The horror, the horror...

I had my first taste of Mexico on Saturday.
As a disclaimer, this is not a 'happy' story about me scoring a great deal on an embroidered pillow or getting drunk for the first time on Mexican-brewed tequilla. This is a gritty, gruesome story about what humans can do to each other in this dog-eat-dog (literally, I have photos) world. This is a story about families trying to survive in a landfill.

^{here, desperation:
poverty stains their fingers
and infants cry out}

As I've stated before, my experience with the border is highly limited to what I've read about trade policies and friends' triumphant "I went clubbing" stories. I never had to face the fact that there exists, two hours south of where I've spent the last four years of my life in university-driven luxury, a third world country.

^{nipples in the dirt
with its distended belly
Lord, is that a dog?}

I thought I could handle it. I thought I'd go down and snap some pictures, and get my story. The objective journalist, right? No. I have to confess, I am shaking as I'm typing this, and not because I'm cold on the outside. There are so many words I have yet to write about this story, and yet I feel that if I did start writing, I'd never stop, and the horror of it would get so big and out of hand that I woudn't be able to contain it. To be able to deal with this, I've put restrictions on what I can write here. Five-seven-five, self-contained syllables that create vignettes. At the moment, poetry is the best way for me to handle this issue, because I can think so much clearer in it.

^{turbuculosis
made me ignore your baby
am I so selfish?}

On that note, this is supposed be a health blog, so even though the story hasn't broken (but whom has it broken? whom will it break?), I can tell you a little bit of the health conditions I saw. I am not a doctor, but I saw dehydration written deep in the wrinkles of more than half of the population. There was a five month old baby with open sores on his head and face, as well as a crust of mucas across his eyes that screamed infection. There were coughs and hacks and rarely a smile between them. Several people have been maimed in work accidents.

^{they are scared to drink
el agua de mosquitos
but life must go on}

My sources (confidental until the story breaks) tell me that most of the people they've interacted with have TB, most likely from the crowded living spaces (at least three to a single room shack smaller than the average table). Sources also told me that the community tends to drink a lot of Coke and Pepsi instead of water, which has a huge advertizing base in Nogalas (as far as I could see from the murals everywhere). I'm going to assume that the lack of the ability to store clean water contributes to a lot of health problems, not to mention the decomposing animals and other organic material found in the dump. These people build their houses out of material found in the offal of Nogalas, and contrary to popular opinion, they don't pick thorugh the trash for food, but for building materials and recyclables; anything they can sell.

What makes this even worse is that these people pay $1000 for the privilege to own a lot there, and at $60 per week, most can't even afford that.

^{down in Nogalas
I had my first taste of pain
and it is bitter}