Crossing with the Virgin: Stories from the Migrant Trail

Story Fifteen

Story Fifteen I t is early June, and we have been blessed by rain in the desert. We had received only half an inch until yesterday, when the clouds marched strong and fast into the Tucson basin and left one third of an inch of rain, almost equaling the total for the year so far. Of course, it was only recorded out at the airport, this third of an inch of rain. Downtown received a smattering, just enough to dirty up a freshly washed car. But such is the way of summer rain in this part of the world. You get what you get and you don’t complain, since water from the clouds is manna from heaven. We are leaving this afternoon for Mexico, and the big white puffy clouds with blue-black bottoms are gathering. Our destination is a border town of fewer than a thousand people, not counting the migrants. There we will go to a brickyard called Ladrillal, the final staging area for migrants and narcotraficantes. Here the migrants will wait for their guides or runners to lead them over the border. The brickyard is five miles south of the border and is so far removed from the central governments of Washington and Mexico City that it might as well be on Mars. Burnt adobe bricks were made here from the red loamy clay and fired in big ovens. This is one of the reasons the town of Sasabe exists and the port of entry maintained, so these bricks could be transported easily north in great quantities to build homes. The brickyard is no longer in operation, or so I’ve been told, but many homes in Tucson and Phoenix were built with the bricks that came from this place, each one stamped with “Mexico” on the wide side. This port of entry in reality encompasses a fifty-mile east-to-west border of desert between the two countries, with Sasabe at its center. Goods flow north mostly in the form of humans and illegal drugs, and in return stolen cars, guns, and U.S. dollars head south. Although the 82 stories from the migrant trail port is officially open only between the hours of 8:00 a.m. and 8:00 p.m., most of the goods are moved during the hours it is closed, along the myriad trails and nameless jeep tracks that cross the line between the two countries. The town itself is isolated from the interior of Mexico by the fact that there are only two roads leading to it. One is a very poorly maintained dirt road called “la brecha” that meanders ninety-one kilometers south to the town of Altar. On the other side of the border a two-lane highway heads north, and in an hour you can be in Tucson. It has been reported that more than 1,500 migrants a day arrive at the brickyard awaiting the cover of darkness to move north. Our mission today is to provide these migrants with food, water, hats, socks, and shoes. As we approach the border the U.S. customs facility has the appearance of a Swiss chalet. As you get closer, it retains this profile, but you can see the structure is just a series of blue peaked roofs used to create shade for the inspection bays, a booth, and a brick building that houses what I’m not sure. The gate that separates the two countries is just a cattle guard wide enough for two small cars and a simple swinging gate. A four-strand barbed-wire fence heads off to the east and west. This is the legal port of entry. We cross over and stop at Mexican customs, and a man comes out and checks our truck. He wants to know where we are going with all the supplies. My partner says we are taking all the water to Grupo Beta. He asks about the shoes and socks and my partner says they will be given to them as well. He waves us through, and we head down the dirt road into town. We pass the building where Grupo Beta has its offices and continue on. We are not on an official visit and do not want the protection of this Mexican government agency, set up ostensibly to help the migrants. Its mission is murky, and its trucks are all brand new and have colorful yellow paint jobs. We see some federales in camouflage walking into...