The least of these--in Colombia

Front matter

WffimK

IN COLOMBIA

Maude Mwell Williams

Foreword

THIS little book is not abstract and philosophical; it is concrete and specific. If you wish to learn of the work being done by missionaries in Colombia, this will not help you, for it does not describe or recount that work ; if you seek to know of the resources, industries and possibilities of Colombia, look elsewhere, for they are not so much as mentioned here.

This little book is exclusive. It might have told of the educated, refined, Spanish peoples of Latin America, but it does not; it might have described the increasing and interesting artisan class, but it does not; it might have treated of the agricultural class — so much is there to be told of them, — but it does not. Only of servants, and not of all servants, not even of our neighbors' servants, of whom we have known much; of our servants, yet not of all those who have served us; of a few, then, of our servants, is the book written.

And the object? That the thing we Anglo Saxons of North America have so far failed to do, we may be helped a little in learning to do ; to understand our Latin American neighbors. To do that we must see them exactly as they are, and not as we think they ought to be ; we must form a more correct conception of their environment than most of us now possess.

The object is worthy, this little collection of narratives, insignificant. Yet these are true stories of

8 FOREWORD

real people, and should possess a value in revealing to us the people. If anyone is helped to see them as they are — these servants of Colombia, typical of so large a class, — with the difficulties, the limitations, the impossibilities of their present lives, I shall feel rewarded for my venture.

M. N. W.

Baraboo, Wis.

Contents

I DOMINGA 13

II Rosario 17

in pabla 27

II

WITH but three months of Spanish to our credit we had taken charge of the Boys' School. Along with the school there had descended to us as cook, Rosario, and her six-year-old daughter. Squat and grossly stout was Rosario, less coppery in color than some mestizos, betraying the Indian blood principally by her tiny half-shut eyes.

Spanish as I knew it in those first months was culled from grammars, and Spanish as Rosario spoke it was to be found in no dictionary or grammar under the sun ; hence some of our conversations were ludicrous to an extreme. One of my duties each evening was to furnish her a list of the things and indicate the quantity of each that I thought would be needed for the next day's meals. Since I knew nothing of Spanish cooking, less of the preferences of our boarding boys, and still less of the prices of things in the plaza, this duty caused me much worry. Why not let the woman make her own list? Very few Colombian cooks, and only those long trained to it, are able to make their market lists. Rosario decidedly was not.

She could not read or write a word, yet in some respects her ability surpassed yours or mine. Each evening having worked out the market list with the assistance of the dictionary and of one of the boarding boys, I read to her the numerous vegetables and groceries that I had decided upon for the early morning marketing. The next day I produced the list and checked up her purchases. Not one time in ten did she forget a single item; not one time in twenty did she neglect, when reporting its cost, to add a centavo or two to each purchase. Her brain was nimble, too, in the addition of the sums of money paid out. The ten or twelve cents thus gained daily by pretending a higher cost than she had paid gave her a neat little sum for her daily chicha (beer).

Another source of revenue had she. As she left for the market before daylight she was entrusted with a key to the front (and only) door of the Colegio. Twice each day, an hour before the eleveno'clock breakfast and again before the six-o'clock dinner, I counted out a medium-sized potato for each member of the household and an equal number of small potatoes to go into the soup. Rosario had a custom of subtly preparing the largest of the small potatoes for the table, thus robbing the soup of its due proportion of starch, while she hid the largest of the large potatoes. From time to time she stole out under the cover of darkness carrying beneath her shawl a little basket filled with good-sized potatoes, perhaps a slab or two of chocolate or a few breads upon which she had managed to get her hands. These things she sold at the corner tienda.

Two dollars a month was all that I paid the woman; yet Colombian senoras complain that the foreign mistresses spoil all service by overpaying their servants. Who would not wink at pilfering when wages so grind the faces of the poor?

A stove in Colombia is merely a brick table built solid to the floor on one side of a dark little kitchen. This table is three feet high and three feet wide. At

Sugar-cane.

