Day 1: Christmas, 1972, Toluca, Mexico
The program was over and the parishioners were bundling their sleepy children against the cold, the women wrapping rebozos around the babies and then over their own heads, until they looked like so many monochrome versions of the Madonna. The auditorium was almost empty, and I sent my brood out to wait in the station wagon while I went backstage to collect scattered shepherd costumes and remnants of halos. When I came out to the entrance again, no-one was left but my husband George and Raquel, one of the young women from our Wednesday Bible study group.
"There you are! Hurry," George said. "They're waiting for us!"
"Who?"
"In the car! We can talk while I drive."
There had been an earthquake in Nicaragua, Raquel explained on our way home. A big one; thousands dead in the capital city, thousands more homeless. Some of Raquel's friends in Mexico City were collecting blankets and medical supplies to send. They needed our car. And us, of course; George to drive, me because the car was registered in my name. We would be leaving immediately; the others would be ready to go before midnight.
I was willing, of course; who could refuse to help? But still, "What about the children?"
"They can stay at my house," Raquel said. "I've already asked my parents."
"They don't mind?" Five kids under eight years old?"
"They'll be delighted!" Raquel was polite, if not truthful.
"How far is it? When will we be back? Philip is scheduled for surgery the second of January."
"It's only a few days. We can make it. Besides, Raquel's parents can take him in if we're not back, can't they, Raquel?" George didn't seem worried.
I remembered another problem; Marcos and James were on my passport. They would have to leave the country when I did. But yes, I agreed that we could leave them with some people Raquel knew in Guatemala. As long as they wouldn't have to go into the earthquake zone with us.
And so it was that at midnight we sat shivering in a stony courtyard in Mexico City, warming our hands on mugs of chocolate while the men loaded, unloaded, and re-loaded the station wagon. Even with the most careful packing, we would be crowded. There were seven of us: George and I, Marcos and James, Raquel, Carlos and Paco.
Paco was a quiet, skinny young man in his early twenties. Carlos was a bit older, a bit bigger, a lot noisier. A hand-pumper, an arm-waver; he seemed to be preaching even when he was discussing placement of boxes. He carried a big floppy Bible stuffed with notes and tracts, which he called his machine-gun. "Have to keep my machine-gun handy," he said, wedging it onto the dashboard.
He insisted on bringing one other notable piece of equipment; an American army helmet. It didn't fit in easily. Paco wanted to leave it behind, but Carlos over-rode his objections, and we finally pulled out of the driveway with the helmet perched in back on top of James' pillow.
Carlos had a driver's license. He and George took turns, driving through the night. The rest of us slept fitfully. We had breakfast at dawn in a roadside cafe, coffee and a roll for the kids and me, eggs for the others. We were in the tropics by now, and the car felt sticky, even with the windows open. But we were making good time. We were at Tapachula, on the Guatemalan border, before noon.
Day 2: Tapachula, Chiapas
And there we waited. At the crossing, we were told that the boys and I needed a visa to enter Guatemala. There was an office in town where I could get one; we found the address easily. It was a private house, with a desk and a couple of chairs in an otherwise bare room beside the entrance. A maid told us that the "consulada" would be there in a moment. "Un momentito", which stretched the way momentitos do, to an hour, then two.
In mid-afternoon the consul bustled in. She looked like a house-wife in her Sunday dress, more at home wielding a broom than a visa stamp. She sat behind the desk, shaking her shoulders as if to settle the cape of authority on them.
"Your passports?" she said. I handed them over.
"But you're Canadian!"
"Yes," I said. I fostered a faint hope; maybe she would send me back to the embassy in Mexico City. I could go home to my kids!
"Canadians don't need visas for Guatemala," the consul said. "You go back and tell those idiots I said so!"
Back at the border, the "idiots" took our word for it and waved us through. I got the impression that they didn't much care. They had done their duty; whether this was to pass the buck or to earn the consul a tip, I couldn't tell.
The customs officers were not so lenient. They routed us into a bay, and ordered us to empty the car. All of it, down to the last sandwich. Then they proceeded to strip off the door panels and the hubcaps, remove the seats and the spare tire. They unpacked our bags, spreading the contents out on the cement floor, each item displayed separately to be examined at leisure. The shady area in front of the building filled slowly with onlookers, border guards and soldiers carrying rifles.
I had long ago adopted the trick of packing underwear and personal necessities on top of the rest of my clothing; when the polite Mexican border guards opened my suitcase, they always closed it quickly with an apologetic shrug; "Sorry, lady, it's just the rules." It didn't work here. My bras and panties were the first things laid out on the ground, one by one, for the idling soldiers to gawk at. They stayed there until the inspection was over.
