In Australia, the term "bush bashing" refers to hiking or biking through dense or difficult trails, literally "bashing" the "bush" (wilderness) to get to where you're going. In the U.S. the same phrase means 'criticising the President'.
I suppose what I did this morning would be valid in either sense. Shanti and I went out on our mountain bikes and rode the migrant trails, charting the way on GPS, and looking for migrants in distress. I was carrying 25lbs of food and water in my paniers, and Shanti carried tools, supplies, and a first aid kit.
We didn't find any migrants in distress, but we covered 4 miles, charted several points on the GPS, and proved that humanitarian work and trail riding are not incompatible.
It was 107 F today, and we were out from 11:00 a.m. to 1 p.m. If I had stayed out another hour, I would have started to get really cranky, but as it was, we both managed the ride with energy to spare.
On the way back to camp, we saw a Wackenhut bus loading up migrants who had been caught in the desert that day. We tried to bring them food and water, but the Migra said "no". Agent Eggers declared that he had to have a 50 foot perimiter to safely do his job. We took his name and badge number and left. At the next meeting with Border Patrol we will tell them that their agents are not saying the same things as the cardboard hack they send to negotiations.
Earlier in the day we had gone to a site where coyotes force their clients to drop all their worldly posessions. Many thousands of backpacks, medicines, toothbrushes, cans of food, baby bottles... everything. All that stuff just sits there after the rush of humanity has been frog-marched down the trail, probably scared about being in the middle of the desert at night and angry at having to leave their things behind. When the sun rises, the radiation hits the surfaces of the newly decorated landcape... denim, polyester, polypropelene, and organic matter alike begin the bleaching process, draped in the spines of cacti, and molded to the surfaces of hot rocks. Time is merciless in these places.
We took out a few dozen backpacs that will be given to deported migrants at the port in Nogales. If they are lucky, they will be the next ones in that saddle in the mountains, dropping that backpack with new contents... but next time, they will know a little better what to expect.
