An Inhumane Trade

In the quixotic evolution of journalism, we who live and breathe to tell the stories that shape us, are infrequently granted a journey beyond our comfort level. Commiserating via late night phone conversations during the times when superficiality threatens suffocation or the medium becomes the overwhelming message, we all share in the adrenaline when one sets off exploring the depths of the inexplicable.

And so, as I rev up to revisit the issue of human sex trafficking, I look back at the trip to Mexico a year ago (2012) with excellent reporter Elizabeth Aguilera, courtesy of a grant from the International Center for Journalists, to dive into the shadows.

I hoped to disappear into this city of 25 million people but blond-with-camera worked against me.

In the waning light of evening, our taxi delivered us down a narrow cobblestoned street where we crouched under a short overhang in an increasing downpour outside the home of Congresswoman Rosi Orozco. When she arrived moments later in a well-fortified black Explorer with bullet-proof windows, we were smothered in embrace like long lost cousins, under the skeptical gaze of three teenage girls a few steps apart, wearing too much makeup, playing with a toddler.

 

These girls had lived a nightmare, and we had come to hear their stories. Preyed upon by “Romeos” who romanced them away from their sleepy little towns, they were sequestered, drugged, gang raped, then forced into prostitution: the human sex trade.  With threats to their families, oftentimes starved or beaten, they became beholden to their pimps. Entire towns flourished now in Mexico, mansions built, on the money made by selling these girls, often 10-30 times a day, to “Johns,” in Mexico, the U.S., Asia, Europe, wherever they were trafficked.  The tiny township of Tenancingo was the vortex of sex trafficking. 

 

That’s where we were headed.

We left the congresswoman’s house about 10 pm, in the rain, and stopped at a taco stand, where they were happy to make a vegetarian plate of corn tortillas grilled with cheese, chilis, onions, mushrooms and salsa. Only a few miles away from this upscale neighborhood we walked past young girls stationed outside an open marketplace, lining the sidewalk in the cold dark midnight, shoulder to shoulder like dolls crowding a shelf. Pimps buzzed by on bicycles or stood smoking in the shadows across the street monitoring the activity while police drove by protecting their cash crop from outsiders.

We met again with Congresswoman Rosi Orozco, in her role as presidenta de la commission especial de lucha contra la trata de personas at federal offices downtown. One of her colleagues Cuahtemoc Ibarra, federal assessor camara de diputados, shares her brave pursuit of legislation to actually punish pimps and traffickers; a concept quite new to their criminal justice system.

The fruit at our hotel was perfect. Nectarines, papayas, kiwi, banana, mango, even the apple exploded with flavor. And the coffee: perfect. I wanted to carry fruit in my pockets to hand to these girls in tight clinging dresses who probably hadn’t eaten in 12 hours, hiding behind pay phones or pacing in front of liquor stores on otherwise desolate corners with rebar reaching up through the sidewalk like dead spiders’ legs embalmed and protruding from a hot concrete pour.

People like talking with Elizabeth. She’s a good reporter, a great listener, and she never cracks. A distraught father who had searched for his seduced and kidnapped daughter, successfully strong-arming her captors into giving her back, brought us home and told of the ordeal, showed us the desperate dusty shrine to her childhood lost. Forced to drive through the streets at midnight in one of the world’s most crowded cities so I could take pictures from under a jacket in the red light district, Elizabeth was nails.

 Two hapless handlers were frightened near to death when we confronted the Zona de Ninas. Ostensibly a Mercado called La Merced, the girls are the real merchandise here. Closely watched, they stand nervously plastered against a cyclone fence where men size them up on their way through the tight aisles. As soon as I took out a camera, they scattered. Four guys swooped in on us, on bikes, one stooped to take pictures of us on a cell phone that he no doubt broadcast to other pimps nationwide. We meandered, stopped in a store for sweets, pretended to be interested in the low prices of pharmaceuticals.

 

Finally Elizabeth, Samuel and Olivia, our new handler, surrounded me and told me to put the camera away because it was about to be grabbed from any one of those guys on bikes. After pretending to photograph Elizabeth with souvenirs, I had to put the camera away. So when we passed an absolute wall of girls, I wasn’t able to get a photo. I took three more steps and an absolutely gorgeous young girl smiled at me with all her innocence. I smiled back. She was maybe 15. We always remember the images that get away.

