Elections

Tonight its cold Kohlberg wine and a few handfuls of beans, left over from last weeks Kunhaguazu. It doesn’t sound like much, but to me, tonight, it feels like a celebration after a true arakavi, a good day. The morning began with a long session of mate with Monica and her parents, ancianos with what might be the lowest level of Spanish comprehension in the community. They nod as we converse in Spanish, but their language of choice remains ñeenande, the language of our people, and I wonder how much of what I say they really understand. Despite the language barriers, we are still able to laugh, and I consider them in my circle of friends in Chimeo. About an after its official start, Don Vidal and I head to the general assembly together, right at the tap of the gavel. Its probably the most important general assembly Ive attended thus far- today Cecilio will leave his post as capitán, and a new leader will be chosen.

The first order of business was to decide upon a language. 80% of Chimeo considers itself of Guarani origin, the rest being composed of criollo campesinos, referred to in ñeenande as karai. The vast majority of community members prefer to communicate in Spanish, but there remains a portion of the community that cannot converse easily in the tongue. Spanish speakers worry that they are being taken advantage of when meetings are conducted in Guarani, and Guarani speakers want to exert their newly arrived independence and pride after decades of oppression. After a brief bilingual shouting match, it is decided that each person will speak in whatever language they find most accommodating, and elders and teachers will be called on to translate if any point needs clarifying.

Every meeting Ive attended until now has been directed by Cecilio, who has served as capitan for three years. The post is exhausting, time consuming, and brings no pay. He is a rail of a man, the symmetry of his high cheekbones thrown off by a bola of coca filling one cheek. Today he stands outside the meeting hall, observing from afar as neutral parties take nominations for the new capitan. Three men are named- two Guarani and one karai, all probicious men. The idea of a secret ballot is momentarily considered and shot down in the interest of time- the meeting is already in its third hour. Instead Don Justino, the corrigedor of the community (think Chief Justice of the Supreme Court) goes from seat to seat, placing his hand on the shoulder to prompt each person’s vote. In his sure, bola-slurred voice, Don Justino repeats each vote to be tallied. Enrique! Eduardo! Enrique! Enrique! Enrique! Eugenio! rings out, another name for each step he takes. Enrique! Enrique! echoes off of the cement walls with increasing frequency, and there is little speculation as to who the victor will be. The corrigedor finishes his rounds, and announces that he’ll be voting for Eduardo, by now the obvious third place finisher, and the room explodes with laughter and applause. In the end, it is Enrique with 50, Eugenio with 21, and Eduardo with 10. Each man accepts his new post, as first capitan, second capitan, or capitan’s secretary, with words of dedication to their community. More posts are given throughout the morning, each one unpaid and time consuming, each one a sacrifice accepted for the good of the community. The sede is filled with an air of coming together, erasing the differences between black and white, karai and indigeno, in the name of the community. The show makes my heart swell with pride to have had a vote count in this election, to be a part of the entire scene.

Four more hours worth of business is concluded, and finally the new occupants of Chimeo’s posts are called to the front. Each one gives a variation of a thumbs up as the corrigedor stands in front of them, making signs and mumbling in a mix of Guarani and Spanish that Ive no hope of understanding. Enrique is called upon to give a speech concerning his new post. Yasurupai, yasurupai, thank you thank you is all he can say as his eyes fill with tears. It is reminiscent of every great moment of victory Ive witnessed in my life, which up until this point have been televised: Miss America meets Superbowl touchdown meets Truman defeats Dewey. He pounds his chest a few times, gathers himself, and thanks the community for trusting enough in him to name him capitan of the place he has lived his entire life. He promises to fight for the community, and unlike most politicians, I whole-heartedly believe him. This community is everything to so many of these people, and it is constantly threatened by outside companies, lumber extraction, and the general corrupt nature of politics in the Chaco. It feels good to be part of something worth fighting for, and I think to myself: if only every man and woman had something so worthy of preservation. I read once that Muhammad Ali used to say that a man hasn’t lived until he has something he’s willing to die for- here, for the first time, I see the truth in his statement. Seven hours after it started the meeting concludes. I don’t feel tired, but rather high, rejuvenated, euphoric.

The drummers from Don Sexto’s novena are still going tonight, but now they’ve moved to Enrique’s house to celebrate. Conversation and coplas are swept up into the darkness, punctuated by laughter and frog songs coming from the other houses on the block. Chimeo is alive tonight, and Im proud to be a tiny part of it.