We spent an unexpectedly luxurious night in Bosques del Condor, a rustic campground in La Rumorosa (translation: “the one who tells rumors,” because of the wind that blows and whispers through the canyon). When the sun goes down here the temperature plunges immediately, and we were relieved to find that our stone cabin was equipped with a wood-burning stove. We completely overdid it, of course, and spent most of the night with the doors and windows thrown open, shirts off, sweating in a smokehouse of our own making.
It doesn’t take much to find someone with something to say about immigration and the wall. Today we met Juan, the handyman at the campground. Back in the 1980s, Juan crossed the border illegally with other migrants to pick apples in Washington state. He brought his family—his wife, son and daughter—to the United States. He was earning plenty of money and regularly paid for his friends’ drinks at the bar. Eventually he earned enough money to move his family back to his hometown, Jalisco, Mexico. According to Juan, his friends heard of this plan and were 1) jealous of his success and 2) angry that he’d no longer be picking up the tab. They tried to rob him and threatened to kill him. Three guys in a car cornered him on the street. Juan refused to give them what they wanted, cash that he had been saving for his young son. He said he would defend himself. One of them taunted “Shoot me, motherfucker!”
Juan remembers answering, “I’ll be right back.” He ran inside his house, grabbed a borrowed shotgun from behind the door, and shot his former friend, wounding him. He didn’t kill him, but someone heard the shot, and when it was all over, Juan found himself serving 10 years in prison. He told police he had acted in self-defense, but an officer said “I don’t care.” When he told the immigration authorities the three men had tried to kill him, the female agent explained to him who makes the rules with a sick little mind game.
Simple as that, Juan served his 10 years. He cannot enter the country legally, and he risks going back to prison if he crosses illegally. His wife and kids, still in the United States, visit him as often as possible—three days every three months. He regrets the time he lost in prison, not for himself, but because of the time he’s lost with his children.
Today we reached Mexicali. Through one of Davi’s friends we found free lodging at, believe it or not, a Chinese medicine house. We’re looking forward to sleeping on gurneys tonight.
Our host suggested we eat at the restaurant next door, a two-table spot open to the street. Dolores Rivera fed us chicken mole with tortillas, rice, beans, and Coca Colas. She was very attentive and made sure we had enough of everything. And she had plenty to say, through a translator, about U.S. immigration policy.
She also came to America during the ’80s, but legally, which was easier to do then. She cleaned bathrooms at a movie theater for $100 a day. One night someone broke into her house. She pretended to be asleep and could only watch this person rob her, scared for her life. She thinks it must have been a friend, because they took nothing but her residency papers and a little money. Today she has two kids left in the United States and one with her in Mexico, studying medicine, she says proudly. Her family is divided, and won’t be united again for the foreseeable future. The process of acquiring another visa is an expensive gamble. Just standing in line with other hopeful candidates costs thousands of pesos per person, per attempt. An agent asks each applicant a series of question riddled with landmines. “Are you single?” and “Do you have children,” they will ask. Based on past experiences, Dolores knows she must answer “No” to both, or she will immediately be denied. It’s entirely up to the immigration officer. If he or she doesn’t like you, then no visa. For many people, like Juan and Dolores, that means not seeing their families.
