BECOMING
(continued)
by
Chris Sawyer Lauçanno
Chapter 24:
I Become a Resident of Piedras Negras
When my mother and I entered our new abode, we discovered in seconds that the interior was as faded and shabby as the exterior. At the front of the house, thick adobe walls separated three large side-by-side rooms: One blue, one red, one yellow, with gray cement floors. The yellow room in the center was the living room; two large wicker rocking chairs sat desultorily in the middle of the empty space. The walls, however, were decorated. Every conceivable object that could be suspended from a nail had been hung up: my toy pistol, an old picture of Atchee, Ray’s college diplomas, faded family portraits, a coiled rope, a hat. We were informed that Samuel, Ray’s newly-hired mine foreman, who had helped unpack the advance shipment, had decided to mount the array of objects removed from the crates.
|
The other two rooms were bedrooms. Mine was the red one. A mattress and box spring were propped on six gray wooden dynamite boxes. A large painted dresser stood at one end. The blue room had a bed on a brown metal frame, a dresser, and a small chipped nightstand with one of our old lamps sitting on top. At the rear of the house were the kitchen and bathroom. The kitchen, a nondescript pink space, with a pink tiled floor, cracked in places, was illuminated by a naked bulb hanging from a frayed cord in the middle of the room. A propane gas tank sat next to a two-burner cooktop. A small refrigerator, with an exposed motor on top, stood in one corner, and a white metal table advertising Corona beer, with three metal folding chairs, also bearing the Corona insignia, occupied the center. Two barred windows, on either side of the back door gave out onto a large garden where the thrilling silhouette of a huge palm tree could just be made out. The bathroom, next to the kitchen, was a crude affair: a toilet, a small washbasin with rust stains, and a shower stall—really just a square bounded by a slightly raised cement enclosure—without a shower curtain and with exposed pipes.
During our tour my mother was speechless but once it was complete, she strode back into the kitchen with tears in her eyes. Ray put his arm around her, and in his most mellifluous voice, explained that it was only temporary, for the next month or so.
“It's rough around the edges, I know, but it really can be made quite nice.”
My mother burst into tears. I decided to explore the backyard. When I reemerged happily a few minutes later, my mother had stopped sobbing.
“It's just like the Alamo!” I said.
Ray laughed. My mother even cracked a smile. I knew everything then was going to be fine.
During our tour my mother was speechless but once it was complete, she strode back into the kitchen with tears in her eyes. Ray put his arm around her, and in his most mellifluous voice, explained that it was only temporary, for the next month or so.
“It's rough around the edges, I know, but it really can be made quite nice.”
My mother burst into tears. I decided to explore the backyard. When I reemerged happily a few minutes later, my mother had stopped sobbing.
“It's just like the Alamo!” I said.
Ray laughed. My mother even cracked a smile. I knew everything then was going to be fine.
The morning after our arrival, Ray sent me out to buy coffee and pan dulce. It was probably no later than 9:00 o'clock but the air was already warm, almost shimmering, and what had appeared the night before as somewhat sinister streets, we're now congested with people and cars and bicycles and laughs and shouts. It felt welcoming. Since I had not been steered in any particular direction, I walked down to the nearby corner where a vendor was selling limeade, really just water with limes floating in it, and since he seemed pleasant enough I approached him and asked him where I could buy coffee. He introduced himself as Don Rafael. I introduced myself as Cristóbal.
My grade school Spanish was sufficient to get my question across. His response, however, was slightly lost on me but through gestures, I figured out that the grocery store was just down the street. A couple of minutes later, I saw the store front to which he had directed me. I walked in expecting to wander as inconspicuously as possible down the aisles until I found the coffee, then pay for it at the cash register. But there were no aisles. Instead a large counter filled the front of the store. Behind it an array of bins, boxes and canned goods stretched nearly to the ceiling. I divined, probably by observing the customers in front of me who were placing their orders and receiving goods, that the same procedure was also expected of me. When my turn came, I asked for Nescafé. The clerk asked what size. I replied “Grande.” To my amazement the clerk emerged holding the jar, the price was announced, and I thrust a 20-peso bill across the counter. She rang up the sale on an old wooden cash register and handed me change. I then remembered the pan dulce, and so I inquired again but was told that I needed to go to the panadería. I asked where that was and was given a series of directions, which I understood mainly because of the clear hand directions.
