IV. THE ROLLING BUBBLE OF GLASS AND STEEL
The data from our random sample indicates that three-quarters of all long-distance truck drivers cross the borders of their respective countries. More than 60% (Table 1) Of those surveyed responded that their final destination was another Central American country. A short journey between countries, for example from the Central Customs Building in El Salvador to the Honduran capital, Tegucigalpa, takes approximately 15 hours. But one from San Jose (Costa Rica) to Guatemala may take an average of 80 hours.
The Inter-American Highway stretches for 1,500 kilometers, from Guatemala’s northern border to Costa Rica’s southern border. If we take into account the trips to the interior of these countries, from their urban centers – metropolitan centers – towards the main ports, they cover approximately 2,500 kilometers of road.65 Nearly half of the drivers (46% of the random sample) said that Panama (south of Costa Rica) was one of the countries they traveled to in the course of their work. Almost half of them said they travel to Mexico and approximately 12% go to the United States.
In order to experience a long journey, I have arranged to travel with Luis on Wednesday. I show up at the indicated truck yard, the place from which we will set off.
Silently and efficiently, the guard’s hands open the wire mesh gates that lead to the yard. Such efficiency can only be the result of a maneuver performed hundreds of times a day. In fact, an endless caravan of hundreds of trailers - those enormous rolling machines that populate our roads - pass in an out of the metal gates. “Are you the one that’s riding with Luis?” he asks. “Yes sir”, I answer, “I hope I’m not late”. “Not at all, young man, they’re just loading the cargo. They’ll be leaving soon,” he says pleasantly.
It is nearly two o’clock in the afternoon in one of the many transport company truck yards located in this part of Heredia, Costa Rica. The sky above is as gray as most of the things around me: the trucks, the wire fences, the containers, the laminated steel and the wrenches and spanners …One can never understand why buildings in tropical countries show so little imagination. It has not occurred to anyone to plant a tree or place a pot of flowers anywhere.
Like most truck yards, this one is a great expanse of gravel, surrounded by an extensive wire mesh fence. To the left, just past the guard’s hut, is a two storied building that has the typical look of bureaucratic efficiency: metal and polarized glass doors, offices, desks, computers, secretaries, paperwork. Beyond are the mechanical workshops that ensure the smooth running of the main protagonists of that yard: the trucks. Amid oil, rags and tools, mechanics and drivers chat and check motors, gears and tires.
I stop for a moment on the gravel to look around. On the right, all the way along the wire fence, a long row of containers on their platforms is lined up. It is curious, but they seem to be arranged by color: red, blue, red, blue. It is the only color that breaks up the monotonous gray.
At the far end, even more curious, is a mountain of steel. From where I’m standing, it reminds me of the constructions that children make with small rectangular pieces of wood, piling them up, one on top of the other. As I move closer, I am astonished. An enormous crane hoists the containers, those rectangular metal boxes that contain the transported cargo, and piles them up on top of each other until they form an enormous wall of cubes.
The truck yard is a hive of activity. Trailers come and go, with or without cargo. Those going in and out are also busy, especially the latter. Everything has to be in order. The respective supervisor checks the cargo: paperwork, documents, and signatures, checking the seals on the doors after checking the cargo. The mechanics check the motors, tires and tanks. This ritual serves as a kind of „transfer of powers’ to the driver. Once he leaves the yard, the driver is responsible for the cargo and for the vehicle.
The workforce is almost entirely male. There are one or two women working in the office, but the vast majority are young men who protect this bastion of masculinity against the feminine onslaught in all spheres of life in Central America. They are rough men dressed in blue jeans and cotton t-shirts. Some wear tight-fitting denim shorts. Salsa music is blaring from the workshop. Two mechanics down tools for a moment and dance together, amid the guffaws of their companions. “Don’t grab me so tight,” one says to the other. “But you dance so rough, my angel”, replies the other with a feminine gesture.
It is nearly three o’clock when Luis arrives. “Ready for the test run?” he says pleasantly. “Yes I want to do a trip in a truck to see what it’s like,” I say. “I hope it doesn’t bother you.” “Well, it’s better than going by myself,” he says. “Do you often travel alone?” I ask. “Depends how I feel,” he replies.
