The day was bright. We were beside his low front door.
“You know,
Hermano,”
he continued, “you won’t cure Cervella.”
“Why not?”
“It’s black magic.”
In Mr. Serrano’s homeland, near Yucatán, there lived a witch named Erlinda. She often worked as a
curandera
(healer woman), working her spells to help those who paid for medical attention—the area possessed few doctors, no public clinics, and certainly no hospitals. One way Erlinda healed people was to roll a raw egg on their bodies, over the afflicted area. She then broke the eggs into bowls—if the stuff inside had turned black, then the disease had been “sucked out.”
Erlinda was embroiled in an unexplained feud with one of Mr. Serrano’s kin. He did not know what started the fight, but he was not personally involved. One day, she appeared at his door, demanding money—568 pesos. Serrano didn’t have it, and he told her so. She would not leave and became abusive, threatening him and his family. He physically ejected her from his plot of land, and she stood outside his little wood fence and put a curse on him.
That week, Cervella’s aunt—Mrs. Serrano’s sister—went into a swoon and died. They took her to a clinic in her last hours, but she never revived. The Serranos were terrified, unwilling to even leave their compound.
Then Cervella fell ill. It began with a fever, and the fever rose until she became delirious. She soon fell into a coma. Mr. Serrano bundled her up and carried her to the regional Red Cross station, but they couldn’t break her fever. They kept her overnight.
Mr. Serrano, not knowing what else to do, went out to his land to work. In one corner, he found a small pyramid of stones. He took it apart and discovered a bundle of Cervella’s clothes knotted up inside it. He rushed to the clinic, carried Cervella out, and took her to a missionary house in the jungle. There, he told me, they prayed over her, and she awoke.
It is possible that Mr. Serrano was telling me a whopper. However, he was crying as he told it.
“I swear to you, Luis,” he said, “she woke up. And the fever?” He brushed his hands before his chest, as though flicking dust into the wind. “Gone.”
The Serranos so feared Erlinda after this that they fled north, running until they ran out of country to run through. The last time I saw her, Cervella’s arms were still lumpy, scabbed over, oozing blood.
Dompe
workday, December: Steve Mierau and I were going to shacks in the pig village, visiting the families there. The crew was in the lower dump, hammering new houses together. We were alone. Mierau was a slim prairie liberal from Nebraska who had fallen into Mexico as if into a dream. Somehow, he had the misfortune of being promoted to second-in-command. He lived in a garage next to Von’s trailer when he wasn’t in Mexico.
Since we weren’t expected, we were free of the usual crowds of hungry people. We could take in cartons of food to each family. The Serranos were at home, and as we walked out there, we heard a commotion. Mr. Serrano was hollering and laughing, running in circles with a broom. The boys were charging around his feet, whooping, and Cervella was shrieking and clapping her hands.
“What’s this?” Steve said.
“Get him! Get him!” Cervella shouted.
Then I saw the rat.
It was a big dump rat, trapped between all of them, running in panicked circles. Everywhere it turned, a Serrano waited. Mr. Serrano repeatedly smashed the broom across its back. He finallycracked its spine, and it fell over, scrabbling in the dust. They all laughed.
The oldest boy knelt behind the rat. They crowded in.
Mr. Serrano said, “Good boy. Do it!”
The kid reached into his back pocket and withdrew a pair of wire cutters. He held the rat down with one hand and fitted the cutters over its snout. He began to cut its head off, centimeter by centimeter.
Steve and I backed away. Before we knew it, we were running for the van.
Corpses
S pring
“You know,
Hermano,”
he continued, “you won’t cure Cervella.”
“Why not?”
“It’s black magic.”
In Mr. Serrano’s homeland, near Yucatán, there lived a witch named Erlinda. She often worked as a
curandera
(healer woman), working her spells to help those who paid for medical attention—the area possessed few doctors, no public clinics, and certainly no hospitals. One way Erlinda healed people was to roll a raw egg on their bodies, over the afflicted area. She then broke the eggs into bowls—if the stuff inside had turned black, then the disease had been “sucked out.”
Erlinda was embroiled in an unexplained feud with one of Mr. Serrano’s kin. He did not know what started the fight, but he was not personally involved. One day, she appeared at his door, demanding money—568 pesos. Serrano didn’t have it, and he told her so. She would not leave and became abusive, threatening him and his family. He physically ejected her from his plot of land, and she stood outside his little wood fence and put a curse on him.
That week, Cervella’s aunt—Mrs. Serrano’s sister—went into a swoon and died. They took her to a clinic in her last hours, but she never revived. The Serranos were terrified, unwilling to even leave their compound.
Then Cervella fell ill. It began with a fever, and the fever rose until she became delirious. She soon fell into a coma. Mr. Serrano bundled her up and carried her to the regional Red Cross station, but they couldn’t break her fever. They kept her overnight.
Mr. Serrano, not knowing what else to do, went out to his land to work. In one corner, he found a small pyramid of stones. He took it apart and discovered a bundle of Cervella’s clothes knotted up inside it. He rushed to the clinic, carried Cervella out, and took her to a missionary house in the jungle. There, he told me, they prayed over her, and she awoke.
It is possible that Mr. Serrano was telling me a whopper. However, he was crying as he told it.
“I swear to you, Luis,” he said, “she woke up. And the fever?” He brushed his hands before his chest, as though flicking dust into the wind. “Gone.”
The Serranos so feared Erlinda after this that they fled north, running until they ran out of country to run through. The last time I saw her, Cervella’s arms were still lumpy, scabbed over, oozing blood.
Dompe
workday, December: Steve Mierau and I were going to shacks in the pig village, visiting the families there. The crew was in the lower dump, hammering new houses together. We were alone. Mierau was a slim prairie liberal from Nebraska who had fallen into Mexico as if into a dream. Somehow, he had the misfortune of being promoted to second-in-command. He lived in a garage next to Von’s trailer when he wasn’t in Mexico.
Since we weren’t expected, we were free of the usual crowds of hungry people. We could take in cartons of food to each family. The Serranos were at home, and as we walked out there, we heard a commotion. Mr. Serrano was hollering and laughing, running in circles with a broom. The boys were charging around his feet, whooping, and Cervella was shrieking and clapping her hands.
“What’s this?” Steve said.
“Get him! Get him!” Cervella shouted.
Then I saw the rat.
It was a big dump rat, trapped between all of them, running in panicked circles. Everywhere it turned, a Serrano waited. Mr. Serrano repeatedly smashed the broom across its back. He finallycracked its spine, and it fell over, scrabbling in the dust. They all laughed.
The oldest boy knelt behind the rat. They crowded in.
Mr. Serrano said, “Good boy. Do it!”
The kid reached into his back pocket and withdrew a pair of wire cutters. He held the rat down with one hand and fitted the cutters over its snout. He began to cut its head off, centimeter by centimeter.
Steve and I backed away. Before we knew it, we were running for the van.
Corpses
S pring
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