Carrying wood to the city below. The center figure has two mule-loads.

intervals holes in the table-top occur and extend about half way to the floor where they open to the front. These are the drafts. Across the top of the openings bricks are set on edge to form grates. On these, pieces of charcoal or fagots of wood are laid and puffed into blaze by use of the bellows. Kettles are balanced on the charcoal and the kitchen equipment is complete. It is a simple matter for one piece of charcoal to burn more rapidly than the others and to crumble away, which causes the kettles to topple and their contents to spill over the fire, raising a cloud of cinders and ashes which descends into the cooking food, thus spoiling the portion that remains in the kettle. There is no oven, no chimney. Close beneath the ceiling above the " fireplace," as this table is called, is an opening in the wall, two feet wide and extending the whole length of the wall. Through this, part of the smoke escapes, the most of it remaining in the room to blacken the walls a nd to stifle the cook. The kitchen has no window and but one small door opposite the fireplace ; more openings would interfere with the draft.

In this dark room little Noma, Rosario's daughter, crouched most of the time. She was not apportioned rations as were the rest of the household, Rosario continually assuring me that it was unnecessary. Noma lived off scraps, and was clothed from scraps begged from " my Seiiora." To judge from appearance neither she nor her clothing was ever washed. Rosario herself showed so intimate an acquaintance with dirt and grease that my standing quarrel with her was on the subject of cleanliness.

Her love of drink proved the woman's pitfall. She tippled all the time, drank heavily on many occasions and was drunk frequently. In my periodic digging out of the kitchen often would I unearth, along with the perfectly good kettles consigned to oblivion because " they are so dirty they serve no more," villainous looking bottles that would threaten the peace of any household.

Rosario had two hours off each Sabbath afternoon with the invariable result that if we had any dinner (and boarding boys must always be fed), I had to assist the poor stumbling drunken creature to prepare it. In desperation I took away her two hours off; if she could not come home in better condition she should stay shut into the servants' room, a dark, empty cubby-hole, all the long sunny afternoon. One Sunday she stayed. At dinner she surprised me by serving to me alone a special little dainty. While the coals of fire thus heaped on my head were burning nicely she came whimpering to be allowed " one only little hour in the street in which to walk but the tiniest little."

Of course she had her little hour. Two hours, three hours, passed and no Rosario. I heard Noma crying, alone and frightened in the servants' room, so brought her upstairs. I was anticipating the worst from Rosario, when it burst upon us; such a pounding at the street-door that only oak planks could have resisted its violence. The Missionary hurried down to open the door, Noma and I rushed out into the corridor and hung over the balustrade.

" Go back into the library and shut the door," peremptorily ordered the Missionary. " Take Noma with you and keep her there."

Startled I obeyed. Then ensued a heavy dragging noise which was unmistakable. Down the length of the lower corridor it echoed until it came to a stop in the servants' room. A restless half hour later the Missionary joined us in the library.

" Disgusting business," he ejaculated. " The woman is drunk, as dead as a log. A policeman found her in the gutter six blocks from here and, recognizing her, hauled her all the way home by her feet. The skin is worn completely off one side of her face where he dragged her over the cobblestones. Think of it; that ponderous body dragged by her feet ! It is a wonder it did not kill her. If she recovers she will be a hideous sight forever. Don't let Noma go downstairs tonight ; let her sleep here in the library."

Privately, as I waited upon the forlorn creature, I resolved that Rosario should seek a new situation as soon as she was able to leave the house; but a week with no cook at all, or a different one from the street for each meal, weakened my resolution. I decided to renew my patience with Rosario. Perhaps I could yet help her to reform. I realized, too, that the Missionary Lady in the Girls' School across the city spoke the truth when she said, " After all, Rosario is virtuous and you might be much worse off if you let her go." Rosario virtuous ! Of a truth, how our charity increases when we change continents !

The poor woman became forever grateful to us for our forbearance. She never thanked us in words, but her devotion was a thing at which to marvel.

One day she came to ask me how I wished the potatoes prepared for breakfast, made into balls and fried in deep fat or served in Saratoga chips as usual. Feeling that I could not absorb any more lard if I starved instead, I replied that it did not m THE LEAST OF THESE

matter ; the boys liked them either way and I should not eat any myself.

At breakfast, with much ceremony and an air of great mystery, Pabla brought in and set before me a plate containing a brownish, stickyish-looking mixture which I could not cut with my knife. Grinning broadly she insisted upon my tasting the concoction.

"But what is it, Pabla?"

" A thing very good. A thing for my Senora if she has not so great an appetite. But prove it."

The Missionary and the boarding boys watched to see what I might do. It would have taken a braver person than I am to have tasted so nauseous a dish without knowing what it was.

" Pabla, unless you tell me what this is, I shall not taste it."

