Mexico - Altar March 31. 2007

This has been an amazing day. A life-changing day. Well perhaps they are all life-changing as we travel through our daily lives. At midday today we embarked on what I believe to be the most memorable and eye opening journey of my career life. It was also to be the same for the local Mexican translator who accompanied us, as well as my camera operator. We arrived in Altar around 1.30pm in the afternoon to the shocking reality of the migration problem here in North America. On approaching the town we came across two white buses. These brought migrants from the south to this town, infamous as a stepping point to the border of the United States. It was sad and also dangerous. Hundreds of people, men, women and children roamed the streets searching for the means by which they could take the next part of their journey to the so-called land of dreams. These people were ordinary like you and me and held permanent fear in their faces that drilled through you like ice picks. They appeared to have no hatred and offered no aggression in any way. There desperation was overbearing. Men mostly, but women and small children as young as three were very apparent, the latter walking hopelessly with their parents. It was a dusty, filthy town with side streets and squares littered with stalls and small un-kept shops selling groceries and momentous for their trip. This town seemed to act as a place of excitement in their ongoing journey from wherever they have come from. They seemed to walk around as if gripped by some Disney type excitement, where something would change for the better to correct their seemingly desperate lives. I felt like telling them the truth. This border is dangerous. The natural elements are dangerous. The people are dangerous. It would not act in any way to change their minds. I could ball and shout all day but it would be fruitless. I knew that so well. It made me feel useless. As the Father and missionary later said, it made you feel impotent. An awful word for a simply terrible situation. We drove down the main street, the car standing out among all the dusty vehicles. We were aware of a danger that surrounded us. A shop owner granted us an interview. A nice gentle, ordinary man who once himself had attempted the crossing. It failed for him and he returned to life in Altar. He talked with such sadness in his face about the stories of death and disturbance to the thousands of people who came to this place.

His friend took us to a missionary building in a dusty back street; here we met a man in his thirties. A missionary who spent his life trying to advise and shelter some of the 3,200 people who traveled through here every day on their way to the promised land. He was wonderful but exhausted. Exhausted even for his youth, which was now eroded by the sadness of those who were to find a fateful end to their inspired journey. A journey inspired by those who took their money in return for a safe passage. The reality. The reality is awful. Most succumb to heat exhaustion. They leave the town with one gallon of water to support a journey that could take them days until they are finally caught by US border patrol agents. Others will be abandoned by their minders better known as Coyotes somewhere on or near the border. They too will be caught after submission to the most horrendous conditions. Women are regularly raped while children die of pure exhaustion.

"And we sit in our ivory towers"

Can you feel my anger? I feel it mostly because of their desperation in having to leave their own communities but more for the stupidity all of us display in allowing this human failure to occur. History teaches us nothing. Here it repeats itself day in day out.

"and we stand by looking on as if nothing can be done"

After walking around the town square we finally decide that none of these poor people are going to talk in fear of their lives. The Father at the church agrees to talk to us. He has talked to the BBC many times apparently. He is simply wonderful. He displays a passion that drives home with every sentence. His mission is straightforward. He tries to inform these people of their futile position but will never condemn them. They have a right to find their dream even if it is only a false one. His passion engulfs me. After twenty minutes of conversation he asks me a question staring directly into my eyes. I feel anxious. "What is your vision of a guesthouse", he asks. I know the guesthouse from memories in many English Seaside towns. A pretty Victorian building facing the sea with flower boxes adorning it’s window sills and silky net curtains hanging in the windows. Inside, a gracious quiet interior would always welcome you to the serenity of an English house that beckons you to sit down and take the weight off you feet while staring out of a bay window towards the sea. He listened intently and told me that he would take me to a Coyote safe house, apparently sold to them (the migrants) as a guesthouse. His face became rigid as he told me of this place. He was suddenly possessed by an anger that took all his effort to control. However, the definition of a guesthouse would take on a different meaning. He was nervous and so were we. He said no cameras and stay close. We obeyed and were not in any way able to negotiate. After walking the side streets for ten minutes he suddenly dived into an entrance to a house. We followed anxiously. Filth overcame our minds. Dirty floors and grease stained cookers came into view. In every corner of the dark solemn building was crammed a steel bunk. Each bunk had a piece of dirty carpet acting as its mattress. People lay in the beds, looking hopeless and scared. Their eyes were empty. I offered a smile as we continued to walk through a labyrinth of hallways and open courtyards. We came across open courtyards that clearly symbolized the centre of this house. People, mostly men walked, no paced backwards and forwards around the courtyard while others did the same on verandas above us. We were appalled. I felt like crying. I could not. We were stared at by prying but scared eyes. People of all ages crammed into this filthy place. All of them waiting for a coyote to take them to the border. One man began to talk and the Father said for the first time in his life he would allow a camera to come out of its case. He told me to be quick in case "bad" people returned. We were terrified but I did not hesitate. I interviewed a man around my age. He had traveled from South Mexico and had left his six small children and wife behind. I thought of my love back home. Lillie would be so proud of my efforts. Angry but extremely proud. The sadness in his eyes was overwhelming. I felt for him. He was a nice gentle man who seeked work simply to help his family. I was overcome with his humanity. The Father was very nervous. If a coyote came here now we would be in danger. We completed our mission and left. We left with absolute desperation in our hearts. The squalor and conditions these people were engulfed in was something none of us would ever forget for the rest of our lives. My translator Dianne lived in Magdalena, only 50 miles away. She was very shocked and did not speak for some five minutes. After a while she returned to me but visibly moved, as was I.

We walked back to the main square where people huddled in groups waiting for their journey. I felt like shouting as to the futility of their journey. It would do no good. They were traveling to the promised land. I could only feel their disappointment and pain when border patrol officials would ultimately return them in cages. How could this all happen? It does and we should, as a global community be ashamed. The people themselves follow false dreams and have no way of knowing. Governments turn a blind eye and it is those I have seen today that suffer. They suffer terribly. We all suffer.

Driving away from the town, I feel such huge pain. I feel so guilty. I feel so humble. I will never ever witness that again. I will not allow myself to do so ever again. Once is too much. 14 Days is a wonderful odyssey but I know I will never as in earlier journeys ever see these people again. These people today may not even survive the desert and certainly be targets for those who will threaten them at every stage of their trek across to the promised territory. I am suddenly overcome and feel tears in my eyes. The crew is extremely quiet. They have said nothing since we left. I think of my love and my world back in Phoenix and the return to normality and safety she will offer me. When I can wrap my arms around her and tell her that I love her all these experiences today will again become but a memory. If only I could tell them what I have. Love. Affection. Safety. That would be fundamentally unfair.

These men have women and wives who love and adore them. These women have men and husbands who do the same. I can touch my Lillie at home and tell her that I love her everyday. They may be without their loved ones for months and in many cases never again. There children left behind will have only a distant memory or a father and/or mother who tried unsuccessfully to reach for a better life. In most cases they will have to be told a different story. It will be one of false desperate heroism in the face of adversity where their parents tried but failed to find a better life. We can only hope that by the time they grow older their life and there generation will not necessitate the drastic steps of those that came before them.

David William Gibbons

Altar, Sonora, Mexico - March 31, 2007

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