Bául in Spanish Must Mean "Bad Decision"
Over the past ten years I've known Sidney, I've tried to help him when I can: a bus ticket here, one there, and another one back here. A month or so ago, I was on a walk in Fresno when I received a phone call from the American embassy in Mexico City. The guy inquired if I knew Sidney, then informed me that he was stuck in the Querétaro bus station; he'd missed his bus connection to Laredo and now they wanted another $26 to change his ticket for the next day. He'd have to stay in the station overnight. There wasn't much I could do right at that moment. His aunt-in-law ended up having to bail him out, then I wired Sidney money when he got to Laredo so he could pay the aunt back and use the rest to buy something for himself. This is all to say it's easy to grow frustrated with Sidney's decision-making skills, and he's not good with numbers, financial or otherwise.
When I arrived in Laredo on April 6, he told me he'd bought his wife a hand-painted wooden box at a local shop called Don Luis that morning and asked them to hold it over the weekend, then he would cross the border to ship it through the Mexican correo on Monday. He'd also sent his wife and two children in Jilotepec, Mexico, the majority of his unemployment insurance check that day. He was down to his last ten or twenty dollars for the next two weeks. When I asked how much he paid for the box, he said $20, and it would be $10 to ship through the correo (when he crossed the border to deposit his wife's money, he did recon at the correo). I rolled my eyes and told him I'd accompany him to the store in order to see the box on Monday, then I'd go to the library to write while he crossed border.
Monday afternoon, we walked into Don Luis, which is a cross between a thrift store and an antiques store, and Sidney inquired about his "bául," hoping they still had it (no one seemed to know that Spanish word, which actually translates to "trunk"). The woman behind the counter looked confused, then read his receipt––he'd actually paid $41. I expected her to pull a jewelry-sized wooden box from under the counter. After some discussion in Sidney's confusing Spanish––he often mixes up verb conjugations––a man emerged from the back carrying a large cardboard box. I peered inside and saw something the size of a nightstand wrapped in cellophane. It weighed 45 pounds. I helped Sidney carry it out front and set it down on the sidewalk. "This is heavy, Sidney," I said. "How were you planning to get this all the way to the correo?" The walk was at least a mile.
When I arrived in Laredo on April 6, he told me he'd bought his wife a hand-painted wooden box at a local shop called Don Luis that morning and asked them to hold it over the weekend, then he would cross the border to ship it through the Mexican correo on Monday. He'd also sent his wife and two children in Jilotepec, Mexico, the majority of his unemployment insurance check that day. He was down to his last ten or twenty dollars for the next two weeks. When I asked how much he paid for the box, he said $20, and it would be $10 to ship through the correo (when he crossed the border to deposit his wife's money, he did recon at the correo). I rolled my eyes and told him I'd accompany him to the store in order to see the box on Monday, then I'd go to the library to write while he crossed border.
Monday afternoon, we walked into Don Luis, which is a cross between a thrift store and an antiques store, and Sidney inquired about his "bául," hoping they still had it (no one seemed to know that Spanish word, which actually translates to "trunk"). The woman behind the counter looked confused, then read his receipt––he'd actually paid $41. I expected her to pull a jewelry-sized wooden box from under the counter. After some discussion in Sidney's confusing Spanish––he often mixes up verb conjugations––a man emerged from the back carrying a large cardboard box. I peered inside and saw something the size of a nightstand wrapped in cellophane. It weighed 45 pounds. I helped Sidney carry it out front and set it down on the sidewalk. "This is heavy, Sidney," I said. "How were you planning to get this all the way to the correo?" The walk was at least a mile.
Sidney and the bául.
Sidney shrugged. Since I wasn't planning on crossing the border, I had my backpack with books, notepads, and my computer inside, which is the only material item I really care about. I said, "I guess I'll help you carry it." We tried each grabbing a side, but it was slow going, so I picked it up and placed it on my shoulder and walked several blocks to the border, which, for some reason, costs $1 to cross. We continued onto the bridge over the Rio Grande (a.k.a Río Bravo del Norte in Mexico), and I had to keep switching shoulders since the box was heavy and awkward. Halfway across the bridge , a middle-aged Mexican man asked in Spanish if we needed help and a woman rushed out with a hand truck. When I realized they would only take the box to the end of the bridge, maybe 100 yards, I waved them off and kept moving.
Me and Sidney on Calle Hidalgo in Nuevo Laredo on another day.
The morning grew hot and humid. I was a sweaty mess, more and more frustrated as we started down Calle Hidalgo in Nuevo Laredo. (Sidney wouldn't inform me until a week later that some of the tattooed guys on the corners talking on cell phones are possibly "spotters" for the cartels or other criminal rings, watching everyone who crosses. If he had, I probably wouldn't have joined him.) A few blocks down Calle Hidalgo, I set the box on a bus bench in order to rest. I looked back toward the border. "How were you planning on getting this over here, Sid? This is insane." He said, "I have a friend with big arms." I thought he meant someone at the homeless shelter. "Are you talking about me?" I asked. He smiled and said, "Yes." I laughed and picked up the box, balancing it on my head and walking on.
When we finally arrived at the correo, the kind woman behind the counter told us we'd have to wait 30 minutes or so for the inspector to return. This is the exact moment I wanted to choke Sidney (captured in the photo below).
Me and Sidney and the bául at the Mexican correo.
