Pearly Pits

At 6:00 p.m. Monday afternoon, I got on a bus in Mexico City. Destination: Tapachula, Chiapas. 18 hours later, after enduring dubbed versions of Deadliest Catch, (Ay Caray!), a tremendously horrible Eva Mendes movie, (Russian Roulette) and waking up to Alvin and the Chipmunks, (my personal hell) I finally arrived.

A little background. Tapachula is a border town and is one of the most popular crossing areas for Central American migrants to cross through to Mexico. Therefore, although Tapachula likes to pride itself on being the Pearl of Mexico, I tend to think of it more as the Armpit of Mexico. It's coastal and tropical, which of course means hot and humid. And although I'm enjoying the heat after 5 weeks of dampness and cold in Mexico City, I am not enjoying the daily thunderstorms. These thunderstorms are epic and contribute to two more star qualities of Armpit-land: flash floods and sporadically consistent power outages. I know, it's sounding more and more like New Orleans. However, whereas we have amazing food, culture, architecture and music to save us from being deemed the unsavory, stinky body part of the United States, Tapachula has no such luck. It's droopy and draggy like any other border town you may encounter. Its buildings and public spaces have been ravaged and robbed of any possibilities of beauty that may have existed at some point in the distant past. Apart from the kindness of the people, it's completely charmless.

So, I have returned (yes, I have been here before) to the Black Pearl. I immediately dumped my backpack at the house of a friend (who I had met once-a curious, surferish Japanese Mexican guy who works for the National Comision of Human Rights in Mexico City) of a friend. I quickly brushed my teeth and rushed off to spend the day volunteering at the Albergue Belen, not even bothering to change my clothes.

An albergue is something like a safe house for migrants who are in transit. Mexico's involvement with immigration doesn't just include the Mexican diaspora to the US, Mexico also serves as the gateway to the US for other migrants, mainly Central American. The majority of Central American migration is spurred by either economic or political hardships or destruction caused by natural disasters. Although Guatemala topped the charts in immigration volume in the 80s and early 90s due to an intensely violent civil war, Honduras and El Salvador have now surged forward to claim that number one spot. However, while Hondurans, Salvadorans, Guatemalans, and Nicaraguans enjoy the freedom of movement amongst themselves (as the result of a regional treaty, the CA-4), they do not enjoy such luxuries in Mexico. Therefore, in order to obtain the oh-so-coveted American Dream, they must first pass illegally through Mexico.

Crossing the Mexico-Guatemala border is generally the easy part, as a result of its nearly incomprehensible porosity. It's getting to the Mexico-US border that is hard, even life-threatening. This journey through Mexico is marked by difficulties resulting from a nativist immigration policy in Mexico, widespread corruption at all levels of government, and extreme violence administered by many, but mainly concentrated in the hands of gang members who make a living and a reputation by exploiting and violating passing migrants. It is also complicated by the mode of transportation chosen by migrants to maintain obscurity: riding on the tops of a series of freight trains to the US border, jumping on and off as mandated by necessity and safety. Here, danger comes in the form of preying gang members who have claimed the tops of these trains as their territories, and exhaustion, as many are killed or mutilated as a result of falling off while sleeping.

Therefore, many of these migrants stop in at one of the many albergues, usually run by religious organizations, especially the Catholic church, to rest up before continuing on. They are given food, a bed, donated clothes and medical attention while they spend their allotted three days at the albergue.

This is where I spent my day, listening to stories, preparing dinner and planting trees. One migrant came and introduced himself, making sure I had written his name down to receive dinner. As we talked, I slowly realized what his shirt read:

Down in da Parish we love da Mardi Gras

He was admitedly a litte freaked out by my over-exhuberance as I explained to him that his shirt was from my city. My home. He doesn't really get it, he's never been to New Orleans, but it spurred a conversation about another little thing we all have in common: hurricanes. An older man sitting on a bench next to us told me that he had heard all about Katrina, muy feo, and softly asked if my family and friends had been affected, if it had touched our lives. When I said yes, he offered his condolences and said he understood how it felt. Everyone else nodded silently and we were instantly bonded. They recognized me as a fellow sufferer, although I knew that what they were living, the hardships that were touching them and their families, were above and beyond what I had experienced with Katrina, with anything. It wouldn't have mattered if I had tried to explain the difference to them, their compassion and empathy had already been extended. A gift that can't be given back.