"Juan" and "Miguel"

David: It’s good “Juan” and “Miguel” tried to hitch a ride with me yesterday. It shocked me, and made my thinking about migration much more complex.

We were riding yesterday in Arizona. Like most of our riding lately, we’ve been biking parallel to the US - Mexico border. We’re often in sight of the wall. There is always, without fail, a barbed wire fence on the side of the road towards Mexico. There is, without fail, a barbed wire fence on the side of the road leading further into the US.

We’ve obviously heard much more about the people seeking to enter the US since we’ve been here. From individuals we talk with and in the local news.

Our eyes have also become trained to see the remains of this trek that many people are taking across the border. When people come across the border, they are prepared for a trek through mostly desert conditions. They carry clothes, food and water. Yesterday in particular, I noticed a lot of these things left on the ground. Clothing of all sizes. Coke from Costco. Packets of electrolytes for infants. Mexican shawls to keep warm at night.

These were left on the ground on the road side of the fence on the “Mexican” side of the road. Which means whoever was wearing those clothes, or carrying that food, was suddenly done with it. Were they apprehended by Border Control? Were they picked up by family or friends already in the US?

Did they lighten their load so they could push further faster into the interior? We’re they still alive?

As I rode, my thoughts were more and more drawn to the drama of these people coming North, looking for asylum, with enough desperation to push them to face the harshness they knew this trip would entail. My heart was filled with empathy for them.

Then I saw a cross by the road, and pulled my car over to take a picture of it. These mark where someone died. There was a small patch of grass and gravel extending over the culvert that was there. There were shrubs and thorn bushes covering the small rise beside the road. I stopped the car and walked around the back, and suddenly - there were two men there. Dressed in sturdy but worn farm clothes. Both were looking at me expectantly. Pleadingly. One had his hand on the back passenger side door handle. The other was just on the other side of the bike rack.

I instinctively said “No.” Then “No” several more times. As I was moving as fast as I could to get back in my car, they were moving as fast as they could off the road, running back into the shrubs and thorn bushes. I drove up 30 yards and turned my car around facing where I had been. And thought about what response to make.

I could have called Border Control, of course, and given them the location of these 2 men. I didn’t. Just like I didn’t call the “proper authorities” when my last employer continually sent plumbers to work in a state where we weren’t licensed to work.

I looked at the thermometer. It was 90 outside. I remembered the intensity of the sun when I was outside. And thought of the extra gallon jugs of water we had stocked up on in case we ran across someone who needed water in the desert. We had been thinking about fellow bikers, not “Juan” and “Miguel.” But here they were. So I got one of those jugs of water, and gathered a couple of handfuls of power bars and other snacks and put them in a plastic bag, and drove back to where the cross was, got out, put the water and food behind a bush, called “Hola” several times, and drove away.

I drove back in the direction where Chris was biking. I told her I wanted to put her bike on the rack and her in the car and drive past where “Juan” and “Miguel” were. Because I was nervous to have her ride her bike alone down that road. Because while the men accepted a “No” from me and ran away, I didn’t know what their response might be to Chris.

And I thought more about what the storekeepers in Dryden Texas told us about having a small group of migrants come into their store. And I thought more about what I had read about ranchers' reports of migrants moving across their land, sometimes simply drinking water from cattle troughs, and sometimes causing more physical damage.

Chris told me that as she was riding that morning she was thinking, “There might be people behind these bushes.” Indeed, there were.

My wise friend, Joyce Frederick, said that people with different life experiences interpret what they see differently. I’m glad I am seeing the human cost of our broken migration system. I’m glad I was startled and unsettled by Juan and Miguel. I’m glad I put out food and water. I have no idea if they came back for it, or were long gone.

But in that moment, I was able to respond to two other human beings in a humane way. A cup of cold water. Or a gallon, in this case.