The border between the United States and Mexico is 1951 miles long. At the western end, fifteen-foot-tall steel beams wade out into the waters of the Pacific. Seagulls perch upon their crowns, rolling tides eat at their sides, and children slip back and forth between them. For two dollars, ice cream and elote vendors extend their hands through, with a smirk. The beams are in on the joke.
In the distance, dolphins swim across the border into Mexico, illegally. To the south, families whack at beach balls. And to the north, a sign reads “Stay out of the water: Dangerous to your health”.
A Border Patrol agent tells me to stay away from the wall. “They might throw rocks at you,” he says. I lick at my popsicle. Rice flavored.
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My girlfriend and I pull off the road and search for a lay-up site, where migrants molt before moving on to cooler climates. A Border Patrol agent pulls up behind us and asks what we’re doing. We present sandwiches. “Having lunch,” I say. He doesn’t need to know any more than that.
“Well, be careful,” he implores. “There are a lot of dangerous people out here.”
Minutes later I am driving up and down the Arivaca highway, disoriented. I pull into a local restaurant to ask for directions, and a woman in her mid-forties approaches. Her shorts are too short. She tells me that I need to turn around.
“And watch out for the Border Patrol agents,” she says. “They can drive real dangerous out here.”
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Sometimes I think about buying an empanada cart. I think I’d wheel it everywhere.
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