We arrived in Janos late in the afternoon and parted ways with Sanchez, the truck driver who gave us a lift, after a quick dinner of enchiladas and steak. As the sun was setting we biked a few miles outside of town to a nature preserve, called Janos Biosphere Natural Reserve, where a group of biologists had offered to host us that evening.
The place where they all live and work is a ranch-style house, full of bunk beds, and heated by a wood stove. A three-legged dog met us at the door. One of the scientists, Dulce Barraza, explained that she and her colleagues are most concerned with the survival of the American buffalo and the prairie dogs that are native to the plains in this particular part of northern Mexico. The U.S. border wall has already made their job more difficult. When the first sections were built here years ago, it disrupted the buffalo’s natural migration pattern. Today, buffalo roam near Janos again, but only because they reintroduced the species with a herd from South Dakota.
The biggest challenge they face, however, is the local Mennonite population. Mennonites first settled in Mexico in the 1920s, and their population has since reached 100,000. The vast majority—90,000—live in the state of Chihuahua. The nature reserve in Janos is protected by the federal government, but the Mennonites often use it for industrial farming—which involves illegal GMO’s, and a lot of pesticides. They are also fond of hunting prairie dogs, which has pushed the species closer to extinction.
The next morning we drove out to see the bison before biking back into town. The highway between Janos and Ciudad Juarez is more than 90 miles long and has no shoulder, so we had to hitch a ride. The couple that picked us up in a black pickup truck thought Jon was a Mennonite and didn’t realize he had three friends who were also hoping for a ride. Carlos and Priscilla, headed back to Juarez from a weekend fishing trip, fell into our trap perfectly. The truck was already full of luggage, but we put Priscilla’s two suitcases, with our bikes and gear, back in the bed. Pablo and I wedged down on top of the pile. Davi and Jon rode up front with our benefactors. I have no idea what they talked about for the next two hours. Pablo and I were concerned with not losing our hats, flying through the desert at ludicrous speed.
After miles and miles of nothing but sand, Juarez and El Paso unfolded suddenly below us. First we saw the border wall, painted with messages I’m told are offensive in Spanish, and then the cities themselves, sprawling away from either side of the neat metal line along the Rio Grande. Standing in the back of the truck was the best way we could have entered the city. Ciudad Juarez has a terrible reputation leftover from when it was considered the most dangerous city in the world in 2010 (there when the city had 3,500 murders). Since then the situation has improved somewhat: In 2016, Juarez was only 37th on the most-dangerous list. (For the sake of perspective, St. Louis ranked 16th.)
Hitching a ride with Carlos and Priscilla was a stroke of luck. They let us stash our stuff at their house, and they gave us an all-day tour of the city. Carlos is an engineer at a “maquiladora,” a sweatshop that pays the average employee $30 a week. He’s in a higher position than those workers, but still normally works a 12 hour day, from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. We happened to catch him on a holiday weekend. They took us to the historic downtown, which includes the oldest church in the city, La Mission de Guadalupe, and the house of the presidents, Antigua Presidencia. The markets and squares were full of families enjoying a day off together. We snacked on crickets, sold to us on the street out of a bucket. Legend has it that the margarita was invented here at a place called Club Kentucky, back when prohibition was in force and border towns like Juarez were hot night club destinations. (Others also claim to have invented the cocktail.)
We visited the Casa de Adobe, an unassuming mud building on the edge of the city. During the Mexican Revolution, General Pancho Villa, commander of Division del Norte (Division of the North), fought several battles for the city and set up his command in the mud house; later it became the house for the president. It’s now a museum featuring artifacts from the revolution. The museum’s docent, a history professor, gave us a riotous lecture explaining the importance of each item, gesturing wildly, and swinging a wooden cane for emphasis. At the climax of his performance, he insisted we try on and take selfies with the sombreros on display – century-old pieces of history that would’ve stayed locked behind a display case if we saw them in the United States.
That night we went to Priscilla’s family home for a party. We’re about to cross into El Paso and say goodbye to Davi and Pablo, and that was a great excuse to drink way too much tequila and grill a feast on the barbecue. We laughed, we danced. To me, it was final proof that despite the perception of danger on the border, the reality isn’t so stark. Juarez can be a dangerous place: Every house we saw is built like a bunker, protected by high gates, barbed wire, and strategically placed broken glass along the rooftops. In some cases, entire neighborhoods have walled themselves in to keep out intruders. But life goes on. Everyone that I met in Juarez says they love the city, and despite spending time in other places, felt themselves pulled back home. Carlos says he never plans to leave, and insists that his kids will be raised in Juarez, too. He told me in English, “the place or the country where you’re born doesn’t define who you will be in life. You can work hard and be successful anywhere.”
