ajc.com > Opinion
Finally, he takes that bus to Mexico

By RICHARD BUERKLE
For the Journal-Constitution
Published on: 05/11/08
Melquiades was the first person to speak to me. He was being deported, he told me, for being here illegally. "Adios Atlanta," he said as our bus pulled out. He said it with the detached emotion of someone who came to the U.S. solely for adventure.

The 21-year-old Mexican, who had washed dishes for the past two years, was picked up for driving without a license.

Melquiades was on the aisle. I slipped beside him in the window seat. I was the only native English speaker on a 40-passenger bus filled with Mexicans. But I wasn't in Mexico. I was on Buford Highway, just north of the Perimeter, setting off on a 41 1/2-hour bus odyssey to Mexico City.

I noticed Autobuses Adame, a bus company on Buford Highway a few years ago when shopping nearby. I and a friend had wondered for some time what it might be like to bus it to Mexico. With spring break approaching, my friend was busy, but I decided to go.

Melquiades, one of the few I talked to on the bus who didn't plan to return to the United States one day, was wary of his gringo seatmate. But he relaxed a little when he heard my Spanish and when I offered him some almonds to eat.

The almonds were a teacher appreciation gift from parents at Montgomery Elementary School in Dekalb County where I teach Spanish to students from kindergarten through 5th grade. My wife, Jean, told me to take them with me. With the almonds, "You'll make friends," she said. When I asked Jean if she wanted to go with me, she simply said, "What are you, crazy?"

A little.

I was also uneasy about my trip. I had heard about problems with drug gangs at the border; I wondered what type of people would be on the bus. "Tranquilo," said a Mexican friend who had gone before. "Take it easy. It's just people going home to see their families." He was right.

Every night at 8:30 p.m. a bus leaves Buford Highway for the Mexican capital by way of Houston. The fare was $229 — $39 more than my return airfare. Cash only.

Soon we were headed south on Buford Highway, passing Vietnamese and Latino shops as we left.

The leg to Houston was 14 hours. Though every seat was taken, the bus was spacious and comfortable. We traveled all night. An infant behind me cried once or twice. It could have been much worse. We picked up no passengers en route, but did stop for breaks in Montgomery and Biloxi and another place I don't remember.

At one of these stops, I began chatting with a man I'll call Hector, who said he owned a retail store in Guadalajara, Mexico's second largest city. He was sitting across from me and Melquiades.

In Houston about 11 a.m. Saturday we waited to switch buses. I asked Hector to watch my bag while I used the restroom. But I needn't have. It seemed a community where everyone cared for everyone else.

Some of the Mexicans' bags were as big as small sofas. Everyone helped with the luggage, and we all boarded together. It was so different from the luggage carrousel at Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, where people sometimes push their way past fellow travelers.

We took Highway 59 out of Houston with the midday sun glaring down on the flat farmland we passed.

Hector loved to talk politics. He complained about how the United States had stolen Texas and a lot of other land from his country. He also attacked NAFTA, which he said the United States uses only when it favors us. Not a NAFTA expert, I simply listened.


Crossing the border

Seven hours after leaving Houston and some 22 hours after leaving Atlanta the farmland gave way to fast food joints. It was 6 p.m. We were in the border town of Laredo. After a stop at a tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurant where our driver must have known somebody, we were headed to the U.S.-Mexican border two miles away.

On the U.S. side only Melquiades got off the bus. He had to show his deportation papers to U.S. officials. He got back on, and we crossed the Rio Grande (the Rio Bravo to Mexicans) and entered Nuevo Laredo in the Mexican state of Tamaulipas.

It struck me that in a few months or a few days some of these same people would be wading across this river or trying to enter the United States through the deserts in New Mexico and Arizona. One day, perhaps, I'll take the return bus ride and see who gets off just before the border, and who, if anyone, stays on.

The mordidos, or "little bites" as bribes are called, began as soon as we crossed the river. I was called to a little room and had to pay $23 in U.S. currency. This was for a visa I was told. A customs agent in the United States later told me my charge was likely legitimate. Julian in the seat in front of me, and who was returning to Mexico to visit his girlfriend, had to pay $40 at the border and $30 more at a second checkpoint five miles later, supposedly because he didn't have identification. Resigned to his fate, he laughed at the bribe.

