The Greatest Crisis Since the Journey Began

Late at night. I was jolted awake by a nudge. When I lifted my head, I saw a large woman standing in the aisle of the bus. The immigration bureau emblem was embroidered on her polo shirt. As I attempted to show my passport, she ordered me to “get off the bus with your belongings.” Following her command, I stepped off the bus to find Mexican soldiers armed with rifles. It seemed to be a checkpoint. The soldiers urged me to enter a warehouse-like building by the side of the road. Inside the dimly lit space, there were around 30 people, all standing anxiously with their large bags. They were migrants.

We departed from the Guatemala border and were on a night bus headed for San Cristóbal de las Casas in southeastern Mexico. I sent a message to Maruo-san, my travel partner and editor, who was also on the bus with me. He seemed to have tried to get off in concern for me but was stopped. “The bus has already departed,” came the message. After reporting my situation, I received a message saying, “I pray for your safety,” and then communication ceased. It seemed he had fallen asleep on the bus. I couldn’t help but feel he was being callous, but there was nothing to be done. It was me who wanted to go to the border. The problem was the current situation.

The soldiers whispered something to the migrants. Each of them sighed as if in resignation when they faced each other. Then, I caught a glimpse of them handing something to the soldiers. This time, the soldiers approached me, brandishing their rifles, and spoke to me in Spanish. Although I didn’t understand the language, I caught the word “dinero” which meant money. It seemed they were asking for money in exchange for turning a blind eye to illegal entry. However, I was not a migrant. It was infuriating to be woken up in the middle of the night, deprived of my means of transportation, and then asked for money. I pretended not to understand the language.

Next to me was a group with East Asian features. There are indigenous people in Central and South America with similar features. They, too, paid and left. I was the only one left. He seemed frustrated with my pretending not to understand, but eventually, he showed a pleading expression as if to say, “Please, somehow, if you could just pay a little, that would be enough.” It was inevitable. As I tried to take out money while leaving the warehouse, the soldier hurriedly said, “I want you to take out the money in a darker area further inside.” Perhaps they didn’t want to be seen by regular passing vehicles. In the end, I was charged 400 pesos (about 3500 yen). The soldier handed all the collected money to the immigration bureau woman.

I checked the time, it was past 3 am. I walked along the road after the bus had left. Looking at my Google Maps, the road seemed to be a paved highway continuing from the Guatemala border called Highway 200.

It seemed to be like a national highway. I understood why immigration control was not functioning at the Guatemala border. They couldn’t openly take bribes at the border, so perhaps they wanted to efficiently collect money by intentionally allowing illegal entry first.

As I walked forward, I encountered the group that had been in the warehouse earlier. They seemed calm. Was experiencing such things a regular occurrence for them? They immediately began camping by the roadside. I joined them and lay down to rest.

One of the East Asian individuals I had seen earlier approached me and spoke. I was surprised by their words; it was Mandarin Chinese. I wondered why there were Chinese people in such a place. When I told him I was Japanese, he bombarded me with rapid-fire questions: “Why are there Japanese people here? Are you also heading to America?” Trying to evade the questions, he abruptly started discussing political issues, saying, “Taiwan is Taiwan. It’s not China,” without even being asked. He was a 36-year-old from Zhejiang Province, an immigrant with a wife and a seven-year-old son who was headed for the United States. He explained to me the reasons for being here.

The excessive lockdown measures during the COVID-19 pandemic in China ultimately resulted in numerous deaths. Feeling terrorized by the authoritarian political regime, they fled China. Their destination was Ecuador in South America, one of the countries where they could travel without a visa from China. They walked for nearly a month to reach Mexico. While trekking through the jungles of Panama, they found fellow Chinese migrants in similar situations, and now they are traveling together as a group of seven. They speak in horror about seeing many bodies of collapsed immigrants in the jungle.

“We don’t want jobs. We just want basic human rights,” they say. Although there is no guarantee they will be accepted into America, they left their country without knowing English or Spanish, believing “it’s still worth the challenge.” Their determination is nothing short of remarkable. I have also noticed other Chinese immigrants, such as groups of university students and couples with children, on the journey. According to what I’ve heard, there has been a significant increase in Chinese immigrants heading north through Central and South America. Perhaps the simple reason I was dropped off the bus is because I look similar to them. Come to think of it, Tony, whom I met under the bridge at the American border, was also talking about Chinese immigrants.

Continued Hardships

As dawn broke, people began to move. They were planning to walk to the next town, a distance of 120 kilometers. Somehow, amidst talking with many migrants, I had started feeling the urge to “aim for America” myself. It’s amazing how easily influenced one can be by the atmosphere. With that mindset, I started walking with them. However, the baseless bravado quickly wilted as the sun rose. It was too hot. My feet began to ache immediately. Walking another 100 kilometers was impossible. Feeling ashamed, I made up some excuse and parted ways with them.

Feeling dizzy, I entered a town called Mapastepec. It seemed I had managed to bypass the checkpoints successfully. With my tired body, I searched for a cheap inn. I figured this town would also be filled with immigrants at night. I managed to negotiate a stay until evening under the condition that I pay. Maruo-san contacted me, saying he had safely arrived in San Cristobal.