It was hot and muggy. The boys stripped down to their underwear. George, Carlos and Paco took off their shirts. Raquel and the guards and I sweltered. At least the Guatemalans were used to it; Raquel and I suffered. We were both dressed in the long-sleeved blouses appropriate for a summer in Toluca, at 11,000 feet. I complained that I felt faint and nauseated, and Carlos selected a bag of saline solution from the ranks of medical supplies gathering dust on the floor. A soldier came over, gun at the ready. "Get away from there!"
"This lady is sick. I need some medicine for her," Carlos explained. The soldier looked at me, then gestured with the gun.
"Go ahead."
Carlos brought me the bag. "Drink this," he said. "It'll help."
It tasted warm and salty, like half-cooked soup, like tears. It was almost beyond me to swallow each mouthful, but with Carlos and the soldier looking on, I felt that I had to finish the whole bag. It did work; the nausea passed.
Finally the customs inspectors were satisfied that we had nothing hidden in the car itself. All our belongings were displayed, from my underwear at the left, to the medical supplies at the centre, ending with the contents of Carlos' duffel bag. At the far right, the army helmet sat alone. One of the soldiers went into the building to report. After another wait, the Comandante came out, swaggered out, I should say. His uniform was flawlessly ironed, his shirt fresh. He kept one hand on the holster of his pistol.
He started his inspection at my left, with my clothes. He stood looking down at the items at his feet, then stared at Raquel and me, as if deciding which one of us the clothes fit. He didn't hurry.
The next section; the children's clothes. Then Raquel's. George's. Nothing was passed over lightly, not our food, not the folded blankets, not the bottles of vitamin pills and aspirin. It took a long time.
When he reached the end, he stood staring, as if in horror, at the army helmet. He snapped out an order and one of the soldiers came over to us. "Who owns this helmet?" he asked. He escorted Carlos, as carefully guarded as if he were attempting to escape, over to where the Comandante waited.
"Is this helmet yours?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you an American?"
"No, I'm Mexican. You have my identification."
"Are you in the army? Are you CIA? Why do you have an American army helmet? Are you planning to fight? Are you a mercenary? Who are you working for?"
The best explanation Carlos could muster was that the helmet was a souvenir, and that he thought, since we were going into an earthquake zone, that there might be falling objects to protect himself from. It wouldn't have convinced a child.
At last the Comandante tired of his game. He turned away. "You can go now," he said over his shoulder.
Of course we couldn't. It took over an hour to re-assemble the car, pack our bags, and cram them all in, any old way this time. It was dusk before we pulled out onto the highway.
"You should have left that helmet at home," Paco said as soon as we were out of hearing.
"No, we're going to need it; you'll see," was Carlos' answer. "God told me to bring it. He has a purpose for it."
The Pan-American highway here was narrow; two lanes following a twisting cow-path through the mountains. In the sudden night of the tropics, the forests on either side were black. There were no house lights. But the area was populated enough, and it seemed that most of the residents were on the shoulder of the road. Most were whole families, on their way home from the fields, maybe, or just out for a breath of fresh air now that it was cool. They walked single file, the father in front, the mother carrying the baby, then the children in order of size, with the tiniest toddler at the very end. Other groups, mostly young men, were lying on the banks with their heads on the pavement. George drove slowly, keeping to the centre line, even in the face of oncoming traffic. Finally he stopped, and we curled up to sleep in the car until dawn.
Days 3 to 5: Guatemala City
We didn't make much better time in the daylight. There were trucks and buses to watch for, donkeys and wagons, and the inevitable walkers. At least we could see them. And the scenery was beautiful. But it was late and we were exhausted when we finally reached Raquel's friends' place in Guatemala City.
I remember sitting in the big kitchen, waiting for a bed to be assigned to my boys. James was eating Corn Flakes with the men; he never missed a chance for a meal. Marcos had fallen asleep in his chair. I was concentrating on staying awake, and smiling vaguely in the direction of anyone that spoke to me.
In the morning we discussed strategy over breakfast. Back home, there hadn't been time to collect the full car-load of disaster relief necessities, so the church had donated money instead. Paco had a shopping list: canned goods, powdered milk, rice, water purification tablets, beans and citrus fruit. We needed a case of Bibles or Scripture portions as well, Carlos said, and Paco wrote that in. I said that we should be carrying all our own food once we were in the devastated zone; we would be there to give, not to take. Raquel started a new list.
Someone remarked how well things had worked out; now that we would be leaving the children and their stuff behind, there would be room in the station wagon for the new supplies. "God had it all planned," he said. "If you had bought the stuff in Mexico, you wouldn't have been able to bring it." We all nodded solemnly.
