Lines in the sand

I went to a gun shop on my day off. It was a small building behind the feed store and quilt shop on the corner of hwy 80 and the road to Portal. Once again, for me, the middle of nowhere. I walked in and a big tattooed man was by the counter in the cramped dark shop with a rifle in his hand. My leg was then attacked by two very cute puppies...

Sometimes it feels like I'm in a bad Tarantino knock-off. It's just as weird and unevenly paced, but the people are slightly less badass.

The reason I was in a gun shop in the middle of nowhere is that I was looking for a good sturdy water bottle. In the mania of my departure I came here without any and I was seriously worried that my disposable bottle from Oklahoma I've been reusing would literally melt one day. This place was not the first place I would think to look, but the natural foods store in the middler of nowhere (see pic) directed me that way. And there aren't too many options out here.

Turns out they did indeed have good bottles. The big man (who had put away his gun) and I got chatting at the cash and when he found out where I was from, brightened and told me he was from Montana. He then gave me $5 off - a discount for a fellow "northerner". Wild. Until very recently, I couldn't point to Montana on a map and it would take almost as much time for me to drive there fro home as it did to get here.

And then I crossed the highway and visited the very odd Chiracahua Desert Museum. The woman there was from Michigan and we also had a moment of regional-origin bonding. Michigan is much closer to Ottawa than Montana, but I admit I have never before thought of Michiginians as kindred. Maybe it's the Canadian we're-not-American attitude. Or maybe, like those who ask us about polar bears and igloos, I have that annoying perspective that as soon as you cross the border, everyone drawls, doesn't "get" winter, and will step over you for a buck.

This got me thinking about affiliations and borders. Does an Arizonan who sets up a gun shop in Canada give a Chihuahuan customer the "southerner" discount on water bottles?

The border here, though, is an entirely different beast than ours.

Alberta meets Montana:

source: wikipedia

Arizona meets Sonora:

The white trucks on the left (US) are border patrol.

source: wikipedia

Ok, I realize my photo choices are highly manipulative, but the border has an incredible and surreal presence that is hard to describe.

As I recounted in my first post, we became aware of the closeness of Mexico while driving through New Mexico when we were redirected through border patrol. We were waved through without so much as a sideways glance, but we did see a car that was pulled over and being examined by dogs.

And then, as we neared the Station for the first time, we were greeted by this warning:


This was hard to believe. The road really is winding, climbing, and leads to very little other than national parks, camping and the Station. But just about every time I drive to town I see white border patrol trucks with the paddywagons in the back. I first interpreted this as paranoid patrolling, but I have now seen four Mexicans walking the desert roads.

It was my first or second full day here when I saw the first trio - two men and one woman. She was lagging behind the men and they were all deep, deep shades of brown and red. All they had were the clothes on their backs and a jug of water. The strange thing, though, was that they were walking in the general direction of Mexico. I expected to see people trying to get as deep in to the States as possible. It was the same with the fourth guy I saw walking alone south on hwy 80. He also just had a jug of water and that's it. Through he at least was wearing a hat.

Here's another panorama to give you a better idea of the terrain these people are walking through. I'm in the middle of hwy 80 at the intersection with the road to Portal. It's oddly overcast.



People at the Station told me that often people cross over illegally to work for a day or sell drugs or who knows what and then get on the busy roads and start walking, waiting for a border patrol truck to pick them up and drive them home. I never would have guessed. But apparently border patrol usually does little more than drop you off over the border. With the huge volume of people doing this, it may be the only way to manage it. Recently, though, I've heard that the chances are higher that they will keep you a day or two in prison before letting you return.

When Chris and I were in Douglas - a city right on the border - we saw a building surrounded by walls and barbed wire. We stopped at the gas station about 50 feet away from it and looked up to see two men in orange suits on the second floor walkway of what was indeed a prison. Wild. There were surveillance cameras in the fields around the border and apparently last time Chris was here there were motorized platforms with snipers. I guess it would have been interesting to see this, but I'm glad I didn't.

It was a funny feeling when I passed the three people on the road last week. I was alone in the car and really wanted to help them by offering them a ride. But, to be honest, I was scared. I have the impression from movies and stories that those who cross over illegally may be desperate to get away from authorities and at the time I worried that trying to take my car would be too tempting. Though I still don't think I would pick up anybody when driving alone, I definitely have a less paranoid opinion of these desert walkers. Especially as they are likely just trying to get back home. I might stop and give them water as the maintenance guy did for these three before I ran into them.

It's an incredibly odd thing for me, this idea of not being able to go somewhere. I essentially have the freedom and means to leave Canada (as presently demonstrated) and could likely get a work visa without too much trouble. More importantly, I live in a place I don't have to leave.

Well, it's funny, because I "had" to get away, which is what prompted this trip, but my need and the need of people who risk their lives to get away are worlds - or rather countries - apart.

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The meaning of place and belonging is always complicated. I am faced all the time here with the idea that the people who occupy this land have the right to throw out those not born or citizened here. Yet, drive south on highway 80 and you'll come across a small stone tower called "Geronimo Surenders Monument" (aka "Geronimo's finger")
marking the end of the wars with the Native Americans in the 1880s. It's a familiar argument in both Canada and the US, pointing out the double standard of immigrants refusing rights of entry to immigrants, but this monument, which is on the very road I saw an illegal on, really pointed to our skewed sense of property and humanity for me.

"Near here Geronimo, last Apache chieftain and Nachite with their followers surrendered, on Sept. 6th 1886, to General Nelson A. Miles. U.S. Army Lieutenant Chas B. Gatewood with Kieta and Martine Apache Scouts, risked their lives to enter the camp of the hostiles to present terms of surrender offered to them by General Miles.

After two days, Gatewood received the consent of Geronimo and Nachite to surrender.

The surrender of Geronimo in Skeleton Canyon, on that historic day, forever ended Indian warfare in the United States.

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This memorial erected in A.D. 1934 by the City of Douglas with federal C.W.A. funds."