Getting into the cab is a major operation. The distance from the ground to the roof of the cab is almost two and a half meters, and as you climb the metal steps located on the side you have the sensation of growing bigger, stronger. Luis supports me at the waist so that I don’t fall and looks back to make sure I am seated. “Are you comfortable?” he asks. “Do you need any help?”
Inside, one’s perspective changes completely. It is like looking at the outside world from inside a bubble. In here, I realize that there are two realities: the one inside the cab, dominated by equipment, controls, the smell of diesel and oil, and the outside world, a world separated by glass and steel. The reality outside becomes something else, like a movie playing on a screen.
A few minutes later we are settled in the cab and the machine starts up. It is then that I feel, for the first time, the force of the vehicle that we’re in. Everything roars and makes a noise as it moves. I cannot see the container because there is no rear window, but I can feel its weight behind us. Luis, an experienced driver, checks it through the rear-view mirror on his left. “The truck is like a woman,” he explains. “She needs a firm hand and care. When you dominate her, she gives you great pleasure.”
The twenty enormous tires on the vehicle begin to roll, first over the gravel, then over the asphalt of the road. At first it seems incredible that just one man can put all that weight into motion. Luis’ movements are strong, violent, because the spaces for maneuvering are narrow and uncomfortable. The long trailer must pass through gates that are not much wider than it, turn sharp narrow corners, and drive along streets that seem to have been designed for cars with four wheels, no higher than a meter and a half, and negotiate obstacles such as traffic lights, stop signs, intersections and other vehicles.
“This is the start of the adventure,” says Luis. As we reach the highway, he is transformed. He has reached what appears to be his vehicle’s “natural habitat”: the road is wider and longer, the speed limit is higher, there are fewer obstacles and these are easily passed through. Even the holes in the road do not matter much: with its ten pairs of wheels, the nearly six meters long and two and a half meters high trailer is sufficiently heavy not to be bothered by these. Luis feels relaxed and in control.
A trailer is a complex of parts. First there is the cab, similar to the brain of the vehicle, where the driver and all the controls are housed. In front of the two comfortable black seats is a huge panel displaying an array of instruments and gauges, dominated by the enormous steering wheel, the gearbox lever and the pedals. “The sensation is in your head,” says Luis, referring to the trailer, and “in something else.”
The cab is also the bedroom. Behind the seats is a large space where one or two people can fit with relative ease. It is a dark, less ventilated area, with a sliding roof for when it is very hot, and a kind of cot. It seems designed to be used at night, because in the daytime the heat is intense.
The rest of the trailer is behind us. First, the container, the shut and sealed rectangular enclosure that houses the cargo, which will eventually be detached and separated in different ways. Then comes the platform, the structure where the wheel axels and the tires are, upon which the cargo is carried. Maneuvering these parts that travel together but seem to have an independent life on the road, is a great feat that the drivers accomplish meticulously. Luis continues with his associations between the trailer and something else. Freud would have been delighted to go on this journey, since his least proven theories would have been borne out by the driver: “The container is not as important or as sensitive as the head. However, like another object, size makes the journey more worthwhile”, Luis says. “In my case, women remark that my container is an excellent size,” he says with a wicked smile. “And what do you think,” he asks me. “I’ve heard that size doesn’t matter,” I reply. “That’s what they say to reassure those who are underdeveloped”, he answers.
According to Luis, truckers have very different relationships with the two great divisions of their vehicles. The cab is a substitute home, warm and intimate. Here you sleep, make love and chat about the small joys and great tragedies of life. It is filled with the driver’s personal belongings: mirrors, photos, postcards, calendars, clocks and his cot. The container is devoid of emotion. It is the place where the cargo goes; one that the drivers do not feel is theirs, where there is no room for anything personal. “You feel at home in the cab, it’s filled of love and disappointments,” says Luis sadly.
However, the cargo is a constant worry for the truck driver, and its presence can be felt physically during the journey: the trip not only implies making sure that all is well behind, that nothing happens on the road, but doing so for economic reasons. The cargo is the most valuable part, because of its cost and because it is the reason for the journey. Every time he stops, Luis checks it. It is always on his mind.
As he reaches the highway, Luis shifts in his seat. This signals a shift in reality: now he is on “his” turf, the open road. He is silent at times and concentrates fully on the road, having worked as a driver for four years. Before that, he tells me, he worked for a haulage company in San Jose.
