Sister Cities on the Border: Columbus and Palomas

Draw an arbitrary line in the desert -- put up a strong, high, fence -- and pay armed thugs to patrol it. Am I talking about a drug lord in some banana republic? No... this is not just any drug lord, this is the United States Government. And here, Columbus, NM, is one of the focal points of its war against the world.

On any given day, you can stand on the roadside of Highway 11 and you might count two or three government vehicles for every one driven by a civilian. This in a town of, depending on which source you believe, from 2000 to 5000 people. There are town police, county police (Luna County Sheriff), state police, Border Patrol, Customs, U.S. Army, and others at random. Sure, they're here to protect the border. Who knows what horrible people with turbans, and knives between their teeth, might pick this entry point to spearhead their attack on the US? After all, New Mexico is a critical division point between... uh... Texas and Arizona. Who can imagine what havoc that could wreak with the national economy?

Meanwhile, kids in this town, (according to some young people who survived it), are barely pulling through the boredom with the help of crystal meth. Nothing happens here; sure, there's an excellent library with 30 or more computers, but that can only interest some of them; there's a basketball court at the school gym, and a baseball diamond (which I've never seen in use) over by the fire station. Two museums, for the tourists, but you can't expect kids to get worked up about Pancho Villa's raid back in the early 20th century.

There's very little empoyment: just one school -- the higher grades are bussed to Deming, 30 miles north; there's one store and one restaurant/bar, in the same building, and a gas station on the highway, all owned by the same family. There are three other restaurants, one of which (the Tumbleweed Theater) is only open for breakfast and Wednesday (Open Mike) night, and another, La Cocina, open seemingly at random. There's also a Dollar General, Western Union, and Duty-Free store down at the border, 3 miles to the south. Except for the Border Patrol, there are few jobs that offer anything beyond survival.

Of course, there's the underground economy, which here is arguably far greater than the one above-ground. The smuggling of people and drugs is probably what keeps this town alive. People on both sides of the border depend on this trade, which is getting more dangerous and profitable as the U.S. ups the stakes and sends us more and more border patrol and military. Mustn't allow any of that green stuff in that makes people silly when they smoke it. Can't let those damned brown-skins in here where they'll work for pennies doing the jobs that nobody else will touch at any wage. The more one thinks about the situation, the more pathetic it seems. It's just a show; it doesn't stop the workers and marijuana from coming in; it just drives up the price, and causes more people to be killed, as happened in late April and early May of 2007 in two shooting incidents in Palomas. Plus there are the many deaths from exposure, since many people now travel deeper into the desert to avoid capture by the Border Patrol.

But then, there's the Pink Store. Two or three blocks past the border entrance, in a gaudy pink building on the left, is our own little Margaritaville, where Gringos and Mexicanos can both get wasted silly on the best 'ritas east of Casa Bandini in Old Town San Diego. Owners Ivonne and Sergio Romero run a tight ship, with service second to none. Their USDA steaks are excellent (the author's favorite is #22, pan-fried in olive oil with sliced garlic on top), and the quality of all their food and drinks is superb. Without that oasis, this desert town would be a lot less tolerable.