Down on the Border

"I'm pretty sure this area is a backup landing space for the Shuttle," said Andy, as we drove southwest from Alamogordo towards Las Cruces. "I think it came in here once when Florida was socked in and California had rain."
Flat as a tabletop, the Chihuahuan Desert with its saltbush and creosote and black grama stretched into the horizon. For three miles into White Sands Missile Museum, signs warned, Active testing area, Visitors stay right, NO photography and Prepare to stop. We parked Little Red in a small lot that read Four hour limit and got out of the car. Ahead, a huge gated entrance blocked all traffic.
"Closed," barked a male voice from one of the check points. We could see some missiles behind him in the distance.
A large sign near Little Red said, Be prepared with driver's license, vehicle registration, insurance card when you enter the visitor check in. A smaller sign on the door read, Closed Saturday and Sunday. We left.
"Las Cruces is one of the spots being advertised for retirement," said Andy, as we exited Route #25 at University Avenue. He had read that three states would grow most as the economy improved: Florida for retirement opportunities, Texas for low taxes and New Mexico for both. We drove around town to check out the campus of New Mexico State University, inviting with its two and three-story neatly landscaped adobe buildings.
After a quick stop for pamphlets at the Texas Welcome Center, we headed for El Paso, the largest U.S. city on the Mexican border.
We followed Route #10 along the river. "That's Mexico," said Andy, pointing to the right. "See the Rio Grande down there?" Just below me stretched a small band of water. "On the other side is Juarez," Andy continued.
"Those houses?" I asked in disbelief. Not two blocks away from us, residential neighborhoods spread out to the base of some dark foothills as far as I could see.
"Yes," he said, "that's Juarez, the murder capital of North America."
Years ago we had walked across the border and shopped in Juarez. I understood why border issues created impossible problems here. El Paso was practically open border. How could crossing back and forth over a few feet of water ever be controlled? Toss in extreme poverty, and no wonder the Mexican border presents an impossible problem!
Little Red found the way to Mission San Cristobal de Ysleta del Sur, even though two people by us ran red lights, another on our right turned left in front of us, and still another just about side swiped the right side to beat us at a stop sign. Andy just gasped and shook his head.
Yellow crime tape blew in the breeze from several places in the parking lot by Ysleta Mission. The whitewashed adobe church shimmered stark and clean against a deep blue sky. Inside was quiet and empty, dark except for the altar that shone white from rays coming down from the sky lights. Anasazi kiva ladders wrapped with evergreen boughs and tiny Christmas lights stood in the side windows.
On the next corner a tribal casino hummed with Saturday activity. We took special notice because of the No cameras sign on the door and a We tow non-casino visitors sign in the parking lot.
Mission Socorro, established one day after Mission Ysleta in 1682, originally served as a refuge for Spaniards and Piro and Manso Indians fleeing from the Pueblo Indian Revolt of 1680. The mission church was twice rebuilt after flooding of the Rio Grande in 1829 and 1843, There certainly was no revolt or flood today. Instead, a wedding party gathered outside the church: the beautiful, young bride in a billowing white hoop skirt with layers of bead work on the arm of tuxedoed father and groom, four attendants in bright fuchsia dresses and silver shoes, talking with young men in full vested tuxes. But no one else was around. We peeked in later. Only about ten friends sat in the pews. Lights twinkled on the Christmas tree and on the opposite side of the altar, a huge wooden statue of the crucifixion towered at least ten feet in the air. When the wedding ended and we could go in the mission church, we saw a glass box in the left chapel with a life-size wooden carving of the crucified and dead Jesus figure. It reminded me of the European influence. This part of Texas belonged to Spanish Mexico until the mid-1800's.
Farther east the inside doors of the Presidio Chapel of San Elizario (originally San Elceario) were closed tight. I peeked through the keyhole--another two o'clock wedding. This time many people filled the pews, but only one attendant knelt with the bride at the altar. "She's older," said Andy later, when the wedding party came outside.
We walked around the town plaza across the street and photographed the old church. Near here Don Juan de Onate celebrated a Thanksgiving feast in 1598, after he claimed possession of surrounding New Mexico for Spain. It was 23 years before the Plymouth Colony Thanksgiving, the one that established our traditions.
In 1789, nearly 200 years later, the Spaniards constructed the Presidio church as a military chapel of a Spanish fort for defense against Apache and Comanche raids. Even though the Rio Grande changed its course in 1830, this parcel of land belonged to Mexico until 1848, when the Treaty of Guadelupe Hildalgo declared "the deepest channel of the Rio Grande" as the official national boundary.

After the wedding everyone came outside. In shirtsleeves, Andy and I watched and munched on baby carrots for lunch. We felt like under-dressed guests at the ceremony, as we followed everyone back into the church. They gathered on the altar steps for a joint family portrait--probably 50 people all told. "What a nice practice and a meaningful tradition," I told Andy.

El Paso is a hodgepodge conglomeration: unplanned commercial development next to decent homes, Mexican adjacent to English, trashy adjoining classy. In one block the Family Dollar Store shared a parking lot with Nueva York Burritos. Next door two men changed a tire at La Paracha. The auto shop adjoined a house.
On Copia Street going north, all vehicles stopped by police order for a license and insurance check. "No problem for us," said Andy, "but I'll bet lots of Mexican drivers don't carry U.S. insurance."

Of the four vehicles ahead of us, two were directed into the improvised detention lot.

The end of our figurative road today was Concordia Cemetery on Old Boot Hill, although it took some getting lost to find it. "As long as I don't end up on the bridge to Juarez," said Andy as we drove around downtown El Paso. An arid, depressing place with many broken and damaged stones, Concordia is the final resting place of murderer John Wesley Hardin, who bragged about killing 30 men before he was shot by the sheriff. Here too in the dust lay Chinese railroad workers and people of all denominations and creeds. It was the end of the road in more ways than one.