" It is that Rosario has much sympathy for the Senora for that she is not able to eat her rice and those potatoes. Rosario herself was it who went to the street for the purpose of buying the blood of a goat which is now fried for my Senora. It is most strengthening, most delicious, ah, but how much so ! "

The boys laughed and the Missionary looked amused but the servants were disappointed, not to say disgusted, because I sent the dainty, untasted, back to the kitchen.

I had taken from Rosario the privilege of going out Sunday afternoons and it was several weeks after her escapade before she asked for any hours off. Then she fawningly begged permission to go after breakfast to make some necessary purchases for herself and Noma.

"The Doctor" (the Missionary) "told me that he goes to put Noma into those classes that she learns to read. Then I buy her sandals that she looks respectable, if my Senora does me the favor so great to let me go for a little hour."

" And after the little hour, Rosario? "

" Then I return, to be sure. I prepare that dinner, as always. My sister it is that accompanies me and she does not take" (drink). "She it is that helps me hurry myself."

Concealing my smile at the mental vision of waddling old Rosario hurrying herself, I gave her the money she asked for and told her that she might go for an hour. Two hours later I went downstairs to unlock and set out the afternoon lunch for the boys, planning on going directly to the kitchen to commence the preparation of the dinner, since I had no expectation of seeing Rosario again that afternoon. As I entered the dining-room there in the corridor stood the cook, her mutilated face distorted by a smile.

" Why, Rosario, have you not gone yet? " I asked in surprise.

" Of course, my Senora, I have been, I have returned. Allow me one little favor more," and she shuffled off to the kitchen.

I went on upstairs wondering what the woman could possibly want now. A few moments later she lumbered up the narrow stairs and pushed through the doorway, bearing a large tray laden with eight choice varieties of bananas. With much graciousness and with horrible twistings of her features she presented me the fruit as a token of gratitude for her hour off. My reward was so out of proportion to my deserts that I was speechless.

With a show of anxiety, she inquired, " It appears to my Senora that I was very late? "

m THE LEAST OF THESE

" Oh, no, Rosario, you returned promptly, but you should not have taken the trouble to bring me all this nice fruit. However, I thank you sincerely."

" For nothing, my Senora. Those thanks are all mine that the Senora, so good, should accept my unworthy gift and I implore her to pardon me if I was late."

I dicl not tell her I was so relieved that she had returned at all and able to stand that I could have forgiven her a great tardiness.

One morning the Missionary returned from an errand in the street and asked me to send for Rosario. She came into our presence, looking startled but saying nothing. The Missionary held in his hand the market list for the day as he said:

" You bought sixteen dozen eggs this morning ; what did you pay for them? "

" Doctor, the Senora and I, already have we arranged all that from the plaza."

" Yes, but I wish to hear what you paid for those eggs."

" That which I said to Senora Mauda ; two cents each egg. ,y

" I have just come from the plaza and I priced eggs. They offered me all there were in the market at one and seven; I could have secured them at one and six, or even at one and five, a cent and a half per egg. That means that they are selling at from eighteen to twenty cents a dozen and you are charging the Senora twenty-four cents a dozen."

" And what is it that I know about those dozens? I know nothing of dozens ; I paid two cents for each of those eggs. It is a good class of egg that I buy, not those eggs carried for many days from far away. I buy the good eggs."

w And at most you do not pay over one and seven — a cent and seven-tenths per egg. Hand over to the Sefiora the money you have kept back."

But this she would not do. She departed, grumbling that she had paid two cents — well, that was what she had paid, anyway.

" She probably did not pay over a cent and a half for the eggs," the Missionary remarked. " They charge me more than they would think of asking her because they^ know that I am a foreigner and will not haggle with them as she does. She has made sixty or eighty cents out of you today on the eggs alone. Of course it must be put up with while neither of us is able to go to the market with her and keep watch of her buying."

That very morning at breakfast the boiled egg served the Missionary " came out bad," and he arose from the table and went to his office without having tasted a mouthful of breakfast. I wondered what were Rosario's feelings when Pabla reported the occurrence to her.

Valentine, like Rosario, was a left-over from our predecessors when we came into possession at the Colegio. He was a lank loose-limbed boy of sixteen, who looked as though he had never in his life had a full satisfying meal. Barefooted, he was clad in tattered, beltless trousers which extended three inches below the knees, and which were surmounted by a calico garment that, before ever it had descended to him, had done its full duty as a woman's blouse. Both garments had been patched and the patches patched (Valentine had a mother!) until most of the colors and materials known to man could be made out on that one gawky figure.