I went out of the shop and wandered along the streets, made a turn or two, and then suddenly I knew I was in the right street because the smell of fresh bread came wafting through the warming air. I walked in and picked out six pieces of the beautiful bread. The young woman smiled as she wrapped them in orange paper and handed them to me. I nearly danced back to the house, delighted with myself for managing this first solo excursion without any difficulty.
This single adventure revealed to me that somewhere inside my brain or my body or maybe just being, I knew the Spanish language. And while that morning I was aware of my limitations, I can't honestly say they were burdensome to me. I simply shamelessly jabbered and stammered and gesticulated and nodded at the jabbering and stammering and gesticulations. At this distance, my remembrance is only that one day I couldn't really speak the language, and the next I could. How I got from stage one to stage two or three is a mystery. All I really know is that within weeks I felt perfectly at home in my adopted—or perhaps original—tongue.
My grade school Spanish was sufficient to get my question across. His response, however, was slightly lost on me but through gestures, I figured out that the grocery store was just down the street. A couple of minutes later, I saw the store front to which he had directed me. I walked in expecting to wander as inconspicuously as possible down the aisles until I found the coffee, then pay for it at the cash register. But there were no aisles. Instead a large counter filled the front of the store. Behind it an array of bins, boxes and canned goods stretched nearly to the ceiling. I divined, probably by observing the customers in front of me who were placing their orders and receiving goods, that the same procedure was also expected of me. When my turn came, I asked for Nescafé. The clerk asked what size. I replied “Grande.” To my amazement the clerk emerged holding the jar, the price was announced, and I thrust a 20-peso bill across the counter. She rang up the sale on an old wooden cash register and handed me change. I then remembered the pan dulce, and so I inquired again but was told that I needed to go to the panadería. I asked where that was and was given a series of directions, which I understood mainly because of the clear hand directions.
I went out of the shop and wandered along the streets, made a turn or two, and then suddenly I knew I was in the right street because the smell of fresh bread came wafting through the warming air. I walked in and picked out six pieces of the beautiful bread. The young woman smiled as she wrapped them in orange paper and handed them to me. I nearly danced back to the house, delighted with myself for managing this first solo excursion without any difficulty.
This single adventure revealed to me that somewhere inside my brain or my body or maybe just being, I knew the Spanish language. And while that morning I was aware of my limitations, I can't honestly say they were burdensome to me. I simply shamelessly jabbered and stammered and gesticulated and nodded at the jabbering and stammering and gesticulations. At this distance, my remembrance is only that one day I couldn't really speak the language, and the next I could. How I got from stage one to stage two or three is a mystery. All I really know is that within weeks I felt perfectly at home in my adopted—or perhaps original—tongue.
As enthralled as I was with Piedras Negras, Eagle Pass was not particularly to my liking. It wasn't so much the town I disliked; it was the junior high school which I was forced to attend. Each school day I would ride my trusty Schwinn bicycle across the international bridge through town and then to the outskirts where the school was located. I enjoyed the ride but a sense of dread would overtake me each morning as I glimpsed the squat new school in the distance. By the time I was actually enrolled, only a month or so of school remained, as classes ended on May 24.
The classes themselves were not particularly difficult. The only challenge was Texas History which my fellow seventh-graders had been studying all year. I took an instant dislike to the teacher. This was probably due to her telling me in a true Texas drawl on the first day of class that there was really no point in my being enrolled as it would be impossible for me to master the material for the final exam and receive a passing grade.
“You should just sit this out this year. You can take it next year, providing of course you pass 7th grade.”
I simply responded that I welcomed learning the history.
“Suit yourself, young man,” said Mrs. Cafferty, folding her arms across her ample bosom, and staring at me with bulging blue eyes that seemed on the verge of bursting.
I read the entire textbook in a few days. By the time I sat for the multiple-choice final I was fully prepared. I got an A in the class.
I made acquaintances with a few of my classmates, but largely sat out the experience alone. I found the school to be quite odd. Probably 90% of the kids were Mexican American; every teacher I encountered was white. Speaking Spanish in school was against the rules, and students caught speaking their native language were given swats. I was already enough of a Marxist to see the class divide, to understand how bigotry and racism was on full display—or full disarray— before my very eyes. I did not want to return that fall, but realized I was hardly prepared, despite my rapid acquisition of spoken Spanish, to go to a school in Piedras Negras. But the autumn was a long way off.
