Not the
Gunfight At the OK Corral
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
This morning I sat in front of my
casita, reading a book, sipping tea, enjoying the breeze on my face, when
suddenly five truckloads of Mazatlan Policia screeched around the corner and,
positioning the trucks to face both directions, blocked the entrance of our
street.
Without hesitation, I abandoned
book, chair and teacup and melted through the screen door into the inner
recesses of my apartment. I didn’t bother to lock the screen or shut the door.
Why would I? These people could go where they wanted. I wasn’t going to stop
them. There were at least forty, maybe fifty men and women. Some dispersed
around the corners and down the street, searching empty lots and checking each
entrance. One of them looked through my screen. Evidently I didn’t fit the
profile.
Four apartment entrances front onto
our street. At least two dozen fully uniformed federal police, hardware hanging
off their bodies, heavily armed with pistols and machine guns, milled about in
the street and in front of our doors. They wore face masks to make
identification and retaliation difficult.
My neighbor Ted softly called out to
me by my back door, “Pssst, Sondra. Do you see what is happening outside?”
I joined Ted out in the back patio,
an area we share. We both showed the effects of adrenalin rush. Well, in other
words, fear.
In conversations over these last few
months Ted and I have rolled our eyes at the exaggerated US news reports of
crime and violence here in Mazatlan. We each have been in and out of every
neighborhood of the city. Never have we felt unsafe. Never mind that both of us
are old enough to avoid hanging out in low places.
But I have got to tell you, that
between us, in the next few minutes, the rumors flew. “It’s got to be drugs.”
“Which house do you think is the target.” “Do you think they will search every
house?” “What will we do if there is a shoot out?” “I wonder if it is the
neighbor down the street who tries to cause us trouble.” “She got in a pickup
with Arizona plates four days ago and hasn’t been home since.” “Ah ha.” “Should
we stay back here in case bullets start flying?”
However, the effects of adrenalin
begin to wear off. The heartbeat returns to normal. Blood pressure plummets to
acceptable levels. And I had to use the facility. Cautiously I went inside. Two
armed men were stationed outside my door. I could see activity in the street
but nothing that made me anxious.
I grabbed some mending and returned
to the patio. When I finished that, I had some hand laundering to do. Mindless
chores ease the mind. I began packing my bags to leave for Montana in a few
days. No, no, this was not a decision of the moment spurred by the actions in
the street. I had been planning the trip for several weeks.
Hunger set in. I didn’t feel like
cooking. The troops were still outside my door. I conferred with Ted at the
patio. Except for strategically placed guards, the majority of the Policia
stood at ease. We decided to join one another for lunch at the corner comida. That
meant we had to walk through the door guards, street guards, corner guards.
Turns out, we joined two dozen
police personnel for lunch. Many of them greeted us. One personable young man
came to our table and asked where we were from, typical conversation with
tourists. We learned that El Presidente of Sinaloa was in the imposing
government building across the street and these folks were here to guard him.
These men and women were on our
street, guarding the President and us, for three hours. I felt, well,
protected. But a sudden loud percussive noise might have caused me to hit the
floor, face down.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
April 3,
2014
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
No comments:
Post a Comment