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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