"El Brinco" - The Jump

Daily life in late summer has started to drag a bit around our household.  We seem to be searching for something unique to distinguish one week from the next.  I'm remembering a summer several years ago when we did have a unique experience.  We  witnessed "El Brinco" which translates to "The Jump."

“El Brinco” would happen very soon, the Mexican announcer assured the crowd gathered around the temporary stage set up on the Mexican side of the river.  My husband Wayne and I had awakened early on a Saturday morning to drive to West El Paso near the old Asarco plant to witness a daring motorcycle jump across the Rio Grande.  The river is not very wide at that point, only about 65 feet across, but it marks the boundary between two sovereign nations, the United States of America and the United States of Mexico. 

Publicity for the event had been by word of mouth, one friend passing along information to another.  The motorcycle rider was celebrating his 50^th birthday with an Evil Knievel-type demonstration, jumping from one country into another.  A friend of Wayne’s had constructed the jumping ramp, so we had a special invitation and felt part of the in crowd.

Large numbers of cars and trucks were hurrying down the dirt road to the jump site.  It was hot, dusty and overgrown with weeds.  Climbing an embankment to get a better view, we were astonished to see a large crowd, numbering in the thousands, on the Mexican side of the river.  The crowd was being entertained with live and recorded rap music.  Ciudad Juárez, El Paso’s sister city across the border, has had a series of problems in recent years with increased violence caused by warring drug cartels.  This event was being celebrated on the Mexican side to rally citizens to bring peace back to the city.  Soldiers armed with AK47 attack rifles were in evidence as well as mounted policemen who patrolled the crowd.  We could also spot armed men stationed at strategic lookout points on the large mountain behind the river.  

On the American side of the river, the smaller crowd was more subdued.  Although there were the usual Border Patrol vehicles along the river on the route to the site, the only noticeable official presence at the jump was an ambulance which kept getting stuck in the sand and two young firemen in uniform.    It appeared that friends of the motorcyclist were going to be in charge of clearing a path for his run to the ramp.

Rumors were flying as the crowd waited. 

 “The media are asking him to make several false starts, so he won’t jump the first couple of times.”  

“He’s going to have to go back to the International Bridge to go through customs to return to the U.S.”  

“He was going to do the jump without government permission and try to return to the U.S. before getting  caught, but we talked him out of that plan.” 

 “The red tape to make this jump happen was incredible.” 

 “He’s keeping it at full throttle in third gear all the way, and he’ll hit the ramp at about 45 mph.”  

 We stretched our necks in anticipation.

Finally we heard the roar of a motorcycle engine.  A yellow-suited motorcyclist climbed the ramp and stopped at water's edge.  The crowds on both sides of the river cheered.  Tension rose as the rider repeated this two more times.  On the fourth run to the ramp, it happened.  He flew through the air and easily landed in the soft sand on the other side of the river.  The Mexican fans swarmed to give him a hero’s welcome.  Each time he tried to exit the area, he was deluged by fans wanted pictures and autographs.  Finally, the stage announcer had to call for crowd control by the mounted policemen.

After the motorcyclist had finally made his escape (to where, I wondered?), the two crowds, Mexican and American, stood observing each other curiously across the river.  A mere 65 feet is close enough to see many details.   Two Tarahumara Indian women in traditional costumes were carrying babies in slings across their backs.  A little Mexican child wanted a stick to play with in the water.  His father found a weed growing nearby and stripped off the leaves to make a wand.  Two young men in baggy pants were smiling and gesturing at the American crowd.  “Look, they’re inviting us over.”  “No, those are gang signs,” someone else observed.  

And then we all stood transfixed as a dog of unknown nationality swam unconcernedly down the middle of the river, looking neither left to the American side nor right to the Mexican side.  In contrast, how complicated we humans make our lives.