El Cririan
Written by: Karina Rodriguez
El Cirian
The asphalt road abruptly ends. Where the dirt road begins, a sign reading “El Cirian” salutes us as we commence the 30-minute jarring ride to the village. A dust cloud expeditiously engulfs our gray Jeep, making it hard to see what lies ahead. The arid landscape of pallid brown mountains and lifeless trees confirms the town has not seen steady rain in years. We sit patiently as the crisp air-conditioning blusters in our faces: a commodity we will surely miss the instant we step out of the Jeep. I cannot help but think to myself, Is this really where I grew up? The United States has become my home for the last fifteen years, and now El Cirian is the daunting foreign place where I will be spending the next week.
My mom quickly senses my irresolute behavior and asks, “Are you sure you’re ready to spend a week with no running water or air conditioning?”
I turn towards her. “I sure hope so,” I reply as she gives me a soft smile.
We pull up into our driveway and proceed to open the dusty door, entering the cobwebbed home. The movement seizes the attention of a group of men across the street that watch apprehensively as our unfamiliar faces vanish into the formerly abandoned house. In swift response to our arrival, the men get into their own gray Jeep and drive slowly past the house, their windows rolled down. They each hold their AK 47 rifles in plain sight as a symbol to inculcate their dominance.
By Karina Rodriguez
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