Chapter Seven of Mexico Book: "Mexico: An Itinerant History"---Final Chapter For Now, 2014

0 MexAcuna/TEN

Still Fresh in my mind, it was only two days ago…

            It is Friday night; we got back from our trip through the West, the southwest. We intended to spend between 24 and 48 hours in Mexico, either only Chihuahua, or also said state and Coahuila, and possibly Nuevo Leon and Tamaulipas if extended further. But alas, we were limited in our travels to such an extent but at least managed to visit two states, albeit itinerantly. And now as I sit here in this sunny California room around 9:00 after a night’s rest back “home”, I realize that perhaps I fulfilled the spirit of this book a bit more by doing so as a last resort. This is an “Itinerant Journey”, after all, although usually taken more metaphorically than physically.

       I will begin with the trip to Ciudad Acuna first, which happened the day after Ciudad Juarez, but was shorter and closer to me still in my mind. It happened so quickly and sweetly that I wanted to write it down right away, or at least now as it is still fresh.

    Jen and I and the girls ended up only arriving at the Texas border town of Del Rio around five o’clock, after driving out of Big Bend National Park that afternoon, and earlier that morning learning that the Boqillas border crossing of the Rio Grande was closed off but had been shut down since the attacks of September 11, 2001. Bummer. We were chagrined but not completely thwarted. Plan C: avoid border insurance all together and simply walk across the border as we did the day before in Ciudad Juarez.

    We decided it would be better for only me to go into Mexico (the state of Coahuila) while she waited in the camper with the girls. After a while of driving that day (having traversed the entire length of Big Bend and more), they were ready for some time to hang out on the border whilst I hoofed it to Ciudad Acuna.

Getting Out and Going -- 5:45 (pm)

    By the time I got out of the camper, loading my pockets with my wallet, cell phone, and a couple other things, it was 5: 45 p.m. The sun was still relatively high and I had newly placed suntan lotion on my head and arms, since they were still pink and burnt from our walk in Ciudad Juarez the day before. I wore a white Nike T-shirt and my shorts were khaki white and a little brownish hopefully to offset the mono-color threat of a funny looking tourist. I wore my tan BYU Cougar Club baseball cap, my brown tinted sunglasses Jen bought for me not too long ago, my white socks and brown shoes that I normally wear to work but look pretty sporty.

    I was on my way.

    I crossed a street perpendicular to the American border crossing down the road that blocked the way heading due south towards the border. I suppose you could call this a border frontage road. The parking lot was made of gravel and bordered a fence to some kind of private house or business. There were heaps (not obvious across the entire parking lot) of clothes and other amounts of trash along the fence, perhaps something many might expect in such a place. The fence was lined with green trees and bushes giving the lot and its surroundings a more snug and discreet place along the right side of the road. The sun was to my right, more or less directly to the west.

    Having crossed this frontage road in a minute after leaving the camper and the other cars parked in 24-hour free space, I proceeded to the U.S. walking path along the road to cross the bridge which connects the two countries. I passed through a walking turnstile after getting change from a dollar changer for the 75-cent fee in this one person-at-a-time pedestrian counter. In Chihuahua it was a 35-cent fee. No one spoke to me but I assumed someone saw me through the dark tinted windows of the building I passed. I was close enough for them to touch me if they wanted.

    I was beyond that gate and potential check, but as usual there is almost never anyone asking questions going into Mexico. Going back in time to my first border crossing (Matamoros 1982), there was possibly the only place we faced any questioning, and then again maybe it was in reality on the way back. Same for Tijuana (1993, 2002, 2003), Mexicali (1995), and Ciudad Juarez (2005). The only real opposition I ever faced was in 1999 with Gustavo Cuevas and his pickup full of donated Christmas toys and car seats and clothes.

    So for me now it was free sailing across the border, where I was now walking besides a large chain link fence to my right and gradually rising on the long bridge spanning the Rio Grande (Rio Bravo to Mexicans). This was Wednesday, April 6, 2005. I felt a pang of euphoria but a wave of foolish regret when I then realized that I didn’t bring a camera and this would have proved worthwhile for such a short excursion. Oh, well. I guess my memory and capability in descriptive prose would have to serve as the lasting “images” of this crossing.

