going

Here in the area of Rodeo, New Mexico, the population per mile is low. We've been in most of the community gathering spots: the grocery and cafe, the tavern, a quilt shop, Animas cafe and Animas grocery and gas, the realtors, a cafe/grocery in Portal, a desert museum and a gallery. Granted, we only see local people at these businesses, as well as some tourists. But the people we've seen in greatest numbers are the Border Patrol.

For a while now as we travel, we've encountered discussion about Mexico and drug cartel violence on the US side of the border. Down here so close to the border, things have intensified. People have been saying "don't go to Mexico." Or "I wouldn't go to Mexico." There are hearsay stories about a US law enforcement officer who was killed capturing a cartel member (or members), whose wife and child(ren?) were then killed. In Elephant Butte, the story was that people would routinely go to Portal, Mexico for prescription drugs and dental work. There were two dentists there. Now there is one—the other was kidnapped and is missing—or dead.

Rusty says that her dad, who lives here part-time, goes to Mexico to get their medications. He leaves early in the morning, gets what he needs and returns. She also said that people who are so worried about illegals seem to think only about Mexicans, ignoring the fact that all countries are represented in that population. Illegals.

In the gallery, I overheard a conversation between two local women. One was saying that now they lock their door. "At least we can hear if someone is trying to get in. That leaves one of us time to get the gun and the other can get to the bedroom." Clearly, this kind of tension is something relatively new here.

Rodeo & Portal are close to the border. Fifty-nine miles away, Douglas, Arizona shares the border with Agua Prieta, Mexico. When we drove through the green sanctuary of the Coronado National Forest nearby, there was a subtle sign there that warns of possible illegals and smugglers. No one seems to be talking much about illegals. Or afraid of them, anyway. It is the violence of the cartel.

So it seems natural that we would encounter Border Patrol activity. Driving the six miles on I-80 to Rodeo, just beyond the intersection of 9 with I-80, we saw the vehicle (pictured above) parked at the side of the road. We speculated that, elevated above the vehicle, were powerful cameras. We wondered if anyone was inside the truck, or if the operations were remotely controlled. At one point Andre saw someone emerge from the vehicle—but the question remains unanswered as to whether someone is always on duty there.

For several days, roadblocks have been routine. We see stop signs leading to the intersection, a cluster of Border Patrol vehicles, and the uniformed police motioning us to stop. We lower the window. Always smiling and friendly, one of the young men asks where we are heading. Where did we come from? What is our citizenship? Once as we drove away, I saw the smile disappear as the officer swiveled to stare intently at our license plate. When we return, the process is repeated.

(Who wouldn't have some curiosity about a Rav whose headlights sport eyelashes, driven by a white-haired, bearded man wearing a bandanna? Or a floppy leather hat? Or a straw stetson-mimicking hat?)

Finally, I asked some questions. I wanted to know if they specifically signed up to be Border Patrol. Yes. Since 9-11, they fall under the jurisdiction of Homeland Security. How about the road blocks, I wondered, not expecting that they would reveal the specifics behind the ones we were experiencing. They said that some of them were for specific searches, some were for training, some to have a presence. They said that they often travel on horseback or atv off the highway.

Returning from Douglas on Sunday afternoon, we saw, over just a few miles, 12 Border Patrol vehicles coming toward us. When we've lunched at the Rodeo Cafe, we find them there too. Once two horses waited in the horse trailer in the parking lot. The white vehicles with a bar of lights across the top and green Border Patrol lettering and trim are everywhere.

I didn't ask about the cameras. Or the truck and what it does. So I'm still curious. I did mention the sign in the Coronado State Park. The officer said that we wouldn't see anyone there. That they don't want to be seen. They might take your food, he said. That's all. I remembered the park, the wonder of many trees and shade, the streams amazingly full of water, the trails—and my nervousness. I, like many others, have mixed feelings about people entering our country illegally. What worries me here is the escalating violence. The mythical psychotic cruelty of the cartels.

But about that, I said nothing. We made some comment, a reference, an aside, about keeping violence out of the country. The officers agreed. I find myself imagining the dangers of their job. As natural to imagine that as any possible violence on their part, or abuse of power. They represent the great power of a country whose population is in disagreement about its borders, and how they should be handled. For whatever individual reasons, they accept responsibility. They use restraint. They act.

In a car, riding, looking out at the desert and rugged mountains, I think about people who are struggling to enter this country on foot. How difficult to traverse these mountains, this desert. How awful to set out, push forward, continue, suffer—then be caught and sent back.

So here, in the surreal peace of the desert, we live these days, waiting for the phantom leveler control panel. Here, as in other places, we only see what we can at the moment. And at this moment, the sun is shining. The wind has ceased for now. The mountains hold their mysteries. I know we're barely scratching the surface here.