The thought made me all the more determined. This was it. I was really going to fucking do this! I got so worked up, I didn’t notice the sudden change in events till I registered the sound of the belch and saw the little kid go white, his mouth puckering up like he was about to cry. By then he couldn’t hold it in any longer, and vomit spilled out all over my jeans. A warm, sticky sensation spread over my thighs, and a pungent sour milk smell wafted up. Mamá whacked her child on the head, saying something like, “Warn me next time you’re going to throw up!” Then she turned to me with an embarrassed look, gave a solemn apology, and began to wipe my pants with her shawl.
I forced myself to smile. Don’t get angry, I told myself, this is culture. But I couldn’t help myself, it bugged me more and more. Can you really say you have no money, when you feed your kid so much that he pukes? Why do poor people have so much damn body fat to spare, anyway? And why did this have to happen to me just as I was venturing out in search of the guerrillas who were fighting to end poverty? Well, I thought, these people are riding the bus like it’s an everyday thing; they’re probably not as deprived as the indigenous people.
When I left Japan, feeling good, in my torn T-shirt, raggedy jeans, bandanna, and several days’ stubble, I might have looked like your typical backpacker, but I was different from those apathetic bastards and proud of it. I wasn’t here as a tourist, or to conduct interviews; I was here to find the guerrillas and become one of them.
Those backpackers were irresponsible brats for the most part, little rich boys and girls playing homeless when of course they did have homes to return to. It’s ridiculous, I thought, the way they depend on the strength of the yen to get around, and then brag about “traveling on the cheap.” I was painfully aware that the Mamás and Señor Turkeys of this country saw me as just another one of those brats. But unlike that crowd, I understood only too well that I was riding on the wings of my country’s currency. No matter how dirty I might look, I knew my travels were buoyed on that lighter-than-air aluminum one-yen coin. A mode of travel little better than drifting and staring: never to touch down, never to make contact with other worlds, never to dive right in. I knew my body stank of yen, and would show me up as an outsider wherever I went.
I’d rehearsed these bitter thoughts many times before. Even back in Japan I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was floating in empty space. I’d get so angry at how false everything was: hypocrites planting their feet on the ground and shouting to the world, “We Japanese are defenseless, surrounded by potential enemies on all sides, but we won’t go down without a fight! Stand proud! We’ll fend for ourselves!” Those types didn’t really want to protect themselves or anyone else in particular; they just sought out the safety of the group. It was all a lie, confusing “me” for “us.” Where was this “us”? Who the hell were “we Japanese”? I, for one, had no idea. I only wanted to be able to say, “I’m me,” to define my own outline clearly. I was conscious of that as I traveled all over. But, unfortunately, I realized that because of the yen even I was connected with those “we Japanese” types. I could see that at times the yen might be a weapon, and anyone who wasn’t “us”—well, we were dutybound to kill those bastards, without feeling a thing. My outline was blurred by my Japanese language and money, making me another member of the “we Japanese.” Which also lay responsibility at my feet.
For me to become purely myself, I would have to gouge all the money out of my body by the roots. I wasn’t about to dress in folkloric costume, loll by the water smoking mota, or screw around. The kind who did that had this idea of uncovering their true selves, when all the while they’re wearing the dollar or yen or euro or whatever for protection. No, I was going to join the guerrillas, and instead of money, I’d offer up my life to vouchsafe my trust-worthiness. I’d probably die, but I needed to prove I could get by on my own strength. Which is why I quit part-timing at different jobs, dumped my girlfriend, and moved out of my apartment. What little money I had, I brought along to kick-start my journey. There might very well be people out there who would kill me without thinking about it, to get the last yen buried in my body. I was gambling: could I rid myself of the stench of yen, or would it be too late? Would I disappear along with my money?
