Ladies and Gentlmen: The Dark Knight
I'm excited. Heath has some pretty awesome looking chemical burns there. It'll be interesting to see how he does crazy differently than Jack. This looks a little bit more "crazy with nothing to lose." I like that.
Blogging should be pretty light over the next, oh, month. Not that I don't have anything to say (I mean really, is that even a question?), just that I'm going to be moving around a lot.
Just a week or so more until I leave hear for good. Very sad. It's a tough place to leave. The other day I was walking down the street when a car went buy with a speaker on top. That's a pretty standard marketing tool around town. The unusual thing about this salesman was that he was pushing bundles of marijuana. By the kilo. No takers that I saw, but there are plenty of dealers standing on street corners in my neighborhood already. The competition is tough. Oh Mexico, you'll be missed.
Showing posts with label Places I Love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Places I Love. Show all posts
Monday, December 17, 2007
Thursday, November 01, 2007
El Chile Que Me Toque Como
I've been back in Douglas for a few days, and now I'm headed off to Colorado. Deanna, friends, and, at long last, the trial of Peter Kim. What a weird, beautiful, messed up week it promises to be.
Chiapas, as always, is great. The group that I went with was both excellent and not so excellent. But as they say, free is free is free. Central to all of this is my Mexican family down there. They are the best.
I don't know when I'll be back there next but it can't come soon enough.
But be honest, what you really care about are the pics. Well, here are a few:
Chiapas, as always, is great. The group that I went with was both excellent and not so excellent. But as they say, free is free is free. Central to all of this is my Mexican family down there. They are the best.
I don't know when I'll be back there next but it can't come soon enough.
But be honest, what you really care about are the pics. Well, here are a few:
Mayan Christ in the middle of a restaurant in San Cristobal de las Casas. German tourists in San Cris are like the Japanese in Hawaii or Americans in Cancun, but still such a cool place.
Pictures were not allowed inside this church, but that's where the real action was. Sacrifices of beer, chickens, soda, etc. being made to the saints. Very moving.
A village prepares the graves for El Dia de Los Muertos (Day of the Dead). Tomorrow they will be loaded down with flowers, food, and pictures as the entire community comes out to remember and celebrate.
Early morning in San Cristobal. Did I mention that this city is gorgeous?
Clean, perfect water. I love Chiapas. And taking pictures of my feet.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Pride for the Alma Mater
Deanna, speaking to a friend of hers in Los Angeles:
Friend: "He went to Pomona? Oh, I know those kind of people."
Deanna: "What do you mean?"
Friend: "You know, the kind of people to pick up a book and walk into the mountains. They're deep."
Our fame grows.
p.s.- According to wikipedia, "alma mater" means "nourishing mother." Weird.
p.p.s- Alternate blog title: Overheard in Los Angeles.
Friend: "He went to Pomona? Oh, I know those kind of people."
Deanna: "What do you mean?"
Friend: "You know, the kind of people to pick up a book and walk into the mountains. They're deep."
Our fame grows.
p.s.- According to wikipedia, "alma mater" means "nourishing mother." Weird.
p.p.s- Alternate blog title: Overheard in Los Angeles.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
It doesn't get any better than Colorado in the summer.
It really doesn't. A few of my favorite things:
The mountains. Oh the glory that the Lord has made.
Backpacking. And stupid pictures.
Horsehawks (it's gone now, but it was glorious while it lasted).
Chris. So classic.
The foam party. It's the place to see and be seen in AP.
That's a lot of man. Carried by some great men. I love you guys.
The mountains. Oh the glory that the Lord has made.
Backpacking. And stupid pictures.
Horsehawks (it's gone now, but it was glorious while it lasted).
Puppies
Chris. So classic.
Big B and Baby. So proud.
Family.
The dart game. A new favorite.
Mountain lakes and no shoes.
The foam party. It's the place to see and be seen in AP.
Disc golf.
Summer. YEAH!
Manfection. I suppose this blog was never G Rated. Now it's definitely not. But Travis in a bra was too good not to share.
That's a lot of man. Carried by some great men. I love you guys.Thursday, July 12, 2007
We Walk For Life
The first thing I have to say about the migrant trail is this: I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Every day that I was out in the desert a body was recovered somewhere in Arizona. Every hour, whether laughing, or sleeping, or eating Thai food (yes, Thai food) was spent in the physical and spiritual presence of people crossing, something that has come to mean so many different things to me throughout the past year. In many ways it means suffering. But it also means hope.
The view from the end. Looking back towards Mexico you can see mountain ranges on either side of the valley floor. When we started our journey those ridges were at least two days beyond our first camp. 80 miles really is a long way to walk in only a few days.
Alejandro Rangel Luna. My companion for the week. I started out in Sasabe with him strapped to the outside of my bag, but as time went on I found myself needing him closer at hand. It was very difficult to part with him. At times his presence felt like a burden. On several occasions asking for his forgiveness gave me peace.
The beauty of the natural world continues to capture me. Midway through the week I realized that death was out of place in the desert. The loss of life that was occurring all around me became a tangible symbol that, as much as we love the garden, we are living in the time after the fall. I spent many hours thinking about what it means to have grace in the desert.
I have talked fairly openly about militarization and the border this year, but it wasn't until the migrant trail that I would finally feel able to call southern Arizona a police state. Military convoys passed us every day. In the picture above there are four young men wearing flack jackets and battle helmets. Yes, helmets. We were chased by a helicopter in the dark and at one point circled by ATV's at night while we tried to sleep. We passed by the new camera towers erected by the Boeing Corp. They are inland from the border by many miles. The high powered cameras can swivel 360 degrees. The price of freedom indeed.
Standing on the side of the road as the Border Patrol arrested a family. I had very mixed feelings about our role there. I believe that observing the Border Patrol is a good way to ensure that the rights of the people being arrested are not being violated. But what about when it turns the people themselves into a spectacle?
