Transmigrante
There had been a hurricane that destroyed Honduras
this past fall. My friend Noel Palma, from Honduras but working
around Philly, had a truck; a used Hino diesel 26 foot box van.
We decided to beg for whatever relief supplies we could fit into
the truck. He would then drive truck to Honduras, to his village
of Ocotepeque, be home with his family for Christmas, and give
out the goods to the people around Ocotepeque that had been hurt
by the awful storm.
We got a tremendous response from anyone we asked.
The 26 foot box diesel truck filled up with goods (and also an
old Toyota pickup, that Noel wanted to sell when he got home).
He headed out on December 21st, in company with two friends also
driving trucks south.
A Christmas Call
Dec. 25 1998
Christmas call from Noel- outside of Baton Rouge, LA. Cops
in Tennessee with dogs sniffing through car and truck, titles,
insurances, licenses. Document that truck had been searched. Lost
Walter in Virginia someplace. Has not seen him since.
Dec. 26 1998
Telephone call to Noel 1-956-843-2563. He is in McAllen,
TX, near border with Reynosa, Mexico. Staying in parking lot of
International Motel, Hidalgo. Is fearful of going on by himself.
Is there any chance I could help him drive the rest of the way.
Dec. 27 1998
5AM Danny drives me to PHL airport. I get standby ticket
on Airtrans Flts 123 and 343. Fly out at 7:20 land at Atlanta,
and I’m back in the air within 15 minutes bound for Houston. I’ll
have to find my way from Houston to the border around 300 miles
further away. Noel cannot cross the border until Monday Dec. 28,
customs will inspect his cargo after 9AM. So I have until then
to catch him. I get a flight to Harlingen from Houston, and then
a van/taxi that will take me the 50 miles remaining to the border
town of Hidalgo Texas..
Bordering
Reynosa MX is across the Rio Grande. This motel
is a rest stop for Central Americans going north and south. It
is also headquarters for a few Mexicans that operate as customs
agents for all the truckers and importers of old trucks. The agents
prepare and manage all the paperwork requirements for these guys
to get across border- vehicle titles, insurances, inspections,
tariffs, duties probably some tips for the customs officials.
I’ve met Noel and also Victor a ‘man about the hotel’
who is a former student of Noel’s from San Pedro Sula.Walter and
driving partner Edgar Gallardo are here. Noel says they caught
up to him after having been separated for three days on the road.
They said they landed today but by the looks of the motel room
looks like they’ve been here a week. Spoke with a man Guillermo
from San Salvador- a real estate developer in Portland xxx is
taking two school buses to < looks like everybody
and it seems the English is delivered than the
Spanish.
At the motel there are a few TRANSMIGRANTES. These
are small-time customs agents that, for a price, use their intimate
knowledge of customs laws to facilitate various permissions, insurances,
inspections etc. The fellow that Noel is using is named LOBO,
the wolf. It sort of feels that one is at his mercy. He hit Noel
up for thirty dollars for insurance and thirty dollars to seal
the truck. Sealing the truck has something to do with bringing
clothes into Mexico- a tax or tariff- but not if just transporting
through the country. The seal on the cargo box will insure to
Mexican Federal Police that the stuff passes without change or
tampering through the country.
Right now Edgar has some problem. I think he has
declined to take Guillermo’s offer. Edgar had been driving an
old pickup truck, which was trailing another old pickup from Philadelphia
for a friend. But Guillermo will give him a few hundred dollars
if Edgar drives one of two school buses Guillermo is taking to
El Salvador. So Edgar decides to leave his trucks here at the
border town, and takes Guillermo's offer.
My lack of Spanish has me paying attention to gestures,
frowns, body language to guess what might be going on. Noel has
the look of a roughneck now- unshaven face and wearing old truck
driving clothes. But his mannerisms and speech style reveal a
patrician presence. It is a gentle but serious manner and people
here treat him with respect.
1PM Monday. Almost all is ready. The air-filter
part has been gotten in the installed. Fidel changed oil and filter.
Walter has gotten all his paperwork together. Because he lost
$800 and credit cards and license when his truck broke down in
Tennessee he needed to have the Transmigrante agent do extra work
to bring his paperwork up to border standards.
Two o’clock. Noel and I head across border at Pharr
Bridge. The Rio Grande is contained in a small channel about 80
yards wide with sickly green water. There are cormorants sunning
on snags and some ducks afloat so I guess the river is not dead,
but what water is there does not look healthy. The bridge is a
roadway 20 feet above mile wide river bed, the roadway is fenced,
there seems no place for pedestrians. On the Mexico side we enter
a complex reserved for cameones- trucks with cargo. There are
four different officials that greet us along a quarter mile stretch
of controlled borders/customs space. The first is a man in civilian
togs who gives me instructions. I tell him I have no Spanish,
he curtly says “Get the locks off” (the cargo locks). He then
seals cargo with wire cable, and gets a dollar from Noel. Next,
two women who asked questions then asked for sodas (a tip request).
Noel ignores this request. Next a friendly cop, Noel gives this
guy a dollar. Next a woman at final checkpoint- waves us through-
no dollar. Past customs we are waved over by an informal transmigrante
‘helper’, adollar- He tells us we must now return to immigration
and transport officers to have papers stamped. Two more stations
in customs office- no tip given here- passport stamped. Noel must
pay 230 pesos ($25) for trans-shipment voucher.
Da me para las sodas
After everyone else gets through customs there is
a great mood of joy- a great accomplishment. Everyone compares
how much they have been variously extorted and feel in general
that at least in Mexico there are no problems for which an American
dollar is not the solution.
Immediately I am in a different place. The topos
does not change- Flat big dome sky, wide wide bottomlands of Rio
Grande Valley. But the human cultural signs are all different-
roads immediately poorer condition, signage is not just a different
language but a different pattern. Dirt, dust, trash abundant.