When I told Jody these things, he railed at my being so naive. I was “stuck in the Sixties” like those sheltered idiots, he said, who thought it a sin to be born in a First World country. They’d hang out naked on the beaches out west, trying to alleviate their guilt. Well, I didn’t give a crap about ancient tales. I just wanted to become a guerrilla, with a body and mind purely my own.
Jody was a good guy, really open. We had this strange connection. He was an aspiring photojournalist from New York, staying in Ambigua to study Spanish, like me. Ambigua was a small town that survived on its language instruction industry—every household offered private Spanish classes, homestay included—and the streets were full of foreign students. It was Jody who gave me the secret info on the guerrillas. He hadn’t been to the mountains himself, but the town was buzzing with rumors, some more reliable than others, about the guerrillas. Just like the word on mota. Pretty soon, Jody said, he was going to start interviewing the guerrillas, so we agreed on a time and place to meet again, then I left just before him.
We pulled into the Coatltenango terminal (a small marketplace, actually), where I was due to change buses. As soon as I began wandering around looking for the bus to Ilusión, the whispers started, Hey, it’s a Chino, a Chino. Everyone was hounding me to buy stuff. I looked straight back at them and insisted, “No, soy Japonés”—No, I’m Japanese. Chino meant “Chinese,” and at the airport and the border and customs, that’s what everyone had been calling me. I guessed to them there was no difference between Japanese, Chinese, Korean, or Vietnamese. After hearing it so many times, I got so angry I felt like saying, Japón! Don’t you know Japón?
At that point an old pale-skinned man stepped out of the crowd. He looked poor, and extremely kindly. “Jou are Japanese?” he asked in English. I nodded, and he added: “So, jou are perhaps Maki’s friend?” I didn’t have a clue who this Maki was, but thought I might seem less suspicious if I had a name behind me. I replied, “Maki who lives in Ilusión?” He gave a knowing grin. “Ah, yes, Maki’s friend,” he said, and happily directed me over to the bus for Ilusión.
According to Jody’s info, I had to hitchhike even farther, beyond Ilusión to a village called Realidad. I’d meet there with a don Ignacio, who would set me up with guerrilla sympathizers in the village, who might then possibly guide me deep into the forest. The problem was, Realidad was a frontline, with guerrillas and government soldiers constantly battling for control. Not only would I have to avoid getting caught up in skirmishes, but there were other complications: the villagers, who were distrustful of both sides, were extremely closed to strangers; and the army had set up checkpoints on the main roads. Whether or not I could hitchhike in all that mess was the key. Just thinking about it made my asshole shrink in sweaty terror.
I assumed I’d be able to get some more reliable information from this Maki woman, but I guess that was optimistic.
I arrived in Ilusión after nightfall. It turned out to be a typical country town: there was a central plaza with a church and town hall, and we pulled into an alley alongside. Right in front of the bus stop was a cheap hotel. I ate fried chicken for dinner at a rickety old food stall next to the hotel. When I was traveling, I stuck to a regimen of fried chicken and fresh fruit, to avoid digestive problems.
I got up early the next morning and asked the hotel girl for directions to Maki’s place. The directions weren’t too difficult, so I caught on right away, but after I left I kept thinking back on how insistently she had warned, “Be careful.”
I saw a lot of villagers on the road, walking in groups of twos or threes. Their features were definitely Indio, but they were not wearing traditional clothes. Whenever I greeted people, the replies were curt. I’d say, “Nice weather isn’t it?” o
r “Is there no market today?” and get the shortest possible answer. Maybe my Spanish wasn’t good enough. Or else the civil war had been going on so long that nobody wanted anything to do with outsiders. Any foreigners around here would be seeking out the guerrillas, which explained why the locals wanted to avoid associating with me. When I asked the way to Maki’s place I did see their hardened features soften a little, but they didn’t want to continue any conversation.
