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Published
in Gulf News, August 29, 2006
The borderline
cases
As
I
stood in line, a man who'd been sitting to one side was called up
to the counter. To my disbelief, after a few questions from the
officer, a guard came up behind and handcuffed him, even as the
officer asked: "Have you been arrested in the US before?"
Earlier,
a Japanese girl who'd left important visa papers at home had burst
into tears. She and her companion were now being sternly lectured
to by another officer, and a third was talking loudly about the
troublesome cases he'd seen that day.
"Don't
mess with a US CBP officer in a bad mood," said one of them.
I suppose you couldn't blame them. The US Customs and Border Protection
officers at the Mexican border crossing have probably seen and heard
it all. Their domain is said to have the most traffic for any international
land border in the world. On one side is San Diego county's last
town - San Ysidro - with its gleaming red trams and a huge open
mall with shops such as Ann Klein, Ralph Lauren, Guess, Nine West
and Starbucks. On the other side is Tijuana, Mexico, with a hustle
and bustle that made me homesick for India. Taxi drivers offer rides
downtown as you walk past. There are tiny shops piled floor to ceiling
with groceries and cheap plastic goods. People with pushcarts sell
ice cream. Everywhere you look there is the healthy buzz of men
and women trying to make a living.
Like
osmosis, the journey is easy one way, much harder the other. To
go from the US to Mexico is as simple as taking a pedestrian walkway
and passing through a couple of turnstiles. Nobody asks where you're
going, nobody checks your papers. You could accidentally leave your
passport in your car and find yourself in a world of trouble on
the return journey.
The
queue to get back stretched well out of the border complex and right
down the road. As people stood in line, sellers walked up and down
offering everything from bottles of cold water to freshly fried
churros. A man loudly advertised his "special taxi" that
got people over the border for $5; though frankly, the queue looked
as if it was moving faster than the lines of cars.
It
was my request for a visa extension that led me to the office where
the "special cases" were directed. This was where the
criminal, the forgetful and the hopeful queued. The criminal were
arrested, the forgetful were scolded and the hopeful (in my case)
were denied. After a firm 'no' though, the officer took the time
to explain it to me. I was required to make what he called a "meaningful
exit" which essentially meant that I had to leave the continent
and spend a lot of money before I'd be let in for a new period of
stay.
So
I walked past the queues and went back to America - something that
hundreds of people try to do illegally every single day. The next
morning I read about a Mexican woman who had tried everything: climbing
fences, using hidden doors and even lying on the bottom of a van
with 14 other people. The final option offered to her was to cross
in a metal box fixed to the underside of a car. However she couldn't
afford the $4,000 the service cost.
It
seemed unfair that I had emerged just five minutes from the scene
of her machinations, casually walking past the bright San Diego
city trams that could have effortlessly swept her away to a life
she had battled for in vain.
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