Observations on the Wild Wets
October 3, 2008
First they were known as “wetbacks” or “wets” because of crossing the Rio Grande River into Texas. Then came “migrant worker” followed by “illegal alien” (with elongated green faces and black holes for eyes?), which then got changed to “illegal immigrant” and “undocumented alien.” Whatever name we use, they are all over the country with numbers in the millions and more filtering in every day. My observations on the migrant issue come from living, farming and ranching in Amado, 35 miles north of the US-Mexico border between Nogales and Tucson. In the lifetime I have lived here I have watched the situation change dramatically in the last six years from how it was for many years to what it has become today. In the 1960s and 70s we would hire the migrants to do farm work for a few months. Once they had made some money they would either return to Mexico or move on to greener pastures. In the 1980s and 90s it became unwise to do that, but we were aware of a slow trickle of workers walking north along the railroad tracks and river looking for a better life. Then came the 2000s; Latin America’s baby boom reaching maturity with no jobs in their mother countries and a rich northern neighbor in need of low wage workers. Low wage is better than no wage, so here they all are.
The changes were subtle at first, new migrant trails forming east of the railroad tracks in the desert going past the house and a more visible Border Patrol presence. The trickle became a stream that turned into a flood right around the time the Border Patrol put up a temporary checkpoint on 1-19 three miles south of the ranch. The migrants walk north until they have passed the check-point, then turn west to the freeway under heavy natural cover, call their rides on cell phones, pop out of the underbrush after leaving everything they were carrying behind, hop into the car and they’re gone. There has been a demand for their labor in agriculture, construction, and the service industry; the remittances they send home are a large part of their country’s income. The “false documented” workers with the fake Social Security cards pump billions of dollars into that fund, but will never claim it. Is it any wonder that this problem has not been dealt with politically in this country?
We get hundreds of trespassers every week on this property. Whether they are walking, driving, or riding, they drop trash as they go, cut fences, bust water lines, and scatter cattle. The migrants wear scruffy clothes, the Border Patrol wear green uniforms, but whatever they are wearing they are infringing on our personal space and I’m sick of it!
Here are some typical scenes:
As the moon gets fuller and the nights are brighter, the human smugglers and the solos start their trek north. During the night the dogs bark out into the desert letting us know people are passing. In the morning I walk several hundred yards into the desert and count 8, 10, or 30 sets of fresh footprints.
Someone is on the tractor at l0am and can see a group of 8 migrants walking along the river. They call Border Patrol and describe, again, where we are located, how to get in here and down to the river. The last agents who learned the lay of the land have been reassigned, so a new batch has to learn where to go. By the time they show up the walkers have moved into dense cover in the mesquite trees. They won’t be found.
I’m out on my daily walk enjoying a gorgeous stretch of the Santa Cruz River when the dogs let me know there are people. A migrant peers out from behind a bush. I look at him, he looks at me, I wave, he waves, and then I make a detour and continue on my way while he ducks back into the shadows of the trees. The next day, in the same general area, I’m sitting on a log enjoying the view when a BP agent comes galloping along on his horse. He almost passes me before he sees me. He slows down and comes over. I notice his horse is lame, “Have you seen any people?” he asks. “Not today” is my reply “but maybe you should check where all the garbage is a half mile that way.” He moves off at a fast clip and I regret, for the horse’s sake, not pointing out that it’s lame on the right front. A short while later I watch him gallop back the way he came.
A frustrated young BP agent from Arkansas is huffing back to his vehicle, “They didn’t stop when I yelled STOP. The academy didn’t tell us they wouldn’t stop!
An older migrant resting in the shadows explains that he is headed back to Florida where he has lived for 18 years and where his wife, kids, job, car, and house are. He was caught and deported when he let his driver’s license expire; now he’s headed home. It’s his third try.
It’s Saturday and we’re driving on I-19. A convoy of pick-up trucks that have seen better days is going south, each one piled high with furniture, toys, bikes, appliances, etc. Goods accumulated during the owner’s stint in the US, but now they are headed home. This is a common sight.
It’s the end of the day and we are sitting outside enjoying a beer and the sunset when a large BP truck with a spy tower bolted to the flatbed drives noisily by on the ranch road to the desert. A short while later another BP truck misses the turn off for that road and is coming towards the house; I amble out to greet him. “Your buddy went that way. What’s happening?” I ask. “A large group is going through.” I contemplate following them out to watch the excitement, but the beer and sunset are more entertaining. Fifteen minutes later they leave, empty-handed.
We are jumping on the trampoline at dusk. The unmanned spy tower is visible a mile away, but since so many migrants walk past I assume that its all for show – but maybe we show up as two bouncing blips on the night vision scope and give the boys in green a chuckle.
It’s dark and I step outside to breath in the cool night air. I immediately hear the helicopter a quarter mile away and I see its lights illuminating a hill in the distance. I watch with mild curiosity and wonder if I’m in Fly-speck, AZ or South Central LA. The noise goes on for 20 minutes or so, then the chopper leaves and the dogs let me know people are going past. I can hear the excited voices of the BP agents as they walk the distance back to their vehicle in the moonlight, empty handed. The fresh prints the next day tell me that the group they were after broke into smaller groups and moved deeper into the desert. The smugglers know this land as well as I do and as well as the Indian scouts from a hundred years ago; we all just melt into the landscape if we have to.
Night has arrived and the news is on saying that in the continuing effort to secure the border 200 more agents have been assigned to the Tucson Sector. I roll my eyes as I roll over in bed. During the night the dogs will bark letting us know people are going past.
Our stories could fill volumes, and everyone who lives along the border region has variations, mine are not unique.
My observations would be incomplete if I didn’t mention the trash. I know of four huge campsites on this property alone, hidden in the trees. Each one would fill a dump-truck up with Made in Mexico blankets, Made in Korea shoes, Made in Taiwan jackets, Made in China backpacks, and enough plastic bags and bottles to sink a boat. I’m sure that if all the trash were picked up within a 5-mile radius it would overwhelm the local landfill.
Everything is made of synthetic materials that won’t break down for decades; they will become artifacts in 50 years! The four large sites on the ranch are reaching the critical point smothering the grass that the cattle would eat as the garbage spreads out over an acre. Maybe we could dig 4 large holes with the tractor and hire some of these migrants to toss it all in. They are the only ones who would want the job at the rate I would want to pay. Why is it our responsibility to deal with this volume of trash that’s there because of failed politics?
As the campaign season heats up I would love to hear the candidates talk about this issue, and not just about securing the border–because that’s a pipe dream. The solid fence being erected along the border is cutting off wildlife corridors; although blowtorches are already cutting holes in it (where there is a will there is a way). The multi-million dollar permanent checkpoint that is back on the table for the Amado area would be a huge, expensive, inefficient (they walk around it for Pete’s sake) eyesore that wouldn’t change anything from my perspective. Throwing more money and gadgets at the Dept. of Homeland Security is not the answer. Let’s do like the Italians have done and give all the migrants with a job and a place to stay a green card. It would be business as usual and the workers wouldn’t be afraid of getting deported when they got their card. Then we can sort out who’s whom and the migrants can come out of the shadows and have a voice. Another good idea I heard a few years ago was for the migrant to open a bank account at the border on their way into this country with the money that would have gone to the smuggler, then have a portion of their pay deposited into it. When it was time to return home they would have a nice sum in their account as incentive to leave. Mine is only a small voice in the wind, but it is part of a loud chorus in the border region. I hope we make enough noise to be heard and some creative politics comes into play to end this insanity.
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