Parking lots in front of stores are dirt, store signs are painted
(long time ago) plywood, storefronts are solid not glass.
As we entered Reynosa’s outskirts there was an accident.
A pickup truck had fallen-fallen off the road with no shoulders
and tumbled down an embankment. As we came up on the scene a crowd
was gathering to be of use but no police presence, no ambulances,
no sirens. It is now about 4 o’clock and heavy traffic is snarled.
We pass the accident and turn onto the road to SAN FERNANDO. Pass
a junkman whose truck body was being pulled by two old horses
in harness. Twenty-six kilometers out of Reynosa there is a police
checkpoint. Everyone is pulled over, a dollar for the cop, $10
for the official inside the station. Beside the station is a shack
with an old drum barbecue out front cooking chicken, selling coca
cola, behind are chickens, sheep and a very thin thin sow grazing
in the trash and the brush.
We go on- three more miles there is an army checkpoint.
The young soldiers with their automatic rifles and very courteous
and request no money or tip. When they see the truck is sealed
they give us free leave.
Then miles and miles of ranch land. We went around
50 miles before coming to another paved road veering off to our
right. The temperature cooled as the sun went low in the west.
Far off in the western haze I could see a rise but too far to
tell if trees or a hill- otherwise dead flat ranch lands, sometimes
cattle grazing. From time to time we would come upon a grid of
houses. The buildings fronting our highway were public houses
and shops, behind those going down dirt lanes were home made houses,
wash on the line, farmyard animals, old cars, tractors in the
lots. Electrical lines ran into these grids but otherwise it looked
poor.
Night came on. Outside the town of San Fernando
there is a brightly lit PEMEX station. Our caravan pulled into
this station and here we spend the night. Walter did not want
to go further- he had a problem; his headlights only worked on
high-beam. At nightfall he was blinding and angering oncoming
traffic. One truck blinked at him then when Walter didn’t lower
his lights the trucker came across road as he approached. Walter
turned towards edge of shoulderless road and the oncoming trucker,
playing out this chicken game, swerved back but sideswiped Walter’s
left side mirror.
At the PEMEX station, Walter was able to repair
his headlights within the hour, but it was decided we would remain.
Being unable to understand I miss much of the communication. My
read right now is that Walter is the leader. This seems to be
by virtue of his skillfulness with engines and vehicles. But it
might also be because he has the biggest truck, and the most invested
in the trip. Also because he is paying for at least two other
members of the party. At present we are
1. Walter: 18-wheeler- carrying three pickups,
engines, tires, and used auto parts. Victor helped him get across
border. Edgar was supposed to help him drive through U.S.. Walter
hired a new driver this morning to help him get to Guatemala-
the driver, Felipe, is charging Walter 4000 pesos, food and
bus fare back.
2. Noel: 26 foot box truck- carrying one pickup,
some trade goods and hurricane relief supplies.
3. Guillermo: a 50 year old man from Portland,
OR, originally from El Salvador. He is bringing two school buses
full of trade good to El Salvador.
4. Edgar: is driving one of Guillermo’s school
buses. Edgar is happy-go-lucky hyper Guatemalan more or less
constantly on the lookout for a buck-making opportunity.
5. Pedro: with wife and two daughters. They are
from Austin, TX but originally from El Salvador driving a Mitsubishi
mini-van and bringing two old pickup trucks full of trade goods.
6. Hugo: is driving one of Pedro’s trucks which
is trailing other pickup. Hugo is a quiet man serious, who shows
skills only when they are required.
Our plan was to get a good night’s sleep and depart
at 5AM. Noel woke everyone up at 3:30 AM, He had not changed his
watch to Mexico time and so thought it was 4:30. I was sleeping
in the back of Guillermo’s school bus as the seat- though not
wide was seven-feet long and it was comfortable. The laughter
and banter of the hookers woke me a couple times before Noel did.
They prowl among the 30 or 40 trucks parked overnight looking
for business.
At the real 4:30 we arose again. Walter warming
up his big truck found another worry. A check valve on a line
to his air brakes was leaking. This could be dangerous in the
mountains so he decided it must be fixed. A couple hundred yards
away in the same big parking area was a ramshackle parts store.
It would be open at 7:30 so we have breakfast in the gas station
restaurant and wait. I return and get an hour more sleep in back
of Noel’s tuck. 9:30 AM we get on road. Pedro has gone ahead to
SOTO DE MARINA and will await us there.
Martes Dec. 29 1998
2PM- We arrive in SOTO DE MARINA. Eat at open-to the -air
fish market. The fried fish is fresh, we are near to the Gulf
of Mexico, maybe Bahia de Tampico. Tampico will be the next city.
This is a dusty place.
Over the last 60-70 miles the flora and topography
have changed. Drier, with a cactus Noel calls Izote. People use
the white flower of the Izote in a scrambled egg dish says Noel.
The ground has gotten much hillier after we left San Fernando,
rolling hills. We were on a super highway for a while going toward
Ciudad Victoria. We turned off and traveled a two-laner, with
small mountains off to our NE. There was not much tilled land,
or pasture, through these miles, though we passed a sign for Rancho
Empelo. Few people, houses but a good road and a pretty day.AT
2:30 PM we are finished lunch and waiting for a mechanic to finish
adjusting Walter’s brake lines. Felipe does not want to go into
the mountains with brakes that he is not confident about.
Yesterday the talk was all about the border, the
tips (extortion). Today the talk is about the mountains, dangerous
precipices that the narrow roads will take us toward.
Guillermo is either sad or reflective, standing
by himself under the shade of a tiny-leafed low tree. Noel thinks
he is sad because the cops in San Fernando made him pay 200 pesos
before allowing his buses to go on. Noel had only to give up a
tip ($1) there.
