La Frontera: The Border

I love contrasts and extremes: the blazing heat of the desert, and the 40 degree drop in temperature at night this time of year.

Dia de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead, is that kind of festival— a study of contrasts and extremes, a party of joy and sorrow, yin and yang. The Nogales cemetery, a place of sadness and grief, is today a place of singing, feasting, and marigolds everywhere. The streets are lined with booths selling bouquets of marigolds, sugar skulls, and pan dulce. (sweet bread and pastries) There is the smell of roasted pork on skewers slowly dripping into the fires, and strolling guitarists and accordions are everywhere.

                                             Marigolds—-Mexican gold

Mexicans celebrate Dia de los Muertos with a very different spirit than our American Hallowe’en. Families gather around the graves of their departed loved ones, feast on favorite foods, pass a bottle of tequila, and spend the night singing and reminiscing about those that have died. They welcome the spirits of family and friends into their lives. It is a gentle, joyous, and respectful sharing of feelings. Nothing scary here. Children are helping parents place marigolds in elaborate patterns on grave stones. Things are pretty upbeat in this old cemetery.

Dia de los Muertos

Our Samaritan group stops first at the comedor where we see 100 or more migrants lined up for breakfast. I meet “Alberto”, age 12 days. His proud Papa holds him up for me to see. Alberto’s madre is there as well, and is glowing because her husband has just been released from a US detention center after being deported from California. Papa is weeping quietly—for happiness, with relief? I do not know. Alberto yawns and makes squeaky baby noises. Mama fusses over her newborn.

They have everything today. They have their baby and they are together.

New hope for Alberto

I ask where they are heading. They answer, “We will stay in Nogales until Alberto is stronger.” Wise parents. I rummage through the piles of clothing and find a classy Calvin Klein “one-sie” for baby Alberto. There is hope in the eyes of this humble family. And they have nothing in the way of worldly goods. I see them stroll off toward the cemetery and the celebration. Beginnings and endings—that is what this day is all about.

Nogales in a rosy glow

My Samaritan friends and I walk over to the festivities. I buy a sugar skull and a huge bouquet of marigolds and cockscombs to decorate my own altar at home. We dine on the best carne asada I have had in years in a taqueria along the street.

Afterwards, as we walk through US customs and back to our cars, the customs agent stops me and says, “You cannot take the flowers with you, because of possible infestation of destructive insects.”

“What??!!” , I protest. “But the bugs don’t respect the fact that there is a border and a Wall. They’ll just fly over! Keeping my flowers won’t keep Mexican bugs out of the USA.”

flowers and foolishness

The Customs Agent smiles, is actually quite cordial, and agrees. He says, “I’m sorry…it’s not me, it’s the government. It’s a rule.”

So I give him my beautiful marigolds and tell him, “Take these home to your own altar tonight. It is a tradition around here. It is Dia de los Muertos. He smiles, takes my flowers, and walks them over to the trash can.

And I feel the contrasts of the USA, a country I love— the frustration, the disbelief, and the anger about policies that don’t make any sense. From flowers to migrants to detention centers. And I have the freedom to speak out about it.

But I have to say, the world seems a bit saner tonight over yonder in that cemetery with the singing and gentle laughter and music. Viva Mexico.

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She is pretty in pink. And her father is beaming as he holds her. When I ask if Dad and babe will be “crossing”, he shakes his head emphatically, “No, no.” He is getting ready to journey home to Sinaloa. They have bus tickets. I look around the crowded sidewalk for this beautiful child’s mother, but it appears that it is just Dad and “Leslie”, this baby’s name.

“Leslie?”, I repeat?

Pretty in Pink

“Yes…this is Leslie”. She is well-nourished, she is 3 months old, and she makes good eye-contact with us.  Baby Leslie is immediately swept up in the arms of my Samaritan colleague. We both coo and fuss over this child, and she responds with a shy little smile.

And I can’t help but think that this is a very American sounding name.

“Leslie.”