    

    My wife had charged me with buying a necklace as proof of my successful crossing. I had my wallet and a few loose dollars in another pocket. It’s always good to have a physical objective in going anywhere.

At this point I decided to call my friend and first counselor in the San Bernardino 6^th Branch Enrique Benitez. I got an answering machine and promptly left a cheerful message, also regarding a query he had left on our phone a day before. I told him I was calling from Mexico! Alas, I was mistaken and discovered later that I missed his cell phone number by one and some stranger ended getting a funny message in Spanish talking about where the temple recommend could be found in the desk and other things they would have no idea of. C’est la vie! Tee hee hee! Ay yai yai. I later confirmed to him by phone that that had transpired but oh well. No biggie. I had attempted to call his home phone first but there was no answer there, hence the cellular attempt.

And on I went in my working/sporty shoes, the ones I occasionally have to retie the laces because they knot slips a bit easily. This same looseness of lace is a feature that makes them rather comfortable. But enough of that, eh? This is an itinerant history but I should not speak entirely of footwear and the form of walking, or belabor it too much now.

The Bridge of the Countries

Having made the call, I felt free to take in the surroundings with increased concentration. The road and bridge were long and many cars passed as I walked steadily along. Maybe one honked as it passed to see if I wanted a ride in. They didn’t slow down. I mostly looked to my west and down below as the bridge elevated above the riverside and the water itself. There were many trees below, along with an inlet of water from the main flowing part of the Rio Grande, that at first glance one could assume that was a weak iteration of the famous border river, but with a little more study was simply a side outlet of swamp-like littoral. I imagined illegal immigrants swimming, crouching, running and hiding in this no-man’s land of nature and greenery. There were large swamp trees (for lack of a better definition, I am not a botanist nor by no means a Henry David Thoreau, so these are my descriptions, and you’ll have to use your imagination a bit for my nature scenes.)

It was a pretty scene, and the river was green and not bad looking, as many might imagine it could be. Upstream to the west there was a straight bank spanning the width of the stream with water flowing over it in a small, almost unnoticeable cascade. A small fleet of ducks were moving below this unseen bank, heading towards me downstream. Others were individually swimming closer to the Mexican side. This was a pleasant and bucolic sight. Until I saw a large pile of assorted trash on the immediate bank under the bridge on the Mexican side, I had forgotten the signs and memories of dirtiness and poverty of past border crossings. For a few minutes I had almost been as transformed by the natural idyllic as if it were the new Walden Pond of that classic book. For me at this point in my life, Mexico (perhaps only for the sake of my first complete book, this one) this country and this extension of it represented an iteration of art like what Thoreau found in his famous outdoor hiatus. But again, I do not compare this work to his either in eloquence or influence, but no matter. This is my Walden Pond, albeit a much larger area in both territory and time reflected. It is with broader strokes and also a more biased general approach, as to my affiliations and commitments.

The Final Cross (over)

    I had passed the mid point and I passed a truck parked close to the curb. There were two lanes on both sides going both ways, and there were prominent signs that stated “NO PARKING ANYTIME”. I supposed there might have been something wrong with his vehicle or his papers and the driver looked at me as I passed and we did the mutual nod of respect. An hour later when I passed the same truck was still there and there were many more behind his. It occurred to me that perhaps this was a common happenstance; many trucks heading south probably faced some official rigmarole or hassles in order to pass the last hurdle in proper fashion. Or perhaps it was something else altogether?

    On I went to the Mexican side and no problem, I only needed to guide myself straight or turn crossing the street to the southeast or east. I got my bearings and continued on the same side of the street and continued due south. It seemed the street I was on had things to do and see, there were some banners dipping from the sides of buildings and a few things that caught my idea like a shopping district. The first store I came across had a man standing outside it, and he eagerly motioned me to come into his store and asked what I was looking for.

    I told him I was looking for a necklace and he beckoned me in. He was a friendly guy and explained that I needed a “comprobante” (proof) of being in the town, the state, and the country. That yes indeed, I had been there and carried certain evidence.