The classes themselves were not particularly difficult. The only challenge was Texas History which my fellow seventh-graders had been studying all year. I took an instant dislike to the teacher. This was probably due to her telling me in a true Texas drawl on the first day of class that there was really no point in my being enrolled as it would be impossible for me to master the material for the final exam and receive a passing grade.
“You should just sit this out this year. You can take it next year, providing of course you pass 7th grade.”
I simply responded that I welcomed learning the history.
“Suit yourself, young man,” said Mrs. Cafferty, folding her arms across her ample bosom, and staring at me with bulging blue eyes that seemed on the verge of bursting.
I read the entire textbook in a few days. By the time I sat for the multiple-choice final I was fully prepared. I got an A in the class.
I made acquaintances with a few of my classmates, but largely sat out the experience alone. I found the school to be quite odd. Probably 90% of the kids were Mexican American; every teacher I encountered was white. Speaking Spanish in school was against the rules, and students caught speaking their native language were given swats. I was already enough of a Marxist to see the class divide, to understand how bigotry and racism was on full display—or full disarray— before my very eyes. I did not want to return that fall, but realized I was hardly prepared, despite my rapid acquisition of spoken Spanish, to go to a school in Piedras Negras. But the autumn was a long way off.
Chapter 25:
I Become an Older Brother
On May 9th, 1963, not more than a couple of weeks after our arrival, my mother and Ray went out for a night on the town—dinner, drinks and dancing. The next morning my mother gave birth to a baby boy. César Ricardo García weighed 3 kilos, had a great deal of black hair, huge blue-black eyes, and a long face. Unlike most newborns, at least the ones I had seen, he wasn't shriveled or misshapen. In fact, he was quite alert and beautiful. I was joyous.
“It must have been the dancing,” said my mother, “that made him come two months early.”
I knew he wasn't premature, she knew that I knew he wasn't premature, but we allowed the fiction to stand.
I found Ray's reaction curious. Although he was clearly impressed with the little creature, he didn't seem to have much desire, the way I did, to spend time at the hospital staring at him. He darted in and out, once with flowers, another time with perfume. After a few minutes at bedside, he would walk to the small crib next to my mother's bed, pick up the baby, and look him over. Then after a few soothing words, replace him in the bassinet. After a quick kiss for my mother, he would disappear again.
The night of César’s birth, Ray and I went out to dinner, and then to Ciro’s Bar, where Ray drank down a great number of tequila shots, smoked cigars, and bragged to the bartender about his new son. After several hours had passed, I suggested that we go to the hospital to visit, but Ray dismissed the idea. “They need rest,” he said.
Another tequila was ordered, another cigar smoked, and more banter exchanged with the bartender. Finally, I asked Ray if I could go home alone. He willingly consented, and I exited into the warm night. Outside the bar I looked for stars in the sky but saw only clouds. Crickets chirped in a shrill counterpoint to the bass voices drifting from Ciro’s. A couple of young lovers passed by arm and arm, followed by a drunk who slipped now and then off the curb and stumbled into the street. For several minutes I stood, unable to move, my eyes fixed on the scene but my mind elsewhere, engaged in turning the recent day’s events, over and over, trying to understand, to embrace all the enormous changes that had occurred in such a brief interval.
Eventually I headed toward home, but at the intersection I abruptly made a right turn instead of a left, and followed my feet, or so it seemed, to the hospital. Though it was late, I walked unchallenged past the receptionist and went up to my mother's room on the second floor of the small clinic. The door was ajar and the lights out. I peeked in. Ray was right: they were both asleep. I took a circuitous route back to the house, let the stiff wind that had arisen rather suddenly, blowing along the main avenue—Zaragoza—past the closed, rank-smelling market, and into little side streets where I had not yet ventured.
On the corner a tamale salesman was hawking his product. I bought one, and immediately turned on my heel and walked away. The heat of the cornhusk quickly penetrated through the rough pink paper scrap it was wrapped in, and I kept shifting it from hand to hand. Finally, at the next intersection, I sat down on the high curb, tore off the husk, and laid the tamale on the paper in my hand. Then after 30 seconds or so I stuffed the whole concoction into my mouth. It burned my tongue a little but I didn't spit it out. Instead, I held it in my mouth and sucked in air through the narrow opening between my teeth to cool it. It was delicious.
“It must have been the dancing,” said my mother, “that made him come two months early.”
I knew he wasn't premature, she knew that I knew he wasn't premature, but we allowed the fiction to stand.