After I’d walked about ten minutes, the houses began to fall away and I came to the edge of the village. Ahead of me there was nothing but a dusty white country road that seemed to stretch on forever. Occasionally a few chickens would wander out to the middle of the road and strut about. There were some simple shacks around, where women in brightly colored huipiles went about their farming and household chores. Whenever I asked if this place or that was Maki’s house, they either shook their heads or completely ignored me, not comprehending my Spanish.
I started to feel faint from the heat of the sun beating down. It was like being pelted with heavy cannonballs of light. I thought I’d maybe get a lift if a car came by, but there was no sign that anyone actually traveled this route. I happened to see a mango tree growing by the roadside, and couldn’t resist; I ripped a dusty piece of green fruit from the branch, peeled it and bit down, but it was hard and bitter, inedible. I started to wonder what I was doing here, and began to feel like I was living a lie.
This had to be the road to Realidad, I thought. I’d probably get there soon. I might even run into some guerrillas there. The girl at the hotel had insisted that I be careful. If guerrillas turned up right now, what would happen to me? If I could just talk to them, maybe they’d let me join up. Or then again, maybe they’d just take my lie of a life, no questions asked, and I’d disappear along with my yen.
Just as my confused feelings—wanting to die, not wanting to—reached a miserable crescendo, I came across a thin little Indio woman scooping water from a large urn in front of a ramshackle home. Short of breath, I puffed out, “Maki?” When the woman nodded, I felt like crying, from sheer joy at having survived. I looked at my watch and saw it was more than an hour since I’d left the village.
The woman silently gestured for me to go inside the house. I didn’t have the strength to speak, but just stepping into the shade felt like diving into cool water and I let out a cry of pleasure. It felt so good my skin was tingling.
Maki came toward me, from farther inside. When I saw that she was dressed in traditional clothing like the other woman, it gave me a jolt for a second. Maki spoke to the other woman in a language I didn’t understand, then greeted me with “Buenos días.” I returned the greeting, reached out, and shook hands with her. Her hand, roughened with farm work, didn’t look like it belonged to a Japanese woman. I was shown inside to a slightly larger room, where she pushed a broken stool toward me, and motioned for me to sit. She offered me a drink, and I said, Yes, please, anything would be fine. I tried to make conversation, to dispel the sense of unease that was eating away at me. “What a long walk! It was stupid of me to try it. I almost thought I’d faint from heat exhaustion.” Maki wasn’t impressed; she said people always walked up and back, that was normal here. My discomfort peaked at that point, since even though I was speaking Japanese, I saw that Maki was deliberately answering in Spanish every time.
Maki passed me a glass of water, and sat down facing me. So I asked her, straight out, why was she speaking Spanish to me? Her expression never changed at all as she replied.
“This is my home, so it’s only natural. Although of course, technically, Spanish is a foreign language around here, but …” I had to ask to be sure: I had assumed she was Japanese, but was she actually born here? She shook her head and knitted her brows slightly.
The conversation didn’t go well: she had to rephrase everything she said so that I could understand it; I stubbornly pressed on in Japanese and she answered in deadpan Spanish.
From what I could understand with my basic language skills, Maki had worked as a teacher for five years before quitting to be posted as a JICA volunteer to this village. She felt so comfortable here that she stayed on after her duty ended, and was now living with this woman Libertad, who was like a sister to her (I couldn’t believe they were the same age!). A widow with a one-year-old child, Libertad scraped by selling handicrafts and crops from her small field, and Maki helped too.
I asked if she’d been home to Japan at all, and she said that from the first moment she’d arrived in this village, she felt as if she’d been born again. Why would she go back to her past life?
Surely there were visa and citizenship issues? No, few here believed in those things. There were a great many people who just ceased to exist, and anyone who went over to the side of the guerrillas was no longer recognized legally as a national.
If the army found her out, she’d be arrested at best, maybe even “disappeared.”
Being here made her feel alive, she said. Of course, when she thought about things like being “disappeared,” she also felt the reality of death. She did not want to forfeit her new life here, nor did she want to leave Libertad and her child. That’s why she didn’t want to die, that’s why she had the energy to try to stay alive. Did I have anything that made me not want to die? Or were living and dying not all that different to me?
