Emotional Bridge

The first time I crossed the foot bridge into Mexico, I wasn't sure what to expect. Friendly older American tourists were there to assure me of the safety and security of leaving the comforts of the U.S. on foot.

It cost 50 cents to go through the turnstyle. I went up the ramp and looked. There it was --- the Rio Grande. Not very grande. Actually, quite muddy. On our side, a big brown wall with a border patrol vehicle at the gate. On their side, clutter and beggars.


The bridge entrance at Nuevo Progresso, Mexico

The sign in the middle announced our side in English and their side in Spanish. One step later, I was in Mexico. I could hear the cries of the beggars. Women and children, far below the bridge waiving to me like I was Santa Claus. I could toss money at them through the openings on the railing if I so chose. I put my face down next to the opening. The beggars gathered, their chorus for cash intensifying.

I greeted them in Spanish, as if they were long, lost friends. I stood and waived goodbye. It felt weird to have the power to accept of dismiss their efforts.

Before me, an outstretch arm and a hat in the hand, reaching through the guardrail near the end of the bridge. Her voice was persistent, but small. I smiled at her but had nothing for her open hat.

The tourists took a photo of me on the bridge, and on the Mexico sign before the large statue and welcome sign.

Then I was left to my own devises. People calling out for me to enter their pharmacy. Others asking if I needed a shoe shine. Still others trying to convince me to get a manicure, pedicure or a haircut. Or all three.

More requests for pharmaceuticals, as if they were pushing used cars at a sleazy car lot. Men in white lab coats holding cardboard signs with prescription logos, indicating what was inside.
Children and parents pushing toward me, thrusting plastic trinkets my way. "No gracias," I say.

Vendors asking if I want to buy a wallet, a sombrero, a hammock, jewelry.
A mere glance in their direction is like tossing meat to a tiger. "Come in, sir. Pharmacy. Almost free. I give you good price."

Children with packets of gum. "How much?"

"Ten for a dollar," says the mother.



I pull out a dollar bill and pick out ten colorful packets of chicklets style gum.

This attracted the cactus kids. "Cactus?" I dirty brown hand clutches a ziplock bag of chopped cactus. The other hand clutches uncut cactus in another bag.

The upstairs restaurant has clean, but small restrooms and plenty of gringo visitors. A mariachi band circulates. Six tacos for five dollars. Sounds good.

I look out the window on the hot, dusty street below. Mexico is different. I want to see more.

Back on the street with a full stomach and a few coronas to boot, I wander off the beaten path. A man asks if I want to buy any food, pottery, baskets, or women. Kinda in that order. "Can I get you a young lady?"

Interesting, but "no gracias."

A strip club ahead. Eager man handing me a yellow piece of paper with "lesbian shower" on the featured menu.

I continue. Now I'm in the real town, away from tourism. No more white people. Lots more chickens, dogs and dust.

The streets are uneven, unpaved, unkempt. Laundry hangs along a fence. I look again. It's clothing for sale.  Each pair of jeans has a price tag.

A convenience store the size of a rich woman's closet. Children play at outdoor video game machines different from anything I've ever seen. Like a third world arcade from 1983. No expressions. Void of conversation, just boys standing in their school uniforms pushing the buttons and watching the faded flickering small screen.

Dogs lie in the road, unmoved when cars pass. Many Texas license plates. All cars coated with grime.

Some houses look more like chicken coops. The dogs look too tired to bark at the gringo.

A air of despair and poverty lingers. Oppressive, like humidity in July in Louisiana.

Graffiti on a wall. A bar with happy hour all day painted on the purple exterior.

An ice cream cart. Kids on the sidewalk. "Hola, como estas?" I smile. No reply.
A woman, chubby and suspicious. Young. "Hola," I say.
"Hello," she says.
"You speak English?"
She nods. "Lived in Texas most of my life. Came here to get rid of family problems."
She shows me her arm. Riddled with scars. "I cut myself when I got depressed."
"How old are you?"
"15."
Her 14 year old English speaking brother arrives. A man in his 30s, half black and half Mexican wanders up suspiciously. I greet him like an old friend. He only speaks Spanish. Another chubby woman with him about 20, no English.

I flag down the ice cream cart. "How much?"
"Two dollars?"
"Two dollars! Oh, no, loco gringo no mucho denaro," I say, to the amusement of the onlookers. "Uno dollar each. Five for five. Cinco for cinco."
My four new friends and I enjoy a tasty treat in the hot January sun.

Afterwards, 30 something man asks if I want a "sombrero."
I say yes. He gets a palm branch hat from the house. Now I look like a Mexican, complete with a string under my chin.

I waive "adios" and the man asks me to bring him a budweiser on my next visit.
Three girls walking toward me. "Como te llamas?"
"Angelica."
The other two don't reply. Either they don't have names, or they don't have interest in a goofy gringo with a Mexican sombrero.

Back to the less dusty tourist area. Everyone notices my shoes and begs to shine them. I enjoy the attention, declining each offer.

Back on the bridge, 25 cents to leave Mexico. Passport check. "What are you bringing home?"
I walk home. Beggars on the bridge. Crying out for money. I toss them coins and gum.
Tears suddenly well up. I'm crossing the border because I can. It's cleaner and quieter. The cries of the beggars are gone, but their sound still rings in my heart.