A road spike that we found while walking down the highway. Border Patrol will get into high speed pursuits with vehicles. As a way to lessen injury to bystanders they will lay spike strips down on the highway. Sometimes the vehicle fleeing is packed with drugs. On many other occasions it is packed with people. I don't need to tell you what happens when an SUV filled beyond capacity hits a spike strip and rolls over at 80 mph.
Everything about this picture amazes me. The clouds opening up. E's beard. That weird glint on his glasses. By far the best thing about the trail was all of the unbelievable people that I met.
On the road again.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
What say you, and all your friends, meet all of my friends in the alley tonight?
A week ago today a team of hit men and enforcers from a drug cartel here in Mexico attacked a police armory in Cananea, a city in Sonora about 50 miles from Agua Prieta. After overwhelming (and killing) some of the officers on duty, the group left the armory with an unspecified amount of stolen weaponry and fled the city. On the way out of town they encountered and murdered four more police officers. They were chased, and eventually cornered, at a ranch in Sonora by members of the Mexican police and the Mexican military. All told, 22 people died.
There are many things that I could say about this event. It is clearly a tragic loss of human life. It is quite shocking that it took place in the state of Sonora. Violence like this is, unfortunately, not unheard of and in some cases quite common. States like Sinaloa and cities like Tijuana might as well be in Iraq. But Sonora has never really seen all out war between the drug cartels and the police. It is just one more sign that the long history of drug violence in Mexico is spiraling out of control.
On Friday a rumor was circulating the borderlands that another team of cartel members was headed to the town of Naco, Sonora. Naco is the next town over from Agua Prieta, a little pueblo that doesn't even have a gas station but does have an incredible amount of drug smuggling. The response to that rumor in Agua Prieta was, understandably, widespread panic. Schools were closed, the border was shut down temporarily, and people stayed off the streets well into the night.
All of this has left me feeling deeply unsettled.
In the midst of this violence my thoughts have been primarily selfish. I have thought little of the families that lost loved ones, or of the places in Mexico (and around the world) where violence like this is so common. Instead I have spent a great deal of time dwelling on a feeling that I have been unable to shake, a voice in the back of my head that refuses to go away. Even in Tucson, away from the border and doing more "normal things," I could not take my mind off the killings. And all of this navel gazing has left me chasing tangents through my mind, searching for the thought that might pull all of these strands together. I remembered my pothead high school friends and our ignorance about the true cost of getting stoned. I thought about the war on drugs and the morality of allowing legal drug use. I thought about the violence that profitable smuggling has unleashed. I thought about friends who are addicts, and all of my time spent in Skid Row. And I thought about the cost of securing our borders from drugs, in money and in human life.
I spent almost a week wandering in the cloudiness of my thoughts before dawn finally broke. The thing that has made me so deeply unsettled by these killings is not the loss of human life, although that is clearly tragic. What was so unsettling, and what continues to trouble me, was how quickly and easily my relationship to violence changed when I was confronted with the possibility that I might not be safe. Let me explain.
Since I have been in Agua Prieta, many people have been killed. The police chief, a reporter, a migrant, and an untold number of lesser "thugs," have all fallen victim to the violence that is laced into the fabric of the borderlands. In spite of these murders, I have never felt truly afraid. A man was beaten to death in a remote place that I visit every single week, but I do not hesitate to continue my trips there. I have almost no fear that I might meet the same fate.
This sense of security is a luxury afforded to me by my secret love of violence. I know in my heart of hearts that it will keep me safe. In the past I have justified my sense of security by saying that I am safe because I stay away from trouble. And it's true, I do stay away from trouble. I don't smuggle drugs, or spend time with people who do. But there is another, greater truth that I have protectecd myself from. I am convinced that I will be safe because I believe that violence has the power to protect me. I believe that, as a U.S. citizen, I can cross the border and be protected. I can depend upon the literally thousands of U.S. government employees running around in the desert to keep the "bad people" from me. I can trust their guns.
When I am in the desert, or in Agua Prieta for that matter, I can trust my whiteness to keep violence at bay. I know that killing me is bad for business. Kill a Mexican? Happens all the time. Kill a white kid doing humanitarian work? Doesn't look good for you. Whether it is the Mexicans or the Americans, I know that the threat of violence from the government keeps me safe.
So I complain about all of the Border Patrol agents here, not because I want just anyone to be able to walk into the U.S. anytime they want to, but because I hate the migrant deaths. I complain about all the guns on the border, not because I love the drug smuggling, but because sometimes those guns are used to kill innocent people. But when it comes down to it, I love my own safety, and the violence that protects it, more than I love the lives of other people.
And I trust violence more than I trust God. When it came down to my own safety, I gave up my belief that God is powerful, and I worshipped violence instead. "Thank God," I thought, "for all of those men with guns."
Violence is my golden calf. Is it yours?
There are many things that I could say about this event. It is clearly a tragic loss of human life. It is quite shocking that it took place in the state of Sonora. Violence like this is, unfortunately, not unheard of and in some cases quite common. States like Sinaloa and cities like Tijuana might as well be in Iraq. But Sonora has never really seen all out war between the drug cartels and the police. It is just one more sign that the long history of drug violence in Mexico is spiraling out of control.
On Friday a rumor was circulating the borderlands that another team of cartel members was headed to the town of Naco, Sonora. Naco is the next town over from Agua Prieta, a little pueblo that doesn't even have a gas station but does have an incredible amount of drug smuggling. The response to that rumor in Agua Prieta was, understandably, widespread panic. Schools were closed, the border was shut down temporarily, and people stayed off the streets well into the night.
All of this has left me feeling deeply unsettled.
