Matamoras, Mexico

Matamoras is the sister city of Brownsville.  It is within walking distance of downtown Brownsville.  In the past, the Winter Texans from here in the Park made weekly trips to Matamoras for lunch and shopping.  In recent years, the drug cartel has taken over the city. 

Consort and I were warned by my mother, and many others, not to go into Matamoras.  It isn't safe.  A group from the RV park toured the Custom and Border Patrol station just outside of Brownsville recently, and the CBP officers confirmed what everyone else said:  Stay away from Matamoras.  

If you know me at all, you'll know that when someone tells me not to do something I am much more likely to go and do just that.  It's a character defect, I know.  So, despite all the warnings, consort and I decided to make the trip across the border into Matamoras.  

The night before our planned trip, I was playing cards with a group of women.  I asked what they thought of walking over to Matamoras.  They generally agreed we would be safe as long as we didn't venture too far into the city.  The main reason I wanted to cross from Brownsville into Matamoras was to see for myself the "tent city," the location the immigrant Latinos are waiting to gain access to the USA.  I won't go into my thoughts or opinions regarding the situation at the border.  I'll just share with you through pictures what I saw.

Consort and I were fine and never felt we were in any danger.  We did not go far into the city.  The tent city is right on the edge of the Rio Grande as you enter Matamoras.  We carried nothing with us but our passports, iPhones, and a small amount of cash. 

Prior to leaving Matamoras, consort suggested we stop at a street vendor for gorditas.  Always up for adventure, I agreed.  It was interesting placing our order.  I speak a little broken Spanish, which has been helpful here in south Texas, and most of the Latinos I've spoken with speak some English.  With my Spanish and their English, and a lot of gesturing with hands, we've been able to communicate.  

Unfortunately, the lady selling gorditas did not speak any English.  Honestly, with the rapidity of her speech and her accent, I'm not entirely sure she was speaking Spanish.  I conveyed to her, in Spanish, what we wanted to order.  She then gave me a list of food options that would fill the gordita.  I couldn't understand anything.  I asked her to please speak more slowly, and she kindly repeated the list of choices.  I still didn't get it.  I asked her if she might repeat the list one more time.  I listened closely as she once again recited the available choices.  When she landed on a word that I recognized, chicharrones, I said, Yes! Chicharrones would be great.  She asked if I was sure, and I nodded enthusiastically.  

Here's a little piece of advice from me to you:  Don't order the chicharrones.  Chicharrones are large chunks of boiled pork fat.  If it hadn't been for the green chili sauce, I don't think I could have gotten it down.