A lovely drive in the late afternoon in rolling
countryside. Noel gave me an hour’s lesson in Espanol while I
tried to keep truck on the road. We approached Tampico as the
sun was setting. As we drove into the Valley of Tampico there
came over us what at first I thought was thick fog- but it stank
of oil and it was a greasy gray color. Lights had a sickly halo
in this smog.
 |
Felipe, Noel, Guillermo,
Ferry, Walter, Edgar. South of Posa Rica |
Past Tampico on our way to Tuxpan the road became
first an awful mess of broken pavement and potholes. There was
even a toll (cuota) to pay for the axle-breaking privilege.
We finally gave up about 10PM at the little town
of Puente Naranjas (Orange Bridge). The gas stations in Mexico
are all PEMEX- a national monopoly. The high green signs are the
only brightly lit signage I’ve seen along the road- a welcome
sight as the stations have restaurants, sometimes trucker’s showers,
toilets and police protection. Truckers (camioneros) use the stations
as overnight rest stops. We did. Acorn street was a comidor- open
air as we are now south and into the warm, Its about 70-72F. The
owner lady and her father are happy for our business even at 11:30.
There is no menu- she tells the guys what ingredients she had
and they tell her how they would like it prepared. This is a five
minute conversation between her (the owner, waitress, cook) and
Noel, Felipe, Walter, Edgar, Guillermo. She goes back with orders,
cooks and delivers each separately so that one, maybe two have
food at the same time- the rest talk, banter, make jokes with
the cook, play with her son, chat with the old fellow.
Tonight after dinner I sleep in the back of Noel’s
truck. He takes sleeping bag and goes to bus. But actually Felipe,
Edgar and Noel go out on the town and don’t go to “bed” until
three. In morning Noel and Edgar look sick, Felipe is fine.
The policeman (with an Uzi) is a nice guy, not an
extortionist. He knocks on my truck window too soon “Cinque Cinque”.
Noel had told us to give him a wake up call at 5AM so we get an
early start. It is not hard to obey a wake up caller armed with
a machine gun,
Wednesday
5:30 AM- off go our caravan of four. We never did catch
up to Pedro and Hug. We drive through beautiful hill country-
everything either up or down- no flats. Beautiful lemon groves
and lime groves. Along the road the people, even at dawn have
a little roadside stands clumped together wherever a vehicle must
slow down, selling bags of oranges, limes, bunches of bananas.
At 8:30 we stop on the outskirts of Posa Rica. Noel’s
the vehicle that needs repair now. With the pothole road, the
steel brackets holding the muffler on have parted. We found a
fellow by the side of the road that is a metal worker and he fashions
two metal straps, gets under the truck and with an electrical
arc welding torch which he has - bare wire -clamped into a lead
coming down an electricity pole directly from the distribution
wires. I expect him to electrocute all of us, but his system works,
today it doesn’t kill anyone, seems to be free. He welds the muffler
straps back to the chassis. All this for fifty pesos. After fixing
us up he takes us to his backyard, shows us a job he has to do
- repair of a monumental bronze statue of Mexican President -
rusted and corroded now, but eventually to be fixed up by this
fellow and re-erected in the center of Posa Rico. The welder’s
grandfather gave me a luffa and showed me how to get seeds out-
he went to get knife, but was not able to cut the luffa open as
his right side was badly arthritic or post CVA. He was grateful
for our gift of a bottle of Tylenol and ‘medicin arthritico’-
Mucho gracias por el medicin- (feminine?)
In the unhurried two hours we had breakfast across
the street in open air restaurant. Again the ingredient discussion,
preparation, etc, etc. I am now pretty good at ‘Me gusteria tomar
cafe con leche.’ When waitress brought me the instant (all through
Mexico) coffee and course grain sugar, she had to go to her house
adjacent to get the milk. When she returned there was a boisterous
laughing discussion started by Edgar and Walter that I didn’t
understand. Edgar told the waitress that I was not able to use
goat milk. Noel later told me Edgar was pulling her leg- saying
she had gone out back, milked the goat and was trying to pass
it off to the Yankee. She protested that it was leche de vaca.
Edgar and Walter tasted it and said it was too sweet to be cow’s
milk, if it wasn’t goat milk it must be her own breast milk- she’s
giving the gringo breast milk. I’m sitting dumbly by while they’re
having a big joke on me and the poor waitress.
After breakfast everybody decides that they should
take showers in the public toilet/shower/laundry. There is a well-
almost 40 feet down to the water. Downhill from well is a big
concrete sink. There stands an Indian woman in a two piece green
suit worthy of a Philadelphia lawyer washing a huge pile of dishes.
Earlier I had seen her drawing water from the well, hand over
hand to fill a plastic drum which had a garden hose in it. After
she had filled drum, she siphoned water down to a sink and washed
the dishes. Next to sinks was a shack over an open drain. In 4’x
4’x 6’ shack was a white molded plastic chair. Beyond this shack
the drain ran under a 3-hole toilet and then into a little ravine
joining a small, foul-smelling stream, chickens pecking all about.
The shower routine was to fill up two 5 gallon buckets
from well, carry them down shower shack, go in and dish water
over yourself. Though I and did not find them.
Bandits and Ladrones
As the sun set we passed through town of Sayula
with a blinking red light. I pulled over, Noel and I thought maybe
they are more police. A clean-cut guy, neatly dressed in sport
shirt and slacks approached us. He went around to Noel’s side
and asked for papers and passport. Noel requested ‘credentiales’
and they told him to get out of truck. The second guy was carrying
an automatic rifle on his shoulder.
I got out and stood beside Noel. I offered my passport.