I found Ray's reaction curious. Although he was clearly impressed with the little creature, he didn't seem to have much desire, the way I did, to spend time at the hospital staring at him. He darted in and out, once with flowers, another time with perfume. After a few minutes at bedside, he would walk to the small crib next to my mother's bed, pick up the baby, and look him over. Then after a few soothing words, replace him in the bassinet. After a quick kiss for my mother, he would disappear again.
The night of César’s birth, Ray and I went out to dinner, and then to Ciro’s Bar, where Ray drank down a great number of tequila shots, smoked cigars, and bragged to the bartender about his new son. After several hours had passed, I suggested that we go to the hospital to visit, but Ray dismissed the idea. “They need rest,” he said.
Another tequila was ordered, another cigar smoked, and more banter exchanged with the bartender. Finally, I asked Ray if I could go home alone. He willingly consented, and I exited into the warm night. Outside the bar I looked for stars in the sky but saw only clouds. Crickets chirped in a shrill counterpoint to the bass voices drifting from Ciro’s. A couple of young lovers passed by arm and arm, followed by a drunk who slipped now and then off the curb and stumbled into the street. For several minutes I stood, unable to move, my eyes fixed on the scene but my mind elsewhere, engaged in turning the recent day’s events, over and over, trying to understand, to embrace all the enormous changes that had occurred in such a brief interval.
Eventually I headed toward home, but at the intersection I abruptly made a right turn instead of a left, and followed my feet, or so it seemed, to the hospital. Though it was late, I walked unchallenged past the receptionist and went up to my mother's room on the second floor of the small clinic. The door was ajar and the lights out. I peeked in. Ray was right: they were both asleep. I took a circuitous route back to the house, let the stiff wind that had arisen rather suddenly, blowing along the main avenue—Zaragoza—past the closed, rank-smelling market, and into little side streets where I had not yet ventured.
On the corner a tamale salesman was hawking his product. I bought one, and immediately turned on my heel and walked away. The heat of the cornhusk quickly penetrated through the rough pink paper scrap it was wrapped in, and I kept shifting it from hand to hand. Finally, at the next intersection, I sat down on the high curb, tore off the husk, and laid the tamale on the paper in my hand. Then after 30 seconds or so I stuffed the whole concoction into my mouth. It burned my tongue a little but I didn't spit it out. Instead, I held it in my mouth and sucked in air through the narrow opening between my teeth to cool it. It was delicious.
Chapter 26:
I Become the Protagonist of My Own Adventure Story
I took this photo of Ray just before we headed up to the mine
from Rancho Santa Rosa.
from Rancho Santa Rosa.
In early June, Ray informed me that I would accompany him on his next trip to the mine. I was nearly delirious with excitement. The promise of adventure thrilled me but my delight was primarily because I looked on his invitation as an affirmation of my young manhood. To me, this extraordinary proposal meant that in his eyes I was fit for the rigors and responsibilities of an arduous, even potentially perilous sojourn into the wilderness. This was exactly the sort of challenge thrown at all my adventure heroes, and I determined on the spot to prove as brave and resourceful and equal to the endorsement as Jim Hawkins, Parsifal, Alec Ramsay, Tom Sawyer, Harvey Cheyne or Huck Finn.
The interval between the invitation and departure was spent in a flurry of preparation, for both our expedition and for getting help for my mother. Ray had hired the wife of Samuel, his mine foreman, to come and stay with my mother while we were gone. Gregoria was a large woman with a very broad smile and a very sweet demeanor. Her daughter Lucy was about ten but already quite capable of doing the usual house tasks. Ray installed them in my bedroom. I moved out to the carport. I liked being outside. The weather was warm, and I had more than a modicum of privacy.
Somewhere Ray had acquired a 1949 Studebaker pickup, and the numerous purchases we made got piled directly into the rear of the truck. We concluded our buying spree the day before we were to leave, and I was given the job of unloading and then repacking all of the goods. It took me well into the night. I had to struggle to lift and then position, and reposition, and reposition again the 25-kilo bags of beans and such, and the 35-kilo boxes of dynamite. I didn't mind. This was man's work.
