Atlantica - 01.09.2007, Side 23

The Rio Grande is smaller than you’d expect, in
some places only a dribble clouded with silt.
But rumors of druglord shootouts, dirty police, deft
pickpockets, and drunken tourists harvested for
their kidneys have revived the infamous reputation
of the Texas-Mexican border.
Filled with trepidation and Dr. Pepper, my mother
and I depart Dallas in her new Prius, sliding out
southbound. We are propelled forward by a hybrid
engine and legends of frontier heroes holding out
against the Mexican army, gunslingers playing
dirty cards with train bandits, and bottomless,
lightless caverns. After three days floating across
the West Texas desert highway we find ourselves
at the Rio Grande, peering out into Mexico and the
Chihuahuan Desert on the opposite bank.
“Hold on to your kidneys,” mom says, gunning
the car as we leave the dusty streets of Presidio,
Texas behind and careen over the unmanned bridge
into Ojinaga, Mexico.
Unlike the seeming ghost town of Presidio,
Ojinaga is teeming with life as we cruise around
its colorful streets. While some mill around with
sno-cones in hand to cool off, others sit in the shade
to gossip. Men rally around street vendors to eye
cowboy hats and brightly colored vaquero shirts.
“Life without air conditioning is not so rough,”
mom notes under the blast of the car’s Freon. “At
least then you actually see one another once in a
while.” It’s true. Although it’s boiling outside and
people are clearly suffering from the heat, at least
they are sweltering together—man, woman, child,
and street dog.
In the town square we find a gazebo where we
sweat the sun with the locals. Mexican children with
mouths stained red from cherry sno-cones scamper
after a soccer ball and men lie supine on the ground
with shirts open in a midday siesta.
At long last the promise of chicken mole like
abuelita (grandma) used to make and a pitcher
of beer entice us out to the main strip, Bulevar
Libre Comercio, full of antojitos (Mexican tapas) and
comidas corridas (homestyle cooking). But once we
find an outdoor café with parking out front, the
peculiar dearth of street dogs outside the restaurant
and what appear to be bullet holes in the wall give
us pause. We retreat back to America.
“Twenty-two pesos,” says the Mexican border
guard and extends his gloved hand with a sheepish
grin, revealing two winsome gold teeth. I scoff
as it seems a steep price only to exit Ojinaga, but
someone has to pay for his bright green booth and
the radio blaring his Norteño music with its brazen
polka accordions.
I glare, wincing at the thought of border
extortion, and his gold teeth fall back behind
grimacing lips as his eyes narrow. “Is only two dollars,
señor.” A shameful pang of miserliness comes over
me as I hand over my unspoken apologies and two
crisp bills.
We return to Presidio and its nearly abandoned
streets. At the El Patio air conditioned restaurant, a
man with sad eyes and bad posture serves us watery
margaritas and rubbery mole enchiladas, nearly
green under the fluorescent lights. Sometimes life
is simply better under the sun.
Under the SUn
By Jonas Moody