I notice that he is really enjoying my company and after explaining how I will structure my book, he asks me not to use his real name. “You might have something on me,” he says mysteriously.
Luis’ main complaint is the traffic. He says although he has traveled through the whole of Central America, he still cannot get used to it. The first leg of our trip, down the General Cañas, highway passes off without incident. One by one, the trailer leaves behind the towns along the highway: Alajuela, Grecia, Naranjo, Palmares, San Ramon. “This countryside is very beautiful. I can never get over the wealth of Costa Rica’s flora. Sometimes I don’t understand how people here are so envious and bad to their fellow beings. It’s a contrast with the flora and fauna,” Luis says.
First stop. Knowing what lies ahead of us, Luis pulls into one of the last restaurants before the infamous Cambronero area that separates the Central Valley from the Pacific coastal zone, and is almost unavoidable to reach the border.
More important than the coffee and the tortillas with sour cream, Luis is taking a breather in the restaurant. Small wonder. Cambronero is well known as a difficult route: the two-lane road winds its way through high mountains, full of curves and steep gradients. The traffic is also very heavy, since it leads directly to Puntarenas, the main port on the Pacific, to the commercial docks of Caldera, the departure point for most of the goods bound for Guanacaste province, in the northeast of the country, and to Peñas Blancas, the official crossing point from Nicaragua into Costa Rica.
Cambronero is real torture. A winding road on a downward slope. When traveling from San Jose, the driver needs to slow the motor down constantly in order not to gather speed and the weight of the load can be felt on the cab, forcing the driver to break constantly downhill. Despite the fact that it is Wednesday, usually a day of light traffic, one always has to be on the lookout for cars that seem desperate to pass the heavy trucks. Often the truck drivers act like traffic controllers, allowing cars to pass or warning them of hazards on the road ahead. However, Luis is visibly annoyed by the insistence of some cars that try to pass him. “If Central Americans were in the same hurry to work as they are to drive, we would be an economic powerhouse,” he says. “Here people are desperate to get everywhere fast in order to laze around,” he continues.
After the tensions of Cambronero, joining the highway that takes us to Guanacaste is a real relief, and Luis demonstrates this by shifting in his seat once again. We gather speed as darkness begins to fall. Sometimes, on our left, we see the sun turning an increasingly deeper red, characteristic of coastal sunsets, contrasting with the intense green of the rainy season vegetation on the roadside. “What suffocating heat!” Luis exclaims. I can’t deny it. It is time for both of us to take off our shirts that are soaked with sweat. “When I take women,” says Luis, “this is the best moment to tell them to take off their blouses.” “And do they?” I ask. “Not all of them, but once a transvestite even took off the cloth tits he was wearing inside.”
It is almost nightfall when our enormous trailer pulls in at another roadside diner. Another breather for Luis and a chance to check the engine and the load, before eating a hot snack. I feel my body beginning to ache and I don’t know if it’s because of the tension or the long journey. I ask Luis if he feels the same and he smiles. “I’m used to it, and we still have a long way to go.” “When do you get tired,” I ask surprised. “I get tired when there’s nothing interesting to look forward to. But, so long as I feel that there’s something good out there, I don’t get bored.”
He is right; we have a long way to go. Our next stop will be Liberia, the provincial capital of Guanacaste. On the way, the highway becomes monotonous: long stretches of straight road, without curves, villages here and there that are barely visible except for their lights, because it is night time. The little peasant farmhouses with their lights on look so cute and innocent that they seem like toy necklaces. “I’d love to end up living in a little country cottage, without complications and without pressures,” I confess to Luis. “I don’t like the countryside. People think you live more simply, but it’s not like that. People have the same problems everywhere. Do you know how much rape and incest is going on right now in each of those little houses? I lived in the countryside and my Dad would fuck two of my sisters,” Luis recalls with disgust. I turn to look at the small houses that seemed so innocent a while ago. “They’ve drawn the curtains in that one,” I say, “something bad and dirty must be happening.” Luis smiles in agreement: “Don’t believe that small is best. Sometimes large things can bring a lot of satisfaction.”