I left the inn after sunset. I found the bus terminal and bought a ticket for the 10 p.m. departure. While engaging in conversation with someone in the waiting area, I was stunned to find out that the bus I was supposed to board had left. When I informed the lady closing the ticket counter, she looked at me in disbelief. The next bus seemed to be scheduled for 10 a.m. the following morning. With no room available back at the inn, I found myself once again sleeping rough by the roadside with the other migrants.

Once again, the morning dawned. As I walked with my camera, I was called out, “Photo! Photo!” I ignored it because I didn’t want any trouble, but then a girl suddenly appeared. “Huh?!” I let out a surprised gasp. I recognized her face. It was Cecilia, the girl who had claimed to be “just a tourist” at the Guatemala border. It turned out her being a tourist was a blatant lie, as she had crossed the border river as an immigrant.

It seemed they had also been sleeping rough here since last night. “I slept next to you,” she said, laughing. I couldn’t believe we were meeting again.

It was worth missing the bus. They said they were also going to walk to the next town and waved goodbye as they left.

Finally, I boarded the bus. Through the window of the air-conditioned bus, I saw a constant stream of immigrants walking along Highway 200. I kept looking for them, those who had come from China, and Cecilia, but I couldn’t spot them. Exhausted, I fell asleep quickly.

Translation Elie Inoue

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The Colorless Mennonite Villages

The taxi driver dropped us off on a single road surrounded by vast farmland. We told him the address was “Campo 6A”. “Campo” means “farm” in Spanish, so this should be the right location.

Cuauhtémoc, Chihuahua. If you go even further into the remote area, there is a settlement of people known as Mennonites. There are some houses scattered as you walk along the gravel road. But unlike the colorful image of Mexico, these buildings were all colorless. One might call them “stripped-down structures” or “primitive concrete architecture”. You can’t help but use contemporary words like “minimalist” to describe its simple appearance because we live modern, materialistic lives. The Mennonites are not seeking that kind of lifestyle. Here, you won’t find any advertisements or billboards, either.

Mennonites are a Christian sect that emerged from the religious reforms of the 16th century in Central Europe. They live a simple, near-self-sufficient life in their community through agriculture and handicrafts. With highly conservative values, they abstain from alcohol and entertainment, choosing to settle in areas far from secular society. Some communities are so extreme in their conservatism  that they reject modern civilization by opting for horse-drawn carriages over cars, abstaining from using electrical appliances, and continuing to live a life reminiscent of the 19th century. The Amish people in the U.S. live in a similar way.

The history of the Mennonites is one of constant migration. The ones that settled in Chihuahua, Mexico were originally farmers in Russia whose lands were seized during the Bolshevik Revolution, causing them to flee to the U.S. and Canada. To protect their faith and ideal lifestyle, they eventually migrated south to Mexico as the U.S. and Canada began to modernize. Although they settled in Cuauhtémoc in large numbers in the 1920s, modernization in Mexico prompted some groups to settle even further south.

The South American immigrants I met in Mexico were bound North in search of freedom, money, and a better life. It’s surprising to think that, despite the different eras and beliefs, people took the opposite route for the same reasons only a century ago.

With that being said, my knowledge about the Mennonites is limited. I wondered what their lifestyle was actually like. In the city center, there is a Mennonite museum meant for tourists, complete with guides who recreate the past ways of life. That didn’t interest me much (not to mention that it was closed), so I visited the settlements instead.

A Building That Seemed To Prove Mennonite Roots

As I was walking through the settlements, there was an elderly white man who seemed to be wearing traditional Mennonite workwear. He glared at us while clutching a hunting rifle. Perhaps he’s wary of us outsiders. I attempted to speak to him in the broken Spanish I had picked up, but he remained silent. He started to load his gun with what looked like bullets. Tension filled the air. Growing anxious, I changed my pronunciation and greeted him again. The man, puzzled, interrupted me.

“Could you speak in English? I don’t understand Spanish”. His fluent English relieved me so much that I almost collapsed. He introduced himself as Peter, a 78-year-old from Canada who came here seeking the communal life of the Mennonites. Unfortunately, he seemed to be hard of hearing, which made it difficult to communicate. He had been shooting birds that flew into the garden. “You wanna try?” he said, as he handed me what was nothing more than an airgun.

A little while later, two boys arrived on motorcycles: Joshua, 15, and Tobias, 14. The school that they go to is also run by Mennonites. When I asked them about classes, they told me that they learn Spanish, German, High German, and English in school. They referred to their native, Lowland German, as “Germany”, and general standard German, as “High Germany”. Perspectives shift depending on where you’re looking from.

There was a gas station along the road, and a brand new four-wheeled buggy carrying a group of five youngsters caught our eye. They mentioned their grandparents also migrated from Russia via Canada. “They used to ride horses back then. Now, we have smartphones and live just like they do in the city”, they told us. We exchanged Instagram accounts with them, the most modern interaction we could’ve had.

I also noticed some families hosting elegant house parties in their yards. Their lives didn’t seem all that bad. Upon further research, it turns out that many families in the area have been successful in agriculture. In fact, the entire town has experienced significant economic growth thanks to the introduction of the dairy farming industry by the Mennonites.

It’s difficult to imagine the believers who first settled here in search of farmland away from the rest of the world. Nevertheless, I still managed to find a building that seemed to serve as evidence of their roots: a telephone booth. It was a relic from a time when Mennonites couldn’t make phone calls from their homes. Canadian and American flags were drawn proudly on the walls of the interior, suggesting they likely made international calls from there. I’m sure they were maintaining their emotional ties by talking to relatives from back home.

