TALES OF THE SOUTHWEST: BORDER TOWNS

Actual factual photo of the old border crossing at Naco, Sonora/Arizona...

by Grant McGee

            There was a cop in the bank the other day.  He was in full uniform sitting in the lobby.  I wondered if he was there on business or if he was there as a deterrent to anyone who had thoughts of doing bank mischief.

            Seeing him sitting there I flashed back to my days of living along the Mexican border and walking over into the Sonoran town of Naco.  For a while there was a machine gun nest outside the front door of the local bank there.  It seems there’d been a rash of bold bank robberies in northern Mexico and the Mexican military set up shop by putting up a semi-circle of sandbags and planting a big-assed machine gun on a tripod in the center of it manned by three soldiers.

            I thought about telling this to the cop, you know, starting it off by saying, “You should see how they guard the banks in Mexico…” but then I thought better of it.  I thought he might think I was up to some kind of mischief.

            So as I was leaving I said, “Thank you for your service.”

            That’s one of the things I miss about living in Florida:  Mexican border towns.

            Now I know there’s all kinds of talk about our relationship with our neighbor to the south:  politics, immigration, stuff like that.  Some folks won’t even consider a trip over the border.  I’m here to tell you, though, I never had a problem in Mexico.  The only folks who ever cast a weird eye on me during my trips were the U. S. Customs folks when I was coming back into my own country.  They always wanted to know what I was up to in Mexico and what, if anything, I was bringing back.  When I’d come back with nothing, they really got suspicious.

            Each Mexican border town I’ve been in has its own character.  The bigger ones like Nuevo Laredo, Cuidad Juarez and Nogales are pretty much alike.  They’re like any large city north of the border.  In those big Mexican cities I found it was best to act as you would walking in New York, Chicago or L.A.:  don’t flash your cash, put your wallet in your front pocket and be aware of what’s going on around you.

            New Mexico’s only neighboring border town is Las Palomas, Chihuahua, just south of the town of Columbus.  Columbus is the site of one of those rare things in American history:  an attack by foreign troops.  In a pre-dawn sneak attack the morning of March 9, 1916 close to 500 troops under Pancho Villa attacked the town.  Villa’s scouts underestimated the strength of the U. S. Army garrison in Columbus and retreated to Mexico after a couple of hours. 

Previous visits to Mexico were done by parking and walking over.  My visit to Las Palomas was the first time I’d driven over.  I had heard all kinds of tales of thefts on the Mexican side and cars being dismantled by the authorities on the U. S. side coming back.

            What I remember about Las Palomas was it seemed to be a haven for thirtysomething women from El Paso to come and party.  It was the only way I could explain well-dressed, southern-accented obviously intoxicated women all over the place.  Maybe they were having a convention that day, I don’t know.

            I felt bad for the folks of Las Palomas, there were no paved streets.  It was dry summertime and dust was everywhere. 

            I heard conjunto music coming from a cantina so I went in.  There was a guy playing an accordion and another playing guitar.  They were both singing.  It was a good moment in time.

            Then it was time to head back in to the U. S.

            The Border Patrol dude waved us through.

            I looked at my traveling companion.

            “You had me convinced there’d be a hassle coming back.”

            “They’re not going to bother with some big goofy guy who wears rainbow suspenders in a hand-painted F-150,” she said.  “That time they dismantled my Mustang I was traveling with my ex-husband who decided to mouth-off to the Customs guy.”

            I’ve been to Ojinaga, Chihuahua, across the Rio Grande from Presidio, Texas.  It was a non-descript town in a sun blasted landscape.

            I’ve shopped in Agua Prieta, Sonora.  I can remember going into their equivalent of a mall.  They had had a fire and all the merchants were having smoke damage sales.  The damage was so severe to the building I imagined fire officials north of the border would have a fit to see shoppers milling about in the mess.   I figured if you’ve got stuff to sell why not?

            My favorite border town is Naco, Sonora.  Things I remember about that town include the supermercado with its produce from the interior, including unroasted coffee beans, the paved main boulevard of the town (the folks of Las Palomas might be envious), the soldiers guarding the bank, the relaxing town square (I think most Mexican towns have a good central square), fully dressed soldiers walking the sidewalks with their rifles shouldered, Lupita the liquor store pet javelina who came when called and the friends I made.

            I liked to go to fiestas in Naco.  One time, sitting at a table with friends the mariachis came by.  I was hoping they’d sing “Cielito Lindo” but I knew they’d want to sing for a fee so I asked how much.

            Now my Spanish has always been a little rough so the proper phrase “cuanto cuesta” came out as “canto queso.”

            The lead mariachi gave me a quizzical look.

            “Canto queso?” he asked.

            The only other guy who knew some Spanish down at the other end of the table started laughing.

            “Dude,” he said, “you just asked him to ‘sing cheese.’”

            We got it straightened out and the mariachis gave us a rousing rendition of “Cielito Lindo.”

            As I mentioned, the more serious folks I ran into during my international forays were the U. S. Customs agents.  While waiting my turn for my car to be screened coming back into the U. S. I noticed the lovely ceramic mosaics that lined the drive to the checkpoint.  I started taking pictures of the art.

            “Sir!  Sir!”  I heard a man shout and I looked up.  Two customs guys were headed my way.  “What are you doing with your camera?”

            “I’m taking pictures of your art.”

            They had arrived at my car.  Hearing my explanation they looked at each other.

“Okay, but no pictures of personnel.”

            Another time I was walking back into the U. S.  I was asked to empty my pockets and patted down.  By the time I got home I was kind of perturbed by the search, they’d never done that before, so I called the Customs office to ask why they search some folks and not others.

            “SIR,” barked the little lady Customs agent on the line, “AT THE UNITED STATES BORDER WE HAVE THE AUTHORITY TO STRIP SEARCH YOU IF WE CHOOSE.”

            “Oh, I see,” I said, “thank you.”

            “Have a nice day, sir.”

            One day I’ll go back to Mexico.  I want to go deep in the interior to places like Barranca del Cobre in Chihuahua, Aguascalientes or Oaxaca.  It’s radically different from the border towns.

            I remember what my friend, Bisbee Nadine…the poet, said about the Mexican interior:  “deep in Mexico you experience the absence of the terror of time.”

            In the meantime, I’ll be a gringo daydreaming of Mexico.

                                                            -30-