SBS 301 Fall 2005 Personal Memory Ethnographies

Walking on a pearly white sandy beach, feeling the sand give way and envelope my foot, I relished every step on the beach enjoying the last day on the Texas Gulf Coast. It was the end of our weekend, but not the end of the adventure. Just a short drive from San Antonio my family and I back in July of 2001 made a weekend trip to South Padre Island on the Texas Gulf Coast, where we not only dined on the best fish and shrimp I ever had but also enjoyed some much needed cool ocean breezes. It also seemed like a good opportunity to enjoy some shopping in Mexico, we were so close. After spending the morning on the white sandy beaches our intent at the time was to head towards Mexico and cross the border into the town of Matamoras and visit a popular shopping area. My family and I were all looking for a bargain, “You can get liquor there real cheap” a friend told me; Matamoras beckons. After all piling in the Ford Explorer, my aunt and uncle, cousin and husband and I headed west to the border town of Brownsville; what was ahead of us could only be imagined.

There’s a first time for everything and this trip was my first into Mexico. Recent events on the news at the time of my trip to Mexico reported that tensions were increasing as more immigrants crossed the border. The Border Patrol’s solution: chain link fencing. Waiting in the car during the border guards’ inspections, the border in sight, I glanced around me at all the commotion from street peddlers to impatient drivers, honking their horns making the long wait more tedious. While enduring the seemingly endless wait, my family and I discussed our original plan one more time to find the popular tourist outdoor market for some bargains, then all meet up at a nice restaurant to enjoy a margarita.

We arrived in Matamoras Mexico a half an hour later yet I felt I was on the other side of the globe. We encountered no blending of two cultures in Matamoras as you might witness in border towns such as El Paso Texas or Brownsville Texas, but a distinctly different world. All signs were in Spanish and everyone who could drive was in a car driving in whatever direction they chose. No one in our car knew Spanish fluently but it seemed no one else on the road knew what the speed limit was either. With all the commotion of one way streets and jaywalkers my Uncle, the driver, soon became lost and we had no idea where we were. Backtracking, thinking, remembering, panic was starting to set in. Where were the signs pointing to the market place? Where was that grocery store? Towards the border gate? Better to chance it with the grocery store. My Uncle managed to find the way back to the store where my husband simply asked (something he could’ve done earlier) in broken Spanish the whereabouts of the market place. Before we knew it, or knew where we were going, we were off to the races again in search for that bargain shopping.

Monday’s lunch crowd is considerably slower than the weekends but the cantina that I work in still has a few guests straggling in for lunch. The guests that come to this part of Matamoras shop and then afterwards stop in here for a good meal, and an even better margarita. My cantina is not too far from one of the poorest parts of Matamoras, and not too many like driving there either.

All of a sudden I heard voices, talking loudly, laughing, in English. I jumped to grab the menus and escorted the new arrivals to a corner table, isolated from the bar. My nervous guests did not even look at the menus; they were more interested in ordering the drinks. Making their drinks at the bar I overheard parts of the conversation--maybe I could pick up some clues as to why they were drinking pretty early! They had gone shopping at the nearby market square and to no surprise got lost trying to find it. Most American tourists do, and I had wondered how did they finally get here? Did they stop and ask someone? I doubt it. Did they figure it out on their own? However they arrived, they were happy now, enjoying their margaritas. Apparently the culture shock of Mexico was too much for them to handle. Nothing that a bit of tequila can’t cure.

The experience of culture shock, I decided, throws all preconceived ideas out the window. I was not prepared to face the reality of Mexico in Mexico. I had an American ideology; I imagined that as an American crossing into a bordering country a part of my culture would be there too. I thought to myself, as we were crossing back into Texas that day that the differences I saw between the two countries were as distinct and separate as they could be. Once back in San Antonio where the majority of the population was Hispanic, I realized I was living in a borderland. San Antonio is a re-emergence of Mexico in Texas where everything is a combination of two countries melting into one. I physically lived in one country, but during my short residence in San Antonio I experienced two cultures, a blending, and a borderland where people lived.