A typical Monday spent riding on the back of a fiscal custom’s agent vehicle; I made small talk so as not to fall into an awkward silence.
-¨So, how come there are still young women missing here in Juarez and no one is caught as of yet? I mean, considering the advances in forensic science, surely something should come up from the retrieved DNA.¨ I asked him to brake the pregnant silence.
-¨There’s not that type of technology here yet.¨
Bull shit
-¨What about the drug cartel war with the military, is there still a lot of that going on here? ¨
-¨There are sporadic casualties, but I don’t deal with that. I am a federal customs agent.¨
The drive from the Mexican custom’s gate, to the import offices took was quite a distance it seemed. For a moment, a pang of apprehension sounded an alarm, as we drove into wooded area. This dispersed when I could see the American flag adjacent to the entrance of a compound with the emblems of the Mexican customs facility.
I thanked the agent for the ride, declined to the bureaucratic paper work involved, and crossed back into US territory. After rearranging to meet those people I was to meet a mile into El Paso, later in the day, I made my way back into the fabled city of Juarez.
I talked to some people who said that there were still girls missing from 17 to 22 yrs of age from the downtown district. The couple I spoke with said that a lot of people figured that the local police were involved. Several mothers had denounced this as they recognized those men pursuing their daughters. ¨But you know how it is, the police here are very abusive. They probably kidnap these girls and pass them around each other.¨
I chose to walk circumventing the Cathedral on the main plaza. I looked with laser like intent at the faces of the men all around me. I asked the silent question is it you? Or you? Or you? Are you one of the men who not only kidnapped and raped someone’s daughter, but also mutilated and tortured her? I asked this as I saw a plethora of missing people’s leaflets, plastered on walls and telephone booths.
I came upon a closed street where I saw groups of women congregating on plastic chairs near the entrance of run down buildings. It took me but a moment to realize these were hardened women, and they traded what means they had at their disposal since birth.
I sauntered to a group of women. It seemed the recession have hit hard this sector, for she had allowed grey to highlight the top portion of her hair. The unmerciful sun and perennial heat of this border town had ravaged whatever remnants of beauty she might have been blessed with.
Not as to belittle them, I refrained from asking how much they charged, but spoke in general terms about the missing women. After we spoke for a length of time, I bid them goodbye. I stopped a young man on my way and asked him how much did the ladies of the night charge.
-¨For companionship or sex? ¨ Huh? Just give me a price.¨ I asked.
-¨From 50 to 100.¨ I opened my eyes wide ¨Pesos?¨ I wondered if the lesser price was for a senior citizen discount, as upon observation, I could see several couples holding hands in this passage of purchased love. Several men were elderly, and the women seemed to be getting there at the pace of life they were keeping. For only $5 dollars they’d blow a man?
I’d had enough of this piss town where life and dignity had no value whatsoever.
It was almost nine o’clock and strange things seem to happen close to midnight.
I made my way to a main avenue to catch a cab. I was a block away on an almost deserted street without any streetlights, when I saw from the opposite side of the street a cholo coming towards me.
The street was dark, one old man sat atop a car, and this shirtless tattooed gangster walked with the air of owning this street. He was sauntering as if studying his prey on the same side of me. I had seen him before when I studied the men near the plaza. His fanthomless eyes told me that he seemed to have lost his soul a while ago.
Instinctively I knew that if I showed any trace of fear and moved aside, he’d be able to smell it, and then I’d be in trouble. The only apprehension was for my wallet and US passport, those inside my jean pocket. This being a border town, it could easily be sold for a steep profit, and then I’d be royally screwed trying to cross to El Paso.
As we were coming ever closer, we locked eyes. I put on a stern face, while I grasped the holster of my purple back pack. This might tell him that I held something valuable in it.
This is the same purple back pack which has accompanied me to so many places, and once someone told me in jest that it made me look like ¨Dora the Explorer.¨
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