Reflections

I wrote this post in another blog but it’s still just as true for me today.
Enjoy:

The man in the uniform waved us through the first set of barriers. We slowly pulled forward as the second set of men in uniforms waved us to our spot. We sat perched precariously atop boxes filled with canned and dried goods, coolers filled with ice, butter, milk and other perishables, suitcases and sleeping bags, bread, potato chips and other breakables packed on top to not get crushed. We were packed to the gills in that van and sat nervously awaiting what the man was going to say to us. As he approached the van, the dog began barking furiously. I grabbed her and told her to stop. She continued a low growl of warning as the man came to the window and looked in.

I was sitting in the back and couldn’t hear everything that was being said. I don’t speak Spanish very well and all I could understand was, “papeles”, “perro”, “muy mal”, “no.” From what I gathered, this man was asking for the dog’s papers and saying that she was a bad dog and that she wouldn’t be allowed into Mexico. We had just driven, cramped and stuffed for four hours, from Tucson to Lukeville Port of Entry and there was no way I was going to drive back to take the dog home. I tried to speak to him, in my broken Spanish, and explain she was not a bad dog, had all of her shots, her papers were in order, and she was a family member.

He let me get all the way through it… shooting questions at me in Spanish and then looking at me and smiling as I struggled to tell him, ‘en espanol’, the answers to his questions. I understand Spanish much better than I can speak it. I had tears in my eyes as I struggled to understand if he was saying he was going to take my dog.

Suddenly, he said, “Okay, Ma’am. You can go. Have a nice day.” in the most perfect English accent. I looked at him. He smiled. I turned and said, “Let’s get out of here.” My first thought was to run him over but then, I was in Mexico and anything could happen, so I just pushed the dog to the back and climbed back up onto my perch. We talked about it all the way to Rocky Point.

I’d lived in Arizona for years and, other than the occasional shopping trip into Nogales, this was my first real trip into Mexico. I was going with my girlfriend, her co-workers, and our dog for a weekend getaway. We were staying at someone’s beach house in Puerto Penasco, otherwise known as Rocky Point, a very “Americanized” area in the Sea of Cortez. I was excited to be going to the beach despite the fact that I didn’t really know anyone and they seemed to be a group of partiers. I was there on my own agenda and that’s why I had taken the dog along. I wouldn’t be part of their “work retreat” and could do whatever I wanted.

It all sounded so good when it was pitched to me up until we got to Lukeville. I realized that my blond-haired, blue-eyed, Anglo-self, was going into a foreign country where I barely spoke the language and stood out like the Gringa that I am. It brought back memories of being at a new high school in New Mexico and all of the discrimination I felt in being the “pelo amarillo” girl with thick glasses, a terrible case of shyness, and no friends. I got the crap beat out of me a couple of times just for being the only white girl walking home on the same route as some very tough Hispanic girls.

For all of the things I loved about New Mexico and the Hispanic culture, this was a very difficult time in my life. Adolescence and my parents divorcing were bad enough. The culture was new to me and I loved it. I’d been accepted by many but those who didn’t… were very harsh. The experience with the border policeman was just like that… he was messing with us.

I shook this memory off and thought about my friend Jamie and the story she’d told me about the last time she was in Puerto Penasco. Jamie and her boyfriend were on their way to Rocky Point, driving along a dirt road, when suddenly, they came over a little hill to find about 30 bulls standing in the middle of the road. They slowed their little red Nissan to a crawl and tried to navigate through them while honking the horn, and waving their arms in a “Get outta the road, you morons!” motion. It took all of twenty seconds, according to Jamie, for those bulls to begin attacking her car. She and her boyfriend sat in the car, as several of the bulls repeatedly rammed it, over and over again, until finally, a truck came along and rescued them. The car was riddled with holes and dents and was a total loss. They came home by bus. She can laugh when she tells this story now but it certainly wasn’t funny then. She got a shiny new PURPLE car out of the deal. What were they thinking? Purple? Eh, to each their own.

It was hot and muggy in the house. The windows had been closed for over two months making the rooms smell musty with a slight scent of rotting fish. I immediately pulled out my sage, lit the end, and walked around smudging every room. Once I’d cleared the energies and smells of the house, we settled into making it our own. There was a beautiful, covered patio with three chimineas, plants, comfortable chairs and tables, all facing the sea. I plopped myself into one of the cozy chairs and waited for the coffee to be done.

The dog was very excited and ran around checking everything out. She ran out to the surf and jumped right in, shook, turned and looked at me and then ran back up and shook on me. She thought it was very funny and kept nosing under my arm to get me up and out of that chair. I got up and took my shoes off and walked out onto the hot sand. Feeling the scorch, I ran for the cool of the surf! The sand was very different from the soft, silky sands of California. It was not soft on my feet. It cut into me like little broken pieces of glass. In actuality, it was little broken pieces of shells that had been tumbled over and over into a small fineness. It still hurt to walk on. I scurried back up to the house and slipped on my Vans. The dog was lapping and jumping at me to get back out onto the beach!

