Those who have been following Forever Foreign closely know the stories are based on talks with my parents, which my father usually dominates.
Not this time.
When my mother told me the story of smuggling a VHF Marine radio from Panama to Costa Rica, I felt like something was missing. There was a barrier, not as son and mother, but as woman and man. To reveal the heart of the story, my mother had to speak with her soon-to-be daughter-in-law.
October, 1983
John forged deals in the hidden corners of society.
Lucas and I were desperate.
John knew the power of his body, car and contacts.
I knew the power of a woman, Carlota.
… But so did they.
Our yacht, El Cosario, was in dire need of a new VHF Marine radio, a luxury shackled by the weight of import taxes in Costa Rica, rendering it beyond our means. Time was a scarce commodity, so when John hinted at acquiring the radio for a fraction of the cost in Panama, we they took the opportunity.
The initial scheme involved me feigning pregnancy and disguising the radio as a protruding belly. In the end, I thought it was too risky and taped the radio to my inner thigh, hiding it under a billowing skirt.
If there were a female border control agent, I’d be patted down and go to jail. If there were a male border control agent, John said I had a chance.
John was a poor man who struck it rich by marrying Nuna, an Inuit woman who claimed land in Alaska. Our connection—our trust—was birthed through the crafting of necklaces and earrings.
She told me the original Sungaujait were made from ivory and bone, but glass sungaujait was nevertheless a part of their oral histories. These glass beads threaded together cultures, crossing borders, lands and languages.
When John returned alone after a quick trip to America, a thread was broken. Although suspicious, it eased our minds to believe John when he told us everything was okay between him and Nuna.
We never found out the truth.
Before I continue, Carlota, there’s something you need to know—Nolan’s father has always tried to put me first. We decided to trust John together. If anything, Lucas was more weary of the man than I was. Yet, he let me down when he agreed to the idea of me smuggling the radio. At first, I didn’t want to do it, but they convinced me it was the best way.
The best for whom? I didn’t bother asking the question.
Anyway, we went forth with the plan. John drove from San Jose near the Panama border, where an American friend of his lived. He drove us to the border where John and I crossed together by foot—the same way we would cross with the radio on our way back.
Or so I thought.
After we crossed the border, John rented a car to get us to Panama City. That’s when his intentions came through. He started complimenting me, telling me he would buy the skirt and pay for the hotel, lo que sea. I wouldn’t have minded playing the game, although I wasn’t attracted to him. You know it can be fun to feel the influence we have on men, especially those as well-built and confident as John.
But it’s a whole different story when you feel you have no choice. Although he never touched me, every question and compliment felt like a test. When his passes became more direct, my only shield was, “I don’t use birth control, and I’m on my period.”
You know how it is.
Part of me wanted to say, “I have a husband who you call a friend, and more importantly, I don’t want to sleep with you,” but what good would that have done? The entire trip to Panama City would have been for nothing. And for what? Would I really have stripped the man of his pride? At least, in this way, I had some control.
In the end, it often feels like a man’s decision. And this is exactly what it was when the evening of the border crossing approached.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the lush landscape at the Costa Rican and Panamanian border. My fingers traced the edges of the flowing skirt, concealing the radio taped to my inner thigh. John and I exchanged glances, trying to hide the anxiety etched on our faces.
“Go ahead of me. I’ll go further back in the line.”
A fist formed in my heart.
“Why?”
“It’ll be better that way. If you get caught, it’s better I’m not with you. I can do more to help you if we’re not in this together.”
He spoke with the counterfeit confidence of a coward, but a discussion would attract attention. I had no choice but to continue the longest hundred meters of my life alone.
As the line slowly advanced, a border agent approached, his stern expression illuminated by the dim glow of a flickering streetlight. I adjusted my skirt, trying to mask the nervousness within me.
"Buenas noches, señora. Papeles, por favour," the agent demanded, his eyes scanning the passports I handed over.
The man studied the documents, his gaze lingering on the expiration dates and entry stamps. My heart thrummed against the cage of my ribs, a primal rhythm echoing through the cavern of my chest. The agent returned my passport, his suspicion, for the moment, ebbing like the tide retreating from an uncertain shore.
"¿Qué estaba haciendo en Panamá?"
“Fue un viaje de fin de semana a la Ciudad de Panamá.”
The agent narrowed his eyes, revealing an unspoken interrogation that lingered, heavy and pregnant with unspoken threat.
“¿Dónde te alojaste?”
I told him the hotel's name and braced myself for the inevitable pat-down, but to my surprise, it never came.
"Que tenga buena noche, Señora Thiers," he said, handing back my passport.
I stepped into Costa Rica and walked away from the power games… for the time being.
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