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I have concerns about driving a 32-foot-long recreational vehicle into the heart of Mexico.
Our destination is Ignacio Allende, Chihuahua, a poor agricultural community of about 500. Our purpose is to perform service work along with Peter Westcott's Aspen Middle School sixth-grade class.
The more I think about it, the more my concerns turn to worry. None of us in the motor home speaks Spanish in case of emergency, or if we need windshield washer fluid. The rental company requires special insurance. It normally doesn't provide a jack because changing a tire on these beasts is only for trained professionals. The manager, speculating about our route, hands me one anyway, "You don't know where you got this."
It's noon when we start loading the luggage bays with dozens of old computers for pre-computer-age schools. We cram in an entire workshop of tools for repair work. We find room for books, notebook paper and other common school supplies that are not so common where we are heading. Inside we fill the shower stall with monitors and pile donated clothes into all available shelf space, except for the kitchen, which is ours for snacks.
After two hours we are off. On the road for about three minutes, we pass a Wal-Mart and instantly think of a dozen things we need. An hour later we are driving like hell, or so it feels. We are stuck firmly in Denver's Interstate 25 rush-hour traffic.
By the time we get the rig up to 60 mph, it is well past early evening. We missed lunch. I'm hungry and tired. My mood is grim, and in this state I am aggravated over the lunacy of driving a $75,000 motor home into a part of the world where 10 houses could be had for that amount, with change left over to acquire plenty of drought-ravaged acreage. What are we doing showing up in a place to do service work in a mode of transportation that is costing us, for the week, 10 times what we will produce with our labor? It would have been better if we had just sent a check.
What kind of example are we setting for our children, who will be sleeping on a concrete floor in a run-down church? Westcott is close to many of the local people from previous trips. I don't want to embarrass him. I don't want to embarrass us! "Ugly" is too cruel a word. We are oblivious Americans.
We spend our first night in Raton, N.M., at the KOA. There are many rigs larger than ours. My sense of normalcy returns. It's actually fun to cook, drink good wine and sleep on wheels. In the morning I am well-rested. I've convinced myself that I was overreacting last evening.
We make it to our rendezvous in El Paso, the most interesting thing along the way a gusty crosswind. On the outskirts of the city we spot another Wal-Mart and, bored with the driving, think of more things we can't do without. There's no telling when a 50-hot dog pack might come in handy, and at this price ... .
Each of us is reacting differently to apprehension about what lies ahead. Some want to stock up in case of an emergency. I want to go bare-bones to prove that we are decent. Whatever, I'm not too proud to invest in a large, cold Coke. As I sip, conditions improve markedly.
With no warning, the ugly creeps back. It's coming from across the way. Can it be? It's really that close? It's the border. It's poverty that I have never seen, held back with razor wire, fences and severe concrete river banks. The contrast is breathtaking in the way that makes you queasy. I concentrate on driving silently; anything I say right now will sound trite.
The mobile home is hot in the Texas night until we figure out that nobody has bothered to take the packaging off the brand-new air conditioner mounted on top. Roommate Tige climbs a nearby tree and jumps to the roof. He pulls Styrofoam from around the fan blade. It's comical. It is instantly cool. I sleep comfortably.
Next morning, across the border in Juarez, several hundred pounds lighter after Mexican authorities confiscate a good portion of our humanitarian supplies, we become indisputably ridiculous. Lost and wandering, we are rescued by a ragged old man on a rusty bicycle who leads our procession of gringo vehicles at 10 mph through the back streets of Juarez to the highway. In the middle of the on-ramp he stops in front of us and exacts a fee of $3 from the first car, $2 from the second, before he altruistically allows the last vehicle to pass for free. It's obvious that we paid him too much.
Mexican highways are narrow. I'm tense keeping the rig on the road without a shoulder. They're not luxuriously widened for bloated vehicles like this, or I lack the nerve to keep it here. It doesn't matter which. It doesn't belong.
Two hours in, we are halted at a roadblock because we don't have official stickers for our cars. The Mexicans are picking on us. I don't understand the discussion, but I know it's because we are obvious, flagrant with our wealth. There are plenty of drivers volunteering to remedy the situation by driving back to the border, so I take the opportunity to get on the bus with the kids. It's allowed to continue since it is from Mexico.
I'm glad to be away from the Winnebago. The bus is smoother, the driver used to the roads. More importantly, I won't arrive at our destination so conspicuously.
It's dark when we get there. The streets are not paved, and we settle, with a cloud of dust, on the floor of the concrete church that will be our base for the next week. We are hours ahead of the other vehicles. I have no place to lay my head, no covers. I'm exhausted, sweaty, filthy and concerned. I wait anxiously for the RV.
