CAMERANO (part II): The man with the machete means no harm

SLOWLY WE MAKE OUR WAY down the side of the hill, following the park trail.

Completely unaware of what lay before us, Caitlyn, Philly and I decide to continue on the path even though it means passing - or should I say trespassing - through a small hole cut in a seemingly endless barbed wire fence. We each hesitantly take a step through the hole, only to be caught within the next minute.

The air is rich with the smell of soil and the sun beats down on my black shirt.

An older man, who looks to be in his 70’s, appears on our left. With the face of a farmer aged by many years of hard labor under the Italian sun, he spits out a seemingly agitated jumble of Italian words.

Because our Italian language capabilities don’t stretch much further than, “Ciao,” and “Grazie,” we turn to each other in utter confusion.

Who is this man? Is this his land? And most importantly look at the size of that machete in his right hand.

In an act of defense we silently agree to resort to playing the role of ignorant lost traveler.

“Piazza?” one of us squeaks out.

It’s the only local landmark we know.

The man’s sternness evaporates and after several words of Italian, he ends his sentence with, “Americano?”

He signals for us to follow him on the path toward what appears to be his home. The man walks over to a small wooden hut and pulls open a door revealing a room full of chickens.

“Pollo” he says waiting for us to repeat.

And we return with, “Pollo?”

He then walks us into a large run down building and flicks a switch that triggers a dim shaky light hung from the ceiling. He motions for us to walk towards the numerous cages—pulling one open and sticking his hand in, only to reappear with a small naked bunny no bigger than the size of my palm. He motions for me to put my hand out and the small creature wiggles in my grasp.

“Due giorni” he says, explaining that the bunny is two days old.

“Ahhh,” we respond, repeating his phrase, followed by the American equivalent.

We pass the newborn around and glance in the numerous cages of rabbits lining the perimeter of the room. On our way toward the driveway the man points toward a green car peaking out of a partially closed garage.

“Ford,” he says pointing toward the car. “American. Good.”

Yes we agree, nodding in unison.

At last something we can relate to. We continued toward the driveway only to hear the snarls of a large cream colored dog. He stands between us and the road, with his teeth bared and saliva dripping down the side of his face.

The man walks toward the dog and grabs a hold of his collar while waving goodbye.

- Berit Baugher