In the midst of this violence my thoughts have been primarily selfish. I have thought little of the families that lost loved ones, or of the places in Mexico (and around the world) where violence like this is so common. Instead I have spent a great deal of time dwelling on a feeling that I have been unable to shake, a voice in the back of my head that refuses to go away. Even in Tucson, away from the border and doing more "normal things," I could not take my mind off the killings. And all of this navel gazing has left me chasing tangents through my mind, searching for the thought that might pull all of these strands together. I remembered my pothead high school friends and our ignorance about the true cost of getting stoned. I thought about the war on drugs and the morality of allowing legal drug use. I thought about the violence that profitable smuggling has unleashed. I thought about friends who are addicts, and all of my time spent in Skid Row. And I thought about the cost of securing our borders from drugs, in money and in human life.
I spent almost a week wandering in the cloudiness of my thoughts before dawn finally broke. The thing that has made me so deeply unsettled by these killings is not the loss of human life, although that is clearly tragic. What was so unsettling, and what continues to trouble me, was how quickly and easily my relationship to violence changed when I was confronted with the possibility that I might not be safe. Let me explain.
Since I have been in Agua Prieta, many people have been killed. The police chief, a reporter, a migrant, and an untold number of lesser "thugs," have all fallen victim to the violence that is laced into the fabric of the borderlands. In spite of these murders, I have never felt truly afraid. A man was beaten to death in a remote place that I visit every single week, but I do not hesitate to continue my trips there. I have almost no fear that I might meet the same fate.
This sense of security is a luxury afforded to me by my secret love of violence. I know in my heart of hearts that it will keep me safe. In the past I have justified my sense of security by saying that I am safe because I stay away from trouble. And it's true, I do stay away from trouble. I don't smuggle drugs, or spend time with people who do. But there is another, greater truth that I have protectecd myself from. I am convinced that I will be safe because I believe that violence has the power to protect me. I believe that, as a U.S. citizen, I can cross the border and be protected. I can depend upon the literally thousands of U.S. government employees running around in the desert to keep the "bad people" from me. I can trust their guns.
When I am in the desert, or in Agua Prieta for that matter, I can trust my whiteness to keep violence at bay. I know that killing me is bad for business. Kill a Mexican? Happens all the time. Kill a white kid doing humanitarian work? Doesn't look good for you. Whether it is the Mexicans or the Americans, I know that the threat of violence from the government keeps me safe.
So I complain about all of the Border Patrol agents here, not because I want just anyone to be able to walk into the U.S. anytime they want to, but because I hate the migrant deaths. I complain about all the guns on the border, not because I love the drug smuggling, but because sometimes those guns are used to kill innocent people. But when it comes down to it, I love my own safety, and the violence that protects it, more than I love the lives of other people.
And I trust violence more than I trust God. When it came down to my own safety, I gave up my belief that God is powerful, and I worshipped violence instead. "Thank God," I thought, "for all of those men with guns."
Violence is my golden calf. Is it yours?
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Despierta Mama, Despierta
It's Mother's Day here in Mexico. Quite a celebration, let me tell you. Last night the jovenes group from the church (jovenes being high school to twentysomethings) set out to do a little late night serenading in the streets of Agua Prieta. Armed with two busted up guitars, some hand written lyrics sheets, a list of Mexican Mamas, and a few flashlights, three cars set out to wake up all the women of the church with off key singing and the promise of group hugs. 3:30 in the morning later I finally made it to bed, surprised by how quickly I have adjusted to a post college life (well before 2:00 a.m., my former bedtime, I was way past still wanting to be awake). I managed to confuse some of my Mexican (and American) friends yet again last night by being both very detached socially and also willing to sing quite loudly. A sure sign that it's time for a nap.
I have been really fortunate this year to take part in a whole mess of Mexican customs that I didn't understand or know anything about prior to arriving at the border. A lot of people have been very gracious by opening up their homes to me and letting me share a small part of their lives with them. This was one of those times.
I thought about calling my own mother to wake her up for some singing, but in the end decided that muffled and incomprehensible noises at two in the morning might not be the most compelling way to tell her how much I appreciate her. But there's always next year.
I have been really fortunate this year to take part in a whole mess of Mexican customs that I didn't understand or know anything about prior to arriving at the border. A lot of people have been very gracious by opening up their homes to me and letting me share a small part of their lives with them. This was one of those times.
I thought about calling my own mother to wake her up for some singing, but in the end decided that muffled and incomprehensible noises at two in the morning might not be the most compelling way to tell her how much I appreciate her. But there's always next year.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Police Brutality Is Like Soooo 1990's.
Video from the May 1st migrant march in Los Angeles. When will the LAPD ever learn that there are always cameras in the City of Angels?
I guess it's a good thing that Rage Against the Machine are back.
I guess it's a good thing that Rage Against the Machine are back.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
This post is for Rachel.
The Gospel, as brought to you by the New York Times.
(You might need to sign up for a free membership to view the link)
(You might need to sign up for a free membership to view the link)
Friday, April 13, 2007
What is it that you do? Version 2.0
This just in from the Migrant Resource Center: January-March 2007
Total number of people served: 2,315
Men served: 1857 (80.2%)
Women served: 370 (16.0%)
Children served: 88 (3.8%)
Bottles of water distributed: 1,792
Food distributed: 1,739
Persons who received orientation: 1,242
Persons who received first aid: 114
Socks distributed: 371
Shoes distributed: 80
Clothing distributed: 371
Total number of people served: 2,315
Men served: 1857 (80.2%)
Women served: 370 (16.0%)
Children served: 88 (3.8%)
Bottles of water distributed: 1,792
Food distributed: 1,739
Persons who received orientation: 1,242
Persons who received first aid: 114
Socks distributed: 371
Shoes distributed: 80
Clothing distributed: 371
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
"I'm from Rhodesia mate"
The economy of Mugabe's Zimbabwe has entered what one long term observer is calling its "death throes."
What does that mean exactly?
Two figures that stand out:
80% unemployment
1,700% inflation
Sadly, Zimbabwe is one of the most well educated countries in Africa.
Those two figures alone are shocking, but this is the clincher:
In a continent of scandalously low life expectancies, Zimbabwe now has the lowest.
37 years old for men.