But Melquiades was angry. "This is why I hate Mexico," he said. Most believe the money just goes into the inspectors' pockets. As we waited to have our bags screened, the bus driver passed the hat to give some cash to somebody for something. Perhaps it was for the young guards with automatic weapons sitting in jeeps outside. Some passengers put in $2, others nothing. I put in $1, doing my part for U.S.-Mexican relations.

There was no fear here, just a little bit of laughter and some anger at the system. "Welcome back, countryman," said a large sign near us. "Some welcome," said no one in particular.

My political friend Hector left at this point. I was told he was flying to Guadalajara. Apparently, he had money if not a green card.


On to Mexico City

Leaving Nuevo Laredo, we passed slums and a beautiful golf course. To our left we could see the U.S.A. just across the river.

About 9 p.m. after a brief nap I looked out the window and saw T.J. Applebees, Chili's and Burger King. Hooters and Wal-Mart weren't far away. We were in Monterrey, Mexico's 3rd largest city, about 100 miles south of the Texas border.

In Monterrey, we switched buses again and headed for San Luis PotosĂ*, another 9 hours away. It was Saturday night about 10 p.m. Pulling out, I could see mountains in the distance to the west and went to sleep.

Early the next morning we let off some passengers in San Luis PotosĂ*, including Melquiades, who caught a bus for his home in the state of Michoacán on the Pacific Ocean. I had come to really like this young man. I got his number and planned to call him when I got back to Atlanta.

About 9 a.m. Sunday, we stopped at a taco stand alongside the highway. I was starving. In my head, the voices of my U.S. friends were screaming, "Never, ever eat anything purchased on the side of the road in Mexico." Montezuma's revenge, they said. Juan, with whom I had been chatting, insisted I try a barbecue taco. My empty stomach and Juan's friendly persistence won out. The taco was delicious, and as I scarfed it, a young man brought me fresh-squeezed orange juice. I was in heaven. And Montezuma let me be.

Two hours later we were in Querétero where I waited more than an hour for my last bus. At 1:30 p.m. I was in the Mexico City bus station where Juan and I shook hands. His family lived there, and he said he was planning to start a car repair business. I got his phone number then headed for my taxicab and my hotel on the Zócalo, Mexico City's main square.

I felt at peace, tired, exhilarated. I'd achieved my goal.

Two weeks later I called Juan in Mexico City, as promised. He was glad to hear my voice. It had been so hard when he was in the United States, Juan said. Working in a restaurant, he only made enough to pay his rent and his bills, but not enough to send money home. Being far from his family in the U.S. was like "an eternity." He loved being with his children. "Te sientes tan lleno," Juan said. "You feel so full."

In Argentina four years ago, I'd heard of Peruvians and Bolivians who came to Buenos Aires to work in clothing sweat shops. In Spain I'd seen the rubber rafts left on the beach by Moroccans who came illegally to pick olives. By what dumb luck, I wondered, was I one of the 1 in 20 on this planet born in the United States of America? I felt grateful and a little sad.


Richard Buerkle teaches at a DeKalb County elementary school. He is a two-time Olympic athlete who broke the world record for the indoor mile in 1978.

Vote for this story!
More on ajc.com
SCHOOL GETS 1ST PLAYGROUND
NEW ATTITUDES: Seriously into schoolwork
New Attitudes: Seriously into schoolwork
NATION IN BRIEF: U.S.-Ireland relationship earns praise
Marines swoop in, take pen pals' hearts
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR: Government, gas, Grady
COBB EDUCATION REPORT
Letters to the editor: Government, gas, Grady
EDUCATION REPORT: Recycling Day at Cherokee
After slavery, servitude
Expand this list
More Stories
Related Subjects
Mexico City
United States
Mexico
Atlanta
Houston
Richard Buerkle
Expand this list
More Related Subjects







Find this article at:
http://www.ajc.com/opinion/content/opin ... _0511.html


EMAIL THIS | Close


Check the box to include the list of links referenced in the article.