The Indigenous Tarahumara Women of the Mountain Region

As we took the bus to go further into the city, some people wearing vibrant clothing caught our eyes. They were indigenous women from the mountainous Tarahumara tribe. In contrast to the Mennonites, they wore bright primary-colored clothing and soft blouses and skirts that almost resembled pajamas.

I’ve tried striking up conversations with the Tarahumara women before, mostly to no avail. The Tarahumara people escaped from the Spanish conquistadors and found refuge by hiding in mountainous caves to preserve their traditional lifestyle. Those who have been coming into the city more recently may seem overly cautious to this day because of that history.

We saw a Tarahumara family attempting to get on a truck on the outskirts of town. Eventually, I greeted an elderly woman with a headscarf because her outfit intrigued me. When the woman’s daughter questioned why I wanted to take a picture of her mother, I sincerely replied, “because her outfit is beautiful”. Upon conveying this to her mother, she replied with something resembling, “it is what it is”, gave a nonchalant look, hopped out of the car, and posed on the street.

As the daughter watched her mother depart in the car, she took out her smartphone. “Send me the photo”, she said, as she showed me her WhatsApp screen.

Of course, expectations of “traditional lifestyle” always involve outsiders who selfishly create their own ideal narratives. Indigenous people deal with problems regarding land ownership while Mennonites deal with tensions with local residents. Sometimes, people grapple with nature and different cultures. And other times, people maintain a delicate harmony through being mobile, or so we pondered, while moving on to the next town the following day.

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A city surrounded by vast desert

The town of Samalayuca is located around 50 kilometers south of Ciudad Juárez on the national highway. It’s a lonely, quaint town surrounded by a desert landscape, where its main street is lined only with a couple general stores and auto body shops.

Feeling hungry, I found a diner and opened its door. The interior was dimly lit, but I could see the female employees were busy chopping heaps of cilantro at the back counter. I ordered a hamburguesa (hamburger) and a cola. Although there was only one family of customers besides me, there were five or six employees rushing to prepare food. When I inquired, one of the ladies said in quite a hurried tone, “many customers will come today because there’s a festival”.  I had completely forgotten the purpose of my trip here; tomorrow was Mexican Independence Day. While the capital, Mexico City, will be lively with grand fireworks tonight, I came to this small town to avoid all the commotion. They informed me that there will be a modest eve celebration taking place in the town square tonight.

“I heard there are sand dune close by”, said my travel partner and editor Mr. Maruo. When I checked Google Maps, the east side of the town was indeed surrounded by an enormous desert landscape, but the walk there would take around two hours. It seemed ridiculous to walk to see sand dunes from a desert town, but since we had plenty of time until the festival, we decided to head there.

We left the town and walked through the desert. The landscape stretched endlessly with shrubs and cacti sporadically growing through the dry gravel. The strong, no, violent sun mercilessly burned our skin, causing sweat to pour like waterfalls. I began to regret our decision immediately.

I’ve walked vast landscapes in Ukraine before. The soil there was more fertile and sticky, clinging to the soles of your shoes like mud after the snow melted. Back then, I even hesitated to go through patches of grass, since it was possible there were landmines and unexploded bombs still buried underground. I was repeatedly told by Ukrainian soldiers to “always walk in the middle of the road”. That fear still resides, and my legs involuntarily shake every time they trail off the road. I know in my head that this is a completely different soil I’m walking on, but I still carry that memory.

I saw some men harvesting watermelon, zucchini, and other gourd vegetables in the distance. One of them noticed us, picked up a rolling watermelon, then took out a knife from his pocket. He placed the watermelon on the hood of the car parked on the side and skillfully sliced it open. The inside glistened and reflected the Mexican sun. Apparently, this was his invitation for us to taste it. Gratefully, we both took a bite. It was milder than a Japanese watermelon, but it was so juicy that its juices spilled from our mouths. How could such crops thrive in a desert? They watched us with satisfaction as we enjoyed the fruit. Among them was a middle school-aged boy. I tried speaking to him, but after giving a shy smile, he looked down and silently returned to work. We asked them about tonight’s festival. Of course they knew about it.

We walked even further into the desert. There were some slight ups and downs, but the landscape remained largely unchanged. We relied solely on Google Maps on our smartphones to lead us through. My skin was tingling from the sunburns, but I felt an even sharper pain in my foot. It was a thorn from the shrub branches that were scattered everywhere. One of those thorns pierced the sole of my shoe into the bottom of my foot. The shoes I bought at a discount store in Tokyo for 1,900 yen served me well through the harsh landscapes of Ukraine, but they were ultimately cheap. I had worn them out, the soles deteriorating. I took my socks off to find blood oozing out of the sole of my foot. Fighting back tears, I pulled out the thorn and continued to walk the thorny path. The dangers of Ukrainian landmines and Mexican thorns don’t even compare – but it was painful nonetheless.

After repeatedly pulling thorns from my foot, we finally arrived at the sand dunes. They resembled the bottom of an ocean that had been drained of water. There were tall sand mountains in some places and some deep depressions in others. The landscape seemed to stretch endlessly, which felt more unsettling than moving. There was nothing to focus our eyes on among the boundless and desolate terrain. It was impossible to fathom how vast it really was. And we were only still at the entrance of the dunes. We climbed over one of them and saw transmission towers and power lines in the distance. All the way here. Humans are truly remarkable beings. I looked down at my feet and saw an empty bottle of beer. All the way here. Humans really are remarkable beings… It was an unexpected discovery that brought me joy.

