Llamas in Chinatown

My parents were poor. Okay, not like broke trash, but we could definitely say times were tough. Nothing was likely harder than trying to raise four kids during those tough times. But despite not possessing much money, my parents gave us everything they possibly could; their time, their love, their commitment to raise us right, in hopes of making our future just a little bit brighter. Perhaps that was the reason they pushed us so hard to do everything in 4-H. From cake decorating, to raising animals, to public speaking, if it were a category, we were sure to be involved. This also happened to include community service projects; my most dreaded of which was taking our two llamas to Chinatown so the less fortunate Chinese children could have the chance to see, pet, and love an animal that wasn’t a rat.

Since we didn’t have a whole lot of money, my parents sometimes had to break the law. Now my mother would never agree that she went against the rules. “Your father and I are just doing the best we can with what little we have!” she would exclaim.

So, was it going against regulation when she packed twin babies with car seats, herself as the driver, my sister and I, our two neighbor friends, plus two llama’s into a single seat 1984 Toyota pickup? As kids we used to claim Toyota stood for TAKE-OFF-YOUR-OVERSIDED-TIRES-ASSHOLE but anyone who knew my family probably changed it to something like BUY-A-BIGGER-CAR-THAT-FITS-YOUR-KIDS-AND-WEIRD-ANIMALS-DINGBATS. Yet, amazingly my mother managed. Somehow she would squeeze her and both my brothers into the front of the three passenger vehicle. Cramped in the back of the truck, sheltered by a fiberglass camper shell was my sister, the two neighbor boys and yes, two 350lb llamas. The four of us kids would sit tightly together, shoulder to shoulder, our backs pressed firmly against the cold wall that connected to the cab of the truck. My mother would open the small slider window behind her head, promoting togetherness, making us in the back part of the happy threesome up front. In fact, if completely silent we could hear music muffled under my mother’s belting singing voice and catch short drifts of heat that barely thawed our frozen noses. I can distinctly remember the cold, indented medal of the unlined truck, cramping my ass. We all brought our knees up tight in front of us, hugging our arms around them to keep warm. It was a miserable way to face an 85 mile drive that would last over two hours. And to make the trip staring directly into the eyes of two pissed off ginormous llamas that we prayed to God didn’t try to stand up and turn around, seemed only lucky. I mean who lives like this? And hello, have ever smelt a llama’s breath? Ew! Let me tell you it is not a pretty smell. Imagine the one person you know with major halitosis, only he never brushes his teeth and stores a wad of spit just inside his cheek so he can rapid fire should you piss him off! I mean just try to imagine for one second what these creatures must have been thinking! You’re taking me where?...oh to Chinatown. And why?...you know, so a bunch of less fortunate, filthy little mongrels can run around you screaming profanities in Mandarin. And we are going to arrive there how? …easy, you will jump into the back of a tiny, cold truck, nearly banging your head on the camper shell glass and spend the long ride with six children and a singing, happy as hell driver. I don’t imagine the animals were any happier about the outing than we were. But this was what we did.

Worse yet my mom had a natural talent for mimicking every animal sound in the book. She could gobble like a turkey, neigh like a horse, and yes, yodel like a llama. I didn’t care so much if she showed off her personal talents in Chinatown. I mean like I was going to know anyone in San Francisco! But the minute we had to take the animals to school, I saw her face light up to the meanest kids question ”So Mrs. Silva, how does a llama sound?”

I would die in embarrassment, wishing I could run and hide, be anywhere but there at that moment. “Well Moses, I’m glad you asked that question. You see, llama’s are very smart, they even know when an earthquake is coming!” and with that my mother flew off on her tangent, mocking the animals, spinning in circles, stomping her feet and howling at the top of her lungs. Oh, mom ….

Now that I am older I can look back and laugh and see why she acted the way she did. She was a mom and that was how she was supposed to be; to teach, listen, set a positive example and yet be a little crazy and fun. But boy, I tell you at that time, I could have just died.


It was 6 a.m. when we left our little hometown of Cazadero, population 2347. It was far too early and still too dark to be riding along a two lane highway with two llamas and five other kids. There were no street lights and houses were far and few between. The creek ran along the road, the rush of water muted by the rain that had started to fall, shortly after our adventure. Sleeping seemed impossible, cramped inside the back of the truck. “Stop touching me!” I’d shout at my sister, though it was Ed who sat next to me, not her. Any reason to yell at my sister seemed like a good one.

“I’m not even sitting by youuuuuu!” she’d fight back while Ed and Drew stared at us sibling arguers.