Of course the conversation didn’t really go this smoothly. For starters, even though she knew I couldn’t speak Spanish, Maki had this habit of asking difficult Zen-like questions, talking in abstractions. I felt like I wasn’t speaking with another human being, but with another species. I felt closer to the Mamá on the bus than to this woman. I found myself wanting to crush her strange confidence.
“Hey, I feel the reality of death too. My dad died when I was little. To me, death is like when something that existed suddenly disappears, and there is no connection between the time before and the time after it’s gone. That’s how I look at it, anyway. And if thinking about these things is enough to make you feel you’ve gone native, well, good for you.”
“But why come all the way out here to this remote village? The only foreigners who come to a village like this, that’s known for being dangerous, are people who are interested in contacting the guerrillas. Isn’t that what you’re after too—a taste of danger?”
“Sure, that’s right. But I’m not about to move to another country just to give myself some sense of reality. That’s not for me. I want to be a part of changing the world, doing away with the reality that exists right now.”
“Everyone says that. Try that line out on Libertad. Her man was lynched by the guerrillas.”
“Do you really think equal mistrust for the army and the guerrillas makes you into a model native? It’s easy for you to go local when the Japanese government conveniently supports you with yen the whole time. Do you think the people here really accept you? You can’t change your race. You’re still just a Japanese immigrant.”
Maki’s face distorted with pain. I chuckled inwardly, but it was way too soon to gloat. She ground her teeth for a second, took a deep breath, then spoke again. “So what will you do if the guerrillas let you join them, and then, as soon as you feel completely at ease, rob you of everything you own? Have you thought about that? Suppose the guerrillas you thought were your kindred spirits only see you as a source of income … Will you just think of it as ‘fate’? It isn’t so easy to erase all traces of Japan from your body.”
“I’m prepared for that. I’ll take a gamble on which way things fall.”
That was my answer, but I was shaken. From the beginning I hadn’t been able to comprehend all of Maki’s Spanish. It was more like I heard the sounds, and intuited what she wanted to say. How? Easy, we were one of a kind. She’d already done what I hoped to do. She was a joke, and I hated the fact that I was just as ridiculous. Just the thought of repeating her same laughable mistakes made me bone-tired.
I looked over at Maki, who had gone expressionless again. Her ey
es behind those dirty lenses were like glass balls; they revealed nothing. Her rough-cut dull black hair was braided in typical Indio style. She was maybe thirty, but her sunburned skin was tough and gritty and iridescent. I kept staring at her, but it was hard to say whether she was looking at me or at a point behind me on the wall. I stared even harder. Look at me, I was trying to say to her, but her eyes just slid over my face. It filled me with sadness.
When I left, I stopped by a hot spring Maki had told me about. Not much of a hot spring, really; it was more of a small pool dammed up off a lukewarm creek. I swam in my shorts. Soon a canopied truck arrived, and a herd of kids—not in traditional costume—tumbled out the back. Primary school students, they looked like. They pointed at me, whispering, Chino! Chino! I just smiled and put one after another of them on my back and swam them around the pool. Afterwards, they gave me a lift in their truck. Unlike Maki, I had no longer had any reason to want to walk that road.
The next day I wandered around the village. That evening I was invited to the home of Luisito, one of the boys from the day before. The children couldn’t pronounce Tomoyuki, so that night I became Tomo-iki. They turned me into a piggyback machine, attaching themselves to me like we’d grown up together.
Their mother Teresa was the one who finally liberated me from my exhausting labor. She was probably younger than me, but she ran the house with a style that was as impressive as her figure. She poured me orange blossom tea, and asked if Maki was in good health. When I nodded, she asked me, smiling, if we got on well. I smiled back.
“You got me on that one. She spoke Spanish the whole time.”
We, the Children of Cats (Found in Translation) Page 5