Porcelain Beats of Joya

The black dog had remarkably kept pace with the horse as she galloped along the dirt road, racing fast in the way that an animal runs eagerly towards home. I had never flown so fast before. The ranch zoomed close, a white structure on a hill of green bordered by the mountains of Salta on either side. The bell tower with the crucifix a stark reminder of the convent it used to be four decades ago.

I pull on the reins and the horse expertly maneuvers into a smooth stop. The dog discovers a puddle. My legs shake as my feet touched ground and I feel the adrenaline still surging. Milagros, the rancher, approaches.

“How was your ride, Filipina?” He asks in Spanish with a grin, a throwback to his pleasant surprise of meeting someone from the Philippines.

“I find the Philippines in the map,” he tells me excitedly. “It is poor, like here?”

“Sometimes even poorer,” I say softly.

“Ah, but it is beautiful like this,” he gestures around us, a dozen horses grazing, the sky bright blue, the clouds pure white, the mountain silent and bold.

“Yes, but more coconut trees,” I answer with a smile.

“Is life hard?” he asks me, his eyes twinkling with curiosity. “Are you happy?”

I hesitate, uncertain of my answer and I say nothing.

Milagros removed the saddle, releases the horse into the corral and I follow him into the convent. He is different from the Argentinians of Buenos Aires, he is lean, his skin dark from the sun, an old campaign t-shirt hangs loosely on him. He asks me questions about my country, I ask him the same. I tell him how we fish, harvest and flee to wealthier countries. Inside, the dust is thick and we pass through a small chapel where the Virgin Mary stands in blue and white, arms raised open-palmed glancing at us with mercy. Through the window I glimpse a small child leaving a water pump, carrying a bucket too heavy for her frame, we meet her in the other room.

“Life is hard, Filipina,” he says. We enter the kitchen, dirt-floor, and dimly lit. He takes the bucket from the girl, and pours it into a barrel. “There are no jobs, and you know Buenos Aires is too far. So I work and I live here. And I have 5 of these little ones.”

The little girl shrieks with delight when Milagros lifts her up and spins her around. Milagros’ laugh is deep and true.

“Life is hard,” I repeat. Then I remember his question and ask, "Are you happy?"

“Of course,” Milagros answers with certainty in an instant.