nmah5621.xml

nmah5621.xml

born-digital

story

yes

no

2003-08-30

nine eleven traveling
© 2002, Dave Doran

I'm traveling alone throughout Mexico, having just crossed the Sea of Cortez on a (very cool) 18-hour ferry ride from La Paz to the state of Sinaloa. On the morning of 9/11, I walk into the Internet café I'd gone to the night before, and the same young clerk- not more than a kid, really- is there. He has the TV on. I see an image that I will always remember: the first Tower burning, the second Tower not yet damaged. He asks me if I know what's going on. I don't have a clue; I'm thinking that maybe it's a building in Mexico City. Even though I grew up in New York, I don't want to recognize the Twin Towers.
He tells me in Spanish. I understand the words, but I don't want to hear the truth. And then the news announcer says it in a different way, with different words, as if to get it through my head. To hear such an incomprehensible thing in a different language gives me an easy out: I just figure I translated it all wrong. I quickly get on the Internet, and go to US news websites. I read bold, screaming print. I sit in stunned silence. The kid-clerk is transfixed on the television, but asks me to translate website content for him. We are alone.
I stay for about two hours at the place, me and the young kid in shock, watching both Towers crumble. An Australian woman comes in, and asks me in English if I know any more about the attacks. She can tell by my NY accent that I'm from the States. She tells me that a friend of hers in London has just e-mailed her with the news that a dozen airplanes flying in US airspace are still unaccounted for. I start to get frightened that there will now be even more attacks. When she asks if I'm okay, it all hits me- hard. I start crying. Bawling. I have almost never cried in public before- definitely not under the threat of Mexican machismo- but now I don't care. Both the Australian and the Mexican come over to me, yet not as Mexican or Australian. They come with no agenda, no pretense. They rub my shoulder and hug me and say kind, reassuring things in both Spanish and English. Now we're all starting to cry, and I in turn help to comfort them. I then realize this is not a national tragedy, it is a human obscenity. The kid has become a young man by virtue of experience. It is a strong, hugely comforting moment, and I am a little less afraid, and at once startled by their compassion. I feel safe with total strangers because we are human during an inhuman event.
I leave, and wander into a pharmacy. I see an elderly couple who could be from the US. They're actually from Mexico City. They've heard about it, and I stammer. It's really very overwhelming by now- it's starting to sink in- particularly since I'm alone, out of the country. The gentleman comes over to me and clasps his hand firmly yet tenderly on my shoulder. "Toda de la gente mexicana esta con Ustedes" he says. I feel his warmth. He's in my life for four minutes, and yet I can trust this man.
I go sit on the beach. I've traveled alone to foreign countries before, but I've never felt scared or lonely. Until now. A thick wave of fear covers me, and I feel a hot surge in my stomach as if Im about to vomit. I'm not afraid of being in Mexico. I'm afraid of the evil.
In the marketplace, a very old Mexican man slowly approaches me, looks me straight in the eye, and in his best English says "I'm sorry". He leaves before I can barely utter "Muchisimas gracias." The hotel clerk sends a basket of fruit and some chocolate to my room, for my "painful heart". The waiter at dinner buys me a brandy. A young Mexican couple seated next to me secretly arrange to have my bill paid, and invite me for a drink and dessert at their table. A fruitseller tells me Mexican President Vicente Fox will postpone all upcoming Mexican Independence Day celebrations, out of respect for the US. The heavily armed soldier who is inspecting the bus back to Tijuana asks for my papers, and then offers heartfelt, impassioned condolences for my country. I impulsively salute him because I want him to know how much I appreciate his care. I salute him because he deserves the respect. I salute him because he is protecting his country.
On 9/12 I'm talking, in Spanish, with a cigarette vendor in the hot, dusty marketplace. His small TV keeps repeating video footage of the Towers' collapse. Three young guys with giveaway San Diego accents come near, and ask what's going on. They've been traveling on a "chicken bus", and just got into town. I feel a strange sense of responsibility to break it to them gently, yet clearly. The vendor, who speaks no English, can tell they do not yet know. He listens and watches as I tell them. I start with the Twin Towers. I add the Pentagon. The youngest one with the thick, shiny brown hair then opens his eyes and mouth in fear, as I end it with the rural PA crash. I feel sick again. They curse in disbelief, and watch the footage. The tall blond guy asks many questions. The Asian guy keeps repeating the F word. The vendor says nothing and watches us. The youngest kid cannot look at the TV, and turns away to wipe tears with his sleeve. Any more words are useless, so I quietly leave.
I come home early because I miss the USA. I am so homesick, like never before. I have a tattoo in Arabic on my forearm, crafted by my Palestinian friend in San Francisco. I'm afraid for him, and I've twice had the same nightmare that he is attacked by a mob at his workplace. I decide to not wear a longsleeve shirt in 95-degree heat in the three-hour pedestrian line at the Tijuana border. I have nothing to hide, but I expect an interrogation. I get a sigh of relief out of the INS worker, who tells me that he's always happy to see a US passport like mine- since it makes "checkout" so much easier, instead of the usual onyx-seeking daytrippers who only hand him a CA driver license as their identity card. Surprisingly, I am not detained, and I step into San Ysidro, into the USA. I feel so happy and appreciative to be back home. I feel so touched by the Mexican people, by their love and authenticity and care for a total stranger. But above all else I remain so very sad.