Fearful Amigos

We traveled to Mexico last Thursday and the Thursday before that. The first time, I blogged about it as well. That was a foot journey across the Rio Grande. The second time, we drove. I’d never driven to Mexico, and wanted to try something new.

We didn’t tell anyone we were going. Not because we weren’t excited about driving into the unknown, but because we knew that all the gringos would say it was a bad idea.

Before I explain what happened driving in Mexico, I’ll fast forward to the predictable: We got back and told people about it the next day. Of course, they were less than favorable.

 

Me: I drove to Rio Bravo yesterday.

Man I Just Met: Where’s that?

Me: South of McAllen… it’s a city of 101,000.

MIJM: There’s a city that big down there?

Me: (Nods head.) Uh-huh. Yep.

MIJM: Oh, I would never do that. It’s so dangerous. You could get killed.

Me: I didn’t get killed.

MIJM: They’ll kill you and drive off in your RV.

Me: I don’t have an RV.

MIJM: Aren’t you afraid of dying?

Me: No. If I die, I’ll just be in heaven sooner. You want to go to heaven, don’t you?

Needless to say, the Man I Just Met didn’t jive with my thought process. So, needless to say, I wheedled my way into another conversation with another Man I’d Never Met Before.

Me: I drove to Rio Bravo, Mexico yesterday.

MINMB: That’s dangerous. You could get killed.

Me: But I didn’t get killed. I’m still here talking to you.

MINMB: Did you hear about the woman in Houston? They took a knife and tried to cut her purse strap and when that didn’t work, they dragged her along and stuffed her into a car and killed her.

Me: I don’t own a purse.

I could bore you with more discussions, but you get the point. My fellow gringos were, ahem, scaredy cats about driving to Mexico. They’d all heard horror stories of kidnappings, bludgeonings, rapings, murderings, beheadings, disembowelings, tar and featherings, and further acts of terror involving driving south of Texas.

To hear the white people talk, one dare not venture beyond the sanctioned tourist traps and even then, watch out and hang on to your money. I venture to say those folks have never been to Mexico. And those who have, spend A LOT of money compared to me.

THE REAL SCOOP ON MY DRIVING TRIP TO MEXICO

My wife and I drove across the border on the Bill Summers International Highway from Progresso, Texas to Progresso Nuevo, Mexico. Getting in was anticlimactic. Once across the Rio Grande, you pay $3 to drive on in.  You stop at another gate and you think, here’s where they frisk you and get out the dogs and ask for your blood type. Nope. The uniformed guard looks at you as if to say, “what are you waiting for, drive on in to Mexico already!”

Once in Mexico, you notice a long line of cars lined up going North. Everyone is trying to get out. You have an easy path South and no one to block you save for a dozen or two Mexican men waving you into available parking spaces fraught with boys and buckets waiting to wash your suddenly filthy car for money.

 You politely decline their offers to invest in your pocketbook and keep driving. It’s kind of fun seeing the disappointed looks. In a twisted way, that is.

Once past the touristy stuff, we ran out of town. Not much of Progresso Nuevo exists beyond tourism. These people are excellent beggars. They know how to play the sympathy card really well. Hey, I’ve been there numerous times and it still kinda works on me.

Anyways, it was fun being south of Progresso Nuevo for the very first time. Driving in Mexico, into the unknown… Wait. We can’t use the GPS because of international rates. And the road signs… ahem, all in Spanish. Hmmm. This could be tricky. We’d better go straight south, then U turn and come back.

Uh, oh. There’s a toll booth up ahead. Like a sobriety checkpoint, it’s too late to make a U-ey.

We’re staring at words on a sign in Spanish and we see numbers. Cars: 32 Trucks 45. 32 cents? 32 dollars?

We’re at the toll booth, and I ask the nice attendant in perfect English, “how much?” She stares at me like I have a cactus growing out of my right nostril and indicates the sign that I can’t read.

I read the sign again. Oops. There it is. 1.60 dllrs. OK, I understand, but why abbreviate dollars like that?

We’re now on the open road, but the road only goes east and west. We’re on a ramp and we’re heading west. OK, so much for going south and then back north. Now, we’ll have to guess by the mileage how far we’re going.

The landscape is flat and agricultural. Plowed, unplanted fields and irrigation ditches. Looks like eastern Colorado where my brother farms. Boring.

A herd of Mexicans are cramped into a pickup. We pass it. Amusing how they disregard seat belt laws and seating limits. A seatbelt sign is visible within site of the scene, making it more comical.

We see a sign for Rio Bravo. We’ve heard of it. Must be a bigger town. We take the exit to the south and we’re in Rio Bravo, Mexico, a couple of stray gringos.

Sewage. It’s the first smell I notice upon entering town. Bienvenido!

Past the smell, the city becomes startlingly prosperous looking. We get out and snap pictures of a statue inside a circle drive.

There are lots of 7 eleven convenience stores. A church’s chicken, and Papa John’s. So many 7 elevens. Like the 90s and earlier in the U.S.

It’s a nice, 84 degree day in January. Bragging rights on weather, even though we haven’t a clue what we’re doing. We wander about on foot, after snapping a picture of where we’ve parked. We can’t imagine asking for directions, though!

