Crystal said, “People watching, not a bad way to spend time.”
“Some of them are so punctual, did you notice?”
“Yes, I did. Just like clockwork.”
“Reassuring, that’s what it is.” They drank coffee and watched the crowds for another half hour, then left the truck stop and drove into Fabens to Alameda Street, turning east to pass through the farms and other small communities and areas in the valley of the Rio Grande.
Rio Grande was a misnomer, for in this long section of the river, it was a shallow stream less than six feet wide and no more than several feet in depth. A sick river, no doubt about it. The canal, on the other hand, flowed
steady to irrigate the continuous agricultural fields that grew in this desert land of little rain.
Crystal said, “Do you think the fence that Homeland Security put up here is stopping anyone from crossing?”
Samir said, “I think it is forty-four miles of wasted money. People and smugglers will detour around it.”
“Isn’t that what Homeland Security says it wants, to funnel them to a less populated area so they can be more easily caught?”
“That’s what they say.”
“You don’t believe it.”
“Reality is a lot different than government sound bites.”
Crystal said, “What was it we heard that cowboy in Van Horn say, ‘If they build a twelve-foot fence along the border, there’s going to be a big sale on thirteen-foot ladders.’ A little too simplistic, but I think that about sums it up.”
Samir continued on Alameda, occasionally turning onto the dirt farming roads, going between rich green fields planted in arrow-straight rows. He meandered for miles that way before returning to the main road.
When they reached Fort Hancock, he took a left to drive by the Border Patrol Station. “Lots of Patrol vehicles in the lot.”
“Means a light crew. So, do you want to go on down?”
“I think we’ll give it a looksee, don’t you?”
“I’d like to.”
Samir said, “We can check the dirt roads for a count of vehicle traffic, too.” He turned onto a dusty road and followed it out of town until the fields were gone and they were on a rough road that snaked through low hills and dropped into the lower areas in between until they came to the wider valley of the Rio Grande. The valley floor was thick with Tamarisk trees, the ones the locals called Salt Cedar, the thirsty scourge of rivers.
Samir put the pickup into four-wheel drive and eased down a primitive road that was little more than two parallel lines into the brush. The river channel was so overgrown that they couldn’t make out where it was, and the entire area was bone dry. Five minutes later, Samir was sure they were in Mexico.
Crystal asked, “Did we cross?”
“Sure did.”
“So, no problay-mo, kemo-sabe.”
“Piece of cake.” They drove without talking for several minutes, taking in the fact that they crossed into Mexico this way.
“Allahu Akbar,” Crystal said.
“Yes,” Samir echoed, “Allahu Akbar.”
They drove in Mexico for an hour before returning across the border. Crystal said, “Are you ready for The Cattleman’s?”
“I’m hungry, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Then let’s get a move on, cowboy, those steaks are waiting.”
Samir snorted, “Cowboy.”