What Seven Dollars Can Buy

why I put my arm up the rear end of a cow

Don Alfonso tipped his hat back and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He firmly grasped his heifer's neck in the crook of his strong arm, and held her tight. The animal's big black and white head was fastened securely via rope to a metal pole, but we were taking no chances. She could still move around and hurt me if she tried. Don Alfonso dug in his feet and braced himself against her weight, wrestling her into a calm state as she attempted to break free.

 

I worked myself carefully into the space behind her, trying to avoid her dangerous hooves, and slipped on a plastic glove with a sleeve that reached my shoulder. I dabbed on a generous glob of petroleum jelly, and painstakingly slid my arm to the shoulder inside the cow's rectum, feeling along the way for boluses of infection, inflamed spots, or symptoms of a hard, infected uterus below the distal end of her alimentary canal. She was, thankfully, clear. This particular diagnostic procedure is indescribable to someone who has never performed it, and is also very uncomfortable to the animal. Thankfully, I have small hands and arms, and was able to maneuver without causing her more pain than necessary. She only shifted and bellowed a little for the exam.

 

I had been treating the cow for mastitis, an extremely painful inflammation and internal infection of the udder and treats.  Five days ago her teats were hard as a rock, and hot to the touch. Today, as I finished my diagnostics, the teats were cool, soft, and normal looking. Her milk was clear again. Her internal exam showed the infection had not gone systemic, and had not affected her developing fetus. Don Alfonso had come to me in time.

 

Now came the difficult part. I had to settle the vet bill with Don Alfonso. Even as a volunteer, it was not expected that I give away the treatments for free. My stipend was roughly 200 US dollars per month, and with that, I paid rent, bought food, paid for transportation, paid for laundry, paid utilities, and covered all of my working expenses. My transportation was a horse that had to be fed, and I also had a dog for protection in the field. I would buy medicines in bulk, and carefully break down the cost per unit of dosage. Vaccines were portioned out in precious drops, and sold for their equivalent of pennies on the dollar. I did not charge for my time, only for the cost of the medicine. Syringes, disinfectants, bandages, gloves, etc. were all covered by me.

 

The penicillin to treat this animal had cost me 12 quetzales per injection, times three injections. The internal antibiotic I had threaded into her swollen teats had cost ten quetzales. The vitamin injection had cost six quetzales, and the dewormer, four. The total had been 56 quetzales. There are eight quetzales to the US dollar; thus, total cost for treatment, seven US dollars.

 

The typical fmaily in this region makes 1-2 US dollars (7-14 quetzales) a day during the growing season, $.50 -1 (3.5- 7 quetzales) during the dry season. Animals were therefore a living bank account. Saving the cow meant saving the family's investment. A glass of milk sold for 12 quetzales, and families only bought it during the best of times, splitting the much-needed protein among all children to make each drop last. Slightly more affordable was cheese made from the milk. Calves could be sold in the marketplace, either as live animals or in piecemeal for meat. Manure was used to fertilize fields of potatoes. A cow, therefore, provided a decent source of income. The animals were worth their weight in gold.

 

For routine care, such as deworming, vitamin injections, castrations, and vaccinations, I charged upfront the price for treating the animal or herd. For emergencies, I was willing to negotiate a payment plan. This had been an emergency. For another farmer, I had traded glasses of milk and ounces of cheese for the cost of the treatment I had provided. I was not sure Don Alfonso had anything to barter. Perhaps he could do some repairs on my house?

 

I showed him the tally of costs. "Cuesta, cuesta", he said, forlornly. (It costs, it costs)

 

I reluctantly told him yes, and carefully explained my policy. What seemed more than fair on paper felt incredibly cruel to come to terms with in the field. It was the dry season, and Don Alfonso had a wife and five children to support. I was asking for a week and half of his pay.

 

While we were negotiating an arrangement, he motioned to his wife and child to come over, and they did. the girl looked up at me with a shy, beaming smile. Don Alfonso carefully removed his hat, holding it in front of his heart, and looked me sincerely in the eyes.

 

"Por favor, toma mi hija chiquitita" (Please take my youngest daughter), he said. His wife nodded agreement to his words.

 

I thought he was joking. I realized quickly, though, that he was not, but I smiled and tried to force a laugh. "Perhaps when I find a husband", I told him.

 

"No, take her", he insisted, in earnest. "Please. She is too smart. We cannot give her an education here. Take her to the US, and put her in school. You can do that, we cannot".

 

I had never been faced with this kind of dilemma before. I was not sure how to respond. I tried to keep my voice light, my words, laughing, my demeanor, nonchalant; in order to hide the slow scream building up inside me. Eventually, we worked out an agreement: his daughter would join my youth group, and receive extra tutoring from me that way. And, he would pay me seven quetzales a week until his bill was paid off.

 

I walked off a changed person. This is the face of poverty to me- being willing to trade your child to pay a veterinarian's fee. To know that she has a better future with strangers than with her family who loves her. She was not being beaten, she was not being abused, she was not being abandoned. She was loved beyond reason. Still, love is not enough to give a child the chance at a sustainable future. Her life would most likely be a series of missed opportunities, simply for being born at the wrong time, in the wrong place.

 

Seven dollars. The price of saving a cow's life; the price upon which a family's fortune rested. Apparently, also the going sale price of a Guatemalan Indian child. 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

I thought I would challenge myself to write a piece in the spirit of my own contest on the face of poverty. This is a true story.

Reviews

[cest la vie]

Worldwide poverty seems to have a common thread..I work with the Restavek 's
(Stay With) children from Haiti. They send/sell their children to others because they can afford to feed/clothe/educate them.

You have written a short, but deeply moving piece on the sacrifices parents make. Most Americans can not fathom making such a choice, but to many it is a very real event.

Your writing always leaves me informed, educated and deeply moved.

[Christy Sargent]

Thank you for this informative and very nicely written piece about poverty and the extremes some humans must go to in order to survive. We cannot judge others stricken by poverty when, as they say, we all are only three paychecks away from total poverty. You are a very talented writer and this well written, informative piece proves it.

[Solitary Dreamer]

Poverty sux and I wsih someone would do something about it! I loved this stroy!

[FocusedAmnesia]

Wow. It really makes you think about your life. I could not imagine what I would do in that situation. The story is really well written; flows nicely. Seven dollars. Wow.

[Ed Hart]

there are different experiences we can have wandering this globe that remove us from the time and place of own culture and make us citizens of a much larger enterprise...you have had enough of these experiences to give you very good eyes

[Georgia Gypsy]

It is amazing to comprehend how poverty can change one's perspective. I think we all have much to be thankful for with the 'freedom' we do still enjoy here. I cant imagine ever thinking of giving up a child to pay a bill.
Great piece!