    He asked me if I was serious and why, and I explained it somewhat to him and we talked about a few things a couple minutes or so. He told me that he had lived in San Bernardino among other places in California, most of them in northern California like Redding and a few others. He had only lived in the city for some four months so he didn’t know the answers to many of my questions, including if the necklace that I contemplated buying were made of native stones or perhaps they were shells. He kept calling to someone in another room and asking him, occasionally peeking back there to confirm the seemingly unwilling responses. I never saw who he was and cannot recall a named associated to him.

I left this nice store and continued down the street, noticing a man not too far down on the other side in front of his store. Perhaps he noticed me go into the first shop and was anticipating my exit. I asked him in Spanish if he had “collares (necklaces) and he replied to the affirmative, inviting me in. There was another man there and there was a television on, I cannot remember if it was turned to a soccer match or movie in Spanish, or maybe a game show. He had a large array of necklaces and jewelry on display in a glass case, so a picked out a black one with many little colorful dolphins on it. I thought Journay would appreciate this, and Mom (Jennifer) could always wear it, too. It was about 5.00 bucks and I chatted a little bit, establishing where they were from and I was on my way.

    I continued down the street and noticed another shopkeeper outside his business on the other side, on the west side of this apparent popular thoroughfare. Only cars went by however and as I confirmed with the first shop owner not only was business not big on this late Wednesday afternoon, but asserted that it would be the same later that evening and only picked up on the weekends. How many millions of people sit around like this day after peaceful day? Is there a way for them to market and advertise by word of mouth? Can they take turns by doing a walk-around or call-arounds? Or would this “cost” too much to do the business? Sales are a wonderful pain, I find. (Most of my sales attempts were in 1995-1996, with a failed marketing scheme, with distant hopes of expanding it towards Mexico or elsewhere in Latin America).

    I then took a left going west on a tranquil side street, wishing to avoid the shopping zone and I was intending on finding a large church with some winged statue alighting above.

Past 6:00 O’clock and on to the Plaza

    I turned on this new street and I caught sight of the church or cathedral that I had temporarily lost track of on the tourist street. It was another two blocks to the south and another block east. As I came to the end of the block, a couple guys across the street called to me and I didn’t catch what exactly they said, but I was pretty sure they wanted some money. It may have been in English, I couldn’t tell. I asked them in Spanish of they were asking for money, and they acknowledged my question.

    

    I right away decided I could afford to give them some money, but doing it my way, which includes a verbal confirmation that they won’t use it for alcohol, that they know about what Church I attend and we don’t drink, and invite them to go to church. Now that I think of it, I should have committed them to going the following Sunday. The younger skinny one spoke a lot of English and explained how he had been incarcerated for four and half years in the United States and he had been recently deported, and he was working his way back to the southern part of Mexico.

    I asked him why he had been locked up and he said he had been caught in a car that “happened” to have four or so kilos of cocaine in it. I admitted that was a tough break and advised it would be smarter to know whose car one is driving, yes, that was agreed. So after my sermon I left with five dollars left but I felt I did my part.

    The last rather comic (to me) action of these fellows, was the heavier one who did not appear to speak English, and hadn’t served hard time in the US, promptly pitched the can of empty fruit juice on the ground by the curb where we spoke. After giving my lecture about change, church activity and temperance, this rather thoughtless act left me chagrined, but I had lectured enough. I went back down the street I had reached prior to returning to talk to the guys, and I saw the flags of the plaza as well as the winged statue.

The Central Plaza

    I really enjoyed the central plaza of Ciudad Acuna. I crossed the street on the north side and passed a van with some “gringos” hanging outside it and talking English. It looked like that they were a traveling van and were perhaps doing a volunteer church outing, like a youth service activity perhaps.

The plaza itself was one of the cooler I’ve seen: it was surrounded by plaques and busts on stands of famous and historical Mexican figures. The center of the plaza had a raised stand where people were sitting, with a roof. This was like a bandstand. There were many walkways leading into the center of the plaza past the hero busts. I read the first one and was interested to see who were on them. I didn’t know the first ones that well: there was Casales and a female that I couldn’t remember a half hour later. There were a total of eight busts around the whole square, and I made it a point of trying to dedicate their names to memory (for this book) and also read the quoted inscriptions below each one. I recognized most of them, and Christopher Columbus was the only non-Latino included. Benito Juarez was the biggest of them all, a full body statue featured in one secluded corner on the southeast side.

