Heavy Loads

In Guatemala
they have a way to carry heavy loads
--primitive, simple, and efficient--
one or two loops of rope engage the load,
carry it to the forehead
where loop closes with strip of leather or cloth.

 

Heavy Loads

Bob Komives

Body tilts,
bends forward to balance load:
perhaps a bulging sack
holding a quintal of maiz,
or small table
topped by seeming household of furniture,
or wooden frame
with pottery stacked five feet high by four feet wide.

From the bus windows
I watch men carry such loads
down,
up
steep mountain roads,
distant from past town and last house.

I see small loads
watching boys learn the art
under burdens cut to their size.
I enjoy their smiles spurts of speed.
Paces and decades ahead
I see burdens too-large,
postures too-bent,
leathery foreheads too-creased
under burdens saddled to a man.

In Guatemala,
they have a way to weed corn
--primitive, simple, and efficient--
with machete and stick.
The stick is narrowest where it fits the hand.
A subordinate branch makes a hook at the other end.
Though well-chosen and well-fashioned,
the stick may be left by the field to be recovered tomorrow
or replaced,
fashioned anew from branch of a living fence.
The stick gathers and supports grass and weeds
as the machete cuts them at the ground.
Machete strokes begin high from vertical.
Agile wrist and low body
take them quickly down to horizontal.
This smooth, rhythmic movement
fits and fills both the confines of tall corn
and the muscles of a short body.

I see an old man every day
on the road to El Rosario.
His machete and a boy are constant companions.
I know not where they live.
Seldom do I know in which of the fields they work.
I see them on the road between.

They come early
racing a day's work
against sun's rise to oppressive heat.
Yet, they come later than most.
They may start with others,
but in kilometers of walking
they fall behind.
The old man does not move fast.
The boy is in no hurry-
his walk seems youthful,
but two paces behind the old man.

I cannot know
if it is the years of work with the machete
or the carrying of heavy loads
that has bent that back and humped those shoulders.
But, as the man walks by me now,
his eyes focus on the ground
two paces in front of his feet.
Back is tilted;
head is bent
--as if to carry a load of corn.
I choose to believe he can no longer carry such loads.
The machete in one hand hangs as burden enough.

One, hot mid-day as I suffered a long walk
I saw them at work in a field.
Old man and boy
propping unwanted growth with theirs sticks,
severing it from its roots with their machetes.
I wanted to believe that the boy does more than his share,

On their walk home
they look no different than when they came.
Neither requires conversation.

The first time I passed,
the sound of a gringo-ish "a dios!"
caused the old man to startle;
he turned his head to reply.
Now, salutations to me
are as those to other familiar voices
--uttered quietly in the rhythm of the resigned pace.
On occasion, I pass by, say nothing.
Neither old man nor boy give apparent notice.

Am I silent from sympathy or reverent from respect?
Have I passed a humble man who has worked too hard, 
too long?
Am I watching a great man who has long carried great loads?
I look for cues in the eyes of the boy
and choose to see reflections of a hero two paces ahead.

Every day on their walk to work in El Rosario.
--until yesterday.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1996 :: Heavy Loads :: ,9602