Don Juan

I feel as though I have been negligent in giving proper recognition to the man I see every morning, afternoon and evening; who is probably, by these associations, my closest Guatemalteco friend. 

This conviction of under-recognition burdened me this morning as I was filling up a pot of water at the pila to boil to wash my hair. I glanced to my right and there was Don Juan, sitting on a wooden chair in the dirt yard, eyes squinting in the morning sun, a red silk bandana tied around his head like a turban, trimming his right big toe nail with a machete. 

I watched him for minute, him carefully working the tip of the machete on his nail, his bare foot rested atop his shoe with no laces. I thought about offering him my nail clippers and then recalled other times I've seen Don Juan going about necessary activities. 

I remembered watching Don Juan while he was shaving. He was again in the small, wooden chair in the dirt yard, this time placed before the faucet head, Don Juan's eyes squinting in the sun. He had his shirt off but his felt hat still on. He was slouched back in the chair with a long knife. He was dry shaving by feel. 

Another time he had returned from some work on his land. He seemed hurried as he cleaned and put his tools away. When I stepped out of my house again, I saw Don Juan standing, again shirt off and again in front of the faucet and again with his hat on. He was filling small buckets of water and splashing them on his slender body. It was afternoon at this point, but it was still a chilly day. Don Juan utilizes what is functional; a machete will cut his toe nail. Cold water out of the tap will clean him. And that is good enough for him. 

Don Juan comes from the old school. He sleeps up here, in his one room and me in another room on the other side of an adobe wall. His wife sleeps with one of their daughters, below at the houses. When she comes to speak with him, she sits at his feet. 

He will enter his room with incense in the evening and mumble prayers by candle light because his room has no electricity for hours on end, the piney scent of the incense creeping over the wall and filling my room.

Don Juan addresses me after I address him with the polite morning, afternoon and evening salutations, and beyond that we rarely chat. At first, I thought this is just because he is a serious man. But when Nic was around, Don Juan would get chatty, even laugh, but only with Nic. Then when Johnny came for a visit, even with Johnny's limited spanish, Don Juan would seek him out, chat him up for a few minutes. After Johnny left, Don Juan recalled to me what a good man Johnny is. I don't take this personally, that Don Juan doesn't chat with me even though we share a common living space. I have learned now not to. 

I feel connected to Don Juan, even though he seems very distant.  Maybe it is sharing these intimate moments, these everyday activities of living a life, keeping a house and maintaining hygene that bond me with him. 

The other day Johnny and I stopped by the cooperativa to get some stuffs for the road. We had our backpacks on and were headed north for the weekend to do some hiking. Don Juan was also there, buying minutes for his cell phone. "Ah, my family is leaving", he lamented. "Really, you're family is leaving?" I answered perplexed; the family doesn't travel all that much. "Where are they going?" I asked. Don Juan paused a minute and said "You. You live in my house, you are my family."