They saw the truck was sealed. Noel challenged their authority-
"how do we know you’re cops not thieves". The clean
cut guy pulled up his shirt and showed us his handgun. “...fuckin
credentiales... “ made it very clear to me even if I didn’t understand
the rest of the discussion. After some more talk he let us go
telling us ‘Da me para las sodas’ which is usual cop vocabulary
for extortion. Noel gave the guy with the rifle 50 pesos. They
jumped in their pickup and disappeared. We were both shook up
and tense as we drove on. Noel said the credential the guy showed
him was a card ‘not even with plastic’ (lamination).
An hour later we had an opposite experience at another
police checkpoint. He asked me where we were going. I told him
in Spanish “Honduras”. He asked me something I didn’t understand-
I told him “hablo un poco espanol” . Later Noel told me that the
police officer had said that I better be on my way, as I had a
long way to go.
|
On the Pan American
Highway, crossing the Plain of Tehuatepec, south of the
village of Ventosa |
Reaping the Whirlwind
quarter is any use to them out on this desert. They
fix the potholes by throwing buckets full of roadside dirt and
sand into the pothole. From a distance you can see the rise of
dust as trucks rumble through he next series of fixed potholes.
We came upon a busload of Transmigrantes whose bus had been broken
down, Noel tried to be helpful but it seemed the fuel pump was
busted. We carried on leaving them a prayer.
We are approaching a high range of mountains at
mid-morning there is a double peak to the highest, I’m guessing
that the highest is a bout 6000 feet above the desert floor. It
may be higher because it remains in view all through the later
morning and into the afternoon. We are on the Pacific side of
the continent, and in the state of Chiapas. As we get to the west
of the mountains we came to Rio Bravo. We came upon a bridge that
had fallen into the river. There is a sign that says ‘Reparaciones’
are going on but we didn’t see anyone working. There was a temporary
pipe bridge that cars could pass. But we followed truck tracks
down to the river and forded there. It was only about 18” deep
at the ford. We stopped both to pee, took a picture and went on.
This was the first sign of the damage the hurricane
caused. Noel said Mitch had hit Chiapas initially then looped
south instead of more typical track to the north. The torrents
of rain came down the slopes of these high mountains and onto
the coastal plain. The rivers seem to be constructed as two rivers.
During this drier season, December, they flow if they flow at
all, within the inner banks. During the wetter season the river
outgrows its banks an flows within its wider banks. The hurricane’s
waters were too much for either and washed over all, uprooting
trees which battered the bridges, and with such force to undermine
the bridges’ supports. The pre-stressed steel reinforcement bridges,
most looking new as they were built recently to improve this Pan-American
Highway, lay tumbled and broken in the river bottom. Some bridges
that were higher than fifty or so feet above the rivers we crossed
were intact.
We drove over them this sunny day and saw squads
of children swimming and playing, women scrubbing clothes, others
standing in the stream lathering up with soap. They're are getting
ready for the Fiesta del Año Nuevo tonight. I hope that
1999 will be better for them.
The villages that we drove through that were low-lying
and close down to the rivers show damage. Missing roofs above
standing block walls, trees down in yards. But these are 2 months
after the storm signs of rebuilding- some temporary bridges erected,
road regrading new frames of roofs on walls. Just passing through
this beautiful country in a truck on a day of brilliant blue it
is hard to imagine the terror at a river they are now playing
in.
3PM- We make Tapachula, one more town on our list
to the border. Noel driving on a four lane road toward, airport
cuts off a car. The car is a police car. Against recent experience,
they don’t ask for money, or even give us a ticket though we were
wrong for changing lanes without looking. They even give us directions
to the border- on a good road through thousands of acres of bananas,
many of the bunches wrapped in blue perforated plastic bags.
After the banana groves and the kids swimming in
the banana xxx, we come to mango orchards.
Stalled at the end of Mexico, end of the year
And finally into the dusty border town of Hidalgo.
It is 4:30, we have made it before customs closes at 5. Wrong.
Kids racing after us on bikes tell us we are too late. Because
tonight is the fiesta decembre 31, the customs closed at 2PM.
Noel is downcast but we decide maybe there is someone we can talk
to to give us the stamp. The immigration officers are sympathetic.
They say we can cross the border, but Noel knows that without
customs stamp that he could be heavily fined in Guatemala, and
that there would be trouble getting his trade goods into Honduras.
We sit dejectedly outside the driveway of the Mexican customs
administrator, his security officer says that if he comes home
maybe we could have a word with him. We think maybe he would have
the connections with his Guatemalan counterpart, allowing us to
legally proceed. We wait an hour and a half, the sun goes down,
the administrator does not return.
I drive truck a few crowded blocks to the Hotel
Mazari which has a big dusty parking lot. Other transmigrantes
are here. The town is bustling. The streets are full of people
working, riding bicycles and riding in three-wheeled taxicabs.
The cabs are a modified bicycle. The back half of the vehicle
is normal bike but the front wheel and handlebar are replaced
with a seat for two, sunshade and two wheels. There are also car
taxicabs, and private cars, trucks, buses- no traffic signals,
no stop signs. There are pavements but people walk in the street
and are just part of the traffic. I guess it works because everything
is traveling at the speed of the walkers. No one is blowing horns,
no one is getting run over. They haven’t yet heard of ‘road rage’.
Hotel Mazari is clean and neat. Noel bargains with
the desk clerk but we pay the posted fare 170 pesos for double
room. Noel tells me not to be afraid of the little geckos or lizards
on the walls. “They are not killed because they eat the spiders.”
I am comforted. I offer Noel a dinner at the best restaurant in
town but there are none, so we go to a Tapas place and get some
sturdy fried chicken, gravy fried potatoes and a couple Modelo
beers. Everyone is dressed in new clothes- almost everyone. It
is the custom for Año Nuevo to get a new set of clothes
for the new year coming.