The heavy dullness of Valentine's face was partly relieved by the steady look from his quiet eyes, which held the expression of a faithful dog. Faithful was the word for Valentine — faithful and reliable. I often wondered, although I never paused in my busy round to count, how many times each day he stumbled up the steep crooked back stairs, tugging pails of water with which to refresh the long rows of orchids, carnations and ferns, making fairyland of our upper corridor. No one ever reminded him, " Valentine, here is a plant that needs water " ; oh, you who have lived in South America, take note of such devotion to duty! Were there errands to be done, — a note to be taken to a parent (the Colegio had no telephone), a spool of thread or an extra basket of charcoal to be bought, — " Valentine, Valentine, where is Valentine? " was the cry raised.

So honest and painstaking was he that we felt he deserved a chance in life, so the Missionary decreed that the demands upon the boy's time should be fewer in number and he should enter the primary grade of the school and learn to read and write. This was a great and unusual privilege to grant to one of his class and he was appreciative of it. We secured him clothes which, if they were not much of an improvement in fit, at least were more of a sameness in color and texture than the original suit.

When Valentine left us some years later it was to be apprenticed to learn a trade at which a man in Colombia may at least keep himself alive.

Ill

PABLA, with eyes and hair of the deep, dead black of midnight, with swarthy skin, came nearer being Indian than any other servant I ever had. Broad-chested, thick-necked, with a round little head carrying one of the pleasantest of faces, the woman wearied me with her eternal goodnature. Her spirits were like a geyser, forever bubbling up and overflowing at any and at all times. No one has the right to go through life with nothing and be so utterly carefree. Of course she drank and that deeply, but she was never drunk ; the more she imbibed, the wider she stretched her extensive mouth in grins as she incessantly rattled off what were intended as pleasantries. She was even farther than Rosario from being neat ; the untidiness of the house served as a thorn in my flesh until I decided that I had perfected myself in the grace of patience. Then I dismissed Pabla.

A wearisome month dragged by. Most of the time there was no dining-room girl, part of the time there were three or four in one day. A large share of the napkins and tableware disappeared with the various applicants. Regularly each Sabbath afternoon Pabla appeared, as bright and fresh as a peony, red ribbons gayly bobbing, as she extended La Senora a peace-offering in the shape of a great tray of brilliant-hued flowers.

" You'd better give her another trial," remarked the Missionary on the fourth Sunday. " It cannot be worse than it is now."

Triumphant was her re-entrance. She was so happy that if the dining-room was mussy or the parlor undusted I pretended to be oblivious of it. In her way she worked hard with apparently no thought beyond that of spending herself for us ; her devotion and willingness covered a multitude of her sins of inefficiency.

The routine of our days is of this sort: after the six-o'clock morning coffee I go downstairs, unlock the cupboard and lay out bread and chocolate for each boarding boy and each servant, relock the cupboard and return to our rooms on the second floor. Directly Pabla follows me upstairs.

" My Sefiora now thinks in sending Valentine for that bread?"

" Not now, Pabla. It is not yet time for that ; he cannot go for an hour and he is in class. You must not disturb him."

" Then what hour may it be, Senora Mauda ? "

Being informed, she departs. Not one in three of the servant class can tell time from a clock.

I sit down to study Spanish and ten minutes pass while I wonder what the boys are shouting over and if the teachers are as late this morning as usual. All classes open at seven and in a country where sunrise is at six practically every day in the year it is not easy for anyone to be on time at so early an hour. Here is Pabla !

" Is it possible that Senora Mauda does us the favor of descending to the kitchen? Rosario comes from the market."

I go to the kitchen at once, and carefully inspect the cook's purchases; thirty little handfuls of all sorts of stuff known and unknown to me; rows of tiny bundles wrapped in leaves, neatly folded away from sight if not from smell; eggs, tied four in a row, each in its little cell of dried corn leaf; lard, done up like sausages and bought by the string; leaves, seeds, bark, roots, — what does not serve as food in the deft hands of a Colombian cook?

The woman fingers over each purchase and mentions the price that she paid; I add mentally and make the total result in the two and one-half or three dollars that she was given to spend. I look at her sharply in an effort to read how much money she has in the depths of her large pocket, for both of us understand that she derives a steady income from the marketing. Her twinkling little eyes hold a look of cunning but her face is as innocent as a fresh May morning.