34 years old for women. (women are more likely to be infected with HIV)
That's the bad news. What are we doing to change it?
In the photo (Reuters): A woman holds up a U.S. ten dollar bill, and the current equivalent in Zimbabwe dollars.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Thorns
Thorns seem to cover the desert outside of Agua Prieta. Mesquite trees have thorns that can be up to three inches long. Migrants walk by night, tearing clothing and skin on things unseen.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
On the fence, but not to offend
A shoe left along the trail. People who spend a week out there come back with raw hamburger in the places where they once had feet."We look at each other, wondering what the other is thinking
But we never say a thing.
And these crimes between us grow deeper.
Take these chances, place them in a box until a quieter time.
Lights down, you up and die."
-Dave Matthews, "Ants Marching"
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Sail, belly up to the clouds...
A migrant super highway. Also known as a dry river bed outside of the borderlands.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
Friday, March 09, 2007
I love Mexico.
This entire meal cost me less than $2.50. Just wanted to share that with you. It turns out that steak costs less than ground beef. It's a beautiful thing.
And no, I don't eat like that every day.
Aaron: 1 Cholesterol: 0
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
A Little Update
I have been working long hours the past few days hanging out with a group from Gannon University.
Groups are a huge blessing to me because they remind me how much I love the ministry that I work for and how much I believe in the things that we do.
Also: God is amazing. Lately I have been thinking a lot about the Gospel of Mark (thanks InterVarsity!) and the ways that miracles work. One of the things that has really struck me is the way that Jesus' miracles are so personal. I think that's great.
Other goings on around here:
Cold War Kids (www.myspace.com/coldwarkids) are really making this Lent thing difficult. Not to mention new The Arcade Fire. Oh geez.
The police chief of Agua Prieta was murdered outside of city hall two days ago. He was shot to death getting into his bullet-proof Jeep. The conventional wisdom is that he was in bed with the drug smugglers, but nobody should die like that.
Groups are a huge blessing to me because they remind me how much I love the ministry that I work for and how much I believe in the things that we do.
Also: God is amazing. Lately I have been thinking a lot about the Gospel of Mark (thanks InterVarsity!) and the ways that miracles work. One of the things that has really struck me is the way that Jesus' miracles are so personal. I think that's great.
Other goings on around here:
Cold War Kids (www.myspace.com/coldwarkids) are really making this Lent thing difficult. Not to mention new The Arcade Fire. Oh geez.
The police chief of Agua Prieta was murdered outside of city hall two days ago. He was shot to death getting into his bullet-proof Jeep. The conventional wisdom is that he was in bed with the drug smugglers, but nobody should die like that.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
A Must Read on the Border
From the New York Times comes an essential read for anyone who wants to understand the border, and just how far it now extends.
Tapachula, where this report was researched, is the city just down the mountain from Salvador Urbina. It's where I spent my day at the market and bought my firewords. El Buen Pastor (Jesus the Good Pastor) is the house where Luis, the Guatemalan man that went with us to Chiapas, stayed at after he lost his legs under the train.
Follow up post coming from me with some thoughts on the article and the issues it raises.
TAPACHULA, Mexico
Adriana Zehbrauskas for The New York Times
Donar Antonio Ramírez Espinas lost both his legs during his attempt to cross into the United States. “You make the decision to look for a better life,” he said, “without knowing that you could end up like this.”
They had been in Mexico for only a few hours and already federal police officers had forced them to strip and had taken almost all their cash, they said. They had some 1,500 miles to go to reach the United States border, with no food or water and $9 each.
They intended to walk along the Chiapas coast for the first 250 miles through a dozen towns where migrants are regularly robbed or raped. Then they planned to clamber aboard a freight train with hundreds of other immigrants for the trip north, a dangerous journey that has left hundreds before them maimed after they fell under the wheels.
“It’s dangerous, yes, one risks one’s life,” said one of the men, Noé Hernández. “One risks it if you have a family member in the States to help you. It’s not just for fun we go through Mexico.”
A month ago, Mexico’s new president, Felipe Calderón, announced measures to slow the flow of illegal immigrants across Mexico’s southern border and reduce crime in this lush but impoverished region. He stepped up the presence of soldiers and federal police here, told of plans for a guest worker program and promised joint state and federal operations to catch illegal immigrants.
But much remains to be done to stop or deter the migrants, and for now the measures have had little effect. Social workers and volunteers who aid the migrants say they keep coming.
Every three days, 300 to 500 Central Americans swarm the freight train in Arriaga, strapping themselves with ropes or belts to the tops of cars or riding between the wagons, they say.
The migrants still wade across the Suchiate River between Guatemala and Mexico with little hindrance. Corruption is rampant. Soldiers and police officers on the Mexican side extort money from the migrants but seldom turn them around, aid workers and migrants said.
“It’s an open border,” said Francisco Aceves Verdugo, a supervisor in the government agency, Grupos Beta, that gives food, water and medicine to illegal migrants. “We are confronting a monster so big in the form of corruption that we aren’t doing anything.”
The federal authorities do catch and deport illegal immigrants from Central America on their trek north — about 170,000 last year, according to Leticia Rodríguez, a spokeswoman for the National Migration Institute.
On the evening of Jan. 19, as part of Mr. Calderón’s new get-tough policy, about 400 federal police officers stopped the freight train just after it left Arriaga and arrested more than 100 immigrants who had climbed aboard.
Still, aid workers say a majority gets through. The biggest deterrent, migrants say, is not federal authorities but armed thugs who waylay them along the railroad tracks or on paths through the countryside used to avoid the immigration posts along the main highway.
This month, Misael Mejía, 27, from Comayagua, Honduras, was awaiting the train in Arriaga with nine other young men from his town. They had walked for 11 days after wading across the Suchiate to get to the railhead in Arriaga.
None of them had a dime after being ambushed a week before by three men in ski masks in daylight near Huehuetán. Two of the men carried machetes, the third a machine gun.
