Two cars stopped to help us after the truck spun in a circle and then slowly thumped and bumped backwards down an embankment, coming to a stop practically on its side. Shaken, Rosa and I awkwardly climbed out on her side with the help of two men. After assessing our few bruises, including the ones that had nothing to do with our little accident, we insisted we were fine and did not need to go to a hospital but would gladly accept a ride to a service station on the edge of Arriaga. Once there, we pretended to seek help until our ride drove away. Then exhausted, dripping with sweat, and still stunned by the turn of events, we skittered behind the building toward a low cement wall and sank onto the only patch of shade beneath a small tree. Rosa began to sob.
I kept my eyes on the hills and distant mountains that surrounded Arriaga, for even quaint Zinacantán had a beauty that was absent from this sad place. To the left of the gas station was a sagging one-story building with boarded windows and a door hanging off its hinges. To the right, there were two heaping mounds, one of dirt and one of gravel. A gray hawk, perched above us on a wire between two posts, scanned its surroundings. Clutched in my hand was a plastic water bottle given to me by someone at the scene of our accident. I unscrewed the top and took a long drink. It was warm and tasteless. I passed it to Rosa, who sniffled and then lifted it to her parched lips. I could hear the sounds of traffic and horns blaring in the distance.
“Now what?” I asked softly. “Should we find a bus station?”
Rosa sat watching the hawk and then finally spoke, almost in a whisper, “I think we are close enough to the Oaxacan border to walk. If it’s 20 minutes by car, as that man said, it can’t take too long on foot. We should save our money, Alma.” She paused then added, “I’m not really sure what we are doing, are you?”
The hawk screeched, startling us both as it lifted off and flew behind us toward the mountains.
I turned to Rosa and waited until she met my eyes. “We need to get to Oaxaca to start,” I began, “see if anyone has heard from Papá, and then, if not, on to el norte.”
Rosa sighed and shook her head. “Alma, it will be enough to get to Oaxaca and find someone we can trust. Maybe Mundo. He was Papá’s friend, so he might help us. Or maybe Father Estrada. He has always been kind to us.”
I thought of the priest who had called authorities in an effort to find out something about Papá when he first went missing—but to no avail. I bit my lower lip to keep it from quivering. If there was still no word from Papá once we got to Oaxaca, I was determined to find a way to get to America. Something in my gut told me this was the answer. But for now, I simply nodded.
Following the sounds of ranchera music and the smells of street food, we made our way toward a clock tower in the distance. As we got closer to Arriaga’s town square, our spirits lifted, and once there, to our stunned surprise, we discovered that we were standing beside train tracks. They ran straight through the heart of the city.
“Problem solved!” I joked to Rosa. “We can ride La Bestia to Oaxaca!”
But she wasn’t laughing. Instead she turned to me with wide, serious eyes and said, “Alma, it’s as good as a guide. We just need to follow the tracks . . . at a safe distance . . . and we will find our way. Then once we get across the state border, we can decide how best to get to Oaxaca City.”
As we walked around the town square that afternoon, we noticed a sharp contrast between the locals, hurrying about in light dress, and the obvious migrants, huddled in small groups, wearing baseball caps, hooded sweatshirts, and backpacks. I took my backpack off my back and carried it on my arm like a purse, while Rosa, who wore her embroidered tote bag with its strap across her chest, reached in and pulled out the keys to Tito’s truck. She let them dangle in her hand as we walked about. Whether we looked like locals or not, we certainly didn’t look like Central Americans waiting for the train.
First, we headed to a small mercado, where we settled on a stack of tortillas, a covered plastic bowl of beans, extra water bottles, and then after some excited discussion, a small clay pot, matches, and masa with vanilla and cinnamon, so we could make warm atole to drink at night. The latter I tucked away in my backpack. Sitting on the grass, we each ate one tortilla and a finger scoop of beans, then packed the rest away in Rosa’s tote. We took turns stretching out for a short nap; then, after refilling our water bottles, we set out walking, keeping a good distance between us and the train track, but close enough to follow its path.
Within half an hour we were out of the city, first walking past farmland and then into stretches of forest and fields of green. The first hour was exhilarating as we walked along embankments, through brush and beneath shaded trees, but soon we tired. Our pace slowed, and our feet ached. While we kept fairly close to the tracks, we had yet to see a train pass, so when we reached a steep ravine, we chose to dash across the train’s bridge, our hearts pounding even though no sight nor sound of the Beast
