La Frontera: The Border

OK, I’ll admit it.  I read the headlines of the Arizona Daily Star, and hear about the violence and lawlessness in Mexico, and it gives me pause.  Nogales has had its share of shoot-outs and drug-related violence.  But hey, Tucson isn’t exactly immune to insane violent outbursts.  Jan. 8, 2011 is forever seared in my brain as the Safeway massacre.  Gabrielle Giffords, my heroine, shot down shaking hands with her constituents, was practicing the most sacred of democratic principles.  She was talking to the people.  She was looking the people in the eye.  So I keep my head up and pay attention to what’s going on when I hike that mile across the border to the comedor.  I remember Gabby.

A few weeks ago, our group parked on the US side in a mini-market parking lot for the usual potty break.  There were about 5 Border Patrol guys hanging out in the parking lot.  They looked at us, I looked at them.  My little group had our Samaritan t-shirts on, so it was no secret what we were up to.  But, seeing five Border Patrol guys in one spot is pretty unusual.  So I figure my taxes are paying for these guys.  Don’t be intimidated.  I walk over asking if there is any “trouble on the other side of the border?”   They laugh and say, “no, we’re just slackers taking too long a break.” One guy grins and says, “if there was trouble, we’d be the last to know…”

They want to chat it up a bit with me.

Then one guy asks—“Are you the folks who leave water in the desert for the lost illegals?”  I take a deep breath expecting some sort of verbal confrontation, and say, “Yep, that’s us.”   And I add, “Since the Wallow Fire, we were ordered out of the National Forests because of the fire danger, so we haven’t been able to do our water drops.”

And here’s the kicker—the Border Patrol guy says, “We really miss you—we’ve been pulling people out of the desert right and left.  We appreciate your help with saving people lost out there.  No one can survive these temperatures.”

Wow—I was stunned.  We are actually on the same side.  So I screw up my courage and say:  “We appreciate what you do too….as long as you catch the bad guys and not the good guys.”

One guy smiles and says, “Well, we do the best we can.”

And I can’t ask for more than that.

Lean on me

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A fellow limps into the clinic looking hot, tired, and tattered.  He looks to be 24, tops.  He was picked up by the Border Patrol “just outside of Tijuana” and brought to Nogales, Sonora, for reasons I don’t understand.  There are cactus puncture wounds, a bad ankle sprain, and 2 blistered feet with the skin torn off.  He speaks perfect English, and tells me he was heading to Wichita, Kansas, where he grew up.  Kansas??!!  It turns out he has been in Kansas since he was a baby, but after high school went back to Oaxaca to see relatives, fell in love, got married, and has a 2 year old daughter.  Showing me a wrinkled photo of a baby in his jeans pocket, he gets choked up.  Then he abruptly asks me if I know how the Chieftains are faring—and what I think of the Diamondbacks. (the Arizona baseball team)

I ask him, “What were you going to do in Wichita?  Why did you leave your wife and baby?”  He tells me he is a “fabulous Mexican tile setter”, and he has a good job with a construction company in Wichita.  He scored this job through old friends.  “Gringos love what I do with bathrooms and kitchens.”   Making 5 times the salary he would be making in Oaxaca, he decided it was worth the risk.  He planned to stay for 6 months, send money to his wife,  then come home to Oaxaca and his family.

I ask him “Why didn’t you ever apply for citizenship when you were in Kansas?”  He shrugs and tells me he didn’t know he was “illegal” until he was 16.  He was always able to cross back and forth in the past to see family in Mexico, so “didn’t think it was that big of a deal” to keep on crossing.   He is wincing as I soak his feet in the little plastic tubs with epsom salts.  He is thinking.  Finally he says, “I’m not going to try this again.  It is tough for me in Oaxaca, but there are too many cops now looking for us in the US.”

My Samaritan colleagues and I chip in and buy this fellow a bus ticket back to Oaxaca and money for food.  He chokes up again, and asks if I watched the Super Bowl last winter.  How about them Packers?  I feel like I am talking with a kid from LA who is a bit of a sports nut.  I tell him I’d like to see his tile work sometime.  He grins and tells me to look him up in Oaxaca.

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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.

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Sept. 9, 2011

I am a registered nurse (retired) and presently volunteer with the Samaritans, a group of citizens concerned about the number of deaths of migrants in the Sonoran desert.  I live close to the Mexican border in Arizona, and travel each week to Nogales, Sonora, Mexico to assist in a “first aid station” where deportees are cared for by Jesuit priests and nuns.   There is a “comedor”, or shelter, where migrants receive food, water, clothing and medical care.  The conditions are primitive—the tiny “clinica” is a cinder block building with an RN (a Mexican nurse) working part-time, a volunteer with No Mas Muertos (another group that is supportive to migrants), and a few other Samaritan volunteers with some medical background.  There is no running water (altho there is a sink that occasionally sputters out a few drops.)  It feels like Afghanistan.  It is 100 degrees outside, the monsoon season is upon us, and a rickety fan does its best to keep things tolerable in this little cell of a building.  The nuns fill containers of water for the medical personnel, and we warm the water on a Bunsen burner in order to wash wounded feet and limbs.  The people working here are all heart and soul.  The migrants are humble, patient with the process, and frightened.

Last week I treated a 27 year old farmer from Guatamala.  He had been in the desert for 9 days, 2 without water.  His feet were blistered and there was no skin evident on the soles.  Infection was prevalent.  He could barely walk.  This man has been driven from his farm (sold to NAFTA), and he is no longer able to support his wife and children.  His family has been able to live their lives for generations on his farm of corn, beans, squash, but thanks to NAFTA and the huge agribusiness of US agriculture, he cannot compete with the lowered price of vegetables.  He was heading to California to pick tomatoes and other produce.  He was promised housing and a job in California, and planned to work 6 months and send his wages home.  His eyes were vacant, and there was very little eye contact with me as I washed and treated his feet.  I tellya, the whole thing is biblical—I’m on my knees washing this guy’s feet, understanding maybe 50% of what he is saying, while he continually crosses himself and repeats “gracias” over and over.  The other nurse (who is Mexican, and of course speaks Spanish) gives him fluids, antibiotic creams, and Advil.  Our patient is weeping.  He doesn’t know whether to go back to Guatamala, stay in Nogales, or try to cross again.  He decides he will not cross—too dangerous. 

As I get ready to leave the clinic today an emaciated man appears at the door.  He staggers into the clinica and tells us he has been burned.  As we remove his shirt, there are 2nd and 3rd degree burns evident—from lighter fluid and tequila.  Someone lit this man afire in the desert.  I do not get the whole story, as my group is ready to leave.  I have never seen anyone with such an extensive burn.  The man needs hospitalization, pain medication, and IV antibiotics.  I will find out what happened to this man next week.  Meanwhile, I have taken up praying, or something like that.  I think about this poor soul all week.  I wonder—did this happen in the US?  Is he still alive?  Why wasn’t he taken to a US hospital?

I wonder sometimes why I am doing this.  But somehow it feels right.  It feels better than emailing my Congressman and the President.  I’m collecting data, hearing stories, and will do what I can to impact our draconian and unjust immigration policy.  You’ve got to start somewhere.

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