When I Got To The Border November 15, 2021
At La Frontera Mexico, across the gate from Mesilla, Guatemala, El Jefe looks carefully at the Mexican passport before asking the born citizen, “What is your intent in coming here?”
She blankly replies, “I’m coming back home.”
Of course she is going home, Mr. Immigration Man! She is Mexican, like you!Naturally, in the United States, this is an entirely inappropriate question, as it should be for any country. Perhaps this agent—undoubtedly overworked and underpaid—is just having a bad day, or perhaps he is abusing his authority, the same way a club doorman decides who gets in and who does not, although in this case the door is a big one. Regardless, this guy is the only one working today. He hands the passport back to the repatriated Mexican with a hard stamp of approval from his bureaucratic sidearm.
Next up is a couple of pretty blond backpackers from Europe, and they receive their requested 7-day visa with no problem, other than perhaps a wink from the agent. Calling him a flirty creep at this point might be unfair, but he started it. And it is about to get a whole lot worse for the rest of us.
The next to face the hanging judge is a young couple of globetrotters from Romania, who are having a great adventure, traveling up through Central America. Southern Mexico is the last leg of their journey. Once reaching San Cristóbal for a short stay, they plan to bus to Cancun for some fun on the beach before flying home in nine days. They have their entire itinerary, with receipts. Unfortunately, the use of phones and laptops are prohibited in this room. Without hesitation, they are denied entry.
The two step out into the hot air in a state of shock. Perhaps they can try to make copies for him to inspect. However, copy-centers are nowhere around to produce paper, even though there is a bank next-door to the immigration office. Otherwise, Ciudad Cuauhtémoc (in no way is this rightly called a city) offers one hotel, across the street from us, and just about nothing else of value to this couple.
A frenetic throng of trinket venders buzz around the foreigners, while Coyotes skulk in the shadows, waiting to pounce. The hunting opportunities are good today, as they have been for months, with more and more travelers finding out that travel plans are changing for the worse. For 700 pesos, one friendly middle-aged Mestizo promises to fix the couple’s problem with a few pulled strings, but the promising offer involves handing 35 USD to some smiling stranger, who then disappears into the throng, perhaps to buy new strings.
For the stranded Romanians, even if they do manage to obtain paper copies of their detailed travel itinerary, he is still liable to say no. The inundation of Mexico in recent months with so-called digital nomads has apparently alerted immigration officials that many savvy tourists play the trick of buying a plane ticket from Cancun merely to show the border agent, then cancelling their flight and staying in Mexico. If this is true, every foreigner is in trouble coming to Mexico.
I am next in line to meet El Jefe. The grand interrogator scrutinizes my meager passport, noticing immediately that it is brand new. He folds his arms. This is a bad sign. My greatest asset is my partner, and interpreter, who has accompanied me to Guatemala. Jefe’s English is decent, as far as I can discern, but he insists on spelling out the details of my bad news in Spanish.
“Where are you going to stay in Mexico?” he asks. “Do you have a hotel reservation?”
My best character witness steps forward and presents him with a signed letter, testifying that I am here at her invitation to visit her home in Cuernavaca. We neglect to mention that we have a leased home in San Cristóbal, as this might set off suspicions of a border run. However, my interrogator already suspects the worst of me, and he even intimates that the signed letter is bogus and that I have merely hired the services of a Malinche to get me through immigration.
“How do I know that you live in Cuernavaca?” he asks her. She presents a copy of her driver’s license with her address, but he shakes his head, saying he needs to examine the original. So she produces her actual drivers license, and still he seems unconvinced. He seems not to want to let me in, and he certainly does not intend to give me the 180 days I have requested on my visa application.
I am beginning to simmer. Fortunately, my interpreter is also a student of human behavior. She detects my increasing anger, as well as his increasing intransigence.
“You do have a shitty job, I know,” she says. “It must be very difficult for you. Please, how much time do you think you can give him?” she asks, with deference to his absolute authority at the moment.
The stern gaze through his mask softens a bit. “Yes, it is very difficult for me these days. Everyone wants to come here to stay. They expect it. They don’t want to pay. They think it is their right to come here. Argentinians and Israelis are the worst.” Then he looks again at me, as if to add Yanquis to that short list. “90 days, no more.” It is not what I was hoping for, but perhaps it is more than I deserve. My partner thanks him for his generosity. I gulp.
As if to try the agent further, the next in line from our group are two carefree Israeli lads with soccer balls and backpacks. Once again, he rejects their application to enter without hesitation. The Israelis are irate, pulling at their hair, raising their voices, shaking papers to show they have a hostel reservation in San Cristóbal. None of this satisfies El Jefe, but he refuses to speak English, so the men appeal to my partner, then to our bus driver, to argue their case in Spanish. However, both Mexicans realize that a show of belligerence is not going to help, and it may even put the others waiting in line at risk. It is possible he could deny every foreigner entry.
El Jefe has no computer in front of him. Maybe it was stolen. And he is absolutely alone in this office, so there is no chance for a second opinion. The Israelis are told that they need to document reservations for every night they plan to stay in country, so they leave to find a way to extend their hostel reservation for a month. After three hours, they somehow manage to convince El Jefe to let them. Remarkably, and inexplicably, they are granted 160 days. I seethe at the randomness of it all. I would be angrier at the system, but I do not see any real system at all. Just one tired, bitter civil servant facing the onslaught.
The Romanian couple is still standing outside. Their tentative plan is stay in the seedy hotel across the street of this dangerous town, then try again tomorrow, hoping that someone different is working behind the glass shield. But they worry that El Jefe may pass on their passport information to prevent subsequent entry attempts. They just do not know any good options at this point.
But I just may have found the perfect one. It centers around a plane ride to Salt Lake City in February—to meet my new grandson. First, however, it is time to write.