. Because in other countries really cold weather marks the winter season. And children make snowmen, and all the trees look dead. But winter in San Judas only brings lots of rain, rivers sometimes flood, and mountains and volcanoes turn greener. We cannot make snowmen but we have plenty of fruits to eat and have fun swimming and playing in the rivers. And the sun and the clouds have fun playing hide and seek in the sky. I don’t mind the summer months. But I prefer the arrival of the rainy season, in late May, which last until the gibbous moon of October. A time when we have plenty of corn, salted-cheeses, and grandma-Lidia narrates her strange tales at dusk.  Today some gray clouds are forming behind the Balsamo mountain-range. Grandma is gathering the dry laundry, hanging on lines, tree-branches, and rocks around the house. Mom is helping her, and they both expect a downpour by sunset. Grandma tells time by looking at the sun and the shadows. In winter, afternoons grow darker than usual, so time is sluggish in our home.Today, the wind is swinging the avocado fruits on the branch above our clay-roof. And the breeze has a strange scent, a mixture of orange blossoms, cow dung, and eucalyptus. The downpour has started to fall lightly upon the land. And our clay-roof is now a scarlet-Marimba, resonating with every drop. Behind the tangerine-grove, groups of frogs jump out to meet the river’s floods. Mom believes that children who work or play in the rain catch fevers, rheumatism, or get hit by lightning. That’s why I just sit here in the old-long corridor, near the adobe-stove. I like to sit near the warmth of the wood-fire to watch Mom cook dinner: refried beans, cheese, tortillas, stewed yellow-plantains with cinnamon, and maize coffee. Inside the house my sister drives away the shadows, lighting up candles and oil-lamps.Grandma drinks her coffee and pokes the stove’s fire with a long iron rod. Filled with anticipation, we wait for her story. It is her custom to tell us stories before bedtime. Grandma’s voice is gentle like the steady warmth coming from the adobe-stove. Mom listens, while she cleans red-beans for tomorrow’s lunch soup:             La Siguanaba     “When I was about your age” says grandma gazing at me “I was a thin innocent creature of God. So thin when the October winds came, my parents were afraid I would fly-away. And my dad baked me a clay-doll, to wear around the neck, to keep me from drifting in the wind.    We inherited the Pottery-trade from your great-grandfather-Juan. Long hours he toiled, shaping the raw clay into big-jars, skillets, and soup bowl, even tiny Christmas figurines. Pieces he later baked in a fiery adobe-oven. Your great-grandmother Maria had a different trade. She washed clothing in the river. Doctors, soldiers, and railroad worker’s dirty-laundry was her business. In summer, she brought me along as her assistant. And we hiked down to the river’s edge, before sunrise. During one of these trips we encountered La Siguanaba. The summer’s moon, big and bright, tricked my mother to believe it was 4:30am. Inside big palmetto baskets she put the day’s laundry. And we carried these baskets on top of our heads, while the moon lit up the narrow trail that stretched before us, a strange landscape. Where bats flew disoriented, making a buzzing sound. Crickets played their invisible violins, hiding in the shrubs. And owls with glowing eyes ate mice for supper. The maize field hissed as the chilly ocean breeze swept over it. And translucent dew gave grasses and woods silver tones. This calmness made me drowsier and I stumbled here and there on a rock, or snapped dried twigs with my feet. The river’s roar came clearer and clearer, as we walked down, sinking in the soft earth of a dark and lonely trail. Besides the occasional cuing of the owls or the splashing noise of the water, we heard no human sound. On the river’s tranquil pools I saw the moon, its light made the water transparent. Schools of tiny anchovies swam in an out of these clear pools. And I thought about eating them fried, with boiled cassava and a good portion of pickled cabbage on top. “We must be too early” I complained and Mom replied that it was better so “we would have the best spot for our selves”. We found a pair of flat-head rocks for scrubbing, next to knee-deep pools, perfect for the rinse. The water felt unusually warm, almost soothing. Lost-souls-hour was likely the time we were at the river; a very dangerous time for people to venture out of their homes. 3:00am is known in San Judas as “the hour of lost souls” and most people fear this time. It is the time when Hell and Purgatory, open their gates, so that errant souls may wonder the earth, frightening the socks out of living beings.   