The Eve of the Mexican Independence Day Celebration

The feel of the town had changed completely when we got back in the evening. It felt much livelier than the somber atmosphere of the daytime. Men were bringing in cold beers one after the other, and mothers were chasing after their mischievous kids running around. Vendors lined the square, their lights glimmering. As I was basking in the nostalgia, suddenly, I heard a horn. A train with headlights lit up on the rails extending to the horizon was visible beside the square. It was a freight train carrying hopeful South American immigrants we had encountered in Ciudad Juárez. There were men, women, and children in between the train cars and on the roofs. They were likely heading to the U.S. border. Someone on the train yelled, “VIVA MEXICO!”, and the townspeople waved back. We were witnessing a moment where locals who were enjoying the festival crossed paths with those who hopped on the train to leave their hometown.

The hustle and bustle of the festival returned immediately after the train passed. The music started, and the locals started dancing, expanding their circle. Unlike the dance we encountered by chance in the Northeastern Mexican town of Monterrey, which was meant to captivate an audience, this dance was for pure enjoyment. The moves weren’t flashy, but the people moved their bodies and engaged in a cheerful atmosphere. The boy we saw farming in the desert was there as well. He was dancing with a girl who was around his age. He looked more dignified, quite different from when he was carrying the watermelons.

We naively thought we would be able to hitchhike back to Ciudad Juárez after taking photographs of the festival. The dancing, however, would not cease even as the clock struck 2 am. There were no cars trying to leave, and no hotels to stay in. Our only option was to camp out. We had no choice but to wear all the clothes we had stuffed in our backpacks to act as a makeshift sleeping bag, and lay down in the shadows of a building next to the square. I regretted my lack of foresight, but camping out in this small town on Independence Day didn’t seem like a bad idea.

I awoke at around 6 am. It seems Mr. Maruo couldn’t sleep because of the cold. The now abandoned square was littered with trash, making it a feast for the stray dogs. Like the dogs, we were also hungry, and decided to peek inside yesterday’s diner. This place also must have been busy until late last night. I could still feel the presence of all the customers who had left. The female employees weren’t smiling like they were yesterday. They instead continued to work looking very tired.

Photography Hironori Kodama

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“Trump’s Wall” separates the U.S. and Mexico.

We tried to negotiate at the border, but knew it was a game we had almost zero chance of winning. The one we were talking to was not an immigration officer, but a gangster. We were standing on the border drawn just on the hillside of a mountain, and there was nothing like a fence or landmark but sparse cacti and bushes. Even if we get murdered here, we would probably end up being left behind a rock. What went through my mind then was the phrase I had heard several times, “The price of life is cheaper in Mexico.”

Speaking of the U.S.-Mexico border, the immigration issue has long been discussed. Headlines such as “Surge in Prospective Immigrants,” “Escape from Violence and Poverty,” and “Focus of Presidential Election” no longer seem fresh to many people. In fact, the “wall” separating the U.S. and Mexico (the so-called Trump Wall) does not cover all parts of the border lying east and west. We learned that there are some areas where there is not even a fence, let alone a wall. One such area is the mountains outside of Ciudad Juarez in northern Mexico. The mountain straddles the border, but no wall is built because it is private property. When we actually visited the foot of the mountain, we discovered a gap in the steel wall extending from the western horizon.

What lies beyond that point? I went on the mountain path with Maruo, the editor who was accompanying me. Soon after, we saw about 10 people walking in the hollows while trying to conceal themselves. They might possibly be migrants trying to cross the border. One of them approached me and asked, “Are you a police officer?” The man who asked me this turned out to be a gangster. He was a member of a smuggling agent called coyote that had this territory in hand. It is said that immigrant smuggling started as a side business for the drug cartels. Those who wish to cross the border need to pay them a lot of money. When we explained how we ended up here to him, the man picked up a wire at his feet and struck a pose as if he were going to strangle us. We backed away and said, “I get it, I get it,” and walked down the mountain with drawn faces.

Two days later, we climbed the mountain again, this time from the American side. And we ran into the gang again. The story below follows the beginning of this column. Not only did we not learn from what we had experienced a few days back, but we were indeed ridiculous. What did we mean by “I get it, I get it”? In the first place, repeating the same words twice would be a sign of untrustworthiness. The guys we faced this time differed from those we met last time. They yelled at us, “Leave all of your U.S. dollars and Mexican pesos, plus your phones and cameras!” They were saying that if we did not comply, they would take us to the Mexican side. I wanted to buy time through negotiation, but I had only $25 in my wallet. This can never be the bargaining chip. I had no pesos on hand (my card was not accepted at the ATM) and explained I desperately needed a few dollars for the bus fare home, and they took $15 from me. When I showed them the dollars, albeit a small amount, the men forgot about the phones and cameras, and we were released.　Well, how little the price of my life was. The money I had was stingy, but the amount I paid was even more stingy. Maruo, who had been quietly witnessing how things went and whom the gangster hadn’t demanded dollars from, said, “Shall we split the bill?” I appreciated the offer, but I declined because that would have cut the price of my life in half. I went down to the foot of the mountain and spent $5 on the bus to the border. There was only one $5 bill left. We had no choice but to return to Mexico.

