[opening of part three] dangerous to your health

[#] “Stay out of the water.”

Cyclist for Social Change, Retrospect.  Phoenix, Arizona, 3 July 2010.

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. 

My girlfriend and I pull off Arivaca 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 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,” she says.  “They can drive real dangerous out here.”

The customs agent in Brownsville asks me what I’m doing so far from home.  She gives me the once-over, the twice-over.  Three times.  I lean my bicycle against the wall.  She asks what I was doing in Mexico.  How long I was there. With whom I was there.  Where I’m from, where I was born, if I speak Spanish, if I speak Spanish well, where I learned to speak Spanish, what college I attended, what my college’s mascot is…

I’m crossing back from Matamoros into the United States by car with three others.  The driver and shotgun passenger are dark-haired, dark-eyed Latinas, while the passengers in the rear, myself and another Latina, are lighter skinned.  The customs agents ask for our identification.  He doesn’t say a word to the two in front.

It’s late at night when I’m crossing back into Douglas, ready for sleep.  I’ve been giving out socks to migrants in Agua Prieta.  Lots of migrants.  Lots of socks. 

The customs official knows our group from our many trips back and forth. 

“So you’re helping the Mexicans?” he asks.

“Yep.”

“And I bet you think that you’re doing some good, aren’t you?”

I had cleaned out blisters on the migrants’ feet.  “Yep.”

“You know,” he says, “Americans need help too.  Maybe you should spend more time on this side of the line.” 

“Thanks,” I say.  “There’s a lot of work to do on both sides.”

Sometimes I think about buying an empanada cart.  I think I’d wheel it everywhere.  Barefoot, in the sand, right into the ocean.