Guyler Gets a Job!

Waking up at five in the morning is my habit. Doing so Monday of the past week was no more difficult than other days, in fact it was easier. The daily activities of the men in the town were somewhat obscure to me as I have not been to the fields to work; experiencing what farm work was like here in the boondocks of El Salvador had been tickling my interest for some time. What else had been tickling me (although not my interest but my sense of manliness) was the constant assumption of my inability to do hard work, so I also felt the need to prove my physical strength the way I imagine most brash ruggedly hansom young men need to as well J. When I told people in the village I would be going to the field I received skeptical looks, and questions like ‘you can?’ So at five I sprung out of bed and began the morning rituals, keeping my eye on the kitchen to see if we were going to get breakfast. Although I have been living in this house for eight weeks I never noticed if the men get breakfast before they go to the fields. As we got closer to being ready it seemed certain there would be none, so I stuffed two granola-ish bars into my pocket and waited outside. JP (the father of the host family) gave me a looking over and told me to put on long sleeves, an unpleasantry due to the heat here I was hoping to avoid.

I suppose he knew I didn’t have any work clothes so led me back into the house and gave me a fetching tan long sleeve shirt to don, that had a patch on the right breast pocket that said “TruGreen”. I remember seeing those trucks in the states, after they visit your house they leave tiny flags around the grass informing all literal animals of the marvelous transaction that has occurred; an exchange of all tactile functions to purely a visual function. Donning my new finery I sling my gallon of water of my shoulder, attire my head with a hat, stuff my work gloves in my pocket, JP hands me my cuma, and we are off on the morning commute. On the way out of town we stop by ‘a store’ (someone’s living room) and JP picks up twenty five cents worth smokes for the day (4). We walk along the street for a while and everyone we pass (a substantial number considering the time), takes a quick look at me, smiles, and makes a comment about how it’s good I’m working, and ask when I will work for them. A trail spikes off to the right and we begin what will be a half hour hike up a small mountain to get to their field. On the way there, a parade of leaf cutter ants crossed the road. I had seen them on TV before! A thick line of them marched to a plant designated for food, or was returning to the nest with their prize on their back like a small sail boat with green sails. I stop to take a picture. JP seems somewhat amused that I think it’s interesting, and tells me what they call them. Several locations along the trail have remarkable vistas. Of the valley below with its picturesque patchwork green farms, meandering river, low clouds tucked in the valley hiding the base of the volcano in the distance. The family field has a perfect view of this.

The field itself seems as much rock as soil. We put our water in the shade of a boulder. JP pulls a file out of his pocket and starts sharpening the cumas. I smash my two granola-ish bars in my mouth. It’s still cool out but I’m sweating none the less. Once they are sharper he unceremoniously hands me back my cuma gives me no instruction on what to do and starts working. The area we are working in is to be where the beans are planted, and it is alarmingly steep. While standing on the hill I reach my arm forward with the cuma the end of it touches the ground; I estimate how steep it is 45 degrees? 50? 60? I look over at JP to get an idea of what I am supposed to be doing. All it seems to be is slashing the bottom of the plants in front of him with he cuma and tossing them behind him and advancing upward or to the side. I give it a go. Difficulties include; thorny plants, woody plants with stems up to half inch thick, and constantly being afraid of falling backwards and tumbling to a certain hospital visit. It’s not particularly hard or easy, but to be fast? Experience is required. After half an hour JP’s son (Alfredo) could be heard singing Ranchero music wonderfully loud coming up the trail to joins us. The side of the hill protects from the sun for quite a while. After an hour and half of chopping, Alfredo’s wife can be seen walking towards us.
I take my cue and walk up to the small flat area where she is heading. “Breakfast” they both start saying. In the two months I’ve lived there I never noticed that she comes all the way up here everyday with breakfast! Breakfast goes for about an hour (unusually long as I learned from later days), it’s the same food I get at the house—beans, eggs, and tortillas. JP sharpens my cuma again and it’s back to work.

By its rustic appearance I doubt how sharp it could be and rub my gloved thumb down the blade, I don’t know what I was hoping to learn by rubbing my leather clad thumb over the blade, but I can deliver to you the facts of what I did learn.

Fact 1- It is sharp.

Fact 2- I am an idiot.

Fact 3-It’s sharp enough to cut through leather.

Fact 3.5- It is sharp enough to cut through leather and my thumb.

That would be too much if they knew what a stupid thing I just did. Pretending nothing was wrong I let my wound weep and dye the thumb of the glove; later I would tell them a thorn went all the way through the glove. They seemed pleased with that explanation as it made their work seems harder.
The day got hotter, the work got harder, the Matt got slower. Despite frequent sharpening I slowed to close to what seemed like half the pace of Alfredo and JP, and was quite pleased when they called it a day 12pm. Despite my pleasure with the day ending early, the length of the work day came as a mild shock, it did not quite fit in with me preconception of the poor working endless hours. But it makes sense, they own their land (they don’t actually but they use it, and no one bothers them about it (they call themselves ‘colonist’)), they’re self employed and apparently they make enough to get by without working late into the unbearable heat that comes around one o’clock so why should they? Self employed people get to make that choice.
We make our way back and I almost finish off the gallon of water I brought. On the road back to the town my soiled appearance and cuma in hand tells people what I’ve been up to. Although I did probably slightly more than half the work of either JP or Alfonso they tell everyone “Works, hard! Like a professional. Seems like he has done it forever.” Even though I know it’s not quite the truth I’m happy to have others believe it.

Alfredo and I. (I don't think he is reallythat short)