We can no longer see the countryside beyond the truck’s headlights. Now, inside the cab, there is just the noise of the motor, the eternal smell of diesel and oil and the occasional conversation with Luis.
It occurs to me that truckers are conditioned by this reality. I feel that it makes them adjust to confined spaces in which I, a novice, feel trapped. Luis, on the other hand, is perfectly accustomed to the need for short, rapid movements, to staying in one position during long journeys. On the ground, outside the cab, he seems a little more awkward, but in here he is aware of everything, agile, with quick reactions. There is no doubt that truckers establish a connection with their vehicle. Suddenly, when we begin to move, when we gather speed, his body seems to grow larger, more powerful. “Have you been told that you stretch and shrink at different times? I ask him. “Yes, many women say they’re surprised at how I make love in small or large spaces in a different way. I think I’ve learnt how to use space from being in the truck.”
Somewhere I have heard that the instruments we create are an extension of our senses, but here the opposite seems to be the case. The senses and the body seem to be extensions of the machine: the hands are part of the steering wheel and the gear lever, and the feet are fused with the pedals, the eyes dart from one rear-view mirror to the other and back to the main windscreen. The trucker’s body movements are synchronized with those of his machine. Luis believes his rhythm in lovemaking is adapted to the movement of the truck. He is convinced that he knows how to “accelerate” and “decelerate”, in accordance with the condition of the “road”. He can do several things with his hands and feet at the same time. “Truckers learn how to move the whole body in a way that other men can’t,” he assures me with confidence.
The same seems to happen with the motor. Because of the frequent need to check and monitor it, truckers develop surprising agility. They open the huge hood easily, and look inside the large, hot engine to detect any possible problems. “Imagine what we can do with people’s motors,” says Luis. “I can feel at a distance when someone’s hot. I can feel the temperature of the organs.”
Near Cañas, one of the towns on our route, it begins to rain and the seat is suddenly wet. Without taking his eyes off the road, Luis, from nowhere pulls a piece of burlap to dry the seat. The following day, as he washed near the border, I saw him use a similar burlap to dry his body, just as he did with the seat. “I also use it to mop up the semen when I come outside,” he later confessed.
There is another curious relationship that highlights this parallel between the machine and its driver. During pit stops to check the liquids (diesel, oil, the water in the radiator), Luis took time to replenish his own liquids, urinating and then drinking something, either coffee or a soft drink. “You and the trailer seem like two puppies that drink and pee at the same time,” I remark. “You’re right. Whenever the motor is short on fuel, I feel like drinking water. When the carburetor heats up, I need to pee,” he adds. “And when you’re horny, how does the truck react?” I ask intrigued. “Well, it feels something, because the motor heats up. Look how hot it is,” he says.
We finally reach Liberia. We stop where everyone else seems to stop: at the main crossroads that leads to the whole of Guanacaste province. We encounter three gas stations and a restaurant, El Bramadero, known to all travelers. “Hi, my love”, a waitress named Juana says to Luis. “Do you feel like some meat today?” “Yes, cutie, I need to eat a good hunk of meat. How are your pork chops today?” “They’re fresh and juicy,” answers the woman. Luis orders the pork chop. “And you, honey, what do you want to eat?” she says turning to me. “I don’t like chops. Do you have sausages?” “Sure. We’re real liberal here, each to his own”, she replies with a wink. In the United States, this waitress would have been fired for sexual harassment and for not minding her own business. Her interpretation that I like men because I order sausages is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. “Would you like them with a little sauce, or just plain?” she finally asks. Luis laughs hard. “What did that woman notice that made her suspect?” he asks mischievously. “Here in the countryside folks are very quick to notice when a man looks at another one too much,” he says. I look away and think about what he’s just said.
Twenty minutes later we’re on the road again, heading towards the border. Although we know that the official posts have already closed, Luis is in a hurry to get there. “At this point, you just want to get there, park, knock back a few beers and sleep. I believe him because my back is hurting.
The trailer cuts through the night. We arrive at a customs weighing post on the road, where Luis stops briefly to talk to other drivers and the official in charge of the post. I do not even get out. We continue on our way, monotonously, until we reach what appears to be the last populated place before the border, the immigration post and the bus station near La Cruz, the last town of any size on the map before Peñas Blancas.