Locals were passing by on the border bridge. They cross the border to go to work or school. The city behind the wall is also a part of their sphere of life. Ciudad Juarez, which was once described as the most dangerous city in the world due to the drug war, now seems to be at peace. We returned to the Mexican side and walked along the border. Unlike the mountains we had seen earlier, iron walls and barbed wire were running across our view, and we could see border guards and armored vehicles watching us. Looking at them, I felt as if I were in prison. Scattered around the perimeter were rags of torn clothing, toothbrushes, and other household items. Following the trail, I found about 20 people hanging out under a bridge at the border. They were prospective immigrants, mostly young people from Central and South America. I had not noticed them when I crossed the bridge earlier, but it seems that they are camping out here.

The reality of prospective immigrants at the US-Mexico border

A man named Tony spoke to me in fluent English. He is a well-dressed 54-year-old from Honduras. He has been living here for almost three months. Tony said, “There are no bosses or gangs here. Everyone is like family.” He seems to be a big-brother type of person as he is spoken to in a friendly manner by his peers and shares his fruits with them. “The Mexican people have been very supportive in providing food and clothing, but the Mexican police are no good. They always try to kick us out of here. We’re not monkeys or dogs,” Tony said, shaking his head. Because of their positions, the police make it seem like they are serious about getting rid of them, but it is not easy for them to go along with their empty posturing. As soon as the police leave, he said, they will come back here. “In Honduras, cops kill people easily,” he said, “because gangsters ask them to do it, and they want to make some money out of it. Compared to the situation there, this city is good. America would be even better,” he said, laughing.

What is the purpose of their migration to the U.S.? When I ask them, the answer comes back as lightly as if I had thrown a ball at a wall. In the first place, we impose something undeniably heavy in the word “immigrant.” But in most cases, there is no reason to be surprised. They simply want to live a little better than they do now, and that’s what we hope for, too. The difference is their determination to take a chance, if there is a chance at all. Poverty, violence, and economic collapse. These circumstances probably make their will even stronger.

As the sun began to set, the young people hanging around started to run, shouting loudly. They looked up to see a passerby crossing the border bridge. “Give us a dollar, a peso, whatever! Give us money to eat!” After a few moments, the passerby stopped and dropped a bill through a gap in the railing. The bill drifted in the wind. A group of young people ran toward it. One of them jumped high and tried to grab it but failed. They struggled with each other, scattering a cloud of dust. The one who finally caught the bill just above the ground said to a passerby above him, “Gracias!”. Then another dropped another bill, which then flew in the wind.

The people who drop the money seem to be Americans going back to their country after spending some time playing in Mexico, where prices are lower, or people from Mexico who have returned to their hometowns and are going back to the U.S. again. Quite a few dollar bills are mixed in with the bills that fall. I wonder if they do it out of guilt or altruism. Unfortunately, those who fail to catch on show their frustration, but maybe because how they bite their lips looks funny, the group sometimes burst into laughter. So I didn’t sense despair among them. Looking back at Tony, I see him perched and chilled out on the folding outdoor chair that he has brought out from somewhere. I don’t know whether it was an elder’s composure or a middle-aged man’s reserve, but I was impressed by how he was leisurely watching the young people.

The next day, we went under the bridge again. I noticed a group of people we had not seen yesterday, watching us from a distance. “They must be newcomers,” Tony said with interest. I raised my hand in greeting, and one of them started talking to me. “We’re from Venezuela, and we finally arrived here today,” the fearless-looking man said happily as he smoked a cigarette. I tried to picture in my mind where in South America Venezuela was located. Colombia, Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, Guatemala, and Mexico. There are seven countries they had to pass through to cross into the United States. Although that was beyond my imagination, I understood why they did not seem to have a sense of urgency about them. They had finally arrived here. Maruo, who was talking with the young people, said, “They have already succeeded 90% of the time, haven’t they?” All that was left was the wall. But how would they get through the wall? I talked about the mountain where we found the gap in the barrier, but no one knew anything about it. When I asked them how they would get through, they unhesitatingly answered, “We will jump over it.”

Tony took off his shoes and made himself at home. He has been here for three months even though he arrived all the way from Honduras. I wondered if he had already become comfortable in this city, so I asked, “When will you jump over the wall?” He instantly choked on his words. I was skeptical, but he halfheartedly said, “Look at that pipe! I may not be young, but I can move like a rat, crawl through holes, crawl up walls, and do anything else I want!” He pointed hurriedly to a drain that poured into the river, but from a distance, it was no more than 30 cm in diameter. I thought about his slumbering reaction. Given the long road they had traveled, it was only natural that they would be cautious. They cannot fail in this very last process. If I were him, I would be too frightened to do anything. Tony continued, as if to divert the conversation. “Just two days ago, a young Chinese man jumped over the wall. He made it!” He sounded as happy as if it were him. I’m not sure why Chinese people come here to smuggle themselves in. I thought it must be a misunderstanding since some people in Latin America look like people from the East with Indian heritage, and I didn’t listen to him seriously.

The man standing by me pointed to a passerby on the bridge, nodding in that person’s direction. He was like, “You do it too.” Unable to speak Spanish well, I waved my hands exaggeratedly and tried to appeal to the passerby for a while, but no money fell. The man snickered at my helplessness. The other man, who had grown tired of standing and raising his voice, began to lie down on the ground. He remained on his back and called out loudly to the people on the bridge above me. I lay down as well. It was uncomfortable, but the bridge offered the shade and a cool breeze blew. The smell of marijuana wafted through the air. As it began to get dark, more and more people started to “go home” under the bridge.