“They told us to lay down and take off our clothes,” Mr. Mejía said. “I lost my watch, about 500 Honduran lempiras, and 40 Mexican pesos,” about $31.
Mr. Mejía said he would press on. He has a brother in Arizona who has promised to pick him up if he can run the gantlet through the United States border patrol. He left a $200-a-month job as a driver behind, along with his wife. His brother makes $700 a week as a carpenter.
“I felt hopeless in Honduras,” he said. “Because I could never afford a house, not even a car. There is nothing I could have.”
Down the street from the tracks, at the Hearth of Mercy shelter, where illegal immigrants can get a free hot meal and medicine, Juan Antonio Cruz, 16, hunched over a bowl of rice and told how he had left El Salvador after members of the Mara Salvatrucha street gang had threatened to kill him. “They wanted me to join them,” he said.
It was his second attempt to reach Arizona, he said. The first time he had endured eight freezing nights and sweltering days aboard the train by strapping his belt to bar atop a tanker car. The border patrol caught him as he crossed into Nogales, Ariz., and sent him back home to Usulután, where the gang members threatened him again.
“When I think about the train, I feel fear and panic, for the thieves who attack you, and also for falling off,” he said softly.
For some, that is how the dream ends, with a fall under the train’s heavy, whirring wheels.
At the Shelter of Jesus the Good Pastor in Tapachula, Donar Antonio Ramírez Espinas rubbed the bandaged stumps of his legs, sheared off above the knee, as he recalled the night of March 26, 2004, when he dozed off while riding between cars, lost his grip and fell onto the tracks.
“I fell face down, and at first I didn’t think anything had happened,” he said. “When I turned over, I saw, I realized, that my feet didn’t really exist.”
Back in Honduras, he had been working menial jobs in a parking lot and at a medical warehouse, making about $120 a month. Then he and a few buddies decided to try their luck in the States.
“You make the decision to look for a better life, not to continue with the life your father led, and for this you risk your life, without knowing that you could end up like this,” he said. “An amputee.”
After the accident, he spent two years at the shelter in Tapachula, wrestling with depression and thoughts of suicide. When those black days finally passed, he returned home for five months, only to find his parents, his former wife and even his three children had trouble accepting his disability. “My 9-year-old said, ‘Papa, why did you come back like this?’ ” he remembered. “I didn’t dare answer him.”
Mr. Ramírez has returned to the shelter here, where he hopes to learn a trade — fashioning prosthetic legs and arms for other victims of the train. Others at the shelter told similar stories. Some doubted they would be able to make a living in their home countries, where even getting a wheelchair is hard.
But some of those with lesser injuries insisted their accident was just a temporary setback. Minor Estuardo Cortez, 33, from Guatemala, lost his left foot under a train wheel while climbing aboard in Oaxaca State. At the shelter, he has healed and learned to walk with a prosthetic foot. He intends to continue his journey. If he reaches Houston, he says, he has relatives who can get him a construction job.
“If something happens to me, I don’t scare easy,” he said. “I’ll do it again to see who wins, the train or me. Only thing is I can’t run, so I’ll have to wait until it’s stopped to get on.”
Tapachula, where this report was researched, is the city just down the mountain from Salvador Urbina. It's where I spent my day at the market and bought my firewords. El Buen Pastor (Jesus the Good Pastor) is the house where Luis, the Guatemalan man that went with us to Chiapas, stayed at after he lost his legs under the train.
Follow up post coming from me with some thoughts on the article and the issues it raises.
TAPACHULA, Mexico
Adriana Zehbrauskas for The New York Times
Donar Antonio Ramírez Espinas lost both his legs during his attempt to cross into the United States. “You make the decision to look for a better life,” he said, “without knowing that you could end up like this.”
They had been in Mexico for only a few hours and already federal police officers had forced them to strip and had taken almost all their cash, they said. They had some 1,500 miles to go to reach the United States border, with no food or water and $9 each.
They intended to walk along the Chiapas coast for the first 250 miles through a dozen towns where migrants are regularly robbed or raped. Then they planned to clamber aboard a freight train with hundreds of other immigrants for the trip north, a dangerous journey that has left hundreds before them maimed after they fell under the wheels.
“It’s dangerous, yes, one risks one’s life,” said one of the men, Noé Hernández. “One risks it if you have a family member in the States to help you. It’s not just for fun we go through Mexico.”
A month ago, Mexico’s new president, Felipe Calderón, announced measures to slow the flow of illegal immigrants across Mexico’s southern border and reduce crime in this lush but impoverished region. He stepped up the presence of soldiers and federal police here, told of plans for a guest worker program and promised joint state and federal operations to catch illegal immigrants.
But much remains to be done to stop or deter the migrants, and for now the measures have had little effect. Social workers and volunteers who aid the migrants say they keep coming.
Every three days, 300 to 500 Central Americans swarm the freight train in Arriaga, strapping themselves with ropes or belts to the tops of cars or riding between the wagons, they say.
The migrants still wade across the Suchiate River between Guatemala and Mexico with little hindrance. Corruption is rampant. Soldiers and police officers on the Mexican side extort money from the migrants but seldom turn them around, aid workers and migrants said.
“It’s an open border,” said Francisco Aceves Verdugo, a supervisor in the government agency, Grupos Beta, that gives food, water and medicine to illegal migrants. “We are confronting a monster so big in the form of corruption that we aren’t doing anything.”
The federal authorities do catch and deport illegal immigrants from Central America on their trek north — about 170,000 last year, according to Leticia Rodríguez, a spokeswoman for the National Migration Institute.
On the evening of Jan. 19, as part of Mr. Calderón’s new get-tough policy, about 400 federal police officers stopped the freight train just after it left Arriaga and arrested more than 100 immigrants who had climbed aboard.
Still, aid workers say a majority gets through. The biggest deterrent, migrants say, is not federal authorities but armed thugs who waylay them along the railroad tracks or on paths through the countryside used to avoid the immigration posts along the main highway.