Now that I could walk comfortably, I began my beach routine of scouring the sands for shells. This was a very strange beach, indeed. There were very few shells that weren’t broken or chipped. I noticed the surf was very choppy and short and there was very little seaweed. There was, however, quite a lot of trash on the beach and in the surf. I noticed several dead fish, a couple of gooey looking things, something that was squishy when I poked it, and something really smelly that the dog tried to roll in. It was a dead sea lion. So far, my trip into Mexico wasn’t going so well. I decided to just make the best of it because I certainly couldn’t take the bus home with the dog.

I sat down on the warm sand and called the dog over. She sat next to me and we watched the little birds scurry along, following in and out with the surf, looking for something to eat. Suddenly, I heard, “Hola.” I looked up and there was a man standing behind me with a bag in his hand. “Hola.”, I said hesitantly. “Would you like to buy?” he said, in slightly broken English. He opened his bag and had all kinds of silver jewelry, toys, trinkets, belts, wallets, and other “Hecho en Mexico” items. He smiled at me and crouched down to give me a closer look.

I had no idea where he came from or how he was able to sneak up on me and the dog so quickly. He had a kind smile and soft brown eyes and I could tell from what he was wearing that he was a local who worked these beaches regularly. I patted the sand and invited him to sit with me.

He spoke English fairly well and I occasionally peppered mine with Spanish words which probably amused him. His name was Miguel and he lived in a small village about three miles away. He was a very nice man and explained that he made his living by working the shrimp boats and selling souvenirs to the touristas. He had a wife and two children and three cousins living in his house. His other cousins had all gone to the U.S. to work in California. He was very careful when he said this to me and told me that it was very hard to get into the U.S. I imagined that they all crossed illegally and were living a clandestine lifestyle amongst the other laborers working the fields.

He told me the better places to buy things, eat, and where not to go after dark. His face was a deep cinnamon-brown color with dark creases along his mouth, cheeks, and eyes. His forehead had one very deep line running across it from squinting in the sun. His fingers were short with dried, white calluses running along the edges to the nubs of his fingertips. He spread his fingers slightly as he pointed and then drew in the sand. His hands looked strong as the veins poked out creating mountains and valleys of skin over bone. He gestured elegantly as he spoke about the Sea of Cortez and its many riches. He lost me when he began talking about the de-salinization plant they were going to build and how it would hurt the shrimping industry.

His caramelly accent was slathered over his articulate blend of Spanish and English words, mesmerizing me in its texture. I heard my name being called. The dog jumped up as if it were her own and ran back to the house. I turned and pointed to the house we were staying in and invited him to come up after we ate as I was sure everyone would buy something. We both stood and I extended my hand to him. He took it and smiled at me warmly while saying my name in Spanish followed with, “Gracias, Senora.”

As I walked away, I looked back over my shoulder and saw him sling his bag onto his, pick up his shoes and walk barefoot along the surf. I imagined his feet were as rough as his hands and savored a romantic thought of how wonderful it must be to walk along this beach enough to not have to wear shoes. His clothes were clean but worn and his shoes were hand-me-down golf shoes without the spikes. I thought to myself that he was probably more comfortable barefoot than in those shoes. My romantic thoughts faded into the reality of his situation. I didn’t feel sorry for him. He seemed content yet hard-working.

The beach looked different to me now. I slipped off my Vans and carefully walked along on the sea-glass-sand. The house we were staying in looked opulent from this view considering where my mind just wandered in from. Everyone was waving handfuls of beers at me. “Cerveza!” they yelled! I smiled and continued on my way while thinking of Miguel and his life. He did come back later and ended up pocketing quite a few American dollars from all of us. Life and vacation carried on in a symbiotic dance of what’s good for mine is good for yours. To a degree.

Everything that I experienced in Mexico was both beautiful and ugly. There were two sides to everything from the beautiful resort grandly guarding the entrance of the beach, to the shacks just two streets over that housed the workers. Two sides; from the fact that I could have my dog sit with me at the restaurant to the fact that I could have my dog even BE in the restaurant were both beautiful and scary.

I came home from that trip with a bad case of dysenteric problems. I hadn’t drunk any water but didn’t even think about it when I drank my Coca Cola in a glass with ice. I needed that coke considering how yummy the fish tacos were and how the chili left a lingering burning on the roof of my mouth.

I was thankful to finally be home and in my own bed. I was grateful for the little pills that made me feel better. I was filled with gratitude in being able to join the group and yet have my own peace on the beach every day. I was glad to have met Miguel whom I saw every day I was there and would wave and say, “Hola, Miguel. Como estas?” and felt so proud of myself that I could simply ask how he was without really being able to understand the entire answer to that question. I’m not sure I really wanted to know, fully, but I liked how he made me feel welcome in his country.

Because of this, I have a much better appreciation for feeling like a stranger in a strange country; welcomed by some and messed with by others. I guess we’ve all felt that way at one time or another. I’ve always felt very comfortable in the Hispanic culture and am very grateful to my friends and “family” who’ve taught me, welcomed me, and put up with my constant questions.

If only we all had the opportunity to live within another’s culture or circumstance to have a better understanding and compassionate tolerance toward our differences. Maybe the world would be a kinder and more tolerant place…