  La Merced, a block from Mexico City's famed Zocalo square, has been considered one of the biggest areas of sex exploitation in Latin America.  Many of the networks working there are Tlaxcaltecas. The Mexican District Attorney said 90% of the people detained were originally from Tlaxcala.

Tenancingo has eyes. This is the epicenter of trafficking young girls. Yet no one knew anything about it; that's just a rumor they all said, especially the mayor. In Tenancingo, where random mansions built with questionable funds rise up from among blocks of humble one-story shanties, a research study says, 20% of the kids want to be traffickers when they grow up: a man that is successful, a man with money, with women, with houses, that society recognizes as powerful and moves about untouchable by laws, like their uncles. Boys want to have many sisters.

 

We are very aware that we are not protected by any laws either. That the men following our every step from the roofs of buildings in the square, or with their foot on the bumper of our car when we are ready to leave, are very much in control here. We move hotel rooms every night, tell the taxi driver to drop us at the curb, then walk to a different hotel.

While human rights activists struggle to educate young girls, to create a preventative policy that says men cannot enrich themselves based on the pain of women, the reality in Mexico is cartel business trumps human dignity. During the 10 days we are here, Lydia Cacho, internationally renowned investigative journalist who had just published a second book exposing high profile politicians’ roles in the sex trade had been forced to go into hiding because of death threats.

The beautiful girls who spoke with us, using their first names only told of teenage dreams: becoming a hair dresser, a lawyer, a mom, a teacher. Some could not have children for all the abuse their internal organs had suffered. Some already had children. They lived collectively in a safe house built by the outspoken senator and her lawyer friends. As we glanced around the popular town squares, we wondered which of the couples walking together or sitting on benches were allowed the vulnerable innocence of a true first love, and which were the nascent negotiations of unspeakable heartbreak.

 Every journalist worth her salt hopes to shed light in dark corners, raise consciousness to the level of action, give body to emotions, and in my case, tell truth with a camera. There are giants who came before us in this field and many who walk among us now. I hope that the example set in 2011 when cell phone photos started revolutions in Tunisia and Egypt inspires new journalists, whichever medium carries the message.

 

Jane, did you track cow dung in the shower again?

Finally a room with a bathroom that’s not down the hall, not a hole in the ground, and comes with actual hot water since Kalopani some 30 miles ago, and in no time at all it resembles the soles of our shoes.

I stand under the faucet fully clothed, lathering away layers of dust, mud and sweat blended by rain into tattoos on my skin. It’s another good day along the ancient Nepalese trade route from Pokhara to Mustang in the Annapurna Sanctuary.

Hanging laundry on the tea house roof with a Buddhist temple behind me, my colleagues are on the terrace below sharing afternoon tea while watching flocks of horned sheep bleating their way down main street.

We arrived here, above tree line, by way of five days trekking through rice terraced farmland, dense forests of rododendron, acacia, chestnut and blue pines. Above the forest came the wide slate-gray river valley, devoid of any color tones but Earth.

Walls, paths, steps and roofs of impeccable masonry strategically bordered manageable springs below neck-craning waterfalls in the Modi Khola Valley. People descended of the Magar and Gurung tribes populate this valley. They look up from their looms or wheat harvesting to watch us pass on our caterpillar-speed climb to reach respectable elevation through towns named Ghandruk, Tadapani, Ghorepani Tatopani, Ghasa, Marpha and Kagbeni.

 High above us are the clouds. And above those clouds are the Dhaulagiri Mountain range, the Annapurna peaks I-IV, the giants of the Lamjung Himal, Hiunchuli, the Churen Himal range, Gangapurna, Mt. Nilgiri, Tukuche and Thorung peaks.

We came to Nepal to walk among these giants. For months our gang of veteran hikers trained with long day hikes and backpacking trips to the Sierras and Mt. Rainier. We packed and re-packed for the three week Annapurna Circle Trek with Ang Phuri Sherpa and his Sherpa Journeys operation that would have us topping Thorong-La Pass at 17,765 feet, a mere footstool to these majestic masterpieces of tectonic dancing between the Indian and Asian plates.