This month, Misael Mejía, 27, from Comayagua, Honduras, was awaiting the train in Arriaga with nine other young men from his town. They had walked for 11 days after wading across the Suchiate to get to the railhead in Arriaga.
None of them had a dime after being ambushed a week before by three men in ski masks in daylight near Huehuetán. Two of the men carried machetes, the third a machine gun.
“They told us to lay down and take off our clothes,” Mr. Mejía said. “I lost my watch, about 500 Honduran lempiras, and 40 Mexican pesos,” about $31.
Mr. Mejía said he would press on. He has a brother in Arizona who has promised to pick him up if he can run the gantlet through the United States border patrol. He left a $200-a-month job as a driver behind, along with his wife. His brother makes $700 a week as a carpenter.
“I felt hopeless in Honduras,” he said. “Because I could never afford a house, not even a car. There is nothing I could have.”
Down the street from the tracks, at the Hearth of Mercy shelter, where illegal immigrants can get a free hot meal and medicine, Juan Antonio Cruz, 16, hunched over a bowl of rice and told how he had left El Salvador after members of the Mara Salvatrucha street gang had threatened to kill him. “They wanted me to join them,” he said.
It was his second attempt to reach Arizona, he said. The first time he had endured eight freezing nights and sweltering days aboard the train by strapping his belt to bar atop a tanker car. The border patrol caught him as he crossed into Nogales, Ariz., and sent him back home to Usulután, where the gang members threatened him again.
“When I think about the train, I feel fear and panic, for the thieves who attack you, and also for falling off,” he said softly.
For some, that is how the dream ends, with a fall under the train’s heavy, whirring wheels.
At the Shelter of Jesus the Good Pastor in Tapachula, Donar Antonio Ramírez Espinas rubbed the bandaged stumps of his legs, sheared off above the knee, as he recalled the night of March 26, 2004, when he dozed off while riding between cars, lost his grip and fell onto the tracks.
“I fell face down, and at first I didn’t think anything had happened,” he said. “When I turned over, I saw, I realized, that my feet didn’t really exist.”
Back in Honduras, he had been working menial jobs in a parking lot and at a medical warehouse, making about $120 a month. Then he and a few buddies decided to try their luck in the States.
“You make the decision to look for a better life, not to continue with the life your father led, and for this you risk your life, without knowing that you could end up like this,” he said. “An amputee.”
After the accident, he spent two years at the shelter in Tapachula, wrestling with depression and thoughts of suicide. When those black days finally passed, he returned home for five months, only to find his parents, his former wife and even his three children had trouble accepting his disability. “My 9-year-old said, ‘Papa, why did you come back like this?’ ” he remembered. “I didn’t dare answer him.”
Mr. Ramírez has returned to the shelter here, where he hopes to learn a trade — fashioning prosthetic legs and arms for other victims of the train. Others at the shelter told similar stories. Some doubted they would be able to make a living in their home countries, where even getting a wheelchair is hard.
But some of those with lesser injuries insisted their accident was just a temporary setback. Minor Estuardo Cortez, 33, from Guatemala, lost his left foot under a train wheel while climbing aboard in Oaxaca State. At the shelter, he has healed and learned to walk with a prosthetic foot. He intends to continue his journey. If he reaches Houston, he says, he has relatives who can get him a construction job.
“If something happens to me, I don’t scare easy,” he said. “I’ll do it again to see who wins, the train or me. Only thing is I can’t run, so I’ll have to wait until it’s stopped to get on.”
Saturday, January 20, 2007
I'm On Permanent Mexiroam
Here it is, the Chiapas post that at least two of you have been clamoring for. The rest of you don't have to read it if you don't want to.
I still haven't figured out a way to talk (succinctly or not) about a trip that lasted almost three weeks and encompassed two-thirds of the great country of Mexico, so my apologies if this is a little disjointed or confusing. This is going to be a massive post because of the pictures.
Here are some basics for the trip:
Who- Myself, Meghan (my housemate, co-intern, and partner all things Mexico), Tommy (my boss at the Just Trade Center, a weird sort of blend between hippie, Catholic, corporate manager, and romantic), Barbara (Tommy's girlfriend and an unbelievable coffee saleswoman), Arthur (Tommy's twentysomething son and a great guy), Daniel (co-founder of Just Coffee and one of the nicest guys I've ever met), Vicki (Daniel's wife and the woman in charge of packaging for Just Coffee), Danielito (Daniel and Vicki's son, easily one of the coolest two year-olds I have ever met), Luis (A Guatemalan immigrant who lost both of his legs in a train accident trying to get to the U.S. border), and Surullo (Vicki's dog and constant companion).
What- A three(ish) week trip down the west coast of Mexico to visit the town of Salvador Urbina in the state of Chiapas (the location of the Just Coffee cooperative), and then back up through the center of Mexico with a stop in Veracruz to visit one of the two new cooperatives. We borrowed a 1980's Ford 15 passanger van with 225,00 miles on it from our friends at the Catholic Church and loaded another 4,000 miles onto it between the time we left the border and the time we got back.
When- We left on December 27th I think, and got back last week at some point.
Where- I suppose I sort of covered that point already. Here's a map to help out.
The red lines follow the rough route of our trip.
Why- Part of my motivation for going was just to visit so much of Mexico that I had never seen before. Part of it was just to take a break and relax. Most of it, however, was my desire to meet the Just Coffee growers and see the states where migrants were coming from. I also didn't really want to come home for Christmas because this year is a bit of a test run for how I would like living abroad for an extended period of time.
Now for the pictures (click to enlarge):
The beach just north of Mazatlan where we stopped for a swim after our first night of driving. Gorgeous.
A blurry, but adequate, picture of the ditch that I accidentally backed the van into, and the rescuers that helped us get it out. To be fair, it was pitch black and we were in a residential neighborhood. Ditches weren't really on the radar. And no, I didn't take the picture. I'm behind the van pushing just like everybody else. I haven't really had great luck with vans in Mexico.
