Crossing Over ~ Hasta luego, Rioverde!

After two-plus years in Rioverde, my adopted Mexican hometown, I was preparing for a bittersweet departure. My final day was spent at Rita’s, nursing a well-earned tequila-infused going away party hangover, and trying to cram my two and a half years of Mexican life into three boxes and bags to travel with me to “The Other Side” – El Otro Lado as the Mexicans refer to it.  Not death (I’d hoped) – just across the border into Texas, USA.  

Lucky for me I didn’t have to hire coyotes to lead me through the desert and traverse the Rio Grande like my friend Rita once did.  I’d bought my ticket on the Azteca luxury line bus for just 950 pesitos – about 80 USD. It was supposed to be a 10-hour straight shot from my pueblo to the crossing at Nuevo Laredo and, from there, four more hours to Austin.

It seemed the logical way to go:  the airlines would have charged me an arm and a leg to check six big bags – and just getting to the Mexico City airport would require two or three buses and eight hours door to gate – in to opposite direction.

Besides, the Azteca line sounded so much more adventuresome than flying. By plane the trip is clinical – you go from one agnostic airport to another without sensing the change. This way I’d have a chance to experience the shift in terrain and climate, feel the miles of road beneath the wheels, travel with the people, and see with my own eyes what this border situation was really like.

But when I arrived in parking lot where the bus was supposed to be waiting, there was no sign of a departure – not a soul in sight and no bus.  A guy emerged from behind the ticket booth smoking a cigarette and told us the van was coming – they were waiting for one other passenger from San Ciro de Acosta.  

I turned to my friends Rita and Sergio with a quizzical look.  Am I hearing him right, chicos?  Disbelief masked inklings of panic. 

Rita stepped in:  Un van?  Por Tejas, joven, to Texas? She probed the guy.

No, to the Pemex Station on the highway between here and San Luis, was his response.  I understood every word – but Rita translated anyway.  The bus would meet us there, load us up, and then proceed north on 57 direct to the border.

Y Ow-steen? 

Si, directo. 

But that’s not direct. They said it was direct – see, that’s what it says on the flyer. I poked at the words:  Salidadas directas sin transbordos.  Direct means they pick you up at the origination point and take you to the destination point – without stops – and certainly without transfers, I barked in English. 

When I got emotional my Spanish went out the window.  So Rita translated in genteel Mexicana style.  

The guy ignored her and walked out onto the sidewalk to finish his cigarette in peace.

She followed him out, grilling for info, something Mexicans rarely do.  Thank god Rita, my friend, was different.

Rita returned to the waiting area. I was milling around the linoleum floor attempting to quell a storm.  Sergio was playing a game on his flip-phone, trying to stay out of it.

No se, I don’t know, Anna, we can go to find the other bus.  Or we can wait and see if this other guy comes from San Ciro.  If he doesn’t, something’s wrong – and maybe Sergio and I go with you in the van.

I was scared, but I didn’t want to show it.  I’d been all over this country by bus for the last two and a half years – but suddenly the reality of the risk I was taking with this final bus adventure was hitting me.  

Maybe Rita could sense it.  Remember, Anna, she said.  Everything always works out in Mexico. 

I gave her a hug.  Maybe getting scared was easier that facing the fact that I was about to lose my best friend – or become very distant from her.

Es verdad, amiga, it’s true, had been true, up to now. I’d taken lots of chances over the two and a half years, traveled some very dangerous, deserted roads to get to my project communities, over rough terrain, in drug cartel hotspots – and I’d survived just fine.  But was this pushing it a step too far?

Just then a green taxi sped into the parking lot and pulled up in front of us – out stepped a young Mexican sporting a big beige Tejano (a felt Texas-style sombrero, not the straw farmer style I was used to in Rio) – and carrying one small duffel.  His jeans were sliding down his ass like some kind of hip-hop cowboy and puffing out of his ornately embroidered boots.

I turned to Rita and raised my eyebrows? 

She shrugged her shoulders.  If that guy can get a visa, why can’t I? she snarked.

Rita, I don’t think that’s the question right now. 

Suddenly a white van entered the parking lot and bounced across the pot-holes toward us.

What you want to do, Anna?

No se.  I’m going, I guess I’m going.  I don’t know. 

Look, you call us when you get to the Pemex, okay?  Everything will be fine.

But Sergio, please, get our photo, por favor.  I pointed toward the license plate and whispered:  get the numbers, clearly, just in case.

I hugged Rita close around the shoulder, tried to smile, keep it natural.  But I suspected these wouldn’t be the best pics for the photo album – not like the shots of us on our care-free thing-finder day – or the Huapango fair in Refugio in the rain – or last night around Rita’s table downing little shots of tequila called caballitos (little horses), pinching salty limes between our teeth and singing Mexican songs out of tune.

The driver ticketed each one of my six pieces of luggage and gave me the stubs.  I could feel the sweat rising on my forehead as I picked a safe place to stuff them, in the side pocket of my backpack.

Make sure you count every box and bag when you make the transfer, Anna, Rita reminded me as I climbed in.  I sat next to the young man from San Ciro. 

And remember to call me when you get there, Rita barked through the open van door. If there’s any problem, we come after you, okay. But don’t worry, you will be fine. You are a strong woman, Anna.  They will not mess with you.

The door slammed shut and the driver started up the engine.  It was sweltering inside – no air. 

I turned to my fellow-passenger, attempting to make friends, cut through the tension, calm myself, and asked: Nunca tomaste este autobus?  Ever taken this bus?”

Not this bus, he replied, in perfect Texas English. But, yeah, other lines across the border.

He was a Mexican-American. I felt my face redden, embarrassed for my bad job of racial profiling, but also completely amused that Rita missed it too.  He’d probably heard every snarky word she said.  I wanted to tell her; but all I could do was wave to her and Sergio now – and smile and blow kisses through the window.

The light was seeping out of the sky as the van pulled out of town, passing beneath the Bienvenidos a Rioverde arches for the last time.  Two and a half years behind me – I was too exhausted to feel anything at the moment but false sentimentality – and a yearning to be *home* - wherever that was now.  But the fear was still front and center:  we had 700 miles ahead of us and a border to cross.

Continued...