No panoramic stills or documentary films can prepare the uninitiated for that first in-the-flesh sight of an Annapurna Range peak accepting the blush of dawn.

Say it with me: Machhapupuchhare. Affectionately known as Fish Tail, she steals the show from sister peaks Annapurna I and IV throughout our first few days while we struggle up slate steps in sunshine then rain, dodging squirming puddles of worms among roots in the rainforest, while plucking leeches from our ankles. These centuries-old trails are living organisms transformed daily by the rains, the sun, the goats, rock slides and inveterate mountain springs.

Carrying only day packs with essentials like water, rain gear, trail food, cameras and first aid kits, we followed our Sherpa guides and the stalwart porters in their flip flops humping baskets with our extra gear and tents through these trails and the many shortcuts. The Sherpa people are as storied as the Himalayas themselves. There are other guides in these mountains, including many from India. But only Sherpas are born with generations of local knowledge in their blood. You want to travel with them.

Ang Phuri Sherpa was a porter at 16, kitchen boy at 18, then assistant guide until finally invited to join the elite group of Sherpa guides. He complemented our company with cousins and second cousins from his own village. They made sure no one was ever alone on the trail, no one left a camera on a chair or a blouse drying by a tea house stove. They observed from body guard distance when we shopped, and laughed with us when the only song we all knew the words to was a little gospel number by Janis Joplin that starts, “Oh Lord, wonchoo buy me…?” You know the one.

Breakfast has become a competitive sport. The custom is to order the night before,  giving the kitchen a head start. But in the morning, no one remembers what they ordered. Tony’s meal is easy: toast. Usually. New York John’s is equally predictable: everything no one else is eating, and then what’s left. My vote eventually fell to the Nepalese tsampa (toasted barley) porridge. Fruit was hard to find above 12,500’ elevation, as were any vegetables for vegetable curry or minestrone soup at lunch or dinner. Tea and coffee were the same color (pale caramel) once our supply of Starbuck’s Vias ran out. Note to self: never run out. We learned that anything can be saved with yak milk and honey.

But here, at 13,000’ in Muktinath, most of us were losing our appetites: to altitude, and to anxiety over the next day’s goal: rising at 2 a.m. and hiking to Thorong-La Pass, the midway point in our 145-mile journey. It would also be the high point at 17,765’.

It takes us only a few hours to gather our stuff and hike three miles to West Base Camp where the crew has set up classy, tall tents for us rather than have us squeeze into inadequate rooms in the tiny tea house. Some of us buzz up the trail a half mile to test our legs and lungs in the thinning air after another carb-heavy lunch, and return in time to beat the afternoon rain.

We watch hikers coming down from the pass. They looked haggard, sunburned, stumbling tired. They tell us we’re insane to hike up the slope they just walked down. A sign on the restaurant tells us this is the world’s steepest ascent/descent at elevation.

Our crew is quiet, humming over hot tea, soup and rice by candlelight as the rain fades to fine mist. It is warm and dry in the tents until a ripple of sound shatters my deep forever sleep: the heavy wooden door of the tea house closing, the horses’ bridle bells clanging, tent zippers, hushed voices. By candlelight metal spoons demand more from the bottom of empty porridge bowls. At 3 a.m. the chunk-chunk of leather boots finding purchase in dark muddy ground sets our day in motion. Two members of our crew, determined to make the pass despite several days of illness, braved the narrow trail on horseback.

Grateful for the palette of stars above rather than rain clouds, and only a mildly chilly breeze, we each followed the boots in front of us till daylight somewhere revealed Thorong-La peak.

Pausing after two hours for hot Nescafe capucchino that Pemba and Lapka toted in thermoses, we watched a tidal wave of fog follow us up the valley. We were not going to be able to look over the black hills behind us to the northwest leading into the forbidden Upper Mustang Region of Tibet. But we could feel it. Thousands of refugees now live in this part of Nepal. The harsh contours of the land, the Buddhist faith and the risks people take to support the exiled Dalai Lama, paint a dramatic picture few outsiders can understand. One can’t help but think of the vagueries of borders in regions like this, or Afghanistan, Pakistan, India, Kenya, or other vast spaces where political nations draw lines in sand they never see. We turned and cast our souls to the east where Thorong-La was once again concealed by clouds and the breeze was delivering a light snow in our faces.