From the front of the cab, anger elevating, my mom would shout through the 2’x1’ sliding window, “Will you two please stop fighting? You are going to wake your brothers! Or worse yet upset Curly Joe and Sancho!” Curly Joe and Sancho were our llamas FYI.

And so rode, over the river and through the woods, to Chinatown we go. Now that I think of it, how did those llamas not pee during the never-ending two hour ride? It was as if they knew they had to hold it. “Mom! I have to pee,” one of us would cry not 20 minutes into the trip.

“I want McDonalds,” Ed or Drew would request, since we were all asking for something.

“You kids are just going to have to hold it and wait. Soon we will be in Chinatown where they will feed us many good luxuries.” And at that us four in the back of the truck would giggle together, knowing the Chinese food they served was strange and disgusting and sure to make one of us throw up by the time we reached home late in the evening.

Once in awhile, if crammed up close enough to one another, we would take short naps, ignoring mom’s continuous questions from the front, “Are you kids ready to be on the camera? What are you going to say about the 4-H program? How long do llamas live? What are they used for? What kind of sounds do they make?” We would all roll our eyes, each of us silently answering the questions we knew we must prepare for.

Two hours later, I can no longer feel my legs. I yawn and stretch my arms, unable to straighten them before they touch the roof of the camper shell. “Uh Curly Joe, why are you looking at me like you are going to spit?”

“Because you made him mad ignoring him on this trip Jenny!” Ed would tease in his most annoying manner. “Curly’s gonna spit on you! Curly’s gonna spit on you!”

“SHUT UP!” I argue back, elbowing him as hard as possible. How did two children who would end up one another’s first loves treat each other so badly?

“Kids! Look out the window, we are in San Francisco!” my mother warned from the front. Window? What window? This truck doesn’t have any darned windows! But without fail all four of us would shift around angrily, looking through the front slider glass, eyes wide to the big city. “Isn’t it beautiful?” my mom would recite. “I remember living here as a child like it was yesterday.” Oh, boy…another long story. Unimpressed already we all turned around, returning to our original uncomfortable positions. “KIDS!! ! LOOK! OH MY GOSH!” my mother shouts.

“Wow, your mom actually seems more excited than usual about something,” Drew recites to us as if we hadn’t noticed.

“KIDS! LOOK WHO IT IS IN SAN FRANCISCO! IT’S UNCLE RICK!” My mom holds the steering wheel firmly by one hand, waving her other ferociously, screaming, “HI UNCLE RICK! EVERYONE WAVE TO UNCLE RICK!!! HI UNCLE RICK!” with the window up and a packed lane of traffic stopped along both sides of the truck.

“Uh your mother realizes Uncle Rick does not see or hear us, right?” Drew asks.

Please God, don’t let Uncle Rick see us, plleeeeaaassseeee, let’s just get these stupid animals to Chinatown.

“UNCLE RICK!!! Well gosh, why isn’t he waving back, I know he saw us! What are the odds?” My mom holds more excitement than usual, “Uncle Rick!!!...” and then, Uncle Rick looks at us. We all see him glance at the truck, his face widen at my mother’s wave and quickly look down. “How rude! You know that Uncle Rick, he never…”

RRrrerrreeeerrrrrrrrrr………..wwwweeeeerrrrrrkkkkkk…..SLAM! All four of us kids hit the back of our heads on the glass window as two llama’s come flying forward. WHAM!!! Curly Joe’s legs tangle underneath his body as Sancho moans and tries to grasp his footing. “MMMOOOOOOMMMMM,” my sister and I scream wondering what on earth just happened. Ed and Drew scramble, pulling their legs free from the llamas that topple us. “JJJJJAAAANNNN, what just happened?” the neighbor boys scream.

My mom quickly pulls it together, “That darn Uncle Rick, well he just ignored us and nearly caused me to hit the car in front of me. Thank goodness your father just checked the brakes on this thing. Oh your father, such a good man-“

“MOOOOMMMM, ouch, the llamas are on top of us freaking out!” Sancho and Curly Joe pant eyes wide and teeth out. The animals shift trying to get off us and calm down.

Throwing her head back to check on us my mother exclaims, “Oh dear, I had better pull over!” Pull over? Right here on Market Street in San Francisco? “There is a Chevron; hold on kids, we can all unload in one minute.” Unload? Is she kidding me? What if someone sees me? What if they recognize me? You know because I know absolutely no one in San Francisco, but what if?

