Pedaling to Mexico on Trash Bicycles

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.

January 14, 2009 — Day 11, 373.6 miles — Derechos Humanos, Mexico

After a quick breakfast, the group discusses where and how to open a bicycle repair shop for the neighborhood. We’ve brought bicycle tools, tire-patch kits, tubes and pumps and are hoping to teach them how to work on bicycles themselves. We hang a tarp from a soccer goal in the middle of a playing field to serve as a workshop space and began spreading the word through the neighborhood. Within an hour, the soccer field is a mob scene of children with caliche-caked bicycles. There are broken and have bent spokes, missing pedals, frayed cables, chains rusted stiff, and inner tubes with half-inch gashes that just can’t be patched.

It quickly becomes apparent that language is going to be a problem, but with a little effort and some miming, we get by. Soon enough, however, a new problem emerges: our tools are disappearing. “Please! We will give you the tools when we’re done,” a member of the group announces in Spanish, “but for now we need them to fix your bikes.” Suddenly tire pumps and wrenches begin appearing again around the edges of the workshop.

Even so, our shortage of planning and forethought starts to become apparent. We didn’t bring enough parts, enough patches, enough anything. We are having to turn people away with flat tires and rusted brake cables. And many of the adults with jobs, our group’s primary target, are away at work. Trying to salvage the effort, Ugg and I hop on our bicycles and head into town to find more parts. We buy some cables, a few wheels and a handful of patch kits and head back hoping to save the day. Instead, we find the field empty.

At least half of our group is standing around with their belongings strapped to their backs. They’ve decided to donate their bikes and head to the beach before catching a bus back to Austin the next day. The other half ride to the beach to meet up with us before continuing south to Ciudad Victoria and, for some, beyond.