Riding to Mexico on a Bicycle Made of Trash

January 11, 2009 — Day Eight, 321.6 miles — Sebastian, Texas

The wind is thankfully at our backs today as we cross the 70-mile stretch of nearly nothing that is Kenedy County, a part of South Texas with more square miles than people. Border Patrol trucks have become a more common sight the past few days. Camouflage Army trucks pass us today on Highway 77, and it starts to feel as if we’re nearing a war zone. Spanish has become the norm at gas station counters, and today we pass the U.S. Border Patrol interior checkpoint.

For several members of the group, this will be their first excursion into Mexico, although Mexicans make up a large part of their hometown. Austinites sometimes call San Antonio “North Mexico” — a joke somewhat supported by history — and if that’s true, then we’re in Mexico already. In Austin, the Hispanic population, according to the 2000 Census, hovers around 30 percent, just below the Texas average of 32 percent. San Antonio, on the other hand, comes in at 58 percent and Kingsville at 67 percent. Brownsville is 91 percent Hispanic or Latino. We were on our way to one of the United States’ oldest battlegrounds: the Mexican border.

Old men in pickups and passers-by have warned us repeatedly of the horrors of the border towns, and more than one has advised us to hire a cabbie for $20 or $30 to stay with us no matter what. While some of our group, including myself, were anxious about what we would find at the border and beyond, we know we need to remain open-minded if we’re going to connect with the people we’ll meet in Mexico.

January 12, 2009 — Day Nine, 365.4 miles — Brownsville, Texas

It’s the night before we cross the border and we’re staying at Galeria 409, an art gallery barely 100 yards from the Rio Grande and the International Bridge, the main border crossing from Brownsville into the Mexican city of Matamoros. It is a serendipitous connection, where someone knew someone who knew someone else and suddenly the doors of one of Brownsville’s historic buildings is opened to us.

Gallery owner Mark Clark tells us that, according to legend, one of the building’s many previous owners sold thousands of pairs of boots to Pancho Villa’s army during the Mexican Revolution. People had sat on the roof, he said, watching the battle on the other side of the river.

Nearly a century later we sit on the second-floor balcony, watching people stream across the bridge in both directions. The unending lights blare down from above. Border guards, on foot and in SUVs, are everywhere.

Crackers, a half-eaten cake, party streamers and balloons still decorate the main room of the gallery, left over from a recent party celebrating news that Michael Chertof, the former head of the Department of Homeland Security and a backer of the border wall, is stepping down. A piñata bearing his resemblance still hangs from the exposed rafters. Kites and protest signs, with phrases like “Don’t Fence Me In,” “No Wall, No Al Muro,” “Arriba Unidad, Abajo Divisiones” (Up with Unity, Down with Divisions). “Honk If You Hate the Wall” and “No Border Wall,” dangle from the walls and ceiling. We are obviously in the thick of the battle over immigration, free trade and everything else that comes with a border.

On the other side of the river, Matamoros awaits. According to a 2006 Mexican report, more than 1.1 million people work in nearly 3,000 maquiladoras. Nearly 200,000 people in Matamoros work in maquiladoras, and those are the people we’re looking for. Those workers make 50 to 70 cents an hour, in contrast to the $7.25 minimum wage in the U.S., although some also receive social security and health benefits.

January 13, 2009 — Day 10, 365.4 miles — Matamoros, Mexico — crossing the border

Crossing into Mexico is nothing more than handing over a few coins at the tollbooth and riding across the bridge. For all the buildup and nervous anticipation, it’s rather simple. Many of us first-timers have been expecting much more of a hassle, thinking we’d have to barter, to banter, to talk our way in. Surely the border guards would want to know where we were going and what we were doing. I’m the first to cross, paying my 50 cents before riding ahead to get some pictures of the occasion.

This is what we’ve all been waiting for: Mexico. We’ve discussed what would happen “on the other side,” but now that we were here, all those thoughts just disappear. Little green taxicabs covered in dents dart past, and people on sidewalks yell at us in Spanish. We’ve discussed our game plan — we will all stick together — but suddenly it is happening and everything seems a blur.

The sometimes-unexpected thing about borders is that they are a clear-cut division between countries, cultures, languages and everything else you could possibly imagine. Along the way, there might be a fluid transition, but crossing an international border can be like going from black-and-white movies to Technicolor, scratchy vinyl to CDs.

We reach our regrouping point, a park in downtown Matamoros, and ride around in circles like a wagon train, hooting and hollering. The people in the park immediately take notice, as do the security guards. Within minutes, the police arrive, along with several reporters. Word of our arrival spreads quickly. The police stand outside the crowd that surrounds us, and Lauren, one of the more fluent Spanish-speakers, gives an interview.

The police offer an escort, but we quickly decline. The last thing we want is a cordon of police surrounding us. Several members of the group leave the official goings-on and go to the gazebo to play some music, their usual routine when we stop. After the commotion dies down, a few of us grab our bikes and head off in search of Derechos Humanos, the village where Josh had worked years earlier as a student interpreter.

After an hour of trying to decipher the vague tourist map we’ve picked up in Brownsville, we reach the literal end of the road. The pavement gives way to a street filled with potholes, glass shards, jutting rocks and garbage as the city of Matamoros comes to an abrupt end. The brick buildings of the inner city give way to smaller, shanty-like structures that appear to be in a permanent state of construction. Mismatched scraps of wood and corrugated roofing make walls and fences. The houses are much like our bikes.

As we round a corner, a man in denim wearing a baseball cap leaps up to greet us. He introduces himself as Chava, shakes our hands and shows his silver-capped teeth as he smiles widely. Josh has started to recognize the area, and we quickly learn that Chava is living with the family Josh worked with years earlier. Chava introduces us to his family, and after discussing where to stay the night, they suggest we stay at their house, where it will be safer. Chava warns us about the gangs by the park we’ve been eyeballing, explaining that they wouldn’t necessarily bother us if we weren’t looking for trouble. “But if you saw something they didn’t want you to see, well …” he said.

The rest of the group shows up and those who speak Spanish begin getting to know the family. The rest smile, shake hands and set about making dinner and finding a place to set their things. We finally made it to our destination and are ready to celebrate.