    After circling most of the square and reading and sizing up most of these figures, I returned to the center by the main stand. I stopped by an interesting looking guy who I had noticed in passing on the west side. He was seated on a bench facing the center band stand. He seemed like an alternative type of guy, he had punky-colored hair and an earring.

We talked for a few minutes and we talked about jobs and pay rates. It was obvious that the pay here was too little and that, I added, eventually China would take more jobs because of lower rates there. I asked what he did for a living and he told me he tended a bar. I said in Spanish, “ya gotta do what ya gotta do”. I think that is my way of tacitly disapproving but not being too tactless. After a few more pleasantries and my stated hopes for everything to go well with him and the rest of the border area of Mexico, I left my new favorite memorial to Mexican culture and history. Even though I quickly forgot the specific names of all those honored, I think it the thought that counts.

Into the Wednesday Night Mass

    The sun was still high and the temperature was warm as I headed back up north eying the church across the street. There was a notable winged statue/angel atop the cathedral which seemed to be in the process of finishing but I couldn’t be sure. I have mentioned before that many people in Mexico choose to be in a constant process of construction on various homes or businesses since they then qualify for tax breaks. I’m not sure if I learned that from my Professor Jim Wilkie or from someone else, possibly traveling near Ensenada in 2002. Or maybe it was a combination of the two.

    I crossed the sunny street into the slightly darkened entrance, up the steps from the sidewalk. From outside indications there was not much going on. Just the day before I had entered a much larger cathedral in Ciudad Juarez and there were a good numbers of beggars out front as well as a few other bystanders. This place seemed empty. But it wasn’t.

    There was an early evening mass going on with a good congregation doing their duties, the speaker was a woman saying liturgies amplified on a microphone. Once I had attended a Thursday evening mass, (maybe it had another name), in Santa Juana, Chile. I had also attended a Saturday evening mass in Concepcion, Chile, and a couple of midnight masses in my hometown with my wife.

    I didn’t get a great feel for everything, but I managed to take it all in, or at least as much as I could in two or three minutes. The light was pretty good inside, just not as direct as outside. Directly in behind the front pulpit was a very large mural painting of Jesus on the storm tossed sea. It seemed to be the basic message that He is strong and sure during any strife or turmoil. I liked it, especially when thinking of gruesome visages of the Savior on the cross, but at the same time, it seemed to be a bit ostentatious for my liking. And of course, I am of a faith that keeps no regular images of anything in the “sanctuary”. We think it is helping us avoid the pitfall of worshipping images in the Ten Commandments.

    But not taking away from the beauty of this particular church or any other, I thought this was a very nice small cathedral, and it seemed to have its share of the faithful and penitent. I noticed some people in the back side wings, away from the pews in little cubby-like ensconces, people on bended knee and heads deeply bowed in intense reverence. They were parallel to me in the back, and I felt some awe and respect for this visible faith on a late Wednesday afternoon. The people in the rows ahead seemed good in number, and this was decent showing of Christianity, tradition, and loyalty. This four days removed from the death of Pope John Paul II. (We heard of his death late the previous Saturday while driving across a highly LDS portion of Arizona.)

    I felt I had taken in enough and time was pressing, so I exited. What time was it now?

The Bell Rings, or Perhaps it Tolls…

    I walked out the front entrance where I entered and proceeded along the sidewalk to the east to make a circle of the block and the church. It was either 6:30 or 6:45 when I went itinerantly along the edge of the church because the bell was rung just as I passed. I said hello to an older man who promptly went to the string hanging from the church bell and rang it. I thought that was nice timing, and somehow was quaintly apropos. Perfect for a small foray into Mexico by foot! The bell of the faithful tolls for me! I continued north (naturally) as all in Mexico must do to reach the “blessed north” and to make it back to the camper with my wife and girls.