As I unlock the coal-bin and watch her measure out the charcoal, I remark that she may send Pabla upstairs at once for the supplies she needs from the store-room. Keys in hand I await the woman ten minutes. Why attempt to study when I expect her any moment?

Here she comes at last, carrying two bowls, a platter and a basket. The padlock of the store-room door refuses to yield to the key. I struggle, Pabla struggles, and finally she goes down to the Missionary's office to bring him to apply his brain and brawn to the task. The door opened, he renews his promise to secure a new padlock and returns to his waiting class. I get down on my knees to count out the potatoes, climb into a chair to reach the rice which I measure by handfuls, give out a chunk of black rock salt, a cup of green coffee berries, a few ears of corn for grinding, a handful of wheat for thickening soup,

" Is that absolutely all that is needed? " I ask as I tuck away what I had laid aside from Rosario's purchases to be brought up to the store-room.

" Of course, without doubt it is, my Senora."

I return to my desk, find my place, commence a translation. Here is Pabla again !

" It is that Rosario forgets that macaroni which she needs."

I drop my work, go for my keys, tackle the padlock. After several vexatious attempts it yields and I take out the macaroni. Again I seat myself at work, listening continually for Pabla's heavy step on the stair, for she is certain to have forgotten something else. It is sugar. I hunt up the hammer, the butcher-knife, some clean paper to spread over the table, and lift the twenty-four pound cake of dark sugar on to the table. Laboriously, with the knife and the hammer to drive it, I hack off a few pieces which Pabla bobs around to pick up as they fly about the room. We gather up the crumbs and she departs while I restore the cake of sugar to the shelf and lock it up.

A few minutes later it is more salt, or an egg, " one egg came out bad." Were I to deal out these supplies before they are needed they would be wasted or sold in the street. In order to keep the income of the school on speaking acquaintance with the outgo it is necessary to watch every expenditure most carefully. Here is Pabla at my elbow.

" And now, my Senora, has the hour come for sending Valentine for that bread? "

" Yes, Pabla. Call him."

He comes, gravely receives his instructions and the money, takes his basket and departs. Within fifteen minutes he is back, and I count the buns ; one hundred fifty, two hundred, two hundred ten, — no real loaves are baked unless specially ordered. Valentine is the only one whom I can trust to bring me change and he cannot do it unless I impress it upon him again and again just what sum he is to bring. His coins — half-cents, cents, two-and-a-half cents — are counted and found to be correct.

He takes two pitchers and goes for the milk, returns; the milk is brought to me for inspection.

" Valentine, there appears to be a little less milk than usual. Why?"

" My Senora, it is possible that a few drops of that milk fell in the street," said with quiet indifference.

" Oh, Valentine, you must not spill milk that costs as much as this does ! I fear that I shall have to send you for another pint as here is not enough for the boys' coffee."

Back he goes ; ten minutes later I gravely inspect the pint, and he returns to the class-room. A half hour races by, and here is Pabla, lumbering up the steep stairs again.

" My Senora, Rosario sends me to say to you that that milk fell down in boiling. One little minute was it that Rosario comes into the dining-room to say to me a thing that she heard in the plaza and that milk fell over in cooking. She runs, I run ; but now there is a lack of milk. She tells me to say to you that if you will do the favor so great of sending Valentine for more milk you may put that charge against her account."

" I will pay for the extra milk, but I do wish that

Rosario would not let it boil over or tip over every morning. Please send me Valentine."

Ten minutes later Pabla appears to ask if it is time for Rosario to put the vegetables on the fire; fifteen minutes later to remark, gazing nonchalantly at the ceiling:

" My Senora forgets to come to take out that fruit for the breakfast."

" Oh, no, Pabla, I forget nothing. It is not yet time to do that."

At half past ten I descend to the dining-room, unlock the cupboard and count out pieces of fruit to lay beside each plate, inspect the table, remind Pabla of the napkins and straighten them out for her as she cannot read the names on the rings, hunt up the missing chairs, help Rosario to dish up the soup evenly, peep into the coffee-pot and the milkpots to see that all flies have been rescued from a boiling death, and ring the breakfast bell.

The boys march in and stand behind their chairs while grace is said. As usual the Missionary is detained in his office by callers and I send his food back to the kitchen. Mentally, sometimes physically, also, I help Pabla serve the meal. The food for the servants is apportioned and sent to the kitchen, that for the beggars dished up and despatched to the pitiful line squatting in the zaguan (vestibule). Breakfast is over!