A little beggar girl comes to my table- outside
on the pavements, the Tapas tables take up the whole sidewalk
and the Tapas owner has put an awning over all- the little beggar
she is bout 6 years old, thin, lively, unwashed. She does not
have new clothes on. I show her I have no money in my hands, then
pull a peso from behind her ear. She is delighted by the peso
and the trick. She wants me to do it again. The magic is the gift
- the peso is what the rich owe the poor.
There is a fiesta tonight at 1 AM, a live band in
the town hall is wiring up an impressive set of speakers. We make
a visit to the Catholic church, a plain affair on the plaza, but
all lit up for a mass of the new year at 11 tonight. I notice
the pews are all reserved for different families, like some of
our fancy protestant churches. As we leave I see at the shrine
of Our Lady at the back of the church, a man in a wheelchair praying,
his friend or brother standing by him.
The town center is a one-square block park. Trees
cut square create an umbrella under which you walk. Teenage and
younger boys are running about setting off fireworks. A group
sets off a cherry bomb near the bank, which is adjacent to the
public telephone at which Noel is trying to call Amy. The noise
of the cherry bomb sets off the bank’s alarm system, the boys
run off and the wail of the alarm adds its beat to the excitement
of the night. Amy can’t hear Noel, which Noel doesn’t mind as
he doesn’t have any excuses acceptable to her as to why he isn’t
with her these holiday days.
Noel wants to take a ride in the bicycle rickshaws.
he picks out one pushed by a young fellow who looks strong enough
to take on two two-hundred pounders. We tell him we would like
to take a ride over the bridge to Guatemala but he demurs- after
dark there are problems there, it would be bad for our safety.
Instead for twenty pesos he takes us on a guided tour. As we go
down the street leading to the border we see a school bus and
it says ‘El Norte’. It is Guillermo’s bus. The other bus in front
and then Walter’s tractor-trailer!
Under a noisy square tree sits a frozen Walter.
I tell the cops nearby to shoot that man under the tree but they
don’t understand my English. Walter is upset because the border
is closed and because he feels we abandoned them. Noel and I are
angry at Walter and others for abandoning us.
Eventually we discover that Noel and I went on the
wrong road- the old road to Sayula (where the ladrones got us)
instead of the new road. Walter and the others were too
far ahead of us at that time to see to follow them. If they went
the new road how some we got here before them? At Las Casitas
Guillermo’s truck blew a transmission tube and they were delayed
in repairs another 4 or 5 hours.
Walter was mad at us for he assumed we must have
seen them on the side of the road and passed them by. The other
guys have walked across to Guatemala for Nuevo Año because
Edgar is a Guatemalan and wanted to be in his country for the
fiesta.
A long day, frustrating here, unable to pass the
border. I call Kit to wish her a happy new year but she is not
pleased, ‘This is the third new year’s eve you have not been home’
she is upset at uncertainty of my timetable but I just have no
idea of what happens next.
Out of Mexico, Into Guatemala
January 1 1999
I awake with stomach cramps and diarrhea. Misery.
Noel runs out to Farmaceria and gets medicine for me- ampicillin,
some anti-diarretic, some pain pills. Over-the-counter in Mexico
is much different than US and I’m afraid to take the pills for
fear they are codeine but Noel says they are probably Advil or
Tylenol only. Noel goes out to find out about passing the border
and comes back with bad news. Not today maybe tomorrow. I groan
that today then is a good day to be sick. The rest of the day
is spent in bed. During the day the guys go over the bridge to
Guatemala- tourist traffic is allowed- just no vehicles with goods.
Walter steps in to talk. He is missing his 3 children, Geraldo,
Walter Jr. and Juala. Later Guillermo steps in with some Maalox
to offer his sympathy.
Guillermo is a real estate developer in Portland,
Oregon. We were talking about the beggar kids. He told me of his
own poor upbringing and his dreams for himself. His father had
sent him to a neighbor to learn to read and write. One day while
searching through a dump he picked up an empty can. It had words
on it that were odd to him. He brought it to his grandfather who
told him it was English, a different way of speaking. He asked
his grandfather to teach him this way, but his grandfather said
you are a poor peasant and you are not supposed to know English.
This made Guillermo sad. But he kept the can, and he came to understand
that the Spanish words meant the same as the English words on
the other side of the can. He tells me that he translated this,
his first English sentence: ESTA ES LECHE PULVERIZADO/ on the
other side: THIS IS POWDERED MILK, PASTEURIZED. After that he
was determined to learn English and saved every ‘Colonna’ he could
until he had enough to buy and English textbook. Eventually a
correspondence course he had paid for out of San Diego, California-
he finished in 18 months a two year course. As a teenager he left
the fields and worked construction and his manager needed documents
translated.
I was miserable all through the day getting out
of bed only to go to the bathroom. Someone downstairs had a CD
with only one song on it, which they played over and over all
day long. The song is a Spanish lyrics version of the them song
from the Titanic movie- not a bad song, the first 25 hearings,
I will never again hear the Titanic song without connecting to
a bad day in a dusty Mexican border town.
|
Impoundment at Guatemala
after crossing border. Some transmigrants were stuck here
for days, unable to go back, unable to proceed. Noel was
able to bribe our way out in less than 4 hours. |
Guatemala
Saturday Jan 2 1999
We cross the border. It only takes us 4 hours. The interesting
part being impounded in a sandy junkyard waiting 3 hours for permission
to drive vehicle through Guatemala. There are fumigation fees-
Guatemala washes Mexican dust off in favor of Guatemalan dirt.
The non-uniformed security police carry sawed-off shotguns, other
officials have a pistol stuffed into their waistband.
