Caught by the Mexican Border Patrol, Part 2

This is part two of Caught by the Mexican Border Patrol. If you haven’t read part one you can do so here

The Federales’ interrogation process was to the point — back-to-back question and statement: “What are you doing? Get in the back of the pickup!” I tried to answer that we were from the church down below, but the officer was definitely not interested in VBS. I responded as ordered and hopped into the bed of the Chevy. Little Carlos was ordered to do the same, but the kid’s knees were shaking too much to climb over the tailgate. At that moment a brother from the church came running out, yelling to let the kid go. Following him were two sisters I work with, several moms, and trailing kids from the meeting. Oh, this is getting embarrassing.

Carlitos was receiving three sources of input: me—trying to console him; the officer—demanding he get in the truck; and half the church—pleading on little Carlos’s behalf. At last the officer gave in and told Carlitos to go to the church. But he made it crystal clear that I was to remain put.

The Federales told me to hold on, threw it in drive, and accelerated up the dirt road, spewing out a heavy mix of rocks and carbon monoxide. The ride was bumpy and steep, as I braced myself for dear life. At the end of the climb, the 2WD half-ton violently lunged forward when traction was made, peeling off several layers of Michelin.

Up top we met up with the fleeing youngsters—all handcuffed. Young officers had caught them on a foot chase. One by one their cell phones were examined and their wallets were confiscated. The skinniest of the officers was the first to notice the white guy, already arrested. “Are you gabacho (slang for American)?” he asked a bit stunned. “Yes,” I replied. “What’s up with that (roughly translated)?” “Well, I’ve come from the church below…” Laughter erupted before I could finish my excuse. “Oh sure, the church below,” they mocked in disbelief. Even those still in cuffs started giggling. No one believed my story—and the drivers who picked me up had left to scout out the ravine. As the bed of the pickup began to fill with detainees, my hope for pardon began to deteriorate muy rapido. So, I began to pray.

I sat for 10 minutes wondering and praying, praying and wondering. Finally the driver, who seemed to be the shift supervisor, came up from his search. Directing full attention to me he queried with confidence: “Güero (white guy)! What are you doing?” I shrugged, admitting my honest unsuredness of what the heck it was that I was doing at that moment in my life. Then came my sentencing, as if in slow motion: “Get out of here,” he said with a swipe of his arm. Although I don’t think I had mentally processed his final words, physically my body responded with a quickness, as I was airborne over the side of the bed. I walked straight passed the supervisor, said gracias, and was onto newfound freedom. Gracias a Dios.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 21st, 2006 at 7:53 am and is filed under Missionary Life. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.