The Mennonite Girl In Mexico — Part Two
Photo by Christy Ash
We had filled our stomachs at the tent by eating too many tacos and drinking too many bottles of beer, so we decided to walk around the town a bit to work off the effects of both, but there wasn’t much to see that held our interest. We’d expected to see booths selling local crafts but only saw carnival rides the kids seemed to be enjoying from hearing their screams. So we decided to head back to where we were parked.
At the corner where we needed to turn to go toward our RV, I saw the Mennonites standing together on the opposite side of the road. Some of the men were walking away, likely to go get their transportation, while the rest stayed put.
I spotted the young woman I had spoken to in the tent standing by herself at the back of the group looking around frantically. And then she saw us. She gave a small lift of her hand in a wave and I waved back. I watched with a bit of angst as she kept inching back farther away from the others as if she was getting ready to make a run for it. I stood still. Mac and Isabelle had kept walking not noticing that I had stopped. Just as I thought the woman was ready to bolt away and run, one of the other women spotted her, and yelled her name, “Rachel!”
She froze. Two women dashed toward the girl and grabbed her arms pulling her toward the group. I could see the women scolding her as if she were a child and then came the tears. The women put their arms around the girl to soothe her or to hide her, I wasn’t sure, but before I could assess the true situation the men came back with a couple of blue vans, and they all piled in and drove away.
I was very curious about that young woman and what she was thinking, feeling, and dealing with, yet I had no way of finding out anything about her. Or so I thought.
I was still at the corner in that little town watching the girl being whisked away with the others in a van, when Mac and Isabelle finally discovered that I was not with them and walked back to me.
I’d explained how I was seeing the situation with the blonde woman and the Mennonites, and told them of my concerns, as we walked to the RV.
Isabelle wisely said, “The woman might have just been homesick. She’d probably made the decision to be with those people because she met this good-looking man, fell in love, married him, and when the honeymoon wore off, she realized she was stuck in a not-so-ideal place. It was her choice, and she’ll adapt.”
She also suggested that I quit worrying about someone I didn’t even know. Isabelle was right, of course, but when we got to the RV and turned in for the night, I couldn’t get the girl off my mind. I kept thinking about the terrified look I had last seen on that beautiful face. Then I wondered why I was so concerned since there was nothing I could do to help, no matter what was going on with her. Isabelle was right about the fact that the girl would adapt to her new environment and home life eventually, yet something about her actions had me concerned.
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The next morning, Mac walked down the road to the Taller de Mecánico shop to talk to the mechanic. When he returned, he reported, “The guy told me that they didn’t have leaf springs but said they could put new ones on once we found some.”
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“We’ll have to leave the RV here, take the truck, and go look for leaf springs. I see no other option,” he told me.
It seemed like several hours later but was likely only a couple when we got to the next big town. It was called Tlocolula de Matamoros and was larger than any town we’d seen so far after passing much smaller villages. There was a big market going on, both Isabelle and I were happy to see. Mac suggested that we stay in the town and wait while he took the dog and went hunting for leaf springs. Liking that idea, he gave us one of the walkie-talkies to turn on when we thought it would be close to the time he’d be getting back and told us, “I’ll buzz you when I’m nearly here to find out where you are, okay?”
Photo by Roberto Carlos Román Don
I asked him if he had any idea when we should start worrying about him, or when I should think about turning the radio on since the timing of things to reconnect was huge. I was feeling a bit panicky about him leaving us behind and almost told him that we’d go with him. But Isabelle was already walking toward the action of the market, so I stayed with the plan.
Mac explained, “You can figure on a minimum of three hours, would be my guess, but can’t say for sure. I hope you can entertain yourselves that long,” he added.
“We’ll try,” I told him. “But I’ll worry about you, so please be careful of those donkeys in the middle of the road, and anything else dangerous. Drive carefully, but hurry back. Okay?” I’d pleaded. He gave me a kiss and hug and was off.
With some trepidation about being without our translator and yet feeling a little excited about this new adventure, I caught up with Isabelle. The market seemed huge, so we decided to walk to the opposite end of it to start shopping so that we wouldn’t have to carry anticipated packages around too long.
Although we were excited to discover what that area of Mexico had to offer in the way of artistic skills and creativity, this market seemed to be more utilitarian. We saw lots of wooden items from toys to wooden spoons, clay pots and plates, and lots of fabric items such as clothing and dishtowels, but not much in the way of artistic creations.
We came upon the prepared-food vendors in one stretch of the long street that had some good smells and interesting-looking things cooking on grills, in vats, or in large pans that stirred our appetites. But when we looked more closely at the items, even our growling stomachs were repelled by what we saw. It looked like those people threw away nothing. There were innards and pork brains deep-fried or boiled; things that made my empty stomach lurch instead of rumble with happiness. Especially when we saw pig snouts in a pot of sizzling hot grease along with french fries.
“Just give me a burger with those fries,” Isabelle said after seeing what was cooking.
We finally came upon a table filled with cups of innocuous and identifiable fruit and each bought a paper cup filled with pineapple, mango, and papaya chunks to eat while we wandered down the vendor-lined streets.
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It had gotten quite hot. We’d been walking well into the afternoon and didn’t want to stay out much longer, especially since the displays of items had become repetitious. We each had a couple of sacks of clothing items we’d purchased and felt good about quitting. Besides, we were hungry for more than a fruit cup and wanted to get a drink…both of us felt a big need for a beer at that moment. Also, it had been over three hours from the time Mac had dropped us off, so I figured we could possibly be getting a call on the walkie-talkie soon.
We wanted to find a place to eat near the highway so that we could watch out for the truck when Mac contacted us. Preferably at a restaurant that had air-conditioning. We went in search and found the perfect one on the corner of the street we were on and the highway.
It was cozy inside and had some good smells. Since we had nothing to eat all day but the fruit cups and some munchies in the truck before Mac dropped us off, we were ravenous. I suggested ordering nachos, if they had such a thing, along with the beers, since we hoped Mac would be arriving at any moment. We could order more when he arrived and eat dinner together.
When I asked the waitress for nachos and beer, she nodded in understanding and was off to get our drinks first. She returned quickly with the two bottles of our anticipated refreshment. We gulped down the beer and ordered another when the nachos came. The waitress sat down plates for each of us and placed the plate of food in the middle. We stared at the pile of tortilla corn chips in disappointment. It was covered with sloppy refried beans and a smattering of tasteless, white, crumbly cheese and that was it. Nothing remotely like the American version of nachos we were used to. But after the second beer, we didn’t care that the plate of anemic-looking finger food tasted just as anemic; it was food.
We thought that drinking water versus more beer was more prudent if we had to wait much longer. But we felt embarrassed about not ordering more food to go with the water, so we decided to go ahead and eat dinner. If Mac should come after we finished, we would just order more for him. No problem, I thought.
But when we finished our meal, Mac still hadn’t come. It was also dark outside. My anxiety started to sprout branches. Those branches soon grew into tree trunks as the time ticked away without a single crackle from the radio sitting at our table.
“He should have been back long before the sun went down,” I muttered while staring at our half of the walkie-talkie wishing for a noise from it. I could see how quickly the battery was dropping power notches and knew I needed to turn it off soon. That also meant my little connection to a feeling of security would also be turned off, and that scared me.
Photo by Pradamas Gifarry
In Part Three, the final story of this series, Isabelle and I hope to find Mac while he discovers and has a very strange interaction with the Mennonite Girl. Click HERE to read it!
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If you missed Part One read it HERE!