A Sunday to Remember

 

A Sunday to Remember

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We recently experienced an interesting Sunday. I use the word “interesting” to cover a lot of ground.

It was mid-morning before I knew anything unusual was happening, I heard some crackling noises, then an explosion, and saw plumes of black smoke billow up out by the highway.

My phone rang. Leo called to tell me that the Jalisco cartel was burning vehicles to form roadblocks. I’ll simplify and paraphrase his conversation. Mainly, he said, do not leave the house.

I was in my house watching the smoke cloud fill the sky to the west. Leo, our rancho all-around helper, was in Rincon, near Puerto Vallarta, lounging on the beach, with phone connections to friends in our little town of Etzatlan. I don’t think Leo had a relaxing holiday.

Leo told me that the head of the Jalisco cartel had been captured and died. The blocked roads, burned vehicles, on highways throughout the state, were disruptions in acts of retaliation.

Thus went the day. Several vehicles burned near our entrance onto the highway, on the little bridge over the arroyo, and further up the highway toward the main part of town. Our homes are near the eastern entrance into town. Leo and other local friends kept us informed. Informed mostly meant “stay put”. We did.

To say we were a tense bunch is, again, to oversimplify our fears. Speaking for myself, for I can only speak for myself, I never felt any danger or fear for my life. Our friends with information were reassuring. Not knowing what is happening is a good way to ratchet up the tension.

Until evening encroached. In the late afternoon, early evening, a large diesel truck with double trailers was stopped directly across the roadway from my nearest neighbor. I heard the explosion as the fuel tank blew and watched as the black plumes, edged with vibrant flames, mounted into the sky, were caught by the wind and blown back toward our homes.

Now, I felt proper fear. What scared me was that the roadsides were edged with high, dry grass. My fear was that the grass would catch fire, which would ignite the trees, especially the jacarandas edging our lawns, which are losing their leaves, perfect dry tinder to accelerate the fires. I stood at my doorway watching, as though that would make a difference, until dark, retreated to a window where I kept a lookout until around 10:00 that night, when finally, the smoke no longer seemed edged in flame.

Monday was quiet. No road traffic. No cane trucks. Quiet. By morning we knew that during the retaliatory burnings on Sunday, the pedestrians had been herded off the streets, were warned that there would be a burn. Drivers and passengers had been escorted out of the hi-jacked vehicles, that despite several people losing their cars or trucks, overall, the damage in our community was minor.

Monday the Police were out rounding up alleged suspects, were clearing the highway and main street of husks of charred vehicles, were directing cleanup of any damage and mess. The highway was opened again. People began to go about doing what needed to be done, whether foraging for food or reassuring their family, going to work. The airports were in operation, under heavy guard, both in Guadalajara and Puerto Vallarta, with limited flights. It helps to have friends who know these things.

I never thought I’d ever say that I was happy to hear road traffic noise, but, believe me. I was happy to hear road traffic noise, the more, the better.

Tuesday, we were back to life as normal. All the businesses, cafes, and stores in town were open. Delivery trucks from Guadalajara delivered milk and diapers and other life essentials. Friends met friends in town. We replenished groceries. Life. Normal.

And so it goes. I’m okay. My friends are okay. We were never in danger.

Let me qualify that. We were in no danger so long as the grass did not catch fire.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

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