Guatemala’s roads are a hundred times better than
Mexico. The Pan American Highway is two lanes but paved, painted
and shouldered- a pleasure after Mexico. All afternoon we rise
from the Pacific plain, past sugar cane, coffee, rubber tree plantations.
We approach Ciudad Guatemala at nightfall. The city
is situated in a very high mountain valley. A large city- I see
my first McDonalds since Texas. While in Guatemala we are pulled
over by the police 3 times. Each time the cops courteous and helpful,
though the last guy did press us for a ‘tip’- Noel complied. Drove
through a full moonlit night, through mountain and valley, mountain
and valley. At midnight we made the border at Honduras. Closed.
We chained the truck closed as best we could, got our bags and
walked across an empty border. In Agua Caliente, a 15 minute walk,
Noel woke up an old friend, who got dressed and drove us the 22
km to Ocotepeque. Landed, met Carlos, Noel’s mother is away at
her sisters. Fell in bed, pictures of Orly and Maritza’s other
sons all about bedroom and living room.
Honduras, in Hot Water
Jan 3 1999
Margarita makes coffee and empanadas for us for breakfast.
She washed my shirt and pants. Noel tells me she is not a servant
but more of a companion for his mother. Marguerita is a poor unmarried
woman from up in the mountains. She has two children who are looked
after by Marguerita’s mother in the mountain pueblo. Marguerita
lives in Ocotepeque because she earns some money taking in laundry.
She lives rent free and has, for years, with Maritza.
Also living here is Marjorie, Noel’s 9 year old
daughter whose mother doesn’t want her. She is looked after by
Maritza and Margarita and supported by Noel. She and Margarita
live in back bedroom of house which is architecturally distinct
though part of main house.
Margarita seems to be in her 30’s, quiet but was
delighted to see Noel. It is clear he is in his element, xxx
Carlos is a slight build, but tall, about 5'10”.
he is 19 years old and awkward. Last night as I was falling asleep,
I heard him say at my doorway, “Good night Mr. Ferry.” His voice
had something of the quality of Orly’s, Carlos and Luis were the
two boys Orly worried about often. He sent much of his earnings
home to Maritza so they would be able to go to school- to stay
in school- and not have to go to work too early. On the wall I
see that Carlos has his certificate in “Administration Empressa”
translation Business Administration. So Orly got his wish. Carlos
is home for New Year’s weekend. His daughter died a month ago
and he might be more ashamed than grieved. Noel says the baby
died because the parents were immature and didn’t know how to
care for a child. Carlos was sent off to work in the electric
company in San Pedro Sula, he lives there with his boss, when
baby was born two years ago. He had to work to support the child
but Noel says he is too young to be responsible. I asked Carlos
if he wanted to go to USA. “Yes, to Kansas City. I like to ride
the Twister.” He has to take the bus back to San Pedro Sula at
noon today.
Marjorie
is a beautiful 9 year old girl. Thick, light brown hair, pretty
green/hazel eyes. Noel says her grandfather (or great grandfather)
was a worker for Standard Fruit Company, an American firm, who
had come to build roads, but married and decided to stay. Marjorie
introduced me to her playmate “Esta es Joe Ferry”- Elmer, his
brother Eduardo, maybe twins about 5 years old, and Stephanie
and her sister Elizabeth, 8 and 9 years old.
Luis came over, 22 years old, Noel’s brother who
I had met in Radnor last year. Orly would be glad to know he is
doing well- married to Aura, has a daughter Alexandra 2 years
old, has built his own house with money he made in Overbook. Luis
invites us over to his house for lunch.
But first we must go back to border. We had entered
Honduras and exited Guatemala without permission. We must go back
to have our passports stamped and Noel is worried for the safety
of the truck and cargo which we left behind in Agua Caliente-
the little girls come along. Off we go in a shiny Toyota 4x4 pickup.
The landscape is magnificent. Ocotepeque sits in
a high valley. It is ringed with mountains that rise 3-4000 feet
above it. The mountains are steep, the canyons are steep. Except
for Ocotepeque there seems to be no flat land. As we rise back
up to border the terrain is scattered pine forests- maybe a little
reminiscent of the Kaibab Plateau around the Grand Canyon. Road
out of town is fringed with trash. All along both sides of the
road is rubbish for at least a mile out of town. Beyond the trash
there are these lovely long vistas into steep mountains, sparse
forest, field. Along the way are small pueblos with poorly built
huts, kids, chickens, pigs, small horses. Many people walking
along road. Women with La Tinaja- carrying water. Men with straw
cowboy hats on small horses are common. Jesus tells me the new
road was built in 1971- it is well engineered. There are cuts,
some as high as 100’ in the white-colored stone of these mountains.
Because of the volcanoes all around I guess it is some kind of
recently cemented volcanic tuff.
Approaching Agua Caliente trashiness, trucks, shabbiness
reappear- it is a border phenomenon I guess. Last night a taxi
man at border warned us against walking into Agua Caliente at
1AM- ladrones, robbers, highwaymen. Noel walked with a screwdriver,
I put my wallet in my pupouseria and we got through without harm.
This morning last nights possible robbers are the daylights’ beggar
boys who rush to ask that we allow them to help with the border
complexities. Noel selects one, who remains at our service all
morning and into the afternoon- running papers here and there
to this and that official, knowing someone who can help with problems,
listening intently at the endless discussions and negotiation
thereby acquiring an expert’s knowledge of border bureaucracy-
migracion, vehicles, taxes, custom duty, exit fees, entrance visas,
transit visas, agricultural inspections, contraband, police regs
and personnel, gate men, seal makers and seal breakers, money
exchange, bank rates for such.
Noel finds a couple friends at Honduran customs
who are on duty and who tell him that they will be able to facilitate
the entry of the truck and cargo into Honduras today. Noel was
only hoping to park it in a safe place until Monday but maybe
he is in luck.
