by
Peter thomPson
illustration by
jonathan buck
must have slept through the roadside exchange because by the time I managed to lift my eyelids enough to re-register reality, all that remained of the suffocating heat from the coastal jungle had been preserved on the windshield. Now we were descending steep curves in variegated moon-shadows cast down on us from an outcrop of conifers delineating the boundary of an agave plantation. Without headlights, it was like we were stationary and our surroundings were floating backwards past us through the chilly pre-dawn. More immediately, Lalo, the unemployed Audi tech from Puebla who we had picked up in Pochutla was no longer riding in the truck with us. Lalo was a lovely, extremely polite man in his 40s or 50s who seemed as sweetly dedicated to the welfare and happiness of his family as he was to his own mindblowing obesity. At some point while I had been asleep, we had swapped Lalo for a sunburned and dreadlocked 30-ish white woman from Austin who said her name was Azucena. I had my doubts. She sat to my right, gripping the handle on the roof with both hands. Adan gathered momentum, expertly angling the truck through consecutive hairpin turns, freely using both sides of the road. The incredible momentum caused the woman to crash alternately against my side and against the door. Falling asleep had only made me want to sleep the clock around, but as I fought my way out of the fog, I saw, up ahead, a curving pattern of flickering orange traffic cone barrel lights. They were forcing us off the road for an impromptu roadblock of some sort. There were more lights ahead and I could make out light reflecting off several trucks straight ahead on the soft shoulder of the road. We were told to stop. All the men were wearing black ski masks and dressed in different iterations of camouflage, their uniforms made trimmer by tight blue kevlar vests, some bearing the initials of an agency I didn’t recognize. While these types of roadblocks were common in Mexico, you really never could tell exactly who was behind them until they told you what they wanted. A scooter with a taillight out, carrying a family of three—a schoolaged kid up front clinging to the handlebars—was waved on past us. The bike emitted a chirp as it passed to our left. Azucena seemed very concerned about the kid on the bike, wondering what he was doing awake at 2:30 a.m. and how his parents could risk his safety on a motorscooter. She obviously wanted to say something to them. Chide them a little. Luckily, her Spanish was shit. “They’re probably dropping the kid off at work,” said Adan, hiding a smile. “I think there’s a sweatshoop that manufactures pesticides in an open pit near here.” Azucena smiled and nodded, obviously not understanding. “Oh,” she said and then smiled. “I understand. Si.” I guess Adan was used to people coming to his country and telling him how it should be run. Federali checkpoints are usually busier and well-lit. Army checkpoints usually have a little shack for the C.O. These guys seemed to be hiding themselves. You couldn’t say how many of them there were. A handful or a brigade. No telling. We were out of Zapitista country and Normalistas (teachers involved in a sometimes-armed revolt) usually occurred closer to the city and involved jackknifing or overturning a PeMex truck if possible. This wasn’t territory of Los Zetas. Cartel-wise, it is a kind of a no-man’s land run by Oaxaquenos.
Our foreign correspondent describes his life in exile for those who want to flee the country if Trump wins
continued on page 14
OPINION
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NEWS
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GREEN
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FEATURE STORY
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ARTS&CULTURE
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ART OF THE STATE
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FOODFINDS
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FILM
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MUSICBEAT
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NIGHTCLUBS/CASINOS
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THIS WEEK
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MISCELLANY
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MARCH 3, 2016
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RN&R
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