A Heavy Weight

On the complexities of international bodies

This is a story of two bodies. They stretched, they sowed, and grieved together.

They fought with each other, spitting terrible maledictions in different tongues until harsh lines were drawn in vain. They abstracted themselves through commerce and culture; you would never guess they were once a whole.

This is a story of two bodies, bound together by shared resources but split by nationalistic pride and political disorder.

By crossing the border into Baja California — the name in itself alludes complex connection — we merely tap the shoulder of the sentient body of land that beholds Mexico.

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The moment we arrive in Tijuana, my attention fixates on the infrastructure. I am captured by the sight of brightly colored walls and compacted storefronts, and equally as attentive to crumbling masonry and wooden boards nailed over broken windows.

Along the concave hills that guide us into Rosarito, my eyes shift restlessly between the strewn municipalities on my left and the abandoned buildings to my right. Steel bars protrude from concrete towers that look like they’ve been cut in half. Hollow apertures frame glimpses of the ocean, like paintings that sit tucked away in an attic, collecting dust. The second I step out from the car, the industrial scent of burning rubber infiltrates the air.

When we are greeted by stray dogs, I become enamored by their more-than-human defiance. They too are part of the infrastructure, feeding into the same tourist logic that tells us not to drink the water and makes us cautious of what we consider to be “sanitary.”

Color-blocked views of green, red, blue, and orange multiply along the drive to Ensenada; the abundance of shipping containers indicates we are nearing the port. I watch patiently as young children approach us to sell bracelets, and shy away from vendors when they offer me their lowest prices.

On the dynamic occasions we gather on Caravan trips, I am taught to appreciate place intentionally, fleetingly, and critically. In the wake of a different country, my thoughts succumb to the sardonic outlook I’ve developed on life.

A week prior to this trip, I had watched a documentary in class about maquiladoras in Tijuana: factories run by foreign companies that employ Mexican women for cheap labor. My readings detail stories of Mexican-American and immigrant farmworks whose labor upholds our industrial agriculture system, characterizing the relentless consumerism of the U.S. as a driving mechanism of Mexico’s social and environmental degradation. I write papers that attempt to deconstruct the underlying ideologies that intertwine the two countries, but all this knowledge feels superficial when I am met with the lived experiences surrounding me.

It would be amiss to reduce the two bodies to their developed and underdeveloped dichotomies, and to generalize my observations in Baja California as if they are true to the entire country of Mexico. To do so means to erase the cultural, economic, and political complexities that define both. But the difference materializes. It stings your eye like staring straight into the face of the sun. The act of travel doesn’t always require us to reflect on the power-relations embedded within the spaces we move to and from. I come to realize that between the U.S. and Mexico, this contemplation is inescapable.

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“The body exists, and gives weight and shape to our existence. It causes us pain and it gives us pleasure; it is not a suit of clothes we are in the habit of wearing, not something apart from us: we are our bodies.”
— Octavio Paz, Labyrinth of Solitude

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On the last night of our trip, I give into my bodily inhibitions and I grieve. Exhaustion, sleep deprivation, and immense frustration culminate all at once, as my face cracks behind closed doors and I burst into tears.

Deep down, I know the root of my grief to be the remorseful solidarity that filled my body to its brims the moment we crossed the border — it’s the same affliction I feel when I sit in class, annotate my readings, or write my papers. Though my own life experience is shaped by a detachment from heritage, I have always understood that my Latino identity gives weight to my existence as an American. It feels selfish to have such a reaction, but it is the only true response I can conjure from experiencing the forces that bound the U.S. and Mexico to each other.

This is a story of our bodies.

The bodies of sixteen college students as we make our way through Baja California, letting go of preconceptions and welcoming personal reflection. I cannot perfectly detail the complex relationship between the two countries, but I can allow it to inform and guide my travel experience as I reevaluate my role as a student, as a foreigner, as a tourist.

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pave these gravel roads,
and inscribe them with shared history
build your desolate tower,
and leave its fate to the weathering forces of wind
and erosion
cry out in the name of industry,
but weigh the cost on different scales
mistake love for welfare,
and put your faith in the free market.