THE BORDER REPORT

HERMOSILLO, SONORA – There are times I dread walking into places in Mexico. Not so much the seedy bars up in the Sonoran hills or even the tourist spots. There isn’t one particular kind of place; just a feeling that he was looking for me, watching me walk in through the door, measuring me and everything that I am with a single glance. I wish I could say I dread him because he’s a stone cold sicario and I have a $50,000 contract on my head. But I’d be lying. Nope, he isn’t a killer, isn’t even a criminal. He is: a man with an opinion about the U.S. and I? I am a gringo. I can see it in his eyes when I approach, be it a counter or a barstool or where ever it is I’m headed. I don’t know what he notices first, my accent probably since the Sonoran Desert sun’s done wonders for my skin color. His eyes will light up when I speak, then they narrow slightly, and whatever I say is passed off as white noise. And I do mean white noise. It happened again in Hermosillo a few days ago. One of those juice bars that make the papaya blends. “You come from the U.S.?” said the man behind the counter. An old man in a cowboy hat and button-down shirt stirred off to the side of us, perking up his ears behind his newspaper. “Yes, Tucsón,” I said, hoping that he has family in Tucson and would just give me my drink. “Hm. We’re hoping things get a little better for us Mexicans now that the Morro is president,” he said. “Do you have papaya?” I asked, sweating. “You know, the other president, ese Bush, he didn’t do anything to help stop Mexicans from dying in the desert.” And here. We. Go. “With milk please, low fat if you have it.” The old man stirred again, folding his copy of Expresso and setting it next to him. “Do you know how many Mexicans died going to war for the gringos? They were giving them visas to go fight, you know.” Counterman: “Why don’t they offer some type of support, a treaty, to help people cross legally?!” Old man, not even speaking to me at this point, just all gringos in general: “What the gringo doesn’t understand is that we’re all immigrants. They don’t have a right to put up these walls and shoot Mexicans who’re just trying to get across and do these jobs. Anyway the gringos won’t do the work.” Counterman: “The American won’t do the work because he has us Mexicans to do it for him.” And on and on. Oh I get pretty much the same reaction on the U.S. side. I stopped at a garage sale in Tucson because a bookshelf caught my eye, few weeks ago. The next moment, the shelf's owner is railing on me about the damned lawbreakers aiding and abetting people coming across the border. Paused for gas outside L.A. while I was driving home for Christmas. The Arizona license plate catches someone's eye and pretty soon I'm hearing about the vigilantes skewering people on pikes. I visit gunstores in Arizona that I’m not recognized in. They particularly amuse me since every Sinaloan hitman with a visa, real or otherwise, pay these places a visit for their guns and ammo. I know of at least three gunstore owners in Phoenix, Tucson and Douglas, Ariz., who paste bumperstickers supporting the U.S. Border Patrol on the counters and behind, up on the wall. Get them talking about illegal immigration, helps to have some time on your hands, and you start hearing about the time some smugglers cut a horse’s head off to keep it from making noise while they were hiding a load of people in the barn. I’ve heard that story from San Diego to Marfa, Texas, but I’ve never seen the horse. But these legal Mexicans, I’m told, they’re decent folk. Never mind that they just bought up enough ammunition to supply the armies of most small countries. Old man again: “Pobrecitos,” he says, thinking on the dead migrants. The counterman turned, so quick I didn’t even catch where the twist in direction came from. “The problem is there’s just too many people here,” he said, gazing out into the busy plaza. “Too many people everywhere.” A young, beautiful mother, the kind with long dark hair and black eyes the size of saucers walked by, carrying a toddler cradled on the slender curve of her hip. The conversation stalled as she passed by, oblivious, probably used to it. “But it can’t be helped,” the old man said. “It’s just how we were meant to be.”