I ask about her mother—where is she? Dad shrugs—his facial expression changes abruptly. He does not know. Baby Leslie begins to fuss and Dad comforts her quickly and expertly. He asks if we have baby clothes. Maybe a blanket?  And shoes—his shoes are worn and without shoelaces.

new shoes, new life

Thankfully today we have a lot of baby and children’s clothes. And shoes. And clean new socks. Dad finds what he needs inside the shelter, and I watch them walk up the street with clothes, immigration documents, and a determined step.

And I wonder the rest of the day about baby Leslie’s mother.

And I wonder about the long trip to Sinaloa, one of the most dangerous states in Mexico.

And I hope Leslie and her Dad are not stepping from the frying pan into the fire.

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Friends and neighbors have been generous in their donations to the comedor with clothes, shoes, backpacks, hats—things that migrant travelers need. I smile when I sort through the high quality jackets, shirts and pants. We’re talking Land’s End, Gap, Banana Republic, Eddie Bauer, North Face, Patagonia. Some still have the price tags on them. They have never been worn.

comedor fashion

The Sisters, the Samaritans, and a couple of college students help organize the clothes onto tables for the men, women and children. The migrants come into the shelter in small groups and pick out the clothes according to their needs. Most look slumped over and discouraged when they enter. They are silent, and no one speaks. But then things pick up a bit. Someone finds a pair of jeans that fits perfectly and a fleecy hooded jacket for the cold autumn nights. One guy dances around with some Calvin Klein boxer shorts. A young woman holds up a “Life is Good” t-shirt and models it for others.

“Life is Good?!” Lots of irony this morning.

Sorting through Calvin Klein and J.C. Penney's

The ladies love the jeans with the studs and sequins. The men look for Levi’s, clean sox, and a packet with razor blade and toothbrush. They all stand a bit taller, and there is joking in the room about the bigger sizes of so many American men and women, and the small stature of the Mexicans. Belts are very popular and necessary to hold up the large-sized pants. There is something about new clothes that just makes a body feel better. It’s a bit like Christmas, at least for the moment.

I see patience, humility and gratefulness in the faces of the migrants. There is no shoving, no shouting, no competition for the best shirt, or the fanciest backpack. And the children—-they are so well behaved, it is eerie. No crying, no whining, no fussing. The room is filled with “gracias”, and “God bless you” as they leave with an armful of “ropa.”

Being together is everything...

Truly helping another human being is a tricky dance. I know. As a public health nurse in another life, another place, I’ve seen how difficult it is to impact poverty in a meaningful way. Giving away stuff can foster dependency, resentment, and a lifetime of handouts. But this feels different. These people are truly in crisis and are in survival mode. The clothes, the nourishing food, our attempts to help people reunite with their families, our awkward attempts at reaching out—these are righteous acts.

Sometimes it all feels like baby steps, but at least it is a step in the right direction.

I have an old button at home that says: “The Meek are Getting Ready”. I think I’ll wear it next week.

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I stepped out of the van this morning at the comedor, and a young man in a bright red shirt immediately asked me for food and possibly money. He spoke very little English, and so I struggled to understand his request.

“They will not let me into the comedor for food…I am very hungry.” Looking freshly shaven and sporting a clean Izod shirt, I was having a disconnect here. The scruffiness of the migrants just wasn’t evident with this fellow.

Humanitarian aid is never a crime

Milling around the shelter were men and women with babies scoping out the bags of clothing and supplies in our van. It was the usual mayhem and confusion and desperation—people asking for toothbrushes, soap, blankets, jackets.

I ask Rodrigo, a priest-in-training, “…How come this man isn’t allowed to eat with the others?” Fr. Rodrigo takes me aside and tells me, “This man is a ‘coyote.’ (a guide for those crossing into the USA) The women are afraid of him. He is recruiting. It is complicated. We cannot allow him to come into this shelter…”

Border desperation

So I busy myself with sorting piles of clothes, finding the toothbrushes, and generally doing my best to avoid the man in the bright red shirt.

