La Frontera: The Border

I’m on my way to the comedor with my little group of 5 Samaritans.  We park on the US side and walk across the border, dodging construction workers that are putting up the wall—probably the ugliest thing on the planet.  There are exposed ditches, wires, lavender pvc pipes (lavender!)  What the h—?   Huge cranes are whipping around like dinasours.  The wall will keep the bad guys out and give all us Americans peace of mind.  Yeah, right.  I think about the Berlin Wall, the Great Wall of China, the walls we erect within our own minds.  Hello.  They don’t work.   People will climb mountains, scale walls, and cross a desert if there is a dream of economic survival.

We pass through the Mexican customs area.  Men in uniforms smile at us, say “Buenos dias”, point out the last bathroom stop.  We pass through the American customs area.  Many more men in dark blue uniforms with assault weapons hanging from their shoulders look at us.  They are sweating bullets and seeking shade.  I feel sorry for them.  What a miserable job.  They don’t look happy.  I wave and try to make eye contact.  Nada.

It is a mile walk along a major highway.  The windshield wiper guys are out in full force washing car windows while a long line of people in autos wait to get back into the US.  They yell to us:  “You are all angels!!  Do you have any sox?”

We approach the comedor.  I can smell the breakfast the nuns have prepared for the migrants.  There is a line of 40 or more men and women waiting on the sidewalk for their first of two meals that the Jesuits prepare for them.  Frankly, the food smells deliciosa.  Homemade tortillas, beans, vegetables of Mexican squash, corn, onions, cumin, and eggs are wrapped in fat burritos.  Dishes of homemade salsa are set at the tables.  Hot coffee is being poured by Mexican volunteers and the nuns.  The migrants seem happy and talkative.  They will get one more meal today at 4 PM with a little bit of meat.  The nuns are singing in their makeshift kitchen.  Things are upbeat.

After breakfast we hand out clothing and personal toiletries, and I scan the group for anyone that is limping, looks to be in pain,  is needing medical care.  Interestingly, the people want food and clothing first—their medical needs can wait.   I tell people in my embarrassingly poor Spanish that I am available across the street in the clinica to render medical aid.  Several immediately begin taking off their shoes to show me their feet.  It is another foot day—-sprains, bruises, cactus puncture cuts, and the most god-awful blisters I have ever seen.  So I sit with them in the clinica, soak their feet in plastic tubs of warm water, and listen to their stories.  But I’ve learned that things always seem a bit better with a full stomach of nourishing Mexican cuisine.  And with the nuns singing as they wash the dishes, well, things just don’t seem quite so bad.

~ by Peg Bowden on September 11, 2011.

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