Migra

I shook hands hello today with a man I met 15 years ago, or more. It brought back a rush of memories, as I was not expecting this encounter with him. And how far different it was than the time before. Just a polite hello and glad to hear life is going well for you while exchanging a few more pleasantries in the grocery store down town here in my part of Mexico.

The first time we met was at my home, the middle of the day with his gang of machine gun toting back ups from the Mexican Immigration Office. He was the important man there at that time. Suddenly they were surrounding my house, so nothing to do but stay and see what they wanted. My husband had been reported for working and he had no papers for it, being a "wetback" from the other side. We had been working for years, but had stepped on a rich mans ego and this was the weak spot where he could gain some of it back. A little bribe and his friend migra man was glad to take care of it, since we were breaking the law anyway. That’s the custom and in many ways not a bad one, if its not you getting the bad end of it.

Migra gave us two hours to get our business straight and then to report to his office where he was talking deportation. Instead of just loading us up right then and gone for good. But I love Mexico to much to get kicked out, so my husband and I went into hiding for eight months. Its good on the soul to get rousted from the everyday and thrown into what makes you wonder and look close. Provided you make it back around again and life goes on as you always intended it to.

The first week was the hardest. A cowboy camp on the riverbed, turned to shady dealings. Every sound was an alert to run and hide in the reeds. I left a book there for those times, inside a coffee can. And I also got covered with bites from some unseen thing that lived there only. I hardly ever get bites, it seems more like a character weakness. I saw a jeep with less than a hundred miles on it, taken on a joy ride from a San Diego car lot and drove straight across the border. No one ever came to get it.
And then from there, place to place, each with its own scene, its own view into a nation that holds so many secrets close to itself. On some Sundays my husband and I could go home, quietly and cautiously. That was Migras day off too. It would be a celebration, a get together of the village where news and encouragement was exchanged. And much laughter about how the great migra could not find two Americanos. And being Mexican, of course they never gave us up, not for a moment, none of them.

But after eight months, and harsher weather on its way, it seemed enough. My husband had the favor done for him of the use of a very influential lawyer, a Chinese man with an adobe house full of Chinese art. The only thing to do, turn ourselves in. It was hard to walk into that office, even with the assurance beforehand that we would be walking out still free, and no time behind bars and wondering what the sentence would be.

At that time too, we shook hands, the first time. He said, brave Americanos and sentenced us to a life of tourism, vacationing, exploring, fishing, partying, spending, whatever it is tourist all do. It said so on this official paper, and said there was no second warning or we would be gone for good. He was polishing the handle on his pistol the whole time, then stood up shook hands again, and said, your real lucky, this time.

But, of course, one must work for a living if they are not rich and Mexico is a practical nation and does not get hung up by their laws. So it was back home and back to work again. The rich man had long forgotten and the migra had better things to do.

I still kind of seem to feel the tingle in my hand though, for that brief moment when ours touched in that handshake today. Good thing Mexico believes in what is fair, not what is legal. He is such an impressive looking man still, very handsome and stern. I would hate to be doing anything really wrong and get caught by him.