The Cultural Layers of Mexico by Robert Richter
I remember the first time I ever crossed the border into Mexico, forty-two years ago now. When friends and relatives found out I was going, and hitchhiking and riding trains to boot, they would ask, “Is it safe?” Is it safe? Is it safe? That’s all I’d get. Banditos, you know and ambushers and killers. Won’t you be killed? And who would ever know? In those days, when you crossed the border, you literally disappeared off the map. Telephones existed in major cities where shabby offices hid booths with paper-thin walls, the erratic static navigated by an operator trying to connect you to a larger world she’d never spoken to before. In emergencies, you might find a place to call; the phone might even work. But who would you call, and for what? Stranded, you found what transport you could and took your chances. Sick or injured? Limejuice and prayer wer...