Five minutes later, I see Fr. Rodrigo carrying out a steaming plate of food for the red-shirted “coyote.” He sits on the sidewalk in the midst of the mayhem around him and devours the beans and rice and vegetables. He consumes a glass of milk. Rodrigo places his hand on the fellow’s head—a sort of blessing. Neither one speaks.

I ask Rodrigo about this later in the day.

He just remarks, “…even coyotes need food.”

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I must confess that when starting this blog several weeks ago, I wanted to remain anonymous. But I’ve passed through that initial phase of worry and stress about who I am and what I am doing out here in the Sonoran desert.

So here goes: my name is Peg Bowden, and I grew up in Tucson, left for 30 years ( living in Oregon), and now I’m back. The desert is in my bones. I love it here. Anyone interested may reach me at: pegbowden@yahoo.com, or leave comments on my blog, “La Frontera: the Border”.

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We meet in the early morning hours when the temperatures are cool and take off in “the Beast”, an old Ford Explorer that has seen a lot of dust and miles. The back of the Samaritan van is loaded to the ceiling with crates of water jugs. I am going on a “water drop” with 2 veterans of the back country. We will carry jugs of water to 6 water stations in Southern Arizona where migrants have been known to stop. The desert is criss-crossed with trails and paths—and there are tracks everywhere. Some are cows, some are coyotes (4-legged), and some are the soles of well-worn shoes.

Precious cargo

The road is a teeth-rattling washboard gravel road. We see a few RV’s and campers parked miles into the vastness of the Sonoran desert. It is deer hunting season, and I am glad I have on a bright red t-shirt. My Samaritan friends have been on this route many times, and I must say, zig-zagging around on these roads soon has me totally disoriented. Dirt roads curve off in all directions.

We stop at a water station that is about 200 yards off the road. How these 2 guys know where to go is impressive. The crates hold six gallons each (about 48+ pounds), and so I carry one end of a crate while my friend carries the other. We stumble along a path teetering with our load, but make it to the first water station. There are 8 gallon jugs scattered about under a mesquite tree. A couple of jugs have been chewed up—probably coyotes, my friends tell me. The other jugs are empty, and they are reasonably sure that migrants have been through this section. We exchange the empty jugs for our full ones. This time we leave the jugs in a crate so the coyotes can’t chew up the plastic and empty the water.

the pause that refreshes

Our next stop is discouraging. All of the water jugs have been emptied, but probably not by migrants. My friends surmise that the jugs have been emptied by people “not supportive of migrants.” Vigilantes? Irate ranchers? Border Patrol? Who knows…. We have a quick discussion about what to do and decide to leave another dozen or so water jugs. Better to have this life-saving nectar in the desert for someone who is in desperate straits  than to leave no water at all.

a desert mystery

Finally we reach the “bicycle stop”, a water station with an ancient bike leaning beside an old mesquite tree. It has been there for many years, and no one knows the story behind the bike, but it is a well-traveled trail for migration. I get the feeling that we are being watched somewhere up that canyon, or down that arroyo. We are not alone. I do not feel afraid out here. In fact, I wish we could just hang out for awhile in the shade of these trees and watch the hawks. Baboquivari looms up in the distance—the sacred mountain of the Pima and Tohono-O’odham Indian tribes.

My Samaritan friends have many stories to tell of ranchers who are supportive and compassionate about migrant travelers on these trails, and ranchers who are angry about the whole immigration issue. They tell me of water bottles that have been slashed, and their theories about who is slashing them. Feelings run high in Arizona when it comes to the issue of immigration.

"I have the right to be respected physically, sexually, and psychologically..."

I hear a lot of vitriol and anger toward Mexicans and Latinos from Central America. The anger is focused—arrest them, they are breaking the law, send them back where they came from! The Latinos feel it—it is palpable and present every day in towns and cities.