When I was leaving, I gave Tony the remaining $5.00 I had on hand as I shook his hand in farewell. It was an embarrassing amount for a farewell gift. He just said, “Thank you,” and didn’t even seem happy about it. It was no use giving him the money he could not use in Mexico, but hopefully, I wanted him to use it in the U.S.. Even if they could get over the wall, there are many checkpoints in the city center. It is just like a gamble as they have no idea whether their immigration application will be approved or whether they will be able to find work. Even if “the price of life is low,” it will be worth many times more if they continue to win the game. The young people running to grab the money are engraved in my mind’s eye.

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Leaving Ukraine and arriving in Mexico with a growing desire to continue an “uncomplicated journey”

Before I knew it, all the faces I recognized had changed.

The coach bus filled with passengers traversed countless terminals. The deserts, rocky mountains, and cacti that were once visible from the window disappeared from view. I yearned for a simpler journey, far from the war zones of Ukraine that I visited often for interviews. That desire eventually led me to Mexico.

“I asked the locals. They all said not to ride the bus”.

That was the advice I received from my travel partner and editor, Maruo.

I attempted to convince him at an inn in a small town called Matehuala in central Mexico.

He’s not wrong, either. This country is vast, more than five times the size of Japan. Even locals opt for airplanes when traveling to the countryside since taking a coach bus can sometimes stretch up to 24 hours. It’s also rumored that night buses are frequent targets for police and thieves seeking money.

“But taking a bus is a better way to experience contemporary Mexico”, I persisted.

If we book a flight, we would need to secure tickets in advance and adhere to a set schedule. Given our month-long stay, time is on our side. I envisioned an easy and spontaneous trip, void from any complex plans. Both Jack Keruouc, who wandered the streets of America in pursuit of freedom, and William Burrows, drawn to spiritual experiences, set their sights on Mexico. What was it that attracted them to this place? The recent perception of Mexico, with its drug, gang, and immigration problems, is far from great. Perhaps concealed behind this perception is the reality of the people living here. That’s precisely why I want to travel as my heart desires, to be able to shine a light and experience the current state of Mexico first-hand. I shared with him my genuine motivations for this trip.

Maruo let out a sigh and accepted my reasoning, even though he was eager to go to a show featuring Morrisey in Mexico City. Morrisey, as you may already know, is a British musician. I sensed that this could suddenly alter our course in Latin America, but he was also accommodating my selfish plans. I wanted him to enjoy himself, and we didn’t have any fixed route in mind. Either way, he was going back to Mexico City for a little bit. We agreed to fly into the Northern U.S. border town of Ciudad Juárez three days later to reconvene and commence our southbound journey.

In the meantime, albeit a little lonely, I decided to take a bus to Monterrey alone to get as close to Northern Mexico as possible.

It was nearly evening when I arrived at the terminal. As soon as I got off the plane, the humid air enveloped my body. The electric billboard I had just seen indicated the temperature as 39-degrees Celsius. Located in Northeastern Mexico, the U.S. border town of Monterrey is said to be an industrial city and economic center where many foreign companies, including those from Japan, have established operations. And yet, as I strolled around my hotel, I heard disco music blaring from nightclubs, prostitutes lingering in alleys, and sensed an overall seedy atmosphere.

I set off with my backpack to find another place to stay around the budget lodging area nearby, only to be turned away as all the rooms were occupied. Apparently, many South American immigrants hoping to make it to the U.S. were staying there, and a number of them were congregating around the hotel entrances.

I eventually found a hotel with a spare room, but I can’t say it was clean. There was graffiti all over the door, and the ceiling fan that attempted to ventilate the room merely circulated the hot air. The stifling heat persisted even after taking a cold shower, prompting me to leave the room immediately.

I ate a taco from a nearby food cart alone and returned to my room. Unfortunately, the heat turned my room into a sauna, interrupting my sleep several times throughout the night. I tried to go outside to cool off, only to find the hotel’s exits locked for safety concerns. After multiple showers attempting to cool off, it was already morning.

A Memorial Day parade with 2000 horses and 1000 dancing people

The following day was a Sunday. I strolled down the main street, still sleep-deprived. There was not much foot traffic, perhaps due to the holiday. As I walked along the avenue lined with commercial buildings, a police officer appeared and abruptly began to enforce road restrictions. As I pondered if there had been an accident, I was startled by a rapid succession of pounding sounds on the asphalt.

It was a herd of horses. The sheer number overwhelmed me as they surged forward like a wave. Cowboys atop the horses showcased their skills, and spectators spontaneously emerged out of nowhere. Was it a parade? The horses’ hooves kicked the ground, and the cowboys posed proudly. Each adorned blue jeans, boots, and a sombrero. Some of them even sipped cans of beer and recorded videos on their smartphones while mounted on their steeds. I followed the parade along with the crowd. According to the man beside me, it was Monterrey’s municipal anniversary. Allegedly, they brought 2000 horses into town just for this occasion. Cowboys, referred to as “vaqueros” in Spanish, have deep roots in the history of Spaniards in Mexico.

“The vaquero is a symbol of our confidence, pride, and freedom”, the man proudly declared. Upon arriving at Plaza Zaragoza, the parade’s final destination, the number of horses resembled a ranch. I smiled to myself and thought, “stumbling upon an event like this is a great omen”.