It is late, but there is still plenty of life in this place. The main building appears to be a neon-lit gas station, and in the distance are the lights of houses and bars. It is too late to make it to the border, so we will stay here. Luis parks the trailer next to others who are also waiting for the new day.
Luis heads off to a nearby cantina and disappears, so I say in the cab, with the task of “keeping an eye” on it. I feel it his way of tying me to the place, of getting rid of me and at the same time of having someone to take care of the vehicle. I am filled with a strange sense of abandonment. It is the first time I feel pain at the absence of a man I barely know. I have come to like Luis and feel good in his company. I feel we are friends, whatever that word means. Perhaps, I think to myself, friendship is a form of loving. It is nearly midnight when Luis returns. “Where were you?” I ask with the curiosity of a researcher. “Well, I screwed a whore. I hope you won’t get jealous,” he answers mischievously. “Not at all. I think it’s great that you did,” I answer unconvincingly. “Why didn’t you invite me?” I complain. “So I wouldn’t get jealous,” he replies.
Sleeping in a truck is not a pleasant experience, unless you are accustomed to it: the space is cramped if it is shared, like that night, by two people, and the persistent smell of diesel follows you into your dreams. Outside you can hear the insistent noise of the crickets, the occasional barking of many dogs and less frequently, the conversations of people in the area.
Luis wakes up several times. I imagine my presence makes him uncomfortable, but any noise from the trailer – a knock, people murmuring nearby – puts him on alert. I ask him if it is always like this. “Even when you’re asleep you have to keep an eye open,” he replies. “Why do you touch my butt when you sleep?” I ask. “I was dreaming I had a couple of melons in my hands. It was a nightmare.” “Some nightmare,” I reply, “you looked so happy!” “Well, you know when you sleep in the cab, any body nearby makes you feel kind of horny.”
Luis places his hands on my buttocks again. He says nothing. He only touches. I do not know what to do. Somehow he has guessed that I still don’t understand how much I like him. I would like to tell him that I’m married and that I have never had a relationship of this kind. While I wonder how to stop his advances, Luis touches my genitals and feels my interest in him. My erection has betrayed me, revealing a desire that was barely conscious. No Viagra, no extraneous fantasies, I’m having the kind of erection I haven’t had for years. My defenses begin to be demolished like the Maginot Line in the Second World War. Will I end up feeling ashamed like the French who saw Hitler leaping around like an idiot in the middle of Paris?
“Luis, we’d better stop this. I don’t think it’s right,” I say. “Who said it has to be right?” he asks before thrusting his tongue into my mouth. “Well, I’ve never been with a man before,” I tell him. Luis pretends not to hear, and touches my body all over with his hands and feet, creating different sensations, creating chaos with physical experiences, as if he were still at the wheel of his trailer. I have had gay friends, but never dreamed of making love with them. It is different with Luis. He is not a gay man or a bisexual, or a frustrated homosexual. He is a “cachero”: in Latin America, it is a man who has sex with other men without having a gay identity. It is a mystery for observers from other countries, but one I do not wish to discuss right now.
“Open your legs my love, let me into your body”, he says in a low voice. This trucker is treating me just like a woman. From the beginning he struggles with resistance. But he cannot demolish it with language, because there are no particular scripts to follow. Neither he nor I know what to say in this type of situation. I don’t know what to expect and he has no words. From the beginning, Luis acts like an invader, like an animal who senses that it will not be welcome unless it dominates its prey. How is it that this trucker is on the point of penetrating me and yet we haven’t said a word?
The pain is unbearable. Although he has put Vaseline on the condom (wherever did he find it?), I can’t bear his penetration. However, he knows how to distract me with deep kisses, rhythmic masturbation and a few pinches on my nipples. The pain and pleasure I feel neutralize each other. “Don’t feel bad,” Luis says, “no one will know what we’re doing.” One macho consoles the other. We have both learnt that what we are doing is a dirty sin, a terrible disgrace, but now we share a secret that, in Latin societies, could destroy our lives. Pleasure envelops us. “I feel ashamed of what you’re doing to me,” I tell him sincerely. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, “you’re not the first male to have this happen to him.”
