10 Days in the Desert

It was 10 o'clock or so on a Friday night when we came across Gustavo and his friend on Arivaca Road. The temperature was in the mid-thirties. The two men had been left by their group--a very common occurrence out in the desert--left for being too slow, too sick, injured, what have you--and had been walking for ten days, unsure of where they were, where they were going and how long it would take for them to get there.
Ten days in the desert with nothing more than a small backpack and empty water jugs they had bought in Mexico. They had no blankets, no food, and clothing inappropriate for the freezing temperatures that were occurring nightly that week.

Folks crossing from Mexico, just as these men, don't bring camping supplies. They don't bring tents and sleeping bags and stoves. They bring some water, they are often given energy drinks by their guides to keep their pace up. They might bring a change of clothes, small amounts of food. They bring pictures of their family members, of their children and of their spouses and of their parents--family members back in their home country, or family members here in the United States, waiting for them. We find toothpaste and toothbrushes along the trails, deodorant, pain relievers, even perfume and cologne bottles.
Often, people crossing the U.S./Mexico border are told that the journey is only a day or two long.
It is rarely, if ever, that short to a pick-up point.

Gustavo's friend has family in Phoenix. By car, that's four hours north from where we met them.
All they asked for was water. We tried to give them food as well but they would only take one food pack for the two of them--a small packet of tuna, a granola bar, a fruit cup, a package of crackers, a silver juice pack.
They thanked us over and over again and apologized for the inconvenience they were causing. After ten days in the middle of nowhere they were worried about inconveniencing us as we stopped for a few minutes with full stomachs and beds waiting for us and stood outside of our warm car to do what little we could.
We tried to give them more food, but they declined, saying they didn't want to impose anymore.
We explained where we were--60 miles north to Tucson, 16 miles south to Arivaca, 170 miles to Phoenix--but that we couldn't give them a ride--that there was a Border Patrol checkpoint a few miles north and we would be stopped there, that they would be put in detention and deported and that we would go to jail.
We stood there shivering and offered to call Border Patrol, but only if they wanted us too.
They declined, said they didn't want to bother us anymore. They were going to sit where they were and wait. After ten days in the desert they said they didn't care anymore what happened--didn't care if their ride came and didn't care if Border Patrol picked them up.
We gave them each a blanket, which each man accepted after declining it numerous times, and they thanked us effusively.
As we drove away the two of them were standing on the side of the dark, empty road, looking up and down, waiting to cross.
The only solace in leaving these two men was that they were on a road and therefore would probably not die out in the desert.
For many people crossing, though, this bit of solace does not exist, and the death toll in the desert mounts.
I found the gallon jug a few days later on the side of the road where we had met Gustavo and his friend, along with Gustavo's backpack. The gallon jug was 3/4 full, and the backpack was mostly empty save for an empty water container and some water worn papers, ink smeared and wadded together.
I don't know what happened to these two men--how long they sat for, who picked them up, where they are now, and, if they were picked up by Border Patrol, if they will try to cross again.