Los Lomas, Mexico: The Ballad of a Border Town
By Sandra Carmona

Mentioning Mexico often conjures up images of Cancun, Acapulco or Mexico City.   You mention Las Lomas, and the only response you are likely to receive is an arched brow.  How about Reynosa?   Now you’ve only succeeded in creating even more confusion.

Las Lomas is a relatively unassuming town by international standards, with a quiet neighborhood community comprised mainly of Mexico’s middle and lower-middle classes.  The town is located in Reynosa, a largely industrial city on the south bank of the Rio Grande River. Located just five miles south of McAllen in South Texas, Reynosa is one of the principal cities along the US-Mexican border. 

I moved to Las Lomas at the end of April and into a two-bedroom dwelling house on an awkward T-junction.  The house typifies the Mexican culture in the industrial area.  Anti-heat and anti-theft are the paramount concerns of the Las Lomas’ homeowner.   The décor of my Las Lomas neighborhood tells an interesting story.   Along my street the little cluster of houses are all enclosed by a remote control operated garage, high cement walls with an iron barred gate complete with locks.  On the outside wall, right next to the iron barred gate is a doorbell that rings inside the house.  And on the other side of the gate is a very small impenetrable steel mailbox fitted with a lock.  The enclosed garden is comprised primarily of a cement patio, and a cement walkway that leads up to the front door.  On either side of the walkway are scant patches of green grass.

The front half of the ceiling is slanted, and the roof above is bedecked in the infamous ornate tiles of Mexico.  The rear half of the roof is a simple flat slab of cement.  The entire ceiling has that popcorn look.  The floors are covered with large ceramic tiles that have a semi-gloss finish.  The absence of wooded ceilings and floors work in this blistering climate where temperatures soar to triple digits.  With ceiling fans rotating in each room, the temperatures indoors remain comfortable, until the afternoon wears on or the stove is turned on.

On a typical day I remain sheltered indoors with the curtains drawn to keep the blazing sun out and to bar the heat that tightly wraps my home.  My white cat escaping the light of day retreats to the dark confines beneath the living-room sofa, emerging at nightfall when the sun recedes and the stifling heat shrinks.

Days pass with relative simplicity.  Painters and construction workers cycle up and down my street to and from the few homes that are under construction in the neighborhood.   Ice cream vendors lumber up my street, the familiar universal jingle. At daily intervals a young man wheels a wooden cart up my street, shouting.  His clothes are drenched in sweat and clings to him like a second layer of skin.  Yet he is unrelenting in his sales’ pitch.  I can see the plastic containers of pineapple and watermelon chunks lying in the wooden cart under a thin layer of melting ice.

The only sound that I want to hear is the now familiar trash call, “basura!”  The government trash collectors only come by on Saturdays and are not consistent in even this weekly obligation.  The sweltering heat creates the need to dispose of trash quickly or at least on a daily basis.  By days’ end the stench wafting from your garbage collection is suffocating.  When I hear the familiar clip clopping followed by the shrill cry of “basura!” I know that salvation is at hand.  I instinctively press the button in my kitchen, opening the garage door, my signal to the horse, sometimes ass-drawn wooden wagons.  The animal comes to a halt and the little man at the reigns descends wordlessly, accepts my garbage and my tip, the equivalent US$3.00.

I’ve quickly learned that Mexican laborers are not the only people that work for tips. Self- appointed neighborhood ‘security guards’ come calling.   At the end of a torrid week, well after the sun has completely disappeared and the pale street lights flicker, on my doorbell rings. I know it’s one of the so-called security guards that no one ever sees in the neighborhood, save for the instant they show up for their weekly tips. Apparently these guards merely work for the charity of it all and, of course, the generous tips of the residents of Los Lamos.

I remember the first staggering visit from a security guard.  He explained his role in the neighborhood, and his self-employment status.  My husband, who speaks better Spanish, listened with a sympathetic ear and indorsed the tale with a tip, the equivalent of US$7.00.  That scenario behind us, I sat back, ready to enjoy the ebbing temperatures and the isolation of darkness.  Moments later, just when I was sure the night would pass without further incident, the bell rings, penetrating the blissful hollowness of the evening. It’s another security guard who excitedly explains to my husband that he is the night-guard.  The guard we tipped earlier is the day guard.  Defeated by his cause, we tip him too and retreat to the increasingly specious shelter of our enclosed home.

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