It took two days to find everything on the lists. For me, it was a pleasant interlude; the others did the shopping, I waited at home with my boys. The house was built around two courtyards, each room open to the grassy centre. In the rear courtyard huge mango trees dropped ripe fruit, a luxury in cool central Mexico. Here they rotted on the ground. The boys and I collected the freshest and ate until we lost appetite for our meals.
We walked around the neighbourhood with Leti, our hostess' daughter. The house stood on a steep hillside, overlooking the city. Just across the road, a small earthquake had recently set off a landslide that carried away several houses; Leti pointed and I looked down onto fresh rubble far below. "Is it safe to live here. then?" I asked. "How solid is your land?"
"Oh, we're ok," Leti said. "God protects us."
Yes, of course. I didn't say it, but I knew I would be relieved when we came back to pick up the kids. Not that they were in any great danger here; it was only for a week. What could happen in a week?
The 30th of December we were finally ready to leave. A week after the earthquake, five days after our rushed departure from Toluca. I knew now that I would not be home to be with Philip when he had his surgery, that it had never been a possibility. I tried not to dwell on it. It would be wrong to begrudge any sacrifices made at a time like this, when so many were homeless and starving.
I smiled for my boys when we left. "Have fun with Leti!" I said.
Day 6: El Salvador
From Guatemala City, the Pan-American heads south through El Salvador, then crosses a corner of Honduras before entering Nicaragua. El Salvador and Honduras were at war, of sorts, over a disputed border line. We couldn't be sure where the checkpoints were, or what other difficulties might arise. The family in Guatemala gave us an address in San Salvador, the capital of El Salvador; they might be able to steer us correctly.
We crossed into El Salvador with no difficulty, either with visas or the loaded car. The road was better, straighter and less busy, and we made it to San Salvador by noon. We found our address in the city quickly; a large building, half furniture store, half living quarters. The owners welcomed us and insisted on feeding us lunch. Boiled rice, boiled green banana, dry salty cheese. The banana was like wet cotton batting with a slightly astringent quality to it; I couldn't finish mine.
In the car, Carlos and Raquel had been discussing powdered milk. Raquel didn't think we had enough; what about all the babies in Nicaragua who had lost their mothers? We had space, still, for a few of those big cans. And there was still money we hadn't spent. So after lunch, they went shopping again, while George and I rested under a big slow fan. It was late afternoon before we were underway, this time with a big bag of several dozen boiled eggs, still warm, to add to our food supply.
It was long gone dark, and most of us were sleeping when we came to the first checkpoint. Carlos was driving, Raquel curled up beside him. In the back seat, I leaned against the window, trying to stay asleep in spite of the door handle sticking into my ribs, George slumped beside me. On his right, Paco stretched out, taking up more than his share of the space. It was cold again, and I had a blanket up around my head.
The car had come to a stop. Voices with strange accents barked out questions; "De donde vienen?" (Where are you coming from?")
"Mexico." That was Carlos.
A border point. I would have to get out my passport. I was too sleepy. Maybe if I pretended to be still asleep...? I pulled the blanket tighter around my ears.
"Everybody out of the car." Not me. I was asleep. Paco was stirring, slowly. Through my eyelashes, I could see somebody's khaki midriff, and two hairy hands holding a machine gun. I shut my eyes tighter.
Crack! I knew that sound from the movies; the magazine on the gun. "Out!" the soldier shouted.
I was awake. We were all awake, and out of the car, stumbling over blankets, scattering pillows and shoes. We stood there, shivering in a circle of weapons, answering questions humbly, handing over our papers. Then it was over. The guns dropped. "You can go. Have a good trip," someone said. "Be careful, though."
We climbed back into the car gratefully, assuming our previous positions. But I didn't sleep for a long time.
Day 7: Honduras
As soon as we had put a few miles between us and the checkpoint, Carlos pulled over and stopped. "It's not safe to drive in the dark," he announced. "We'll sleep here." Which we did, shifting uncomfortably from time to time. At least it was cool.
In the morning we realized we were low on gas, and lost time trying to find a station in the villages we passed. It was New Year's Eve, and everything was closed. "Come back tomorrow," someone told us at the third gas pump we found.
We found a café that was still open; they served us coffee, fish and rice, and the owner let us use the washroom in his family's living quarters. While we ate, he went to find a friend who might have some gas. Afterwards, he led us down a mud road to a back yard and a rusty barrel half-full of gasoline, which his friend ladled into our tank using an empty oil can and a dented tin funnel. I hoped the gas was clean, although it didn't seem possible.
