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I regained my freedom.
Yup, I just spent 3 days in jail. Sounds a little weird, doesn’t it? Well maybe it is nothing so special, but it was an interesting experience I would like to share with you.
After returning from a conference in Brazil, I spent a night at a friend's house in Mexico City before I was going to head back to my little town Sayulita, north of Puerto Vallarta, on the west coast of Mexico. On boarding the bus they robbed my wallet with the tourist visa. Unsuspecting, I planned to settle the problem when I got back home. What I did not expect was the random control by the "migración" half way through in the middle of the night. They checked the bus, and because I could only show them my passport I was "illegal." They made me wait an hour in the back of a pick-up truck and then deported me together with a "real" illegal guy from El Salvador 60 km to a remand prison in San Miguel de Allende. I had to empty my pockets, take my shoestrings out of my shoes and then they threw me in a cell with 4 guys from El Salvador and 3 from Honduras. I was still fairly sleepy and had no idea that was going to happen, or how long it would take to happen. Otherwise I would have taken a book along... I was allowed to get a thin mat and a blanket from the stock and then good night. "Click," the door locked behind me. The next morning I woke up a little confused, but still on the inside of the bars. I got to know my cell mates and then we were served breakfast packed in fast-food Styrofoam: Scrambled eggs, beans, rice, and tortillas. With it a plastic fork, a paper napkin, and a small bottle of water. I asked the guard what they were going to do with me but he referred me to “migración.” He said they had only rented the facilities. The same response I received upon my request to make a phone call. “Migración” was to decide on that. In the afternoon we swept and mopped our top floor. The prison was relatively small, two floors with 8 cells each. They were about 150 square feet, three closed walls and bars towards the courtyard. And a toilet in the corner. Maybe I’ll have the guts to go back the next couple of days to take some pictures. So we cleaned the place nicely with a hose, which also served as a quick, cold shower. After that I was allowed to make a phone call and warn my people that my arrival would be delayed until – no idea when.
For dinner we had noodles with mayonnaise and bread. And then we heard and told many stories: from Honduras, from El Salvador, from Germany, our different destinies. What I learned there was really touching: We only hear about tons of Mexicans who don’t survive crossing the US border or the desert, looking for a better living. But the guys in my cell, between 16 and 25 years old, have a much longer distance to bridge. Getting through Guatemala to the Mexican border is the easiest part. Then they have to cross the south Mexican border illegally, and travel through this huge country, before they meet their “coyotes” who charge thousands of dollars to smuggle them across the border. They spend days and nights hanging hidden under deadly trains, hiking, freezing, starving, and in constant fear of armed robberies, or of being caught by the police or the “migración.” Anything to escape their homeland which offers no perspective. They all fit in the same profile: Lowest level of poverty, torn families with fathers who left or were murdered, and an employment history which goes back to the age of 12, 10, or even 6. The ultimate goal however is not long-term emigration. The dream is to earn enough money in the States within approximately 5 years to create a livelihood at home with a house, a family, and a job opportunity.
The next day a Spaniard joined us. His name was José, a very special character: Tall, slim, intense eyes, brown leather jacket, jeans, black cowboy boots; and holding an old, precious copy of Don Quijote. His story was quite paradox: Not only had he served as a police officer in Spain for 7 years, but he also trains Mexican police in anti-terrorism and intelligence operations. He has: 1. Lived in Mexico for more than two years, 2. Is married to a Mexican, and 3. has a Mexican son. This is about as legal as a foreigner can get in this country. Although he is about to adopt the Mexican citizenship, he could not find his work permit when checked by the police, and so he became number 9 in our club.
The first – empty – pages of Don Quijote were then abused to record the different stories of our migrants. Some of them have tried up to 4 times already. Their destiny is pretty certain, they will be deported back to their home country, until they have saved up money, or received enough from friends or family from the US to start the next trip. With the exception of the two brothers ages 16 and 17, they all came on different routes. Still they were all caught in the same place, which is where their paths crossed: The railway police trapped them offering bread and coffee to the hungry travelers. Exactly this – “Pan y Café – is now the title of their story we wrote down. Maybe we’ll find someone to publish it, there is even potential to make a movie out of it.
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Writer Profile
Hodg
I'm not a writer, but once in a while everybody has to vent something.
I had to do that in the summer of 2002. That's when I came up with this song. The title less reflects the content, rather the process of creation.
Time to vent again... But still alive.
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