As hours pass first passage seems assured, then
doubtful, then costly ($600 to import truck), then impossible
(police must inspect all cargo), then possible (a friendly inspector
accepts a tip from Noel- a few lampiera less than five dollars).
Near end of process- registering vehicles in new country and attendant
paperwork is hardest- the big truck is in but Noel only has 90
day transit pass for pickup. This is a little setback. It means
Noel will not be able to drive me in pickup to San Salvador. He
will only be allowed to drive it around within Honduras for 3
months- upside he doesn’t have to pay $300 USD import duty.
The three girls and I pass the time with me doing
magic tricks, teaching each other words in our languages and taking
a walk into the poor village of ‘Hot Water’. They are thrilled
to each be able to use the camera to take pictures of the horses,
dogs and each other. A little village kid, about 5 years old,
points out the nicer or prettier dog to approach for picture taking.
When the kids are having their own picture taken they thrust down
their arms, hold them stiffly at their side and try to hold a
serious pose- for about 3 seconds before pose breaks. Elizabeth,
the older, is quieter than Stephanie and Marjorie, none show any
fear or hesitation or uppity-ness in this ramshackle garbage
and sewage strewn place. They are clearly of a higher economic
position than the poorly dressed, barefoot pueblo kids but I see
no pride or aversion in them. They run through these paths with
the same abandon as I saw them earlier go at play in front of
their own houses.
|
Noel's daughter Marjorie
and Ferry. She is teaching me the Spanish names for the
animals, "no, joeferry,' pollo', no 'perro'." |
These living conditions are so much worse then anything
I’ve seen before. Rural Ireland of 1970 was no where near this
poor. The climate here does not require much housing beyond some
protection from rain and wind, and that is about all the accommodation
here in Agua Caliente provides. Corrugated roofing, dirt (some
wooden) floors, an old cloth instead of a door, holes with no
glass for windows, patchwork pieces of wood and plywood or some
wad of adobe for walls. No sign of electricity for many of the
houses though service is nearby at the border buildings. There
is a school, closed now for vacation- which for these kids goes
from December to February- the agricultural winter or dry season.
Noel’s friends are Marcus, a tall, anglo looking
guy and an older man 55 or so named Rafael who is friends with
Noel’s mother. Noel says that when he was young the family lived
on property owned by Rafael. Rafael is a land holding farmer as
well as the second-in charge administrator. The job doesn’t pay
much, Rafael says the equivalent of 275 USD/month, he does it
to pass time. Noel says he makes his fortune in tips- all the
agricultural products/producers going both ways want to remain
on Rafael’s good side. The underlings are beholden to him for
the jobs- which don’t seem to require greater skill than to review
papers and negotiate tips for stamps on the papers. Though as
for all this, it is really hard for me to judge, I am dependent
on Noel’s prejudices for judgment. With my eyes I witnessed and
helped Noel give out many $5-10 USD worth of spaghetti, beans,
tomato sauce, etc to the various customs officials dealt with
during the three hours at the border. They come over to the truck
as we were about to leave, all good-natured “Much gusto Noel”
Mui amiable Noel, “Esta es gusto me, Don Rafael”, “Nada Marcos.”
Then the gift or the tip or the payoff, it is just different than
‘blind justice’ that we consider ideal for our bureaucracies.
At some point in the afternoon I was in Rafael’s
office. His desk clean except for a homemade checkerboard- red
ink and black ink squares on a piece of cardboard, Coke and Fresca
bottle caps for pieces. Today might be a slow day, being Sunday,
in any case I set the board up and Rafael and I play a game of
checkers. He beats me after I get the first corona (king) where
I discover their rules for movement of the corona are different
than ours.
Rafael tells me that he was not too hurt by Mitch.
he was lucky that he had harvested his coffee and had it sold
and away before the storm came. He said most other coffee
growers lost their whole harvest in the heavy rain.
Ocotepeque
Here around Ocotepeque it seems that there was an
agricultural impact but no one speaks of any other hurt. Everyone
says it was much worse in the north- the capital- where the damage
to buildings, homes, bridges, roads, water supplies, electric
service was very widespread.
I look around here and also through the pueblos
of Chiapas I think that development- complex western style development
doesn’t exist to the degree that I’m used to. Our systems though
elaborate, maybe because they are so elaborat,. are fragile. The
indigenous ways, difficult though they are by my experience, are
sturdier in the face of natural events- hurricanes, eruptions,
earthquakes (Noel say they are frequent here). Our central water
and sewage, electric distribution, grids, paved roadways, bridges,
large buildings and intense everyday dependence on them create
a delicate circulatory system- easily drowned or shaken apart-
I mean that literally.
I know this is only partly true- the people of Agua
Caliente are strong e enough to stand most anything, but they
are dependent on border traffic for cash, and they are dependent
on landholders for agricultural work. If the crops are washed
out, no work for them. If the border bridge stops traffic, no
more service to the truck drivers.
There
is here a border between Guatemala and Honduras. It is as much
raggedly and rough and visibly -corrupt is not the right word
or correlation- just differently sophisticated, than in first
world airports or US/Canada interstate/international junctions.
But there is another border here also. The one that separates
this little severely scoliotic Indian man with bare feet, patched
pants and an upside-down-houseplant-pot straw hat. He told Noel
that he was walking from somewhere in Guatemala to somewhere in
Honduras and there was a bus driver in Ocotepeque that promised
him a free ride part of the way. He was so beautiful and so dignified
and friendly that I wanted to spend time with him. He didn’t ask,
but allowed me to give him some fruit and a couple of Lempira
for his way. The people of Agua Caliente and the camioneros hauling
goods at high speed across whole countries, us marketeer/market
living peoples and these scratch a substinence-from-a-hard-land
peoples also meet here at Agua Caliente. I suppose there is disquiet
in me not because of any politics or social analysis, cause of
the wretched or xxx with the things of the earth. More because
it isn’t pretty, I can’t see the beauty in the place. Easy enough
to see the loveliness in these children playmates of mine, or
the dignity in the crippled Indian man but the trucks, the trash
and smell of human shit, xxx, chickens picking in the open sewer.
