Chihuahua, Mexico May 1985

Cd. Chihuahua, May 19, 1985, Sunday morning

            Today, one tiny cloud, like cotton, freed by the wind

                        Passed over Chihuahua;

            An explorer in search of new worlds,

                        Mapping the dry crevices below,

            Eyes fixed on any rare gems that might flash

                        In a glimmer of sun.

            If it were the Concourse on High upon us, I would say

                        It was seeking out a chosen soul in the desert;

           

But this was a lonely little cloud,

Like a scout sent looking for water,

Its own life soon scattered into thinner strands,

And left the pale blue sky empty

Above the entire world of Chihuahua.

May 20, 1985, Monday—conversation with a student

Why do you like to travel? he asked.

My mind sorts through thoughts: to find out what I am made of, places seen and the people I have known. And for a moment my mind wanders into the maze of memories; travels here and there filled with faces of those I briefly passed with a sketch of their lives; souls that do many things; some happier than others.  I see my frailties in them, those flaws I’ve not conquered in myself. When will come the victory… my mind is straying from the question?  Perspective, I finally replied, to get perspective.

The student wore a western-style shirt, the kind with the button-down snaps over the pockets. He recalled a film he saw about hippies in the US leaving home to experience new ways. Discontented parents detested their own seed, like farmers refusing their crops grown wild. The student said that he could see films and photos of places far from home on TV and didn’t need to travel.  His contentment was at home. He noted that community problems couldn’t be solved if the community dissolved.

May 21, 1985 from the higher streets of Cd. Chihuahua

You can see the sierras; magic grey walls, that store a history under the vast sky. 

The city appears a mundane thing before them.

The park today gets a facelift and a haircut; the sound of chainsaws and hammers cutting and pounding.  The ground is full of limbs near death and gravel. Birds watch a worker toss them grass seed.  What a feast awaits them.

70% of all Tarahumara (Rarámuri) children die before the age of five!

Near Parque Hidalgo a Rarámuri woman, child wrapped in a shawl on her back,                                                                                                                                                                                                             

stoops over a garbage can eating the rind of a discarded melon. Her skirt raised in back, as she bends, reveals the smooth legs of a girl. When she rose, we saw the face of an old woman, eyes grey as ash; the sediment of all that was once fresh and alive.  I suspect that with a baby on her back that she is no more than twenty, but what is age or time when life does not exist?  

Afternoon heat.   On the Chihuahuenses bus to Cd Juarez

Through the train window we watch the crews working on the tracks.  No, they are repairing the repair cart. And like in all trainyards of the world, there is a worker in overalls walking with a shovel over his shoulder, his straw hat lit by the morning sun.

            The best seats are taken, and we find two places where the foam seats are mostly uncovered.

            She sits stiffly as he tries pulling her face closer, his arm around her neck.  Two children whine and he tries to hush them. She remains stiff, chewing gum tensely and looking straight ahead.  He tried to gain a response from her, again stroking her face with his head on her shoulder, but she knows its always the same; she must move when he moves, be ready for his impulses, and be very alone when he no longer wants her.  He deceives himself that he is someone important, whose love she must crave.

            That was a spring day. The train rolled north, the children fascinated by the passing images in the window: horses, buildings, trees, walls, train cars, freight yards, little houses with clothing on the line, and other children outside looking at them from fields, perhaps wishing to ride on the train.  Life is made of many little things that, could we only enjoy them, could remove the weight of each other’s grip on our shoulders.

            He has moved, seated across from her with one of the children.  She sits with the others. We pass outskirts of huts, men making blocks, putting up walls for future homes, where future streets, schools and lights will replace the dust.

            A man hands out tiny bells to sell.  The attached card says that he is deaf, but that is hard to tell.  The couple takes the bells, such tiny, tinkling things and jingles them.

She laughs with him. They pay the man when he returns. She puts the bells in her purse and, as the train rocks with increasing speed, they close their eyes and drift into sleep.