And yet—this is what astounds me. When I talk with migrants at the comedor in Nogales, Sonora, they are open, wanting to share their story on a very intimate and emotionally vulnerable level. In spite of the unspeakable experiences they have had in the desert, in detention centers, and with sadistic guides and insensitive US Federal agents, they do not hate us. I find this astounding. It is a lesson that never ceases to amaze me.

These are good people. And this water we leave in the desert is holy water.

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“…Oh the Sisters of mercy

They have not departed or gone…” Leonard Cohen, songwriter/poet

Last week I saw one of the comedor nuns lean out of the door and hand a plate piled high with beans and rice, vegetables and tortillas, and a huge glass of milk to “burn man”, a homeless Mexican man severely burned a few months ago with battery acid. (see my first posting for this story) He sits down on the curb and eats every crumb.  Leonard Cohen’s song from the 60’s once again runs through my mind. These women are the Sisters of Mercy. Their presence lights up this very humble shelter. I don’t notice the ripped tarp on the walls, the discarded plastic bottles in the street, or the infamous huge monolithic “Wall” separating Mexico from the USA. I just see their smiles and their brightly flowered aprons.

....They were waiting for me, when I thought that I just can't go on...." Leonard Cohen

“Burn man” gratefully accepts the food. He is mentally ill, I’m told, and can be disruptive and aggressive. For reasons I don’t understand, he has been temporarily barred from the comedor, the dining area.  Rules are rules.  Burn man is a survivor and lives on the street, sleeping in the cemetery. He is not a migrant, but lives in Nogales, Sonora, and is a victim of thugs and evil. Today he wears two pairs of pants tied around his waist with rope and a filthy jacket. When he sees our group he approaches, asking for money for a Coke. And then one of the Sisters appears with a big glass of milk. And that steaming plate of food.

Let me say something here. I did not think this man would survive a few weeks ago. His burns covered his back, and he walked around with a cloud of insects and flies following him. You could smell the infection. Nurse Norma, the Mexican RN at the clinica, has been cleaning this man’s wounds and applying clean dressings several times during the week. She and her medic assistant, Jacobo, have been disciplined and loving in their care of this man. Today his back is healing, and there is no infection. And the Sisters of Mercy feed him two meals a day. It is a miracle.

Welcome to America....and our wall

And “ burn man” trusts us. Well, trusts us enough to ask for money for a Coke and cigarettes. And a clean blue shirt, his favorite color. I rummage through the pile of clothes and find an almost new Patagonia shirt. We all smile as we see “burn man” put on this symbol of the yuppie trekker. Fits him perfectly too.

I have to grin when I think of the poetic justice of “burn man” sporting a Patagonia shirt.

Last Supper, Mexican style

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We creep along at 30 mph in our aging van through the most rugged desert I have ever seen. I am on a desert search. There are 4 of us, and we peer closely out the windows looking for “signs”—a jacket hanging on a branch, a water bottle, a backpack. This is wild, remote country, at least 8 miles from any sign of civilization, and it is hot out there. The air-conditioning is cranking on high and we are all drinking our bottles of water nonstop. I wonder how anyone can survive this kind of heat in this country.

Rugged beauty

Our Samaritan group leader spots something up an arroyo (a dried creek bed), and so we stop. Armed with plastic bags to pick up “basura”, or trash, we all hike up the arroyo calling out, “….Estamos Samaritanos”. We are Samaritans and we offer help. Food. Water. Medical aid.

A word about the “basura”. I occasionally receive anti-immigration emails from people with pictures of trash in our desert—-diapers, plastic water bottles, tattered clothing. The place looks like a dump. On my desert searches I have never seen this kind of decimation. Instead the basura has looked like dropped items that a desperate person has left behind—a treasure. A rosary. A plastic religious picture of the Virgen de Guadalupe. An earring, a scrap of paper with a phone number, a shoe. Sometimes an old encampment under some brush with a tattered sleeping bag. Empty cans of pinto beans and little sausages. Once there was a beautifully embroidered cloth used to wrap tortillas—I think about the worried mother who may have created this for her son who is trying to get to “el norte”.

desert treasure

Our group leader tells us that…”just because you don’t see anyone doesn’t mean they are not there.” We will only see migrants when they are in trouble. They know we are there to help. Migrants journey at night when the temperatures are more tolerable. They stay in the shade and rest during the heat of the day.

