But she wasn’t laughing. Instead she turned to me with wide, serious eyes and said, “Alma, it’s as good as a guide. We just need to follow the tracks . . . at a safe distance . . . and we will find our way. Then once we get across the state border, we can decide how best to get to Oaxaca City.”
As we walked around the town square that afternoon, we noticed a sharp contrast between the locals, hurrying about in light dress, and the obvious migrants, huddled in small groups, wearing baseball caps, hooded sweatshirts, and backpacks. I took my backpack off my back and carried it on my arm like a purse, while Rosa, who wore her embroidered tote bag with its strap across her chest, reached in and pulled out the keys to Tito’s truck. She let them dangle in her hand as we walked about. Whether we looked like locals or not, we certainly didn’t look like Central Americans waiting for the train.
First, we headed to a small mercado, where we settled on a stack of tortillas, a covered plastic bowl of beans, extra water bottles, and then after some excited discussion, a small clay pot, matches, and masa with vanilla and cinnamon, so we could make warm atole to drink at night. The latter I tucked away in my backpack. Sitting on the grass, we each ate one tortilla and a finger scoop of beans, then packed the rest away in Rosa’s tote. We took turns stretching out for a short nap; then, after refilling our water bottles, we set out walking, keeping a good distance between us and the train track, but close enough to follow its path.
Within half an hour we were out of the city, first walking past farmland and then into stretches of forest and fields of green. The first hour was exhilarating as we walked along embankments, through brush and beneath shaded trees, but soon we tired. Our pace slowed, and our feet ached. While we kept fairly close to the tracks, we had yet to see a train pass, so when we reached a steep ravine, we chose to dash across the train’s bridge, our hearts pounding even though no sight nor sound of the Beast chased us. The sun had been descending for some time, and while there was still light, a cool breeze began to blow, which at first was soothing, but soon crept through our clothes, turning the day’s sweat into a chilly dampness. We trudged past farmland again and could hear occasional cars on a distant road, but we had not yet encountered any living being beyond squirrels and birds and lizards. We took turns taking the lead, but a blister began to form on my left heel, and so I eased up and let Rosa pass. In a trance, I followed her for at least another hour, my eyes fixed to the ground before me.
Suddenly she stopped and I almost ran into her. Glancing up, I spotted the ruins of a building silhouetted against the deepening gray sky. She turned to me and I nodded. All I could think about was removing my heavy shoes and letting my feet breathe. Without a hint of caution, we stumbled toward it, only to be stopped by a curt, “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
I was stunned. For hours we had trekked with no one else in sight. As I stood, my mouth open wide, Rosa wheeled around and pulled me into her arms, holding me tight, perhaps out of both fear and a need to protect me. She took in a breath and spoke to the shadows beneath the trees, “We are only women. We are harmless,” words that should never be used in such a situation, for to tell a hungry coyote that you are a vulnerable rabbit is beyond foolish.
There was a rustle of branches, hushed whispers, then the sound of approaching footsteps, quick and firm. “You are alone?” the same voice asked.
“Yes.” This time I answered, perhaps because Rosa now recognized the error of such a response, but also, I had detected a nervous, youthful quality to the voice—though it then dawned on me that in Chiapas, youth did not preclude danger.
“Step apart. One of you, come forward slowly. Muy despacio.”
Rosalba loosened her grasp and took a few steps toward the voice. Suddenly three figures appeared from the brush; one held back pointing his gun toward Rosa, while the others approached. To my surprise, they were smaller than her. By Mexican standards, Rosa was a tall woman, so most men were at least her height. These men, who I soon saw were merely boys, were inches shorter. One tugged at her bag, pulling it over her head; the other searched along her hips, perhaps for money or weapons, but did not discover the coin purse in her waistband. Next it was my turn. After tossing my pack to his friend, one patted me down along my back and sides, avoiding my front. He looked no older than ten and smelled like a chicken coop.
As the gunman approached us, Rosa took my hand, lifted her chin and said to him calmly, “We are simply passing through. Please let us go on our way.”
He was older and taller than the others, perhaps closer to my age. His thick mop of hair hung in his face, casting a shadow that kept his eyes hidden.
“What are you doing out here alone?” He spoke to us in Spanish, but the boy looking through Rosa’s bag shouted something to him in the Indian language of my grandmother. I knew the sounds, the rhythm, but I did not comprehend the meaning. I turned to Rosa who whispered, “Our food, I think he said something about our food.”
“Where are you going?” he asked again.
“To Oaxaca. Our father is waiting. He will worry if we do not hurry, so please let us go.” Rosalba’s voice quivered. She was squeezing my hand so tightly I thought I had screamed, but it was the boy’s laugh that pierced the night.
“To Oaxaca and your father is waiting? ¿De verdad? Well, he has a bit of a wait anyway, so a few more minutes won’t matter.” With that he motioned us to walk ahead in the direction of the building and spoke sharply in that other language to the younger boys, who followed carrying our bags.
They wanted something certainly, something we would surely lose, but that was not the only thought that bore down on me as we entered the decaying shelter. It was the weight of what we had taken on with so little planning. Rosa, whose head was forever in the heavens, would say, “Put our faith in the Virgin of Guadalupe, and we will find our way,” while I walked with feet planted firmly on the ground, believing that if so many others had made this journey, then we could as well. But certainly, those others did not just dash out the door in a fit of anger.
Trembling, we stepped through the doorway with hands tightly clasped. I saw that the shelter was missing one wall and most of a roof. A small campfire had been set up on this open end with pieces of wood neatly stacked in a pit surrounded by stones. A few herbs floated in a chipped clay pot of water nearby—apparently the beginnings of their evening meal. Rosalba and I circled to the far side of the pit. The boys followed, only to lay the packs at our feet and step back beside their companion.
I could see his face now in the firelight. His eyes were almost black and his brows thick under a disheveled horse’s forelock of dark hair. A shadow of a mustache was beginning above his full lips. To our surprise, he lowered the gun to his side. “You will need protection,” he was saying matter-of-factly, and nodded toward our packs. “Share your food, and we will guide and protect you on the rails.”
“The rails? What are you talking about?” I asked, until I realized he assumed we were planning to take the Beast. “But we aren’t taking the train! We are walking . . . and taking the bus.”
As Rosa stepped forward, he instinctively raised the gun but then lowered it again. She paused, her eyes on the gun, and then spoke. “Our father is waiting for us just across the border, and then from there, we are taking a bus . . . to Oaxaca City, so we must hurry. He is waiting.” Rosa caught my eye sharply.