Beware the Road: First Installment

I’ve taken to a habit recently. Whenever meeting with a group, or even with an individual, I try to sit with my back to the road. This saves them the trouble of twisting and shifting in their seat as they check every passing vehicle.

Fearing that I was being overly dramatic, or reading too much into their body language, I broached the topic one morning. Raul, Maria and I had just finished talking to some leaders from Recuerdo and Mirralvalle and the mood was somber. Although the leaders had since left, Raul and Maria remained, and our conversation was winding down. I felt that now was just a good a time to ask as any other. I turned to Maria, and asked, “How do you feel about roads?”

The meeting table

As the awkward Spanish left my mouth, I knew I had a lot to explain. I just started talking, “When I think about roads, I feel freedom and independence as I ride my bicycle. I feel familiarity when I pull up to the driveway of my home, I feel connected to places I want to go, and people I want to see. I can’t imaging roads make you feel the same...”

I had some stories that she had told me in mind, ultimately leading to this: The first time I arrived at her house, she greeted us from inside, and told us to pass inside. She graciously opened her house up to us to host the visiting community members. After that meeting wound down, she showed me around her chunk of land on the corner piece by a dirt road. She surprised me with the first story. About a month ago or so, a truck showed up late at night. The driver took a long pause at the intersection before making his turn, headlights sweeping across Maria's house. As the strange truck started to pull in front of her house, it slowed right down. Her son Nestor noticed, and let his mom know. She peered out of the house as the truck crawled past.

The intersection outside her door

A few minutes later, the headlights were back, slowing as they passed the house. The truck started to turn, but this time towards the house. It was right at her front door, waiting, idling. She came outside, but the truck didn’t lower its window, nothing from inside. She started to get nervous, as it seemed that whoever was in the truck wasn’t looking for directions. She said “What are you doing here, what do you want?! This is my house!” Still, there was no response from inside the truck, only the rumble of the engine. As she came closer to the window, the driver shifted gears and started to roll backwards, picking up speed as the truck flicked back onto the dirt road. Hard brake, a change in gears, then another long pause. Maria stood firm, standing in the glare of the high beams. The driver stomped on the accelerator, kicking up dirt and pebbles, and the truck careened off down the road into the night. Maria was shaken, she didn’t sleep at all that night.

Then, she told me her second story. Another time, as she was doing some afternoon chores, she heard a moto pull up, and the engine shut off. She came around the corner of her house to get a better view. There were two strange men, dressed in dark clothes waiting beside their bike. They were outside her house, although not directly in front. It seemed like they were waiting for someone. She kept an eye on them as she ushered her kids into the house. She went right out side, asking them if they needed directions. The shook their heads, silence. She said “Are you going to just sit here with your arms crossed, or, are you going to tell me what you want?” After more silence, one of the men spoke up. He said that they were looking for someone and that they were not going to leave before they founder her. They asked Maria if she knew where she was. All she had to say to them was that they were talking to the wrong person. She said it was best that they move on. They exchange a few more words, and they decide to leave. They have not been back since, but she still keeps watch because there is no way to be sure they won't.

So there we sat, hanging on the previous words. As I diverted my eyes to the rings of condensation on the table, I finally resolved to spit the question as directly as possible. "I cant imagine roads make you feel the same...So, what I'm trying to ask is: when we meet, do you prefer being able to see the road?" Almost before I was done asking the question, Maria was nodding vigorously, palms grinding into the table top. "Yes, yes, yes, every time. I always prefer it." Although I had an inkling, it surprised me how strongly she expressed it.

La Osita Negra de La Union

I followed up with a question to Raul. "When you check the road, how many of the vehicles that you see do you recognize?" he said, without hesitation "Nearly every single one."

"En Serio?!" I asked. He started to break it down for me. Little did I know...