cattle drive

His laugh filled the trucks’ cabin, a dizzying mix of aguardiente and stale verde, as he said to me, that old man, your grandfather; he’s a real son of a bitch you know? My uncle wasn’t a very educated man, but he always had a knack for people, they just liked him. It was sometimes just a handshake, a firm and strong grasp, with his eyes burrowing deep into yours; others, his quick wit or his passion for cattle. We had been driving for over 5 hours, taking the long road from Santo Domingo to Bahia, transporting cattle for my grandfather. It was necessary to travel this way, through Chone, since the asphalt of the closer road via Pedernales had been washed away 3 years ago and had yet to be fixed.

The road was a mess of curves, sloping down from the mountains down to the coast. The Baldwin 10-wheeler, an early 90’s model, was straining under the weight of 12 Brown Swiss cows, excellent for milking and ultimately for meat. My uncle keep on going on with a story about how once this guy had shown up on my grandmother’s door asking to meet his father. He thought it was hilarious that they found the kid beat up almost to death that night; he never said who beat him up. Of course, it was hard for him to ever speak again. But everyone knew it was the old man who had done it himself. 

By the time we reached Jama, it was about 2:00 and I was starving, so we called it a technical stop. We spotted a cevicheria about 3 or 4 kilometers into town. The place was a shit hole, the chairs were made of metal frames with multicolored plastic for cushions and the plastic tables were all different colors. The cement floor was covered in sand, and if you stretched you neck by the back wall you could catch a glimpse of the ocean not too far off. We just sat on a table by the street to keep a watch on the truck. It was empty, the lunch rush was at about noon and by the time we showed up, they were down to scraps. Our choices were shrimp or fish ceviche, with some arroz blanco and maduros. I picked shrimp and passed on the arrroz and maduro, don’t really like that shit. Our server was this black kid, wiry and tall, he never looked at our eyes when we ordered. Not even when he brought us the food, and he never said a word either. 

When I finished I stood up to get a pack of cigarettes from the truck. On my way back, the kid was cleaning other tables and I got to see him in the eyes. They were a deep blue, angry to catch mine. Uncle paid up quickly and we got on the truck. The truck started and we left, just about 3 more hours to the hacienda. It was weird, the look the kid gave me, and maybe that’s why I didn’t notice the scars in his neck. When we arrived, the montubio ranch hands took care of the cattle and we went down to the main house to settle down. 

The house was on a rise, four pillars holding up a couple of floors. Up the stairs, the first floor held a small office, no papers, just a few old ledgers and notebooks. A radio played an old Salsa song, something about some dancing monkeys or money dancing. My uncle hung his hat on an old bull’s horn off the wall and we sat down to wait. Wait for my grandfather. It was easy to tell when he was angry like today; his blue eyes could really scare the shit out of you.