One of Samuel's older sons, Raúl, about 25, arrived the morning of our departure to serve as our driver. In appearance something of a desperado, Raúl was a tall wiry man, whose cheek was puckered by a long, jagged scar. His worn black cowboy hat was pulled down in front, nearly obscuring his gentle brown eyes. A faded black shirt with pearl buttons was open to slightly above the navel, revealing a silver crucifix. Around his neck he sported a black and white bandana tied with the ends tucked in. His dungarees were stuffed into his scuffed boots. Had I met Raúl on the street, I would have crossed quickly to the other side. But a hearty laugh, a quick smile and a tight handshake, allayed my fears, and I was glad he was with us. Somewhere, though, old western movies like Stagecoach or Red River kept running through my head, and I had to blink to be sure that I hadn't accidentally walked into some backlot movie set. It was difficult to feel like any of this was actually happening. Only the horses seemed to be missing. The reel got even more dramatic when before climbing into the truck, Raúl pulled a holster and pistol from his bag and strapped it on. I went into the house to say goodbye to my mother and César. When I came out, Raúl's mother, Gregoria, and his little sister were leaning into the cab of the pickup bidding Raúl farewell.
Though the Fronteriza mine was located under only 150 miles or so northwest of the town of Múzquiz, it was clear within an hour of setting out from that last outpost that getting there wasn't going to be quick. The paved road turned to gravel quickly, and then to dirt. We bumped along, avoiding the deeper ruts when possible, averaging 10 to 20 miles per hour. But even this slow pace was far from constant. Tires went flat at an alarming rate; mud ensnared the vehicle on several occasions, requiring us to lay mesquite branches as a traction carpet for the wheels so that our pushing would not be in vain; at times we had to drive for miles alongside swollen arroyos until we could find an acceptable crossing point. Once safely on the other side, there was frequently no road at all, and Raúl would have to navigate his way around sagebrush, scrawny trees and boulders, until we could once again rejoin the rutted surface.
We arrived in the early evening at a crossroads where our dirt trail joined two gravel trails, one heading north the other west. In the clearing alongside, stood a large corrugated metal shed, with small high windows and an open door, which served as a restaurant and bar, though no sign announced its purpose. Several large flatbed trucks, which I learned were called metaleras, heaped with ore, were parked in front. Four or five saddled horses were tied up to a hitching rail. We stopped the truck and went inside.
A long wooden bar stretched across the rear of the building. In front of it were a few worn bare wooden tables. Calendar pinups adorned the walls, and gas lamps, really just large jars filled with kerosene, with wicks and hurricane covers, were mounted on the walls, dimly throwing light into the gloomy space. About 10 men, with cowboy hats and faded clothes and western boots occupied the interior. I noticed, with sudden alarm, that they all seemed to have revolvers jutting from holsters on their hips. Then I noticed that not only Raúl, but also Ray was packing. Everyone turned as we entered. Ray uttered a greeting; heads nodded and a few eventually responded with a “buenas tardes.”
We slowly crossed to a table in the corner. Ray sat down first, with his back to the wall; Raúl seated himself to Ray’s right. I started to plunk down opposite Ray, but he motioned me to take the chair to his left. I looked at him quizzically, then realized in a flash that the seating arrangement was not arbitrary; he did not want me to expose my back to the other patrons. We had now, for certain, entered a different world, out of sync with the normal passage of time. Here Raúl did not appear out of place. Here, the century had not advanced much. This was not a celluloid version of the Wild West; this was the real thing—gritty, ominous, spare—thick with menace beyond even a John Ford movie.
The bartender dislodged himself from behind the bar and sauntered over to our table. He was a large man, with sad, dull eyes, a pockmarked face, a drooping moustache and stringy black hair. He didn't exactly greet us, just told us what there was to eat and drink. Ray ordered food—some kind of stew I think—and beers and tequila shots for him and Raúl, and a mineral water for me. No one paid any attention to us.
When the barman returned with our food and drinks, Ray struck up a conversation with him, by way, I guess of informing him what the three of us were doing in this desolate country. Apparently satisfied with the explanation, the heretofore taciturn barkeeper immediately became effusive, providing tips on the road conditions to the northwest.
That night we slept out in the open alongside the road. The stars—more stars than I'd ever seen in my life—pulsated overhead. I lay awake for a long while, listening to Ray and Raúl snore, watching the sky, reflecting on the day, the ruggedness of the country and its few inhabitants, on the seeming time gap between here and everywhere else, on how secure I felt being with Ray, on how proud I was to accompany him, on how I was becoming a man. I didn't need my books anymore, didn't need to read about my boy heroes for I was now the protagonist of my very own adventure, an escapade wilder and more wonderful than any imaginary one I had ever, or could ever, conjure.
