Trip number one: in Tamaulipas without prior knowledge
I could make a short list of impressions I still carry (at the relatively distant age of 31) from that first visit, twenty years later.
1. The walk across the Rio Grande. The little amount of water (for a major international border river that loomed large on any world map) that was flowing seemed to be a putrid green. I recall looking upstream while crossing on the edge walkway and envisioning people walking or wading across it to the northern banks. The sun was high and bright, warm. El Rio Bravo, as known in Mexico, was shallow enough to walk across its multiple sand bars, not swimmable. I have always paid attention to things like that in nature. (A tree: climbable? A hill: sleddable?) We crossed the bridge by foot and had parked our station wagon back in Brownsville, USA. My dad spoke for all of us, I think.
I seem to remember the Mexican border guard and its relatively small booth was on the bridge itself. It was a new sensation to be eyed over by uniformed non-Americans, not like the “American looking Canadians” from our family vehicle in past trips up north, occasionally peering into our trunk for contraband. No, this was an international pedestrian foot inspection, just like in the numerous war pictures I had seen. These guards were people who didn’t speak native English, like those kids at the camper ground in Quebec, only professionally trained to speak our native tongue.
2. The streets of Matamoros. (Again called into official question as far as spelling, and for that matter, its very existence, by Bill Gates in our Windows ’98 or Millennium word processor.) For a while I thought that by just being a border town, this would discount some of the “trashiness” that existed in Matamoros or Tijuana, compared to other Mexican cities located farther in the interior. After my excursions up until this year, I have decided otherwise. Mexico does not provide the same street services as most American public places. Sidewalks are typically uneven or non-existent, streets likewise, trash and refuse are rampant generally, and there is not the same use of wide space, as done in most North American cities. More hand labored signs, paintings, and homemade light fixtures are present, one can tell there is a greater lack of economic prosperity in any given Mexican town compared to the US.
At this point I will provide a brief listing of my visits to Mexico, helping the reader (but more importantly myself) to see the times and places I have visited in and through Mexico.
1983 Yucatan Day trip to Tulum and Xelha, December (2)
1993 Tijuana Day trip across the border, April (3)
1995 Mexicali Day trip across the border, November (4) (Not accepted by Gates, either)
1999 Mexicali Over night stay in with trip to mountains near Tecate with Gustavo Cuevas, December (5)
2000 Cabo and Los Barriles Ten day honeymoon and visit to La Paz, June, July (6)
2000-1 Guerrero and D.F. Two week visit to Zihuatenejo, Acapulco, Mexico City and Teotihuacan, December, January (7)
2002 La Bufadora and Ensenada Two-day trip down the Baja, January (8)
My first four trips were only for the day, typically a long afternoon. I finally spent the night in Mexico upon moving to California three years ago. Since marriage I have spent the majority of my time visiting in Mexico, and the last trip we planned three months ago to San Felipe (March, 2002) was cancelled (hopefully only indefinitely postponed) due to the RSV illness of our baby daughter. All told: eight trips, 27 nights, 31 days, seven states, in this order: Tamaulipas, Quintana Roo, Baja Norte, Baja Sur, Guerrerro, Morelos, Distrito Federal.3
What will add to my Mexican experiences are undoubtedly contact with Mexicans and their culture in between these sporadic visits, as well as classes and journeys to other lands, further expanding my horizons as to defining any particular people. The logic goes; one can discover others by knowing what they are not. The more you know of the world, the more you can interpret specific entities.
3. The food. I guess we hadn’t been there too long before we went for a meal at a local restaurant. We hadn’t packed lunches for our drive from Corpus Christi. The eatery was humble, nothing fancy at all. I remember there were deep blue (but somewhat pastel) concrete walls, with poor wiring throughout the establishment, noted out loud by my meticulous-for-code electrician father. The tables and chairs were more like a patio style, and I suppose the waiter (or waitress?) spoke good enough English for us to order without many problems. In truth I don’t remember that many details from that first meal except for two minor things that impressed my young mind: one, they only had Coke as a carbonated drink (and our family generally eschewed caffeinated drinks) and they served the drinks in their original bottles (we hoped) with straws already placed in them (caps removed, therefore we didn’t know for sure if these were the originals). I don’t think the top paper of the straw casing was left, like straws I would see at other restaurants later in life. This made us all a little uneasy, but it was a better prospect than drinking the water, as advertised humorously in beer commercials back then.
The other notable development at this meal was the soft tacos. I had never seen or heard of them, and this made sense in retrospect that Mexico, the virtual birthplace and kingdom of the taco, would have varieties and versions that were foreign to me. These tacos were smaller than the size I was accustomed to, and they were soft like a burrito. I’m not sure if I or anyone else in my family were too familiar with burritos back then, although maybe the Taco John on Walnut Street or a Taco Bell back home provided some of us with this Latino soft-shelled delicacy. So now I knew: tacos possessed no particular rigid identity.
4. The purchases. A primary reason for voyaging to a place as in effect, lackluster as a Matamoros, was to go shopping. My family did this very thing in Louisville, Kentucky, one Thanksgiving weekend around the same year, purely intent on that very thing: to consume. I don’t remember how much we spent or everything we bought, but a few things stand out. The only real thing I remember my parents buying for the entire family was a large bottle of vanilla extract. I recall passing by the cupboard by our kitchen for the months and probably years afterward and occasionally smelling the top plastic stopper of the vanilla because of its unique and rich aroma.
I’m sure my sisters and mom bought their share of jewelry and trinkets, my dad may have got a few things, but the main things I remember buying were the puppet and the jacket/vest. The puppet was a fun little Mexican marionette man with a guitar attached to his hand and maybe a bottle in the other (there was not that much political correctness back in 1982, especially not in Matamoros), and I believe he was dressed as what I understand now as a mariachi band member. My stint at learning Spanish before school in the third grade paid off in naming him. He was dubbed “Juan Paco Poco Loco Wacko”! This was a combination of a few words that I had picked up from the third grade lessons with the word play added from the newfound quirky sounding town where we spent the night in Texas. (Much later I discovered it is pronounced Waco like “wake”+oh” but that didn’t matter at the time).
Another gift that was interesting and possibly slightly expensive was a leather vest with copper clasps on the front, some kind of imitation velvet inside lining and a cool looking Mexican eagle symbol burnt or etched in the back. I liked this vest enough that I would wear it while playing Indian in the forest with no undershirt. I was disappointed years later when it no longer fit and I distinctly felt I didn’t take advantage of it enough.
These were some of the fond memories of knick-knacks and mementos from Mexico that first trip back in 1982. I’m sure back then I would have had more distinct impressions and opinions about what I observed, particular people I saw, shops or buildings or things in the street that left a unique and more detailed view of my few hours there. It was nice to now say I had been there, and had visited the land where my colorful flag map had come in a small white envelope two years before from my blonde haired Spanish teacher. Back then I’m sure I knew more about the gifts of my other family members while in Mexico.
Perhaps I was struck by the darkness of the Mexicans I saw, perhaps not. I do remember that most of my middle school and high school years I saw the darker skin as more attractive, thus soaking up tans whenever I could. Did I think they looked cooler for this reason? Did I think they looked neat because some had a Native American look, another of my predilections as a child? Whatever my precise sentiments about the people and the foreignness of the place, I probably could safely summarize that I thought Mexico was cool.
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