As we washed bundle after bundle of cloth, I noticed a strange figure a few meters down: slender, with a set of hair that ran down to the heel, I assumed the figure was of a lady. She beat, and scrubbed frantically. “Someone got up earlier!” I said. Mom looked over her shoulder and yelled “god morning”. The woman stopped her wash, and turned to face us. Her eyes lit-up as those of a raccoon or a dog’s do at night. Her stare was terrifying sending a wave of shivers down my spine. As she stood-up, her shadow-line appeared abnormally larger. Her hair, lengthy and coal-black trapped the river’s flow. And claw like nails adorned both hands. She walked a few steps then leaped-up, sweeping the high branches of a tree with her body, landing on top of a great-boulder in the middle of the river. There, she squatted like dog’s do, resting on their hind legs. A chilled and blustery wind blew our way, a wind perhaps belonging to the tail of some terrible storm; the chill numbed my entire body as if bitten by a Gila monster. I tried to call Maria, my mother, but the voice in my throat failed.  Only the moonlight kept the purple-gloom from enveloping us. At that instant the woman looked up at the full-moon and began to speak an incomprehensible dialect, never changing the color of her intonation, and repeating it several times. Two mysterious and large clouds appeared then, drifting slowly towards the moon, stretching the darkness, even more. And I dreaded the moment when the moonlight would cease to protect us”.Grandma-Lidia pauses and pokes the fire, now turned to an amber-wood. Mom hands us dessert, steaming bowls of stewed plantains marinated in cinnamon-syrup. Lightning rips through the sky illuminating our faces, and thunder roars deep behind some faraway mountain. Yani and I, beg grandma to resume her tale:“A prayer came to my head” she said, still chewing the last of her dessert. “It was a small prayer to the Guardian Angel. And I recited it, each time faster and faster. My mother and I both knew the she-creature watching us was indeed la-Siguanaba. An errant and ancient spirit, who frightens her victim, then swallows his or her soul.  The creature jumped down from the rock, making a huge splash. The clouds had almost covered the moon and only a squeak of light remained. The outline of her figure was nearly invisible. She came closer and closer towards us, dragging her long bushy hair. She was indeed terrifying, possessing the wrinkled face of a century old woman and unusually long-arms. Only her head was straight, never turning away from us. On the water, her steps were gentle and made no splashing sound. Four or five meters distance she stopped and smiled, showing a horrific set of shimmering fangs and crooked teethes, then gave a shrilling scream that slowly turned into laughter. This dreadful scene caused your great-grandmother to faint upon the muddy-bank. I, on the other hand, had the sensation of fading-slowly into an incredible dream-state. At one point la-Siguanaba was so close I could see beautiful pools of a lime-green and orange lights shifting in her eyes. They were serene and tender and resemble those of a tamed beast. Miraculously, as I gaze into these lights, my fears resided, my heartbeat slowed, and I stopped praying. Perhaps, I was resigned to my fate.On the flat stone where I had been scrubbing the wash, la-Siguanaba came around and sat on it. And pullout two medium-sizes Guava-fruits from a banana-leaf pouch, one she ate, and the other she place in the palm of my hand and said “Eat, a fruit from my tree.” Her voice was like an echo in my head. It had the softness of the breeze, the steadiness of the rain on the roof. I ate the Guava, it was ripe and delicious. In the sour-sweet of the fruit I tasted her sadness and loneliness. Abruptly my fears changed to compassion. And with this reflection in my mind I looked straight in to the being’s eyes. She laughed, and the vibration tickled my belly, making me laugh as well. A rooster crowed in the distance, louder than usual, announcing the coming of the dawn. Once more the creature reached into her pouch and extracted a green-jade-stone and placed it on my hand. “A token for your bravery… First-light is on the horizon” she whispered, stood-up and in amazing leaps disappeared upriver. Only the echoes of her mad laughter lingered.When my mother awoke la-Siguanaba was long-gone. With much difficulty we made it back home, and spent several bedridden days, overcome by fever. Concerned for our health, my father Juan had a doctor and a priest examined us. My story fascinated Juan, my father. He examined the jade-stone and asked about the guava fruit. He smiled and said. That la Siguanaba was above all, a mother in search of her child, her son Cipitillo, enslaved and murdered by the Spanish Conquistadors. My vulnerable but brave posture had amused her, and she was gentle and motherly towards me. The doctor said, I had perhaps dreamed or imagined the whole-thing. Our prayers, said the priest, had driven la-Siguanaba away. And urged me to throwaway the jade-stone, or I would suffer the consequences for befriending an evil spirit. I never disposed of the jade. And contrary to what people supposed my life has been spared from countless calamities.

Many times, in the fading light of dawn, I’ve heard la Siguanaba. Wondering the river’s desolated shore, among tall fruit trees and thick woods. Most people fear her, for she’s indeed dreadful. But I know her eyes, and they are filled with much tenderness and beauty”.              

Keyword: Folklore

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Posted by bubbly 2008-07-04 23:37:21 epic! hi! marcelo. an epic actually but an interesting epic. keep it up. lol. ;-) + Report this comment

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