Sometime, in the afternoon of the next day, we spotted a ranch, really just a collection of two or three adobe huts, with a large corral in which a couple of chestnut-colored horses ambled. We halted at the open gate, tooted the horn, then drove in. Over the adobe archway the name of the ranch was scratched into the mud: El Milagro. As we approached the houses, I suddenly noticed two cowboys on horses converging on us. I pointed them out, and Raúl brought the truck slowly to a stop. One vaquero rode around to the driver’s side; the other remained a few yards away on the passenger side. Ray got out. The cowboy brought his horse a couple of steps nearer; his right hand lay on top of a rifle, halfway pulled out of its holster sleeve. He and Ray exchanged greetings, the horseman motioned us forward and then, with his partner, fell in behind the truck and followed us, heedless, it seemed, of the dust enveloping them as we drove the rest of the way to the houses.
An old woman emerged from the largest of the adobes and called out a hearty “Muy buenas.” We all responded in kind. The vaqueros pulled in front and dismounted quickly, keeping their eyes on us. Ray and Raúl looked straight at them, then rather ostentatiously removed their holsters, and placed them on the seat before walking toward the house. Names were exchanged, our business stated. And with a welcoming toothless smile, the old woman shooed us in, bidding us to sit at the large table that took up half the room. She ladled some beans into metal bowls, produced a stack of tortillas and a dish of pickled jalapeños, and brought them all on a tray to the table.
Over the course of the lunch we learned that she'd lived at El Milagro for a half-century. Her husband was out on the high desert range with the cattle; one of the cowboys who had escorted us in was her nephew, the other, a cousin. During the entire lunch she never sat down nor ate, nor did anyone else enter. She invited us to spend the night, but Ray turned down the invitation. As we drove out the path, we noticed the two vaqueros sitting on the porch of the bunk house, feet up on the rail. They waved; we waved back and headed off into the twilight.
The next day we arrived around noon, at another ranch, the Santa Rosa, a much larger, and obviously far more prosperous place than El Milagro, with a large bunkhouse and an even larger white-washed adobe hacienda. Again, we were greeted by a vaquero on horseback but this time the greeting was friendly. He had met Ray on his previous trip. He escorted us to the house. A short, stocky white-haired gentleman met us at the door. Don José was the owner of this huge sprawling cattle ranch that I learned later constituted 400 hectares.
He invited us in. The main room was well appointed with couches, chairs and a gilded mirror over a massive fieldstone fireplace. The dining room was also large, with a linen tablecloth covering an oblong table. The chairs were hand carved. He offered us a meal. His wife and two sons joined us. A maid brought in a platter heaped with steak, fried with onions and chiles, as well as beans and rice and tortillas. Over the course of the lunch, Ray negotiated to rent four pack burros and three horses.
After our meal, the contents of the pickup were unloaded onto the haltered pack burros. A cowboy was assigned to each to lead it up the precipitous path to the mine. We mounted the horses, and I was suddenly very glad that I had taken riding lessons as a child. We cleared the gate and began to ascend the hill. The horses seemed to know the way and trotted gently up a path on the edge of an arroyo. A small amount of water cascaded from above, tumbling over boulders. Vegetation grew in between craggy outcroppings: prickly pear, ocotillo, mesquite and pinyon trees, bluestems. The horses threaded their way carefully through the shrubs, even pausing occasionally to apparently decipher the best route.
We suddenly rounded a hill and above us loomed a huge towering cliff. A man-made opening punctuated the rock face. A few men had gathered around the entrance. I recognized Samuel; the others I didn’t know. We had reached the Fronteriza.
The interval between the invitation and departure was spent in a flurry of preparation, for both our expedition and for getting help for my mother. Ray had hired the wife of Samuel, his mine foreman, to come and stay with my mother while we were gone. Gregoria was a large woman with a very broad smile and a very sweet demeanor. Her daughter Lucy was about ten but already quite capable of doing the usual house tasks. Ray installed them in my bedroom. I moved out to the carport. I liked being outside. The weather was warm, and I had more than a modicum of privacy.
Somewhere Ray had acquired a 1949 Studebaker pickup, and the numerous purchases we made got piled directly into the rear of the truck. We concluded our buying spree the day before we were to leave, and I was given the job of unloading and then repacking all of the goods. It took me well into the night. I had to struggle to lift and then position, and reposition, and reposition again the 25-kilo bags of beans and such, and the 35-kilo boxes of dynamite. I didn't mind. This was man's work.