Maria, a female staff member, addressed me in English.

“You must come back here at 5PM tonight. There will be 1000 people dancing”, she said.

1000 people dancing? What does that mean? It was so unexpected that I couldn’t comprehend her words.

After exploring the area, I returned to the square earlier than the designated time and found several groups already gathered, chatting. The girls were dressed in traditional skirts, while the young men sported tight pants and sombreros. I was impressed by their elegant appearance. As I marveled at them, other groups gathered one after another.

I noticed photographers from local newspapers and TV stations convening with their colleagues behind the makeshift stage in the plaza. As I tried to sneak up on stage to secure a place to shoot, a loud voice approached me from behind. When I turned around, a large man suddenly burst out in Spanish. Oh, no. Did I need permission to take pictures? As I searched for a suitable response, he grabbed me by the shoulders and led me over to the other photographers, giving me a thumbs up. He seemed to be saying, “Wait here, I’ll let you go up on stage later”. My worries were unfounded.

The dancing commenced with the start of the band’s performance. The dance featured captivating steps, like kicking the ground with the toes of their boots and twirling their outfits. Witnessing a thousand people dance to the rhythm of the polka was breathtaking. Perhaps it was the carefree spirit of the Latin people in action. Rather than a single, unruly group dance, each dancer genuinely appeared like they were relishing the experience. The local audience, also observing the performance, seemed to be enjoying themselves as they danced along.

As I walked off the stage past the group of photographers, I spotted Maria from earlier, standing in front of the speakers.

“What do you call this dance?” I asked. “It’s Ballet Folklórico!” Maria answered candidly. According to her, the event itself started three years ago with the aim of creating a new trend in an industrial city where traditional culture is difficult to establish. The number of dancers they had was impressive, even for a town celebration

After an hour of dancing, the dancers grew tired and headed for the catered meal. What awaited them was surprisingly, or perhaps predictably, a large quantity of tacos – enough for a thousand people! They joyfully bit into their tacos, their smiles beaming. Although I knew I was jumping to conclusions, I was surprised by the Mexico I was witnessing. While I was reveling in my thoughts, someone approached me and asked if I could take their picture.

The horse parade, the dancing, and these tacos. I felt like I fortuitously experienced the people’s identity just by roaming the streets.

Later that night, Maruo messaged me, dejected. Morrisey’s show had been postponed. I had no choice but to say, “that’s too bad”, and continued to tell him about my day as if to console him.

Two days later, the plane landed at Ciudad Juárez Airport in less than two hours. The runway was wet with rain. My cell phone picked up a signal and sent me the address of a motel where my travel partner Maruo was waiting for me. In the past, Ciudad Juárez was known as “the most dangerous city in the world” because of the drug wars waged by the cartels.

As soon as we got off the plane, Mexican immigration officials promptly began inspecting our IDs and directed foreigners, including myself, to wait at the airport. After the officer carefully checked my passport, I was released without incident, while others were escorted away from the airport in an immigration convoy. What lingered was an atmosphere thick with unease.  Nevertheless, fueled by the excitement of embarking on my journey, I gathered my spirits and  ventured into town in the drizzle.

The post Photographer Hironori Kodama’s Journey Beyond Ukraine: Mexico Diary Vol 1. – Monterrey appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

I met the organizer of the event, Pablo, by chance. He told me repeatedly, “We continue living normally; it doesn’t matter if we’re in a war.” 

Following my visit in March, I went to Ukraine, which has been under invasion by Russia, for the second time. I reported on occupied villages and cities destroyed by the Russian troops, like Kharkiv and the surrounding areas of the capital Kyiv. My previous stay was for a month, but I stayed for three weeks the second time. With only a few days left, I headed towards Odessa in the south of Ukraine. It looks out onto the Black Sea and is an important area with the largest port within the country. Because of this, the Russian troops are intensely targeting Odessa from sea and land. Although there haven’t been missile attacks in the city center, I saw on the news that the troops have bombed numerous shopping malls and hotels, leaving behind casualties. Further, Odessa is also known as the pearl of the Black Sea and is a prominent vacation spot with historical buildings and beaches with white sand. I felt it was an enticing place to visit last to take photos.  

But the reality was harsh. I certainly sensed a touristy vibe from the cobblestone streets and historical architecture, but there were almost no foreign visitors because of the war. The city stood still. Even to this day, on the white, sandy beaches lined up with holiday homes are signs saying, “Beware of land mines,” an effort to prevent the troops from coming ashore. One can say the reason there are so many signs banning photography all over the city is that the Ukrainians don’t want vital militaristic information, such as the city’s landscape and terrain, to be leaked. Like Kyiv and Kharkiv, air-raid alarms go off countless times per day. I eventually felt dreary and walked around the city in a sad mood.  

Meeting Seva serendipitously  

Suddenly, a young man asked me where I came from when we walked past each other. His name was Seva, a 19-year-old local student with a canvas and aspirations to make a living as a painter in the future. “I’m carrying a drawing I just did right now. Do you want to walk and chat with me?” I followed him for a change in mood.  

We arrived at the back entrance of an ordinary-looking housing complex. Once we went through the door, we came across a renovated art space that used to be a warehouse. It was initially run as a club but is now closed after martial law was declared after Russia’s invasion. One of the primary members, Pablo, told me they’re temporarily using it as an art space and are exhibiting artists’ works. Seva’s work was one of them.  