Me spending a thousand dollars to bring old clothes over the roadways
that bring mostly dust, noise, pollution to the Agua Calienteones.
Quo vadis Domine?
The truck passes the border, one more tip to the
fellow that raises the counterweighted gate and we are in Honduras
with all the food, all the clothe, the pickup, the diesel truck
and the stuff Noel brought for his family. Noel has come over
3000 miles, myself 1500 or so, Texas, Mexico, Guatemala. He has
been on the road since December 23- 12 days. I’ve accompanied
him for half of that. Our time as Transmigrantes and Camioneros
is over. Us, the truck and all the stuff generous people have
given us is at its destination.
Three hours late we go to Luis and Aura’s house
for dinner. She is gracious with our delay and puts on a fine
meal of beef and rice and salad and drinks for us. The little
daughter Alexandra, 2 and a half, is a dark-eyed beauty and a
delight. Marjorie introduces me “Joeferry”. I ask Alexandra if
she speaks English she says “No.” So I teach her ‘Mommy is Mama’
and ‘Papa is Daddy’. she says Mommy and Daddy. I exclaim “Alexandra
dice ingles.” She squeals with delight.
I am shown Aura’s parents’ home, a mansion, a beautiful
big place behind walls with well watered gardens and flowers.
Don Mario owns the whole square and thousands of ‘manzillo’ (I
think that is the name for their measure of acreage) in coffee.
Don Mario is a rich man- he has millions says Noel, but not ostentatious.
He is in a baseball cap and jeans. Don Mario is
worried about his father who has a problem xxx
. They have been turned down for a visa in the US where Mario
would like his father to be seen by a specialist. I offer to find
a gastro-enterologist and write a letter of sponsorship to US
Embassy. They are much thankful. Crippled Indian, rich patron,
some things don’t matter- Simone Weil says everyone is given enough
affliction in their lives to make it worthy of whatever the end
of it is.
Marjorie
and Noel walk with me to the cemetary. It is like, and not like,
what I imagined over the years. All the dead are in the vaults
above the stony ground. But imagined mountains and the smell of
pine is here. Orly spoke often of these mountains, and he missed
the smell of ‘los pinos’. The graveyard is on a rise toward the
mountains that border El Salvador- The Savior, my Spanish is good
enough for that. Marjorie weaves in and out of the catafalques
straight to Orly’s. She has been here before with Maritza. There
are plastic bouquets of flowers and a wreath wired over Orly’s
space. Below his remains are those of his grandfather, Maritza’s
dad, and his uncle. There are spaces for more. Beyond are the
mountains where he lived with his grandparents, behind the town
he lived with his parents. I first met him in this prone position,
a shivering shape under a blanket in the subway concourse below
City Hall in Philadelphia. He recognized me as from Mi Casa Hermano.
Told me he was ‘tres’ on the list to get in. Later after the operation,
after the recurrence he told me and Noel that he didn’t want to
have a short life, that he wanted a family, that he wanted to
live a long life in Ocotepeque. I stand here and Orly Humberto
Arita Hdz, birth date and death spread by only 23 years. I am
so grateful to be near the earth that remains of him, pleased
that it was not easy to get here, hopeful that my strong remembrance
of his friendship honors his brothers, his mother, his little
niece Marjorie here beside me born the year he died. We go from
the cemetary, back the stone road to the village.
There is more to the trip- a wild ride at sunset
into the mountains near Orly’s grandmother’s place. At the mountaintop
we ascend into a thick cloud racing over towards El Salvador.
We can’t see but ten feet from our noses and the temperature is
30 degrees cooler than down in Ocotepeque. Noel takes a picture
here because he wants me to be near Orly’s growing up place.
I can’t see it, but I know I feel it in the wind and cloud and
smell of pine.
Dinner later, to bed, Up at 4:30 Jesus takes us
to El Salvador border and Noel hires Marcos with his old Toyota
station wagon as our taxicab to San Salvador airport. An hour
to depart Honduras, enter El Salvador. Noel is angry that I have
to pay in US money to the El Salvadoran migration official to
get a transit visa- “$10 fucking dollars to spend three hours
in a little country with bumpy roads.”
|
El Salvador, outside
the customs office, near the border with Honduras |
El Salvador is a beautiful country. We pass the
fortress from which the FMLN fought off the Reagan paid-for “Freedom
Fighters,” we pass well-tended banana, rubber, sugar cane fields,
mostly small holdings. Into a bustling capitol city where Romero
spoke the truth for these poor people.Noel is respectful of this
country- “the Salvadorans work much harder than Hondurans. and
their government is now good, removing trash, building houses
to replace shacks, paving roads.”
At airport meet Fernando, the oldest, and wife Mimi.
He is sick with fever. But they have waited here all morning for
Joeferry. I am humbled by their care of me- one who can hardly
get out a thank you in their language. In the airport “I’m back
to my plastic world,” I tell Noel. I haven’t had any money as
we passed through four countries. Now I hit the Mac machine, go
to duty-free shop with credit card, buy a ticket on Visa. Noel
laughs, “Joeferry’s plastic world.” I am home, be it as it is,
before leaving the ground of Central America.
I wave to Noel and holler to him, “Da me para las
sodas.”
The lights of Washington DC are below me. Headphones
are collected, the flight attendant checks our seat belts and
make sure our backs are straight. My son Danny will be waiting
for me as I pass my last border checkpoint.