One of Samuel's older sons, Raúl, about 25, arrived the morning of our departure to serve as our driver. In appearance something of a desperado, Raúl was a tall wiry man, whose cheek was puckered by a long, jagged scar. His worn black cowboy hat was pulled down in front, nearly obscuring his gentle brown eyes. A faded black shirt with pearl buttons was open to slightly above the navel, revealing a silver crucifix. Around his neck he sported a black and white bandana tied with the ends tucked in. His dungarees were stuffed into his scuffed boots. Had I met Raúl on the street, I would have crossed quickly to the other side. But a hearty laugh, a quick smile and a tight handshake, allayed my fears, and I was glad he was with us. Somewhere, though, old western movies like Stagecoach or Red River kept running through my head, and I had to blink to be sure that I hadn't accidentally walked into some backlot movie set. It was difficult to feel like any of this was actually happening. Only the horses seemed to be missing. The reel got even more dramatic when before climbing into the truck, Raúl pulled a holster and pistol from his bag and strapped it on. I went into the house to say goodbye to my mother and César. When I came out, Raúl's mother, Gregoria, and his little sister were leaning into the cab of the pickup bidding Raúl farewell.
Though the Fronteriza mine was located under only 150 miles or so northwest of the town of Múzquiz, it was clear within an hour of setting out from that last outpost that getting there wasn't going to be quick. The paved road turned to gravel quickly, and then to dirt. We bumped along, avoiding the deeper ruts when possible, averaging 10 to 20 miles per hour. But even this slow pace was far from constant. Tires went flat at an alarming rate; mud ensnared the vehicle on several occasions, requiring us to lay mesquite branches as a traction carpet for the wheels so that our pushing would not be in vain; at times we had to drive for miles alongside swollen arroyos until we could find an acceptable crossing point. Once safely on the other side, there was frequently no road at all, and Raúl would have to navigate his way around sagebrush, scrawny trees and boulders, until we could once again rejoin the rutted surface.
We arrived in the early evening at a crossroads where our dirt trail joined two gravel trails, one heading north the other west. In the clearing alongside, stood a large corrugated metal shed, with small high windows and an open door, which served as a restaurant and bar, though no sign announced its purpose. Several large flatbed trucks, which I learned were called metaleras, heaped with ore, were parked in front. Four or five saddled horses were tied up to a hitching rail. We stopped the truck and went inside.
A long wooden bar stretched across the rear of the building. In front of it were a few worn bare wooden tables. Calendar pinups adorned the walls, and gas lamps, really just large jars filled with kerosene, with wicks and hurricane covers, were mounted on the walls, dimly throwing light into the gloomy space. About 10 men, with cowboy hats and faded clothes and western boots occupied the interior. I noticed, with sudden alarm, that they all seemed to have revolvers jutting from holsters on their hips. Then I noticed that not only Raúl, but also Ray was packing. Everyone turned as we entered. Ray uttered a greeting; heads nodded and a few eventually responded with a “buenas tardes.”
We slowly crossed to a table in the corner. Ray sat down first, with his back to the wall; Raúl seated himself to Ray’s right. I started to plunk down opposite Ray, but he motioned me to take the chair to his left. I looked at him quizzically, then realized in a flash that the seating arrangement was not arbitrary; he did not want me to expose my back to the other patrons. We had now, for certain, entered a different world, out of sync with the normal passage of time. Here Raúl did not appear out of place. Here, the century had not advanced much. This was not a celluloid version of the Wild West; this was the real thing—gritty, ominous, spare—thick with menace beyond even a John Ford movie.
The bartender dislodged himself from behind the bar and sauntered over to our table. He was a large man, with sad, dull eyes, a pockmarked face, a drooping moustache and stringy black hair. He didn't exactly greet us, just told us what there was to eat and drink. Ray ordered food—some kind of stew I think—and beers and tequila shots for him and Raúl, and a mineral water for me. No one paid any attention to us.
When the barman returned with our food and drinks, Ray struck up a conversation with him, by way, I guess of informing him what the three of us were doing in this desolate country. Apparently satisfied with the explanation, the heretofore taciturn barkeeper immediately became effusive, providing tips on the road conditions to the northwest.