Sadly I did not break the pinata. I will say that pinatas, fireworks, and hugs for ALL of the fifty people at the party is a great tradition for celebrating the new year. Feliz ano nuevo indeed.
My home away from home. This is Daniel's mom's house (Mama Yoly). There were already six people living in the house (from three different generations) when the eight of us moved in. I'm quite happy to say that Mama Yoly and company spoiled us rotten. Great food. Great conversation. Great people. Tons of fun. The stuff on the cement outside is coffee being dried in the sun.
The women of Mama Yoly's house. And it was DEFINITELY a house of women (only one man lived there permanently, and he was moving out). Mama Yoly is in the back right of the picture, her daughter-in-law Rosy is next to her, her daughter Elda next to that, Elda's daughter Tahlia on the back left, Barbara and Meghan are clearly the gringas, and Daniella is between them. I actually don't know who that baby is, there were many of them around. All of these women except for Daniella were living in the house.
Tahlia (back left, 19) and Daniella (front, 22) were my homegirls in Salvador Urbina. Tahlia's mom Elda owned this little store in the town square, and it was awesome to just hang out with them, drink delicious Fanta, and talk about life.
Danielito is my boy all the time. Seriously, can YOU think of a toddler you would want to spend 120 hours in a van with?
Elda. What can I say about Elda? Well, for one thing, this is a picture of her punching me. I guess that tells you something about our relationship. Tommy and Arturo call her "La Mala," which literally means "The Bad One." We skirmished. We teased. We laughed. She misses me, I know it.
Rosy and her boys (her own description of this picture) That tall drink of water on the left is Arthur. The other one, you may or may not be able to tell, is me.
This is the view of Salvador Urbina from the front of Mama Yoly's patio. The pueblo is on two sides of a valley and centers around the road that runs up the mountain through the center of town. The Cifuentes family is pretty legendary in Salvador Urbina. For one thing, Daniel's grandfather helped fight for the land that the town now sits on. For another, there are at least 150 people in the family, and most of them live in Salvador Urbina. Daniel has 12 brothers and sisters, and Mama Yoly has more than 50 grandchildren. Finally, Daniel and his brothers Eri and Isaac were pretty much the driving force behind Just Coffee.
This is the "laundry machine" at Mama Yoly's house. It is also the large basin of water that you draw from in order to bathe yourself or flush the toilet. Compared to showers I almost prefer baths out of buckets now, but that's just me. I'd say the highlight of doing anything down there was the view, but the fish that lived in the water tank was pretty cool too.
The market in Tapachula. Fireworks? Check. Hammocks? Check. Used clothing? Check. Fresh pineapple? Check. I love street markets.
Sunrise on our way up the volcano Tacana. We left at 8 p.m. the night before, hiked until about 1 or 2, and crashed until dawn. It was freezing cold and I stayed up most of the night keeping a fire going in a little shack that they had built for people climbing the volcano. The brutal thing about Tacana was that there were hardly any switchbacks at all, just a straight path up the mountain.
Tacana's summit. The marker that I am standing by is the international border between Guatemala and Mexico that divides the mountain in half. The volcano behind me is in Guatemala. Needless to say, customs doesn't have a checkpoint up there.
Ruins from the city of Tahin in Veracruz. One of the most beautiful places I have ever been.
The gringo crew enjoying coffee, pan dulce, and good company in Veracruz. Throughout our trip the people of Mexico were undecided whether Tommy looked more like Santa Clause or more like Fidel Castro. Votes?
This is the armadillo that we started eating almost immediately after the last picture was taken. Pretty tasty actually. Especially with hand made corn tortillas, possibly one of the best tasting things on earth.
The "Socios" (members of the coffee cooperative) in Veracruz. Really great folks.
The coffee "fields" in Veracruz. Organic. Shade grown. Just. It's a beautiful thing. Kind of reminded me of my grandfather's avocado grove from when I was a kid.
Cleaning the coffee by hand so that it would be pure enough to decaffeinate. We really need to figure out a better way to do this. It's all about the quality though. Who loves you? That's right, Just Coffee loves you.
A coffee farmer on his way to sell the harvest. He still had another 45 minutes to go and those bags weigh 100 lbs. Think about that the next time you're at Starbucks.
One of the ten or so Cathedrals that we visited in the colonial city of San Luis Potosi. Thanks for the European training Mom and Dad. I can visit Cathedrals like a champ. On a side note, I think that when Protestants get bored they found new denominations, and when Catholics get bored they build more churches. It's a working theory.
That's it for me I think. I might post more thoughts later. I might post more pictures. We'll see.
I will say that it was easily one of the best trips I've ever taken, and that I'm also incredibly glad to be back "home" on the border, particularly as I've taken up puppy ranching. But that's for another post.
I still haven't figured out a way to talk (succinctly or not) about a trip that lasted almost three weeks and encompassed two-thirds of the great country of Mexico, so my apologies if this is a little disjointed or confusing. This is going to be a massive post because of the pictures.
Here are some basics for the trip:
Who- Myself, Meghan (my housemate, co-intern, and partner all things Mexico), Tommy (my boss at the Just Trade Center, a weird sort of blend between hippie, Catholic, corporate manager, and romantic), Barbara (Tommy's girlfriend and an unbelievable coffee saleswoman), Arthur (Tommy's twentysomething son and a great guy), Daniel (co-founder of Just Coffee and one of the nicest guys I've ever met), Vicki (Daniel's wife and the woman in charge of packaging for Just Coffee), Danielito (Daniel and Vicki's son, easily one of the coolest two year-olds I have ever met), Luis (A Guatemalan immigrant who lost both of his legs in a train accident trying to get to the U.S. border), and Surullo (Vicki's dog and constant companion).