In spite of the delays we were all in good spirits. Raquel and Paco were good traveling companions, relaxed and cheerful, never complaining. Carlos talked constantly. George was quiet; unusually so, I realized. On the first leg of the trip, from Toluca to Mexico City, he had talked with Raquel the way he always did with young women, joking and telling outrageous stories, but since then he had let Carlos lead the conversation. Now I kept stealing sidelong glances at him, wondering. He seemed content enough; he still smiled at Raquel when she spoke to him. He would be all right, I decided; it was just the crowded conditions. I wouldn't worry.
It was mid-day before we got to the border of Honduras, mid-afternoon when we finally pulled away from the customs shed. Once again, the army helmet attracted notice and sharp questions; when we re-arranged our belongings after the inspection, Carlos buried it deep in the blankets. As we turned onto the highway, I saw two guns pointing at us from a stand of shrubby trees, camouflaged except for the last foot or so of barrel and the black saucer-sized mouth. George was driving, now. I think he saw the guns, too; he drove away very slowly, as if to show that we were not escaping.
The section of highway that crosses Honduras is short, just a thumb's breadth on the map, but when night fell we had not reached the Nicaraguan border. There had been a couple more checkpoints and the road in places was crowded with army trucks. We were still afraid to drive in the dark, so in a village that was little more than a gas station and a couple of houses, we stopped. A building wore a sign; "Restaurant", but there were no lights, and when we went over, we found the door locked. Across the way, a few soldiers lounged in a porch. Someone shouted drunkenly. Carlos went the other way, and knocked at the door of the remaining house.
The door opened a bare crack, letting a ray of light spill across the swept-dirt yard. Carlos spoke quietly for a minute, and the door swung wide. A man stepped out, gesturing towards us.
"Come in, come in!" he called. "Come in, all of you!"
Inside, our host introduced himself. He was the mayor of the town, he said. There would be nothing open tonight, no place to sell us food; it was New Year's Eve. But he would be honoured to count us as his guests for the night; would we stay?
And we would be honoured, too. The appropriate polite phrases were repeated, the women complimented, the host praised for his hospitality, our men for their generosity in taking succour to the earthquake victims, all with the required disclaimers; "No, no, no, you flatter us."
We were shown to rooms where we could change, mud-walled bedrooms with sagging beds; we would be sleeping there later, but first there was supper waiting. Once again it was rice, boiled green bananas and cheese, the worst cheese I had ever eaten; sour, salty and with an after-taste of dust. Our host's wife served us silently and retreated into the back of the house. The mayor ate with us. When we had cleaned our plates, he shouted, "Coffee!" and his wife reappeared with steaming cups. She collected the plates and left.
It was New Year's Eve, which meant that we had to stay up until midnight to see the year in. We sat on straight-backed wooden chairs around the table for three or four hours. Raquel and I, taking our cue from the woman of the house, pushed our chairs ever so slightly backwards so that we were out of the cone of light from the single bulb. The men formed a close circle, elbows on the table, and talked.
In a situation like this, George usually monopolized the conversation. He made an effort now, talking about the situation in Nicaragua, and our car-load of supplies. But Carlos had a better topic: our host himself. He knew someone in Costa Rica with the same name, a very important man; was our host related to him in any way? And with a little stretching of the rules, and a transformation of possibilities into certainties, it turned out that yes, the mayor was a kind of a cousin of Carlos' acquaintance, by now become a close friend, almost, you would say, a brother. Which made Carlos, then, the mayor's newest and best buddy.
Once this business was settled, George attempted again to turn the talk his way. But the mayor smiled politely at him, and turned back to Carlos, who had just said something about tracing their kinship back to Columbus. George subsided into a sulky silence.
In 1492, Carlos told us, the Jews in Spain had been ordered to convert to Catholicism or suffer the consequences. Many of them did; many others fled the country. Most of the sailors on Columbus' ships were Jews, Carlos said.
Of course, they had to take a "Christian" name to avert suspicion. But the names they chose were a secret code. By changing a letter or two, you could find the original family name. Carlos' own name was one of these; Benavides. If you changed the letters back, you would get Ben David, a good Jewish name.
In fact, Carlos informed the mayor, his name, Andrade, was another of these code names. He, Carlos, hoped the mayor was not offended by this, but he was a descendant of these brave Jewish sailors who had first discovered the new world!
No, the mayor was not offended. He threw his arms around Carlos, pounding him affectionately on the back; they were brothers!
All this took much longer to tell, that night; the story was corroborated with a great number of details, occasionally confirmed with an "Isn't that true, Paco?" to which Paco always nodded.
Finally, there were gunshots outside. Our host looked at his watch: "Midnight," he said. "Happy New Year, all!"
"Happy New Year!" we answered. The mayor pushed back his chair and we all rose. He shook the women's hands, embraced the men, pummeled Carlos' back again. The evening was done; we went to bed.
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©Susannah Anderson, 1999top