Crossing with the Virgin: Stories from the Migrant Trail

Story Thirty-six

L uis was one of the commuters, a man who would have preferred to stay in his home country and work if he could have found employment, if he could have earned enough to support his family . In Guatemala, Luis made $2.50 a day. To do so, he traveled from his home to coffee plantations three days away. We first saw Luis when we were on a Samaritan patrol in the remote Ironwood Forest National Monument northwest of Tucson. Ironwood is the northernmost route of our usual patrols, a desolate area. If someone were in trouble there, it is unlikely a casual passerby would find them in time to render aid. The forest is contiguous to the boundary of the land belonging to the Tohono O’odham Nation. Migrants crossing this land frequently wait for and meet their pickup ride at one of the rutted back roads of Ironwood Forest. There are campsites where migrants wait, and we find their discarded clothes, backpacks, and personal items. Several Humane Borders water stations are in the area. But it is a vast and empty area, and the roads require high-clearance vehicles, and some demand four-wheel drive. That day on patrol we drove parallel to Indian land on a bumpy dirt road. We then continued on pavement till reaching the turn from Avra Valley Road onto Silverbell Road. We had seen no migrants and little evidence of their travels, only an occasional water jug or discarded backpack. We drove toward an old mine. Just before reaching the tailings , the road forked leading to the hamlet of Red Rock. Several years ago, five migrants were shot and killed while getting water from a cattle tank nearby. At the time, the shooting was attributed to drugs or violence between rival migrant smugglers, but the crime was never solved. Only four weeks ago a group of thirty or more of us stood between Story Thirty-six 188 stories from the migrant trail two ancient ironwood trees at a memorial service for three migrants shot and killed while crossing through Ironwood Forest. As the small group of humanitarians and representatives of the Guatemalan consulate gathered, someone stepped up and planted a small wooden cross next to a patch of brown sand where a puddle of blood had stained the desert floor. One by one, others stepped forward and placed rosaries, flowers, and a bouquet of branches from desert plants. Helen, one of the Samaritans, moved to protect the bloody scar on the desert floor, as she placed rocks outlining the umber stain. Others followed, and a small accumulation of inanimate desert witnesses surrounded the shrine, guarding the site of death and dashed hopes. That day at the memorial service there was a feeling that it had been desecrated, those 129,000 acres of protected flora and environs. The day that we encountered Luis, there was not that feeling of stigma. The sun was bright, the day hot, and far ahead on the road we could see a bright yellow figure. As we got closer, that yellow blur took the shape of a person, a short person. Luis was standing on the shoulder of the road, several feet off the pavement, holding a bottle of water in one hand and a food bag in the other, the yellow soccer shirt hanging almost to his knees. A big grin on his face, white teeth framing a gap where two teeth were missing, and flashing black eyes disguised the pain of his severely blistered feet. It had been raining for several days, and his socks and shoes were soggy. The soles of his feet were covered with large puffy blisters roofed over by wrinkled white skin and oozing clear fluid. He had not been able to keep up with his group and was sitting beside the Humane Borders water station, hoping that eventually he could get help from someone. Luis wanted to go back home and had asked some Humane Borders volunteers to call the Border Patrol. The volunteers gave him a migrant food pack: a plastic bag filled with granola bars, peanuts, and a can of tuna. They refilled his water bottle and promised to call the Border Patrol. When I saw him I wondered where the yellow soccer shirt came from. He surely did not travel all the way from the border wearing that. Maybe he scavenged it from one of the rest areas where migrants sleep. It probably had been left behind when a...