What- A three(ish) week trip down the west coast of Mexico to visit the town of Salvador Urbina in the state of Chiapas (the location of the Just Coffee cooperative), and then back up through the center of Mexico with a stop in Veracruz to visit one of the two new cooperatives. We borrowed a 1980's Ford 15 passanger van with 225,00 miles on it from our friends at the Catholic Church and loaded another 4,000 miles onto it between the time we left the border and the time we got back.
When- We left on December 27th I think, and got back last week at some point.
Where- I suppose I sort of covered that point already. Here's a map to help out.
The red lines follow the rough route of our trip.
Why- Part of my motivation for going was just to visit so much of Mexico that I had never seen before. Part of it was just to take a break and relax. Most of it, however, was my desire to meet the Just Coffee growers and see the states where migrants were coming from. I also didn't really want to come home for Christmas because this year is a bit of a test run for how I would like living abroad for an extended period of time.
Now for the pictures (click to enlarge):
The beach just north of Mazatlan where we stopped for a swim after our first night of driving. Gorgeous.
A blurry, but adequate, picture of the ditch that I accidentally backed the van into, and the rescuers that helped us get it out. To be fair, it was pitch black and we were in a residential neighborhood. Ditches weren't really on the radar. And no, I didn't take the picture. I'm behind the van pushing just like everybody else. I haven't really had great luck with vans in Mexico.
Sadly I did not break the pinata. I will say that pinatas, fireworks, and hugs for ALL of the fifty people at the party is a great tradition for celebrating the new year. Feliz ano nuevo indeed.
My home away from home. This is Daniel's mom's house (Mama Yoly). There were already six people living in the house (from three different generations) when the eight of us moved in. I'm quite happy to say that Mama Yoly and company spoiled us rotten. Great food. Great conversation. Great people. Tons of fun. The stuff on the cement outside is coffee being dried in the sun.
The women of Mama Yoly's house. And it was DEFINITELY a house of women (only one man lived there permanently, and he was moving out). Mama Yoly is in the back right of the picture, her daughter-in-law Rosy is next to her, her daughter Elda next to that, Elda's daughter Tahlia on the back left, Barbara and Meghan are clearly the gringas, and Daniella is between them. I actually don't know who that baby is, there were many of them around. All of these women except for Daniella were living in the house.
Tahlia (back left, 19) and Daniella (front, 22) were my homegirls in Salvador Urbina. Tahlia's mom Elda owned this little store in the town square, and it was awesome to just hang out with them, drink delicious Fanta, and talk about life.
Danielito is my boy all the time. Seriously, can YOU think of a toddler you would want to spend 120 hours in a van with?
Elda. What can I say about Elda? Well, for one thing, this is a picture of her punching me. I guess that tells you something about our relationship. Tommy and Arturo call her "La Mala," which literally means "The Bad One." We skirmished. We teased. We laughed. She misses me, I know it.
Rosy and her boys (her own description of this picture) That tall drink of water on the left is Arthur. The other one, you may or may not be able to tell, is me.
This is the view of Salvador Urbina from the front of Mama Yoly's patio. The pueblo is on two sides of a valley and centers around the road that runs up the mountain through the center of town. The Cifuentes family is pretty legendary in Salvador Urbina. For one thing, Daniel's grandfather helped fight for the land that the town now sits on. For another, there are at least 150 people in the family, and most of them live in Salvador Urbina. Daniel has 12 brothers and sisters, and Mama Yoly has more than 50 grandchildren. Finally, Daniel and his brothers Eri and Isaac were pretty much the driving force behind Just Coffee.
This is the "laundry machine" at Mama Yoly's house. It is also the large basin of water that you draw from in order to bathe yourself or flush the toilet. Compared to showers I almost prefer baths out of buckets now, but that's just me. I'd say the highlight of doing anything down there was the view, but the fish that lived in the water tank was pretty cool too.
The market in Tapachula. Fireworks? Check. Hammocks? Check. Used clothing? Check. Fresh pineapple? Check. I love street markets.
Sunrise on our way up the volcano Tacana. We left at 8 p.m. the night before, hiked until about 1 or 2, and crashed until dawn. It was freezing cold and I stayed up most of the night keeping a fire going in a little shack that they had built for people climbing the volcano. The brutal thing about Tacana was that there were hardly any switchbacks at all, just a straight path up the mountain.
Tacana's summit. The marker that I am standing by is the international border between Guatemala and Mexico that divides the mountain in half. The volcano behind me is in Guatemala. Needless to say, customs doesn't have a checkpoint up there.
Ruins from the city of Tahin in Veracruz. One of the most beautiful places I have ever been.
The gringo crew enjoying coffee, pan dulce, and good company in Veracruz. Throughout our trip the people of Mexico were undecided whether Tommy looked more like Santa Clause or more like Fidel Castro. Votes?
This is the armadillo that we started eating almost immediately after the last picture was taken. Pretty tasty actually. Especially with hand made corn tortillas, possibly one of the best tasting things on earth.
The "Socios" (members of the coffee cooperative) in Veracruz. Really great folks.
The coffee "fields" in Veracruz. Organic. Shade grown. Just. It's a beautiful thing. Kind of reminded me of my grandfather's avocado grove from when I was a kid.
Cleaning the coffee by hand so that it would be pure enough to decaffeinate. We really need to figure out a better way to do this. It's all about the quality though. Who loves you? That's right, Just Coffee loves you.
A coffee farmer on his way to sell the harvest. He still had another 45 minutes to go and those bags weigh 100 lbs. Think about that the next time you're at Starbucks.
One of the ten or so Cathedrals that we visited in the colonial city of San Luis Potosi. Thanks for the European training Mom and Dad. I can visit Cathedrals like a champ. On a side note, I think that when Protestants get bored they found new denominations, and when Catholics get bored they build more churches. It's a working theory.
That's it for me I think. I might post more thoughts later. I might post more pictures. We'll see.
I will say that it was easily one of the best trips I've ever taken, and that I'm also incredibly glad to be back "home" on the border, particularly as I've taken up puppy ranching. But that's for another post.
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