I have been on 4 searches for migrants. I have not encountered anyone in need of our help, but have seen where they walk and where they sleep. Always the night before a search I review once again what I would do if I found someone in trouble. What are the signs of acute dehydration, hyperthermia, diabetic distress, what if someone is comatose? I never sleep well the night before. Will I do the right thing? Will my nursing training kick in? Can I handle this?  What am I doing here anyway?

It is a felony in Arizona to transport a migrant anywhere. I’ve thought about this a lot. This is another law that is just plain wrong. “Humanitarian aid is never a crime”—it is written in bold print on my Samaritan t-shirt. I would call “911” in an emergency, and if a response or help wasn’t there in 10 minutes, well, I guess I would have to test that law.

I spot a little makeshift shrine in the branch of an old mesquite tree, complete with a picture of the Virgen de Guadalupe and a cross. I am not Catholic, and I do not attend any church, but silently cross myself and whisper …”Vaya don Dios”. The desert does that to you.

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He had a 3 day beard, a crumpled cowboy hat, and seriously blistered feet. My Samaritan colleague was tending this man’s wounds while I tried to listen to his story. It was difficult to understand this migrant—his English was adequate, but he was weeping as he told his story. His words are muffled and his eyes are focused far away.

Walking the walk

Living in the US for 24 years, his most recent home is Idaho, where he lives with his wife and 3 children. While driving home one night last week outside of Boise, he had to take a detour, and ended up going the wrong way on a one-way street. There were 2 other cars in front of him doing the same thing—going the wrong way for one block on a one-way street. All of the cars were stopped by the police. The other two were let go with a warning—they had “white drivers”, our stricken friend tells us. He is cited, and asked to appear at the court house to pay off the fine. The cop assures him that this will “take care of everything.” He shows up at the court house and is nailed by ICE. Next thing he knows he is in Nogales, a city he has never heard of.

He tried to cross the US border yesterday and get back “home” to Idaho,  and was picked up. He must get home. Our friend is adamant about this. There is no question in his mind. He must get home to his family. Caught and deported by the Border Patrol, he is staying near the clinic and comedor until his feet heal. Then he will try again. He knows the risks. He will listen to no alternative. There is desperation in his words and eyes.

I ask if he ever tried to become a citizen and live in the USA legally.

He smiles. “When I was 17 years old, I could have applied for ‘amnesty’ when Clinton was President….or was it Reagan?   But I didn’t have the money….it takes a lot of money to become a citizen. And I was 17—what did I know….?”

I look away. If I were this man, I would probably do the same thing.

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Meet Amor

She never smiled—not once. All the cooing and jiggling and silly faces did not move this child to give us a smile. Meet Amor, age 19 months. She is from Sinaloa, and is heading to Utah with Grandma. They will try and cross tonight, after being picked up a few days ago in the desert by the Border Patrol. Grandma lives in Utah, speaks perfect English, and must bring little Amor to the US for reasons she cannot discuss. “You really don’t want to know…”, she tells me.

I ask if she has a “plan” once she crosses into the desert. She tells me her son will meet her. “Everything will be OK…. I have my cell phone.” I ask Grandma how she happened to settle in Utah. She lights up and tells me she loves Utah, loves the people, and is “almost a Mormon.”

Amor quietly watches me talk. Her eyes look like they are a thousand years old. She is thin, and looks to be 6 months old, not 19 months.

I tell them both that there is another meal at 4 PM today. Be sure and feed Amor and take extra nourishment. The nights are cold now. We have blankets. I show her the sox, the jackets.

If there are miracles afoot, tonight is the night that Amor and Grandma will need one.

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