    I followed on my way a block or two due north, and then crossed over west to approach where I knew the bridge and the border crossing to be. I turned right and went north again, seeing a few obstructed structures, which I knew to be the buildings and infrastructure to go back across the border. As I got nearer and was gathering my bearings, I saw a young woman in a car and asked her how to go walking across. She said it was the way I was going. The road was more used by cars than itinerants like me, and there fore I had to watch my step and ensure myself from crossing cars whipping around the bend. I went ahead and saw more or less to get through. Unlike the American side, or the Mexican side from the day before, the walking turnstile to return to the bridge was facing west. In this fashion it was necessary to turn left and face the other side of the main entry road and its accompanying building.

    As I got closer I noticed there were two men talking close to where the cars talk to a teller for exiting, as well as a few others working on a façade and some plants and ivy-type issues between the street and a wall. Progress and beauty improvement! Progress in Mexico. Sebastian Edwards’ predictions shall come true.¹

    I noticed the two men observed me and seemed to be talking about me. I thought I might have had enough change to go through the turnstile, but I did not. Then the younger looking man dressed in black asked me in broken English if I needed change.

    “Yes,” I replied, and then I made it known I could communicate in Spanish. We started talking and I told him I like the town.

    He said it was “descuidado”, which means “not taken care of”. I said I thought it was nice and peaceful, and we discussed a bit more about Mexico, about where else I had visited and that I needed to visit Querétaro due to its wonderful colonial style and magnificent architecture and feel. We had a pleasant conversation and I tried to recall who were all the busts on the square but I couldn’t, and the guy was even less help.

    It was a nice conversation and I told him I was writing a book on my impressions and experiences with Mexico. He seemed to think this was a nice idea. He was the bridge or border manager for the Mexican side, and hailed from Mexico City. I thought he must have had the right contacts to have that position and to be so young.

    I offered him a state quarter that I had with Delaware, the “first state”, and he vigorously refused. I thanked him for his hospitality and for his getting the change for my return passage, and I was on my way.

7:00 and Back on the American Side

    I made the walk back across the long raised bridge over the Rio Bravo around 7:00. To my right, looking east, was a long field along the river that seemed to have a large assembly of kids practicing football, American style. They seemed to be on the Mexican side, but perhaps it was American used or simply a tradition in Coahuila this close to Texas? Or maybe it was soccer after all and my senses deceived me. Whatever it was, it was youth doing something in the tranquil distance as I headed back to my family; I had completed my mission, and I was content. I had accomplished the visit to another state of Mexico, albeit briefly and along the border.

    I was in a good mood on the way back, and as I had some free walking time like the long way to, I took advantage of using the cell phone to leave a message with my sister and family in Utah. It’s not every day that I walk out of a foreign country back to our border, and I wanted to announce my unique re-entry into the US via Texas. Just as my ill-fated attempt at calling Enrique Benitez on the way to Coahuila, I again was left with an answering machine. I left a hastily extemporaneous missive.

I enjoyed my walk back, noticing the same truck that had been purposefully parked or stalled on the way into Mexico still there, with the same driver walking about, as well as many other vehicles newly stopped behind him. Many of the other drivers also seemed to be wandering to and fro, doing what I honestly knew not.

    I continued contentedly on my way.

    I watched the water run east downstream to the end of its path, back to the place I had first crossed into Mexico some 23 years prior. 11 years old to 34 now, crossing a bridge to the same state from the same international border with a bridge, and I am somewhat still full of wonder, as I was then.

Hopefully I will be forever. Keep walking.

The Last Border Cross--American Style

I walked into the American border building and it was a glass enclosed structure with a turnstile and walkway on the left side close to the road re-entering Del Rio. I stopped for a seated border guard and another standing behind him. The man seated was a Hispanic in his forties or early fifties.

They asked me some standard questions and I had a fun time responding. They were surprised but amused by my answers. I told them about a few things, about my Mexican-American friend Tony, from East Chicago, Indiana, and his friend Ellen from Saint Louis who did their student teaching down in McCallen; I mentioned how she didn’t feel as welcomed. It was a nice visit and a fittingly pleasant way to finally get back to the camper.

I crossed the borderline again and re-entered the 24 hour parking lot. As I passed two guys were under the hood of their trunk facing west, I offered the use of my cell phone and they asked if I had a jumper cable. I told them we had an RV and I would check. I got back, checked with Jen, and apparently we didn’t. Walked back and informed them.