Seconds later, fighting to pull the car over on the right, my mom drives into the Chevron station. “Okay, okay, here we go everyone out.” My brothers wail in the front seat, clearly woken in frenzy.

Now imagine this, Uncle Rick is nowhere to be seen and out of a small Toyota pickup climbs first my mother, who struts to the back, lifts the glass piece of the camper shell and unloads one llama, “There we go Curly, you good boy,” then another llama, “Oh Sancho my dear friend, I’m so sorry for the trouble,” and finally four teenage kids all dressed in white, draped with green scarves and hats, “Okay kids, you okay? That was certainly a close one! And what did happen to Uncle Rick?” Traffic stops all around us while business suits and ladies applying their makeup stop and stare. Oh, no, I could just die. “Okay, in we go, everyone okay?”

And we are back on our mission to Chinatown.


If you ask me, Chinatown is weird. It’s creepy and dirty and too packed with people. And what is even weirder is when a truck full of llamas pulls up to the small, three story, completely stone school. After unloading, we climb three stories, the llamas taking the concrete stairs as if they are Kings. Chain link fence encloses the school where Asian children run wild, beyond excited to see animals. Opening into a large recreation slab we see our 4-H friends who have brought all sorts of animals. There are rabbits in cages, their poop pellets lying on the ground underneath them. Pigs lay snorting on bundles of hay. A cow stands in the corner, her halter tied to the fence nearest her. Chickens and ducks squawk and crow. TV crews walk around, simply amazed by the exhibit. We smile and wave to our friends, knowing we are all equally embarrassed but this is a part of our life. Children walk around, some cling to the animals so strongly it is obvious they have never felt love. Others bring sticks and hit the animals, us guarding them off asking that they please stop. Some shake ferociously, terrified the animal will eat them. And then there are the cool ones who act as though they can’t be bothered, this whole day is a waste of their time as they roll their eyes and blow their bangs out of their faces.

But no matter what the llamas are a hit. Everyone wants to pet the llamas. I’m guessing they also want to know at what age they can eat the llamas but I keep my comments to myself.

“Okay, wadies and gwentlemen,” announces the very old, very Asian man. “As a token of gwatification, we would like to give you lunch and take you on a touw of ouw town.” All applaud the man who we believe is about to feed us rats stuffed into a bun. “And fow ouw touw, we would vewy much like the llamas to come!” he exclaims, throwing his hands into the air. All the children jump up and down, clapping, and laughing.

What? They want the llamas to come? We kids look at one another appalled, unbelieving his words. Does he have any idea what can happen if one of the llamas is spooked? “That sounds delightful!” my mother exclaims, pushing her way to the front. “We would love that, wouldn’t we kids?” We all nod in agreement, wondering what on earth will take place next.

Walking along the streets of Chinatown with two llamas is kinda like walking around your school naked, or at least that’s how I saw it. Everyone looks, everyone points, and everyone laughs. And yet despite the animal commotion, suddenly, all grows quiet. We stop, unaware of the sudden hecticness or of what to do. People walking look away from the llamas, shock smearing across their face, and bow to the ground in prayer style. All around, cars stop honking, people stop talking, and everyone drops to their feet. Well, isn’t this wonderful! As if they couldn’t see the llamas before! Everyone certainly can now!

But driving 50 feet ahead of us, slowly down the street is a white limousine. On top of the limo is a 6’ x10’ photograph of an old man smiling, dressed in a green suit and standing in front of some sort of palace. He smiles in the picture that is etched in silver and gold. People dressed in royalty dance around the limo, singing, and bowing, eyes closed in remembrance. Everyone stops and remembers this majesty who must have just passed.

Wow! What a moment! How many people can say they experienced something like this in Chinatown? I find myself intrigued and moved, and wonder who this man in the picture must be. They drive the road ever so slowly, ensuring all that are visible pay their respects. And yet suddenly the driver spots the two llamas and roars with laughter. People twist their heads in our direction, more of them standing to get a better view. In unison people stop dancing, look appalled, and yet begin to laugh. What are we to do? Should we laugh? Should we pay our respects? What should we do? We all look to mom for answers who is suddenly, speechless. Before we know it, no one is looking at the limo and yet everyone seems to be staring at us.

And for the first time in my life, head held high, realizing that my llama and I beat royalty, I lead Curly Joe down the street. Nervous inside, I look back to see my little sister doing the same, shoulders back, wide grin across her face, leading Sancho. And not one step behind is my mother, pushing my twin brothers in their stroller by one hand, her other arm waving to the audience that none of us could expect.