According to Pablo, the community is managed by members from different occupations, such as café staff, hairstylists, and musicians. They host events from time to time to raise money and donate them to volunteers.  

He invited me, “We’re throwing a party this Friday. Do you want to come?” Sadly, I had taken all the photos I needed and had to go on a train to Poland that Friday evening. I explained my situation and told him I’d stop by in any case. Then we parted that day.  

The day of the party. I went through the backdoor of the housing complex and saw that Pablo was setting up the DJ booth in the courtyard. They were throwing a small rave and were using the courtyard as a dancefloor. From there, I could see the blue sky. It felt good. The other organizers were getting ready for the party with excitement too. Maybe it was because we were in Ukraine, but many flowers were on display. “The event’s until 9 PM. You can’t go outside past 10 PM in Odessa, so this is a brief, fun moment,” Pablo said, laughing. 

After a short while, music started blasting from the speakers. Some of the organizers took their place on the dancefloor and began dancing. I felt a bit bewildered seeing people dance in front of a DJ in Ukraine during the war. Pablo looked at me as though he saw through me and said, “You think this is strange, don’t you? I understand. But we continue living normally; it doesn’t matter if we’re in a war.” I decided to extend my stay in Odesa by one day right away. I wanted to witness the situation for a little longer.  

Once it was past 3 PM, people gradually started to come in. Dressed up to the nines, people would hug, dance, and enjoy themselves. They were all friends of the party organizers or friends of friends. Partially due to the organizers not promoting the party too much, there were about 15 people. It might not sound like a lot, but to begin with, Ukraine is under martial law. Perhaps that scope was the limit, but they were undoubtedly having a good time.  

The DJ mostly played techno, but some songs were city pop-ish. There was a song with a very catchy melody, and a girl in the crowd was singing along. I went up to the DJ because I wanted to know the name, and he told me it was a remix of a well-known Russian song. He looked it up on my phone immediately. I was stunned as I realized they were dancing to the enemy’s music during wartime. That’s how deeply embedded Russian culture is in Ukraine, and it reminded me of how it’s not a clash of cultures and customs but rather a one-sided invasion. 

Carrying on as usual during wartime

I headed back to the backdoor to rest. I stepped outside and saw the city deserted as usual and could hear the faint rhythm from the other side of the door. Who would ever imagine people having a party in such a place? Part of me was happy to be at a secret party. 

After I had a breather, I heard an ominous sound; an air-raid alarm. I opened the door and ran back inside. I was surprised again, as everyone was still dancing with all their might. Sure, the venue was loud, and no one could hear it. But you get notified on your phone, so everyone must’ve known about the alarm. Some people looked at their phones, put them back into their pockets, and went back to dancing again. No one stopped dancing under the sky with air-raid alarms. I finally understood what Pablo meant when he said they continue living normally.  

I asked Pablo, who was fixing the sound, what normal meant to him. He replied swiftly, “To have fun in any situation. You get it, right? You always take photos. And you probably do that in any situation. Likewise, I meet my friends like this and have fun listening to music. That’s normalcy for me. I continue doing it.”  

According to him, they spent March and April not doing much because of martial law. But they got tired of that and began hosting parties every Friday starting from May. For those of us who live in peaceful countries, it might seem unusual for people to dance in wartime. But that’s from the perception of the outside. Being invaded was an abnormal experience for them, as they danced every day until the war started. So, they can’t discard their source of happiness even if alarms are going off. 

My eyes met with a young man named Yuri, a local rapper. He rapped in Ukrainian on the spot along to a fast electronic track. I couldn’t understand what he was rapping about, but he told me his thoughts: “When the war started, everything became dark. So many people in this country lost their families because of it. Everyone’s hearts are hurting. I wouldn’t say that’s why we do this, but my friends and I talk about our dreams when we meet. That alone is fulfilling. I think I’ve become a bit optimistic.”  

I then realized Seva, the painter, was nowhere to be found. When I went outside, I saw that he was hanging out with other young people in front of the entrance. “Listen, I can’t go inside because I’m on the blacklist for some reason,” he said with a small smile and shrugged his shoulders. He got into a minor quarrel with another member the other day. But Seva wasn’t the type to hold a grudge, so he was enjoying his reunion with other friends outside the venue. 

The youth keep on dancing  

In Ukraine, the sun sets late. It finally started to set around 8 PM. The DJ said something over the mic in Ukrainian, and one of the people in the crowd told me, “This is the best part!”  

Two more hours until curfew. Perhaps we were close to the peak of the night. More people started arriving, making the total count about 30. The crowd moved to the beat with glowing expressions on their faces. Some would chug their drinks and let out a yell, but that was charming. I couldn’t help but smile too.  

“I’m so glad I decided to stay for another day. I’m so happy I could be here,” I said to Pablo. He replied, “I’m glad to hear that. It’s not like us to be gloomy and do nothing just because we’re in a war. We do our best to have fun. That’s our normal.”  

He put on a brave face, but I’m sure a part of him was frustrated because, without war, they would be dancing until morning. It’s already been three months since the invasion, with no signs of a ceasefire. 

There wasn’t much time left until curfew, but the youth continued to dance while air-raid alarms went off.  

Photography Hironori Kodama
Tlansration Lena Grace Suda

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