On Saturday I crossed over into Mexico. Before heading over, I called a journalist who covers the crime beat for one of the local papers. He said his paper has forbidden writers to cross into Mexico. People have told me stories about journalists being kidnapped and tortured. One was beaten to death. Several are still missing.
An article in Sunday's New York Times says:
"Traffickers have gone after the media with a vengeance in these strategic border towns where drugs are smuggled across by the ton. They have shot up newsrooms, kidnapped and killed staff members and called up the media regularly with threats that were not the least bit veiled. Back off, the thugs said. Do not dare print our names. We will kill you the next time you publish a photograph like that.
'They mean what they say,' said one of the many terrified journalists who used to cover the police beat in Reynosa. 'I’m censoring myself. There’s no other way to put it. But so is everybody else.' "
Looking out over the river into Mexico, its hard to get a sense of what's going on. The park is empty. It doesn't look like there is much activity. I put 50 cents into the turnstile and walk through the U.S. side onto the bridge that connects Roma with Miguel Aleman. On the Mexican side, nobody stops me or checks my passport. I walk right through.
One block in, I see that business in Miguel Aleman is bustling. It's 10:30 a.m. on a Saturday, and all the shops are open. Even the travel agency is open. Stores selling cowboy boots, baby clothes, jewelery, and other items have their doors open, shopkeepers stand on the sidewalk. Street vendors are selling honey on blankets. The taco stands are already serving customers. The streets are filled with cars. I see mostly relatively new American cars, a white Jaguar, and a white Lincoln Navigator. Walking through the streets, I don't see any bullet holes or broken windows. People have told me that there have been shootings reported in town, but I don't see any major damage. I change $20 in for pesos and walk into a restaurant.
There's an old man and a young guy in his late twenties. I'm not sure if they work there. "Ya esta abierta la cocina?" I ask. Yes, the kitchen is open. "For here or to take-away?" the old man responds, in Spanish. "For here," I say, "an order of tacos." I tell them I'm going to buy a newspaper and come back to eat. I buy the local newspaper and also the paper from nearby Reynosa. "MASSACRE," the headline says. "16 DEAD at party." There's a photo of soldiers standing around small body-sized mounds that are covered in blue tarps. Below it there's a photo of a woman crying. The caption says, "The wife of one of the dead blames (Mexican president) Felipe Calderon." The local paper, The Times, is printed on one sheet of paper, double sided. In grainy type the front page says--- Laredo, Texas--- "Detienen a dos hombres por traficar mariguana."The old man snaps orders at two slightly disheveled men, one in his twenties, one in his late forties. The old man walks to the refrigerator and pulls out a head of lettuce and a tomato. The younger man gets a wooden cutting board from the kitchen. The old man starts cutting up the vegetables. The young man disappears into the kitchen and comes back few minutes later with a piece of fried chicken. The old man minces it on the cutting board. I read my newspapers.
"Are you from Roma?" He asks me. No, but I'm visiting a friend there, I say. "Hey, I heard Miguel Aleman, used to be called San Pedro, but they changed the name, for Mexico's old president. Did you live here when it was called San Pedro?" He says they changed the name in 1950, he was 20 at the time. He says he's lived here is whole life. "Do you have family in Roma?" I ask. Yes. Two daughters. His grand-daughters go to middle school in Roma. Ask them if they've seen the tall guy with the curly hair, I say, they've probably seen me there.
A man in a blue shirt and straw hat walk in. They speak in muffled tones, i hear the word "Zeta" mentioned several times. The guy in the straw hat looks over at me, "he speaks Spanish," the old guy says. "How do you say vacation from school in English?" he asks me. Spring break, I say. "Do you think a lot of people have come here for spring break?" I ask. They tell me maybe people will come. They say it's safe here for "gente normal" normal, non-drug dealing people. The violence is at night they say. After 8:00 everybody has to be inside. Most of the violence is in the hills, outside of the town, they say. I ask if there have been incidents right here in the neighborhood, outside of the restaurant. Yes, but not recently. They recently through a grenade into a car near my house, the man in the blue shirt says. It blew up, and then the gas tank blew up, one of his neighbor's house caught on fire.
The guy in the blue shirt leaves. "That's my cousin." the old man says. I end up chatting with him for about two hours about the town, Mexico, and his family. He owns the restaurant and the hotel. I ask if I can take his picture. Yes. He gives me his business card and says I have a home there whenever I come back.
I walk out and snap a few pictures of the businesses and cars. There's one car with a broken circle punched in the window. Bullet hole?
I walk back towards the bridge. There are Mexican soldiers in green uniforms standing guard. I put a quarter in the turnstile and walk though. There are about 12 cars waiting to get through. There's a bus of tourists waiting. Walking over the bridge can see the signs for Jack in the Box, Payless Shoes and the Dollar Store. There are only three people ahead of me in the pedestrian lane.
"What were you doing in Mexico?" the border patrol agent asks. I've spent about a week in Roma and I wanted to see the sights I say. He doesn't search the white plastic Wal-Mart bag I've used to carry my camera. Welcome to the United States, the sign says.