Sodomy. That terrible little word, so dirty that it’s unpronounceable. But how is it possible that this frenzied act is so persecuted? Luis moves with an agility that is something new in my life. He knows how and when to accelerate, and how and when to pause. Only a trucker could know how to stimulate the prostate with different rhythms and when to penetrate more slowly. Luis senses these contractions and dances with them, as if he were dancing salsa. The man knows what he is doing and he didn’t learn it from a woman. “I’m about to come, I’ll tell you when,” I exclaim agitated. “No need, I can feel your prostate hardening,” replies the trucker.
I am woken at dawn by a brief rain shower. The light from outside the cab allows me to glimpse Luis, who is sleeping soundly.
I wake up with the sun. It is six o’clock and Luis is gone. I get up as best I can, though my body is aching even more. I get out of the cab and see my companion near the main building. He greets me when he sees me and points out the bathrooms where the truckers usually wash. Several drivers are washing parts of their bodies, some wash their genitals. “We’re among men,” says Luis. “You can take your pants off and have a wash, if you want,” he says mischievously. Luis is in underpants and shirtless. He dries his chest and grabs his genitals as if squeezing something out of his penis.
These bathrooms are the same as all others: Ladies, Gentlemen; open toilets fixed to the wall, closed cubicles, washbasins, two-tone walls - nothing that I haven’t seen a thousand times. Men’s toilets in Latin America are always dirty. Most men have terrible aim, and the urine stays in the toilet bowl. The usual messages requesting clients’ collaboration are posted: “Throw toilet paper in the bin, not in the bowl” and “We know it’s part of you, but please don’t leave it behind.” I wash as best I can in the circumstances.
I accompany Luis to a nearby soda. An aroma of coffee and tortillas wafts out. Good morning, how are you, what will you have to eat? Luis orders the traditional Costa Rican breakfast of gallo pinto (rice and beans) eggs, tortillas and coffee with milk. I order black coffee and toast. The pain prevents me from eating much more. At other tables, other men like us are doing the same. Luis ignores what happened last night. Now I’m just another trucker with nothing special to talk about except football or how sexy the waitress is. “Great tits!” he says as he watches the woman walk past. “Yeah, they look like a pair of melons,” I say sarcastically. “Look, pal, you may think I shouldn’t say this, but the truth is what happened, happened and maybe you found what you were looking for.” “Well, sure I found what I was looking for,” I reply, “you got back that ear to ear smile that you lost when you married Katia.”
I get up to make a phone call to my wife. “How’s everyone?” I ask guiltily. “I’ll be home tomorrow. Love to the kid,” and I hang up quickly. Can they read my voice, I wonder, as paranoia sets in. I look around at the others eating breakfast and wonder if they suspect what both of us did last night. Will they notice something in my walk? Am I looking at Luis in a different way? Have I acquired mannerisms?
When we are ready, we hit the road again. An hour later we reach the border post at Peñas Blancas: there are three or four buildings painted in pastel colors, where all the paperwork for entering and leaving the country is done. Several trucks, buses and cars are parked nearby. It is early. The offices have just opened and the bureaucratic activity has begun: people with passports, vehicle property certificates, freight and customs documents, lines in both buildings and at the counters. A large group of people is having breakfast in the snack bar. Most people entering are Nicaraguans; most people leaving are Costa Ricans.
Luis disappears, papers in hand, into the melee of the customs counters to complete the formalities needed to deliver his cargo of sheet metal to a processing plant in Managua. He is very lucky and soon returns with all the papers in order. Earlier, on the road, we had discussed my return to San Jose and Luis takes me to find someone to give me a ride home. He seems very keen to do this, and I don’t know if it is to get rid of me or to be able to continue on his way as soon as possible. “I hope you’re not upset about last night. It’s the custom,” he explains. “Does this happen to everyone who rides with you?” “No, and don’t think that I just dream about melons either. Sometimes I see salami,” he says with a wink.
Finally he introduces me to someone who can give me a ride - Don Marcos, a man of about 40 or 45, rounder and more jovial than Luis, who is “delighted” to take me back. Luis disappears for good, but later I see his trailer pass by, bound for Nicaragua.
Don Marcos shows me a different reality. First, I meet him when he has already completed all the formalities for entering Costa Rica, a process he began the previous day. He has come from Managua with a cargo of spare parts f