(To be continued)
<i>Roger Marolt is not sure if he is finished with this odyssey. You can contact him at roger@maroltllp.com</i>
Our destination is Ignacio Allende, Chihuahua, a poor agricultural community of about 500. Our purpose is to perform service work along with Peter Westcott's Aspen Middle School sixth-grade class.
The more I think about it, the more my concerns turn to worry. None of us in the motor home speaks Spanish in case of emergency, or if we need windshield washer fluid. The rental company requires special insurance. It normally doesn't provide a jack because changing a tire on these beasts is only for trained professionals. The manager, speculating about our route, hands me one anyway, "You don't know where you got this."
It's noon when we start loading the luggage bays with dozens of old computers for pre-computer-age schools. We cram in an entire workshop of tools for repair work. We find room for books, notebook paper and other common school supplies that are not so common where we are heading. Inside we fill the shower stall with monitors and pile donated clothes into all available shelf space, except for the kitchen, which is ours for snacks.
After two hours we are off. On the road for about three minutes, we pass a Wal-Mart and instantly think of a dozen things we need. An hour later we are driving like hell, or so it feels. We are stuck firmly in Denver's Interstate 25 rush-hour traffic.
By the time we get the rig up to 60 mph, it is well past early evening. We missed lunch. I'm hungry and tired. My mood is grim, and in this state I am aggravated over the lunacy of driving a $75,000 motor home into a part of the world where 10 houses could be had for that amount, with change left over to acquire plenty of drought-ravaged acreage. What are we doing showing up in a place to do service work in a mode of transportation that is costing us, for the week, 10 times what we will produce with our labor? It would have been better if we had just sent a check.
What kind of example are we setting for our children, who will be sleeping on a concrete floor in a run-down church? Westcott is close to many of the local people from previous trips. I don't want to embarrass him. I don't want to embarrass us! "Ugly" is too cruel a word. We are oblivious Americans.
We spend our first night in Raton, N.M., at the KOA. There are many rigs larger than ours. My sense of normalcy returns. It's actually fun to cook, drink good wine and sleep on wheels. In the morning I am well-rested. I've convinced myself that I was overreacting last evening.
We make it to our rendezvous in El Paso, the most interesting thing along the way a gusty crosswind. On the outskirts of the city we spot another Wal-Mart and, bored with the driving, think of more things we can't do without. There's no telling when a 50-hot dog pack might come in handy, and at this price ... .
Each of us is reacting differently to apprehension about what lies ahead. Some want to stock up in case of an emergency. I want to go bare-bones to prove that we are decent. Whatever, I'm not too proud to invest in a large, cold Coke. As I sip, conditions improve markedly.
With no warning, the ugly creeps back. It's coming from across the way. Can it be? It's really that close? It's the border. It's poverty that I have never seen, held back with razor wire, fences and severe concrete river banks. The contrast is breathtaking in the way that makes you queasy. I concentrate on driving silently; anything I say right now will sound trite.
The mobile home is hot in the Texas night until we figure out that nobody has bothered to take the packaging off the brand-new air conditioner mounted on top. Roommate Tige climbs a nearby tree and jumps to the roof. He pulls Styrofoam from around the fan blade. It's comical. It is instantly cool. I sleep comfortably.
Next morning, across the border in Juarez, several hundred pounds lighter after Mexican authorities confiscate a good portion of our humanitarian supplies, we become indisputably ridiculous. Lost and wandering, we are rescued by a ragged old man on a rusty bicycle who leads our procession of gringo vehicles at 10 mph through the back streets of Juarez to the highway. In the middle of the on-ramp he stops in front of us and exacts a fee of $3 from the first car, $2 from the second, before he altruistically allows the last vehicle to pass for free. It's obvious that we paid him too much.
Mexican highways are narrow. I'm tense keeping the rig on the road without a shoulder. They're not luxuriously widened for bloated vehicles like this, or I lack the nerve to keep it here. It doesn't matter which. It doesn't belong.
Two hours in, we are halted at a roadblock because we don't have official stickers for our cars. The Mexicans are picking on us. I don't understand the discussion, but I know it's because we are obvious, flagrant with our wealth. There are plenty of drivers volunteering to remedy the situation by driving back to the border, so I take the opportunity to get on the bus with the kids. It's allowed to continue since it is from Mexico.
I'm glad to be away from the Winnebago. The bus is smoother, the driver used to the roads. More importantly, I won't arrive at our destination so conspicuously.
It's dark when we get there. The streets are not paved, and we settle, with a cloud of dust, on the floor of the concrete church that will be our base for the next week. We are hours ahead of the other vehicles. I have no place to lay my head, no covers. I'm exhausted, sweaty, filthy and concerned. I wait anxiously for the RV.
(To be continued)
<i>Roger Marolt is not sure if he is finished with this odyssey. You can contact him at roger@maroltllp.com</i>
