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I had practiced what I wanted to say and as I stumbled through my explanation in Spanish they all stared at me silently. Finally, one of them said quietly in perfect English, “Would you like to try that in English?” Unsuccessful at locating a Volkswagen bumper, I soon had another experience of a similar nature when I took the van to a Laminero, or body man, to have the mangled bumper repaired. Two years before I had damaged a rental car almost the same way by scraping the side on the gate of a house we were renting. Through some sleuthing, I had tracked down a "Laminero.” His shop was a junkyard just across the bridge in La Penita, less than a kilometer from our home in Guayabitos. The man, who called himself Charlie, English for Carlos, had done such a good job, that I went back to him to fix the Westfalia. Charlie’s work area was an open space with a tarp over it. Cannibalized auto parts, empty paint cans, and assorted greasy battered debris of the junkyard world lay scattered around. A sagging dusty old travel trailer sat in one corner, home of the yard's owner. Several men in cover-alls hands dark with the smudge of old grease and oil, worked on various vehicles, including a motorbike that looked like it had been in a collision with a bus. I couldn’t imagine that the motorbike’s driver survived. Charlie remembered me from the previous accident and greeted me warmly. I wanted an estimate to repair the bumper and dent, and also paint the front of the van which was peeling, as well as the roof, which had faded. After chatting for a while, mostly in Spanish with a few English words thrown in, Charlie inspected the Westfalia. He stood frowning; pursing his lips, scratching his head, then gave me a price. I raised my eyebrows. A little high, I thought. "Es bonito precio?" I asked, wondering if that was the best price Charlie could give me. I remembered
from the last time he repaired a car for me that Charley had a good-humored
mischievous personality. A nice looking young man in his twenties with
a suave pencil mustache, he narrowed his dark brown eyes, and the trace
of a smile hovered at the edge of his mouth. Some of the men stopped working
to watch the negotiations. One kid about fourteen, with a perpetual smile,
was especially attentive.
Charlie steepled his fingers together as if he were praying, raised them up and looked at the sky. With an expression of mock reverence on his face, he pretended to pray, then said in Spanish, "For my amigo Rene, a pretty price," and knocked twenty dollars off the original. The men laughed, and I answered in Spanish, "This is a pretty price for your friend?" I rolled my eyes and looked at the other grinning men. Charlie looked surprised, pained and chagrined. With a wounded look, he once again went into his mock prayer, "Por Dios. For my brother Rene, a very pretty price," and jotted down another figure on the notebook I handed him. I feigned surprise and said to the other men, "Now I'm his brother. I should get a very pretty price. Si?" The men laughed. Charlie, laughing now himself, grabbed the notebook out of my hand, and jotted down another figure, this one thirty-five dollars less. The price seemed reasonable and we shook hands. I dropped off the van the next day. I came back four days later when Charlie promised the job would be finished. He wasn't quite done. "Dos mas horas," he said, and I left promising to return in two hours. Charlie was almost finished when I crossed the bridge and walked down into the yard. The day was blistering hot and sopping humid - cold beer heat. I walked across the highway to the Corona distributing plant and picked up a cold six-pack of Modelo in cans. Back at the Laminero yard I offered the guys a cold cerveza. The owner didn't drink but the rest of the crew including Charlie gratefully cracked open a cold one. For a moment
I wondered if I’d made a mistake giving Charlie a beer since he hadn't
finished the job yet. But the gesture relaxed everyone and they started
asking me where I lived and what I did for a living. They were razzing
each other too. Charlie referred to the yard’s owner who hailed from Chiapas
as "Commandante Marcos." Everyone laughed at that. When I told them
I grew up in Montana, they wanted to know if I was a "vaquero," (cowboy).
I almost fell over laughing. Charlie, trying to keep a straight face, called the man a "Guatemalan," then "Estupido Azteca," as the other men howled. Apparently, there is some pecking order based either on skin color or social status. Mexicans who look more "Indian," are together lumped with Guatemalans who evidently have an inferior social standing to Mexicans. I got the feeling I would soon hear a "How many Guatemalans does it take to change a light bulb," joke. Suddenly Charlie asked me, "How old are you?" Sixty," I replied. He looked me over, eyebrows raised, then asked, "Tiene sexual impotencia?" (Do you have any sexual impotence). The other men tensed, watching to see how I would respond. "No, No," I exclaimed, "Yo soy fuerta mismo el toro." (I am strong like bull). More laughter. Charlie's eyes widened and he pointed his finger accusingly at me, "Usted usar Viagra, si?" (You use Viagra, yes?) "Si," I laughed. "Viagra mucho gusto. All the men joined in the laughter now and Charlie yelled at the man who called his grandfather a monkey, "All you Guatemalans need Viagra." Finally, Charlie finished his beer and went back to work. In another half hour he was done. When I inspected the job, I was pleased. For approximately a tenth of what it would have cost in the States, he had nicely spruced up the van. Charlie somehow glued the fiberglass bumper back together so that it looked almost like new. After paying Charlie, we chatted for a while in a more serious vein. Charlie's dream is to move to San Jose, California where his cousin has a business. "Pero es muy difficil,"(But it is very difficult), he sighed, realizing that getting a legal visa to work in the United States may be impossible. "No dinero here," he lamented. I sympathized with his longing for more income, but wondered if he would really be better off. To me, Charlie’s hometown is idyllic. But for Charlie it means he has to work at many different jobs: driving an ambulance, construction, auto body work and being a musician, just to make ends meet. From my perspective Charlie seemed to have a better life than he would have in San Jose. But, I also realized that it was my fantasy. For an ambitious young man with a limited future Del Norte is still the land of opportunity. Over the next months, I referred some other gringo customers to Charlie. He was good at his craft, and in any culture, that ought to be rewarded. To contact
Rene Click Here
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