Daylight began to reflect off the frozen ground. Trekkers were starting to appear heading down. We paused to imagine what would upset the massive glaciers precariously packed into rock overhangs on Thorong-La miles wide, miles away. After five hours and forty minutes, two false summits and another round of Nescafe, we fell into the arms of our two horse-back companions at the pass, snow lingering on windy tears as we gathered for group photos among the hundreds of prayer flags strung between monuments.

There were moments here for each of us; our own private summit reverie. Ashes to be strewn, physical goals attained, spiritual moments cherished. In the gathering storm, we collected our ragged selves and left with a glorified moment that was worthy of the hard work, and also representative of the laughter along the journey.

Things were different on the other side. East Base Camp was cold and barren. Jane didn’t track cow dung into our shower. There was no shower. We quarantined her by herself with packets of vitamin C for the night. Maybe she was the only one who slept through the noisy night of trekkers and horses coming and going.

We trotted through a drizzling rain next morning down the narrow path carved across a hillside of the loose slate we affectionately call “despicable scree.” Not a good place to lose one’s footing. Waterfalls were the only life we saw in the scree for half a day till scrub and tall shadows became patches of trees growing at impossible angles in this steep valley below three peaks were couldn’t yet see: Manaslu, Gangapurna and Annapurna IV.

At the Yak Hotel in Manang we were easily placated over the lack of hot water (solar heating doesn’t work in the rain) with popcorn and Gorkha beer, yak burgers and the best veggie burger I’ve ever had in my life. Marigolds in #10 cans, prayer wheels, thrashing wheat: we were back in civilization.

How do the residents not spend the entire day just staring? Or wondering how it might be to stand atop one of them? Working in gardens of cabbage and corn, harvesting wood in teams from the forest, watching trekkers and porters on a journey passing through, don’t they think about following along? In the morning, tears streamed down my face at the beauty of the sun painting morning on the peaks of Manaslu, Gangappurna and Tilicho.

It is day 13, we are huddled in fleece over breakfast and I am in triage holding my right boot together with pilfered super glue and duct tape. It holds up through the muddy 15-mile day to Timang, where we witnessed the mixed fortune chicken crossing the road in front of a jeep, which careened to the side and spared it, only to have the ignoble destiny of becoming our dinner several hours later.

We are back in the land of butterflies and bamboo. Enormous waterfalls plummet from dark crevasses on the canyon walls and vehicles can access the roads we are now travelling. Melons dangle from tin roofs, and children wearing Angry Birds tee shirts ask for chocolate and pens as we pass. After dropped down 2,200’ of elevation by lunch, Ang diverts us down a goat path, across a narrow suspension bridge then up the other side on steps, steps and more steps through rice fields and a gain of 1,700’ in two miles to the town of Bahundanda. The final insult to aching quads is the 60 steps to our rooms at Splendid View Motel, where the bathrooms are downstairs. The town’s children came to perform Nepalese dances for us just as the lights went out all over town. But of course, with candles, flashlights and a pot for a drum, the performance went on a planned, and we cheered the kids one more time the next morning as we met them on the trail passing by their homes next morning.

  My boots survived surgery, enough to be retired with dignity in the town of Bhulbhule. Ang thoughtfully sweetened our sadness on this last night with a cake, decorated in our honor. We served the porters first.

It’s impossible to sleep here, in my corner room above the street. Metal shop doors pulled down, then up. Dogs barking incessantly, tractors driving by, roosters, monks playing music at 5 a.m. The chubby Russian guy from across the hall walks by my balcony window in his underwear. There’s two men playing badminton in the street by 6 a.m.

We were left to our own thoughts on the five-hour bus ride to Kathmandu, past the wide river with glacier-blue waters.

There’s a reason so much of the land in Nepal is designated as sanctuary. To be among these peaks, even at our meager elevations, is humbling. Clearly the inspiration for meditation among the mountains influenced the isolated sites of Buddhist temples built on dramatic cliffs next to nothing but atmosphere. We have only glanced the experience of those living here. Over the course of our journey we gained 30,153 total feet elevation and dropped down 18,182 feet from the pass:  higher than Mt. Everest as the raven flies. But I’m happy to leave summiting the giants to mountaineers. For me it is grace enough to walk beside them.