The militarization of the border town of Nogales is more than evident. It’s felt on both sides. Before crossing, we drove a length of the green metal wall, too tall and slick for anyone to climb over, except maybe with a ladder. Dan tells us much of the wall is made of scrap metal brought back from Vietnam. There are the ubiquitous white SUVs with green lettering “Border Patrol” on both sides. Some of them have armored windows, because people sometimes clandestinely throw rocks at them. People here refer to a Border Patrol agent as “la perrera,” the dogcatcher. 
At the top of a hill, there’s a gorgeous panoramic view of both sides of the wall. They look pretty much the same. Ramshackle buildings and houses with bleached out paint jobs are perched in the hills like some Mediterranean village I’ve seen in a photo. There’s a main drag of commercial spots visible on the Mexico side, each one indicated by a pop of colorful paint. Behind where we stood, there was a tall tower with security cameras, indicating the “virtual wall.”
Prescott grew up on this side of the border, and when he was growing up there was only a metal fence, with many holes. He remembers people coming through the holes, “Mostly old women, coming to shop.”
Crossing into Mexico was no problem. They didn’t even need to see our passports. We drove up to the other side of the wall, where some Mexican artists have made an installation of metal icons. Many of them picture folk saints like Jesus Malverde, Santoribio Romo, and Juan Soldado, the folk heroes of drug trafficking, according to our friends. Other pieces depict dollar signs, a skeleton drinking water underneath a cactus, people carrying a body bag, “las perreras” chasing migrants, a cartoonish coyote. These paint a haunting picture — while many people succeed in crossing, Mexicans are clearly aware of the dangers. The dollar signs indicate the awareness of America’s gains through this whole situation.
Afterwards, we drove out from the city to a spot dedicated to the mother of all the drug saints, Santa Muerte. The mention of her name, heavy with reverence, sends chills down your spine. Prescott explains that when a drug dealer does something awful, like committing a murder, he must repent to Santa Muerte.
Along the side of the road there are at least ten little chapels built, seemingly not at the same time or by the same person, each one harboring a statue of Santa Muerte, a figure swaddled in robes like your typical saint, only the face is that of a skeleton. Some are all black, one has a cigarette hanging out of its mouth, and another has been dressed in a cheap white bridal gown—two children are playing at its feet, lighting candles. Their parents are nearby, frying fish in a portable fryer as an offering to Santa Muerte. The man tells Prescott that he’s dedicated his life to this saint, but he doesn’t say why.
Down the road, the shrines get smaller, and more homemade looking. Dan warns us not to go too far down, as there’s a group of men wearing cowboy gear, “drinking pretty hard.” This is, we’re told, a typical Sunday in Nogales.
I have been to many countries where there seems to be a baseline of poverty. Everyone has this in common and people are not ashamed to beg. In Vietnam, it was the worst I have seen—children under five running up to you, clamoring for your attention, selling you trinkets, gum, cigarettes, beer, coconuts with straws, etc. “Lady! Lady! I give you good price.” When you buy something, because you cannot resist those eyes or because you’re thirsty, you’re immediately swarmed by more adorable but thin children.
In China, it is mostly adults, they are a bit more demure and they sit in stalls waiting for you to come to them. However, once you show an interest they will immediately beg and haggle you to buy something, speaking very little English but knowing the key sales words.
In Nogales, we passed by an alleyway where some women were selling a variety of cheap goods. I stopped and looked, but I didn’t like any of the jewelry. The women had pleading eyes, and they spoke the familiar phrases, “What price you want to pay?” or “Which one you like?” I chose a leather keychain which had a small painting of Juan Soldado, one of the drug folk saints. I paid three dollars and I didn’t try to haggle. Rocky bought a little accordion for $20.
I peered into another shop selling colorful Mexican pottery. The men in the store came out and told me the bowls I was eyeing were $7 each. No way, I said. I didn’t really need them. But as I should have expected, one of the salesmen pursed me, following me all the way down the street until we came to a bar that our friends were in, telling me I could have 6 bowls for $25. It was quite the bargain, I guess, but I refused. Even though I’ve seen it so many times, this desperation as a sales technique is always unsettling. Perhaps because it’s so real. When I cave in and buy something, it’s usually because I don’t want to not buy something, after the person has tried so hard. But this makes me feel even worse, like an entitled American gallantly bestowing my generosity on the natives…
Most of the countries where you see this kind of broken economy are recovering from a recent war or political unrest. And in many ways, the border areas of Mexico are like a war zone. Most obvious is the military presence. Also, many people are profiteering—and not only the coyotes, who smuggle people across the desert. But people cater to the migrants, selling them black backpacks, water jugs and clothing for the journey. Everything must be black because they travel at night.
There are humanitarian efforts typical of a war torn area. Grupo Beta, a service run by the Mexican government, will sell returning migrants half-price bus tickets to return to their home in the South, or refer them to a shelter to stay the night. There are medical aid stations and a soup kitchen run by a group of Jesuits. You get the sense that the migrants themselves are just floating on a conveyor belt, waiting to be told by a coyote or a human aid volunteer what their next move should be. After all, they are strangers here.