That night we slept out in the open alongside the road. The stars—more stars than I'd ever seen in my life—pulsated overhead. I lay awake for a long while, listening to Ray and Raúl snore, watching the sky, reflecting on the day, the ruggedness of the country and its few inhabitants, on the seeming time gap between here and everywhere else, on how secure I felt being with Ray, on how proud I was to accompany him, on how I was becoming a man. I didn't need my books anymore, didn't need to read about my boy heroes for I was now the protagonist of my very own adventure, an escapade wilder and more wonderful than any imaginary one I had ever, or could ever, conjure.
Sometime, in the afternoon of the next day, we spotted a ranch, really just a collection of two or three adobe huts, with a large corral in which a couple of chestnut-colored horses ambled. We halted at the open gate, tooted the horn, then drove in. Over the adobe archway the name of the ranch was scratched into the mud: El Milagro. As we approached the houses, I suddenly noticed two cowboys on horses converging on us. I pointed them out, and Raúl brought the truck slowly to a stop. One vaquero rode around to the driver’s side; the other remained a few yards away on the passenger side. Ray got out. The cowboy brought his horse a couple of steps nearer; his right hand lay on top of a rifle, halfway pulled out of its holster sleeve. He and Ray exchanged greetings, the horseman motioned us forward and then, with his partner, fell in behind the truck and followed us, heedless, it seemed, of the dust enveloping them as we drove the rest of the way to the houses.
An old woman emerged from the largest of the adobes and called out a hearty “Muy buenas.” We all responded in kind. The vaqueros pulled in front and dismounted quickly, keeping their eyes on us. Ray and Raúl looked straight at them, then rather ostentatiously removed their holsters, and placed them on the seat before walking toward the house. Names were exchanged, our business stated. And with a welcoming toothless smile, the old woman shooed us in, bidding us to sit at the large table that took up half the room. She ladled some beans into metal bowls, produced a stack of tortillas and a dish of pickled jalapeños, and brought them all on a tray to the table.
Over the course of the lunch we learned that she'd lived at El Milagro for a half-century. Her husband was out on the high desert range with the cattle; one of the cowboys who had escorted us in was her nephew, the other, a cousin. During the entire lunch she never sat down nor ate, nor did anyone else enter. She invited us to spend the night, but Ray turned down the invitation. As we drove out the path, we noticed the two vaqueros sitting on the porch of the bunk house, feet up on the rail. They waved; we waved back and headed off into the twilight.
The next day we arrived around noon, at another ranch, the Santa Rosa, a much larger, and obviously far more prosperous place than El Milagro, with a large bunkhouse and an even larger white-washed adobe hacienda. Again, we were greeted by a vaquero on horseback but this time the greeting was friendly. He had met Ray on his previous trip. He escorted us to the house. A short, stocky white-haired gentleman met us at the door. Don José was the owner of this huge sprawling cattle ranch that I learned later constituted 400 hectares.
He invited us in. The main room was well appointed with couches, chairs and a gilded mirror over a massive fieldstone fireplace. The dining room was also large, with a linen tablecloth covering an oblong table. The chairs were hand carved. He offered us a meal. His wife and two sons joined us. A maid brought in a platter heaped with steak, fried with onions and chiles, as well as beans and rice and tortillas. Over the course of the lunch, Ray negotiated to rent four pack burros and three horses.
After our meal, the contents of the pickup were unloaded onto the haltered pack burros. A cowboy was assigned to each to lead it up the precipitous path to the mine. We mounted the horses, and I was suddenly very glad that I had taken riding lessons as a child. We cleared the gate and began to ascend the hill. The horses seemed to know the way and trotted gently up a path on the edge of an arroyo. A small amount of water cascaded from above, tumbling over boulders. Vegetation grew in between craggy outcroppings: prickly pear, ocotillo, mesquite and pinyon trees, bluestems. The horses threaded their way carefully through the shrubs, even pausing occasionally to apparently decipher the best route.
We suddenly rounded a hill and above us loomed a huge towering cliff. A man-made opening punctuated the rock face. A few men had gathered around the entrance. I recognized Samuel; the others I didn’t know. We had reached the Fronteriza.
NOTE BENE: Alyscamps Press in Paris, published the most recent chapbook by Chris Sawyer-Lauçanno, Just Words: Homage to Roman Jakobson, based on notes he kept when he was under Jakobson's tutelage as a graduate student. These were later discovered by the author's granddaughter when sorting through items to go to UC Santa Barbara as part of Sawyer-Lauçanno's archives there.