I got in the camper, gave the necklace to Journay and family, and we took a few minutes to clean up Cheerios and we took off for the lake fishing that we had seen back up the road. It was about 7:15 and the sun was low. I had done it.

Ciudad Juarez: A Large Expanse to the South, and East, and West

Jen and I had not been to Mexico together (or separately) since January of 2004, which will be my previous chapter which is as of yet unwritten. (Probably chapter 9)

I had bought a map of Mexico north of El Paso on Monday and figured out that the Mormon colonies that I figured were south of Ciudad Juarez, halfway between the border and the capital of Chihuahua, was in fact back further west along another route, some two hours going opposite of where we intended to go. Miles were already long for us, having prepaid 2,000 but figuring we would outdo that quantity and not wanting to overdo it too much, I made the decision that we would not bother going there this trip, adding in the fact that it would not fit into our time, either.

That night, we drove through the suburbs of El Paso and found a good place to sleep, behind a nice Presbyterian church. On the way there and resting, we had a good view of the other side of the border at night. Prior to that we had cruised downtown and had eaten parked at the central plaza square. Jen was scared at first; it was dusk and there seemed to be a few homeless there. We had driven a bit around the streets of El Paso.

We couldn’t see much of the Mexican side while in downtown El Paso, but we certainly did while driving up in the hills to the north and east. Ciudad Juarez seemed to reach on forever, at least as big as I remember seeing Mexico City, some four years before in January 2001.

Looking across the border from the hills and benches of Texas was impressive, and caused my mind to wander. I also finished listening to the end of North Carolina beating Illinois for the national championship.

We were surrounded by residential homes and apartments, but they were far enough away to not be a problem. To the north was a good incline that led to an apartment. Not long after arriving in the church lot, a light was turned on up there, which alarmed me, but we surmised it was probably caused by the wind, of which there was a lot. Speaking of wind, we had our share of it few nights previous, especially the second one.

The next morning we made our way to the border, first accidentally going towards a military base, and then getting back the right way via the freeway. We returned to the downtown area

The Border Economy: A Real Factor?

    Approaching the border close to downtown El Paso was easy enough, and as we got within a stone’s through of the walking bridge and the road that crossed it, there were a few men hawking their parking spots. Obviously on a macro scale, cross border trade and international flow of goods and services contribute greatly to economic growth bilaterally and stimulate further business and wealth for both countries, the United States and Mexico.

    But what kind of money exchanged hands here at the border (The micro-economy)? The first parking lot attendant waved me down as we stopped to talk, I asked how much and he said “$8.00”. Our size as a camper made us beyond the printed price of six dollars, and we took another right and another Spanish speaking hawker offered us a space for only five bucks. We took it. He helped us back in to a tight spot and we got ready to cross.

    It took us a little while, and we took Madyha in the stroller. This was her first time in the country of Mexico! We got on the bridge to cross the railroad that lay between the borders; there was no Rio Bravo here. Or was there? Already the memory falters. (I am writing this Memorial Day, 2005, a good month and a half after this visit.

    We paid our sums of .35 cents at the turnstile, after passing a man who looked at me and gave no indication of paying or talking until I walked by about 10 feet past. I looked at him for a signal but he didn’t react until it seemed I was passing by. We paid our sums and continued across. It was very windy and cool. I turned my baseball cap on backwards to help avoid it blowing off. We crossed the border for the first time as a foursome, Madhya’s first venture into Mexico, or any other foreign country. A small parade of white tigers was passing on a road underneath the walkway on the Mexican side, the voice of the affair announcing the upcoming circus loudly on a speaker. The last truck couldn’t fit under the bridge and they had to back up. This was Mexico.

    And we stopped and enjoyed it.

    We don’t see multiple trucks filled with white tigers everyday.

    

    We continued our way into the city, Ciudad Juarez, state of Chihuahua, for the very first time.

    

    We walked in and we were asked if we wanted taxi rides by guys along the street. We declined and continued along the uneven sidewalk with all its uneven breaks that

1 Last night I mentioned this prediction to a co-worker who thinks learning Spanish is pointless but he thinks that Latin America will never get ahead economically like say, China, or India.