A woman is walking up, asking us about why we’re taking pictures of dumpy houses. She rattles in Spanish, and we tell her we don’t speak Spanish. She continues, so I start rambling in English, knowing she hasn’t a clue what I’m saying. It’s funny. See more details on our YouTube channel. https://youtu.be/FNTZKEmfW8M

We’re back in the car, and wandering. Wandering. The streets are so dirty and so uneven. Such potholes; they could swallow a Volkswagen!

img_0562
The uneven streets of Rio Bravo, Mexico

More zigging. More zagging. We’re lost. Yep. No GPS. OK. This is interesting. I am wandering north, and then a block east until it runs out of street. A block north. Two blocks east. Three and a half blocks north. So on. Nope. Dead. End. Streets.

Dogs wander across the street like they have the right of way (because they do!)

Other drivers may or may not stop for you at intersections.

We take a LONG time to retrace our tracks back to the main road. South, west, zigzag…etc. Streets dirty. Dogs aplenty. Dirty. Rough. Uneven. Potholes.

OK, that was … time consuming. We find the main highway and head back to Progresso Nuevo before it gets too late.

It’s fun being on the south side of Progresso Nuevo. We bypass the toll to get there. We park in a dilapidated area.  I hand my expensive Canon camera to a girl and she takes our picture, surprised that we handed her a camera that is worth more than a year’s wages here.

Her mother is there. I try to talk to them and we get the names and general idea that we are going to a church to hand out gifts to children. The girl, about 14, gets into a car and drives her mother!

We grab a plastic garbage bag full of toys, and the camera, and wander the filthy streets, taking pictures of chickens, children… a dog sleeping on an abandoned recliner amid a pile of debris. I can easily count each of the dogs ribs.

img_0650
Emaciated canine on recliner in Progresso Nuevo, Mexico

He is sleeping across from a church, now in progress. The doors are open. We stop and I greet children on the street. I start drawing their caricatures in my sketch pad.

IMG_0680.JPG
Here I am drawing pictures and handing out toys.

The act bridges a gap in the language. Children are swarming us as we hand out the toys from our plastic trash bag. Santa comes to Progresso Nuevo!

Some guys are kicking a soccer ball around the mud rut laden streets. I join in for a bit.

The church service is over and our little handout session of toys and pictures is wrapping up. We go inside the church and snap a picture with the congregation of 17.

Tourists!

Dios te Bendiga!

Back in line to get to the U.S. Shorter line now that it’s dark outside. They ask us what all the boxes are for in the back. “We work at a market; they’re our supplies.”

“Did you buy anything?”

“A donut.”

The patrolman rolls his eyes. “Go on.”

There it is. Our dangerous, murderous trip full of terror…

Hate to disappoint the fear-mongers and fearful, but it’s not that dangerous in Mexico.

John Cockroft is a writer from Missouri. Every time he goes on a new adventure, he meets people who have never been murdered. As troubling as the world seems to the fearful, John still has yet to be mugged, beaten, raped, kidnapped, disemboweled, or have his RV stolen.

Advertisements

Snot nosed girl

Snot. It was glistening on her dirty brown face.

But it was her eyes that caught my eye.

Those hollow ebony eyes.

She wasn’t old enough to speak. But I spoke to her, through the chain link fence that separated us. Those hollow eyes stared holes through mine. I had wandered off the touristy path into the Mexico they didn’t want me to see. But I had to see it. I had to see her. I couldn’t do a thing about it, but I wanted to see.

Snot Nose.jpg

It wasn’t my first time across the bridge to the South. But it still wedges a mysterious hole inside my heart. That feeling clings to my soul like the dust from the streets. It’s still there when I cross the bridge, past the solitary hand of the woman waving a tattered ball cap begging for a quarter as I walk North with my passport and my legal U.S. citizenship. I am free.

Free.

The uncomfortable feeling the little girl left me with haunts me. It won’t wash off in the shower back in the security and comfort of my home country. I watch TV, talk with a friend, snuggle with my wife, and I can’t shake images of that little snot-nosed girl. She’s still there and I’m still here. I can go back there, but she can’t come over here.

Why was she sitting alone in the dirt by the fence, so close to danger, no one to watch over her? Don’t her parents care?  God cares, right? I mean, He’s watching over her, right? Right?

Then why do I still feel what I feel? Is this how He feels? If He feels this way, wouldn’t He intervene? If I was God I think I’d sweep down into that dirty yard and spare one more little girl from potential harm.

FROM THE WASHINGTON POST: In 2013, Mexico officially recorded 1,698 kidnappings, the highest number on record. Yet government officials concede that only a small percentage of victims — one in 10 by some estimates — report the crime, as police are sometimes involved in kidnappings and not trusted. The statistics kept by Miranda’s organization, Association to Stop Kidnapping (Asociacion Alto al Secuestro) , recorded 3,038 kidnappings in 2013. Another, led by Fernando Ruiz Canales, a former kidnapping victim who now helps negotiate for the release of hostages, puts 2013 kidnapping totals at 27,740, or 76 per day.

John Cockroft is a writer from Missouri. Visit  JohnCockroft.com for more information.