The faces in the router. Ciudad Juarez. Chihuahua

The faces in the "tourers"

Ciudad Juarez, Chihuahua. Mexico.

Monday, eight in the morning and urged me to get to the workshop. I must cross a rail-way boulevards and another coming, I must be very alert before some crazy driver (a) to hit me, no one gives way, no one is polite. The minutes pass one, two, three, four, up to fifteen, finally glimpse a small space to cross ... crossed looking like a bullfighter facing the onslaught, escaping death. I hope the path "Zaragoza Juarez." I make the stop signal, the unit is on green and white. It is observed that the distance is somewhat empty, ie if space is available to sit.

I in to this magic box, six-wheel where we are all actors in a meta-history that hardly started. Six pesos function costs about one hour to reach my destination. The faces seem irreducible waves, white foam where there is no turning back to the beach. In the first hole which I see here I am. Just look at me quickly accommodate two rows of faces of all ages, all checked me from head to toe. Nobody talks, nobody says anything, variety of shades, eyes and hair, anger, distrust, but the same smell fear.

Without realizing it, I've sat in a place that smells of contingency, both my right and left are two big guys tattoo where color is king of his arms, chest and neck, everything is like a work of high cost sumptuary . Both are shaved, with a look of abandonment and desolation impressive, like a decaying cemetery, hard faces, marked by four deep furrows in the forehead, thick fingers, nails with dirt on their shirts you see the color of blood, smell of blood. While others rise and fall, each in an unexpected destination. Enter the scene-and, incidentally, the one who sells peanuts, chocolates, pepitorias, donuts, which has the sad story of immigrant tortured, to raise money for open heart surgery of his son. Or the voice singing with tears and finally requesting a contribution.

Fear is latent in the faces of the routers, is like a nylon thread that cuts the breaths, and warning of impending danger. When he came on the scene the young man who wore all black and was missing an ear, heat an unusual increase, accelerated breathing, there was increased blood pressure, announcing it was like something terrible was about to happen . Everyone shrugged, some fell, others rushed to the end of the bus. The rugged-looking men, stood, mingled, and they face brightened. Apparently someone had kept his word. One of them pulled from his pants pocket an ear had dried blood, the young man gave money in exchange observed. The older man, which arms the ancient tapestry, frightened the young man with a knife and scratched his arm.

Nobody said anything, nobody acted in defense of anyone, "No" was the perfect eyewitness to keep the secret of that morning in the tourer, the smell of blood was intensified tenfold ... but no one was killed, that's win- the driver turned up the volume for music, the assistant scratched his testicles. Come immersed in that scene of reckoning, I pass a block from my point of descent. Shout "down" robust men stared at me, moved his head as if to say go with it. I went ... and behind me the fearsome tattooed men. I came to the workshop, I took the keys, locks in place, I raised the blinds, the label-Tattoo-Scale-was on. Them behind me, no doubt wanted to draw the new trophy in the back, the older man said, "this time in sepia."

Diana Espinal Meza.