Sidney had talked all morning about wanting tamales, and I now wanted the coldest beer in Nuevo Laredo in order to de-steam my head. We walked around, but it was too late in the day for the tamale carts, so we found a small restaurant and sat down. "I don't have any pesos, Sidney," I said. "I wasn't planning on coming over here today." He insisted he wanted to buy me the beer, but it didn't appear he had enough crumpled peso bills on the table. As always, he asked me how many pesos equal a dollar. A very large––easily 6'4" and over 300 lb.––pasty middle-aged white man at the table next to us said, "It's eighteen pesos to the dollar." Yep, thank you. I saw the man walking Calle Hidalgo earlier with an intense-looking local guy in his 40s or early 50s. Unlike Tijuana, border towns like Nuevo Laredo and Matamoros farther south don't have many tourists, so gringos stand out even more than usual.
After I ordered the beer, I asked Sidney if he had enough pesos to ship the box and if he were sure it would be $10 USD. He said if it's under 20 kilograms, it should be. "And if it isn't, what are you going to do?" I asked. "I guess I'll just leave it there." This made me question the wisdom of the old saying, "A bad plan is better than no plan."
After I ordered the beer, I asked Sidney if he had enough pesos to ship the box and if he were sure it would be $10 USD. He said if it's under 20 kilograms, it should be. "And if it isn't, what are you going to do?" I asked. "I guess I'll just leave it there." This made me question the wisdom of the old saying, "A bad plan is better than no plan."
As I was finishing my beer, the intense local guy appeared in the back patio door with a Mexican woman in her late 20s. She wore shorts and a T-shirt, and looked like she could be the intense guy's daughter. The large, pasty white man looked her over, then nodded. The woman walked around the building to the front door, and the local guy came inside with another local dude in his 40s. "Give us the down payment and give her sixty," he said to the white man. I ushered Sidney out the door and up the sidewalk. He's pretty oblivious to what's going on around him, which, like his meek stature and quiet demeanor, seems to work to his advantage most times. I said, "That big white dude was paying for that woman back there." We looked over our shoulders, and the woman walked down a side street with the big white dude.
When Sidney and I got back to the correo, several people stood around waiting for the inspector. A plain-clothes man eventually emerged from the back room, and the people gathered around him, holding their open packages out like gifts. He'd look inside each one, give his blessing, then the people would move toward the main line. Sidney got the nod, then held up the line by filling out the paperwork and asking what the zip code is for his wife's town while I borrowed shipping tape from the lady next to me. She tried to coach me through my horrible taping job because the dispenser was almost out. A couple of men in line stepped forward to help Sidney with the paperwork as they were growing frustrated with the delay. I kept saying "lo siento" (I'm sorry) to everyone around us, then lifted the box onto the counter scale. I think it was right at 20 kilograms. The woman asked in Spanish for 170 pesos. I had to tell him the number. Sidney handed over all the peso bills he had, leaving him with only a large handful of centavos. We thanked everyone who helped us, then hustled out the door.
While we stood in the long line to cross back over the border, Sidney called his wife. An impossibly loud border patrol hovercraft with heavily armed men blared beneath us on the Rio Grande. Two men played drums and an accordion as Sidney covered his free ear and shouted into the phone, asking his wife if she received the money he sent Friday. He repeated her words, "Poquito? poquito?" (very little?). He explained his situation to her, then bragged about the bául, which she should receive in ten days. Like with the two glass-case butterfly collections he recently sent, she didn't seem impressed. He said, "Well, if you don't have room, put it in the garage with the other stuff." He told her she can't think about how things are now, but must imagine a future when he builds her a home and fills it with all these beautiful things.
When he got off the phone, he looked at me with his sad puppy-dog eyes and said, "I hope she can lift the bául when it arrives."
When Sidney and I got back to the correo, several people stood around waiting for the inspector. A plain-clothes man eventually emerged from the back room, and the people gathered around him, holding their open packages out like gifts. He'd look inside each one, give his blessing, then the people would move toward the main line. Sidney got the nod, then held up the line by filling out the paperwork and asking what the zip code is for his wife's town while I borrowed shipping tape from the lady next to me. She tried to coach me through my horrible taping job because the dispenser was almost out. A couple of men in line stepped forward to help Sidney with the paperwork as they were growing frustrated with the delay. I kept saying "lo siento" (I'm sorry) to everyone around us, then lifted the box onto the counter scale. I think it was right at 20 kilograms. The woman asked in Spanish for 170 pesos. I had to tell him the number. Sidney handed over all the peso bills he had, leaving him with only a large handful of centavos. We thanked everyone who helped us, then hustled out the door.
While we stood in the long line to cross back over the border, Sidney called his wife. An impossibly loud border patrol hovercraft with heavily armed men blared beneath us on the Rio Grande. Two men played drums and an accordion as Sidney covered his free ear and shouted into the phone, asking his wife if she received the money he sent Friday. He repeated her words, "Poquito? poquito?" (very little?). He explained his situation to her, then bragged about the bául, which she should receive in ten days. Like with the two glass-case butterfly collections he recently sent, she didn't seem impressed. He said, "Well, if you don't have room, put it in the garage with the other stuff." He told her she can't think about how things are now, but must imagine a future when he builds her a home and fills it with all these beautiful things.
When he got off the phone, he looked at me with his sad puppy-dog eyes and said, "I hope she can lift the bául when it arrives."
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