 For years now, Uncle Miguel Angel Zamora Ortíz has worked a small ranch near the city of Toxpaoca in the Mexican state of Hidalgo. The ranch is twenty kilometres away from the nearest village and can only be reached by a narrow and dusty trail, terrain which is passable by car or horse. Twenty to forty cows, depending on the price of milk and cheese and the season, a couple of bulls and horses, pastures, farm buildings and the like. Uncle’s ambition to actively connect with the globalized world already emerged a long time ago. He rigged himself a fifteen-metre high communication tower out of a milk pail, some iron rods, straightened-out horseshoes and scrap from the farm and fitted a red light atop it, the way he’d seen others do. After that, he often squatted beneath the tower, communicated with the world, wondered and asked, gave advice to a wide variety of institutions, even the most distant ones, concerning the prices of oil, milk and vegetables, treated heads of state, put on airs when his words arrived and took pride when the outside world acted on his advice and when he received recognition and also began to neglect his cattle and farming a bit. It wasn’t anything serious, since Aunt Marta was in charge of making the milk cakes and son Miguel Angel Zamora Preciado saw to the cheese and the cattle. It was about two years ago that the connection to world through the global communication tower gradually started to break down. It was hardly perceptible at the beginning, but went on to increase more and more. Messages weren’t going through well, or going through at all, and the world slowly ceased to be guided by Uncle’s ad-vice. Uncle took to sulking, refused to sell milk cakes to strangers or only sold them one at a time. Day by day, it started getting dark earlier at the ranch, the dogs stopped running about curiously and walked around crestfallenly and instead of happy barking, they only  whimpered. The cows gave less and less milk. The youngest son, Antonio Zamora Preciano, would secretly steal away in the morning with the truck and would return late at night completely covered with dust. He practiced yoga and refused to eat cheese, favouring instant ramen noodle soup instead. Around this time, Pedro Zamora Preciano resigned from his function as organiser and supervisor of the ranch and converted a small shed into a room with sixty-five beds on an area of two cubic metres. It was truly skilful – each bed had a lantern made of a pail and from each milk can, he made bar stools with foot rests. After that, he started to laze about completely openly. Uncle Miguel Angel Zamora Ortíz would lie down in bed, refused to wash, did not accept food and only watched the grain and the fuzzy picture on the television, which was connected to the communication tower by a string. He stayed unwashed in bed for a full twelve months. The ranch slowly disappeared from the world and gradually, the world disappeared from the ranch. After exactly one year, one drizzly morning, Uncle Miguel Angel Zamora Ortíz suddenly sprung from his bed, had a long pee, and briskly set to work. Something had clearly happened. A day which, as it had been recently, still hadn’t started and was still slowly waning suddenly went into reverse gear and into an early and sunny morning and the dogs began to romp about with fervour. On this day, Antonio Zamora Preciano did not leave for the trucks and stayed at Uncle’s arm, and Pedro Zamora Preciano began opening a year’s worth of post and sorting it into piles. Uncle Miguel Angel  Zamora Ortíz understood everything in a split second.
Tachilla! A window! A cashier’s window! His idea of how to get square with the globalized world was finally clear – the structure of the ranch has to be merged with the structure of the world – if the ranch wants to be part of the world, the world will have to be part of the ranch. This could only be accomplished through a cash counter, a teller’s window. Behind the window, they will sell service packages or packets for ten, fifteen, twenty and thirty pesos, and anyone who buys such a package will be entitled to various services at his price. What kind of services? What will the subject of the services be? Well, that depends on which package the visitor chooses! Uncle radiated with happiness, but nothing worked out. He set up hand-painted wooden signs with red, white and green writing. Some signs pointed toward the hill, others away from the hill, others pointed in zigzags: This way to the cashier’s window, Proceed to the cashier’s window one at a time, Behave respectfully at the cashier’s window, Do not eat at the window and always approach the window in  formal attire. The sign reading Do not speak with personnel behind the window, after judgement on it had matured, was crossed out in red. Before the main window was completely finished, it was now necessary to prepare a back-up window. For now, it will be used to sell lollipops, matches and cold Corona beer. Uncle met my by that, Uncle meant none other than himself, and also Aunt Marta. It has to be comfortable enough at the window so that we can handle a crowd or, on the other hand, relax at times when traffic is light at the window. To have a read, or perhaps change clothes. It was beyond my powers to dissuade Uncle from this plan. I lacked the strength to put a stop to this madcappery. The world is like a cashier’s window? Nonsense. The next day before noon, the first visitor rang the cowbell above the window. He impatiently asked to buy one package for fifteen pesos and two packets for twenty. After that, the bell went unrung.
Kalvellido illustrations
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