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When I signed up I had no idea what this trip had in store. I had been to Mexico only once before, and it wasn’t to “T.J” for fun. I didn’t know what to expect from this experience. I was sure it wouldn’t be rainbows and ponies, but beyond that I did not know what was waiting for us on the “other side” of the border.

We had left our American rental vans on the other side of the border, meeting with the Environmental Health Coalition (EHC) representatives at the last tram station on the American side. Amelia, the American member of EHC, met with us and walked across the border with us. She led us to a tour bus chartered by the organization, which then took us through the seemingly affluent parts of Tijuana to the Mesa de Otay Industrial Park, a part of town full of foreign-owned maquiladoras.

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The charterbus stops at the Mexican side of the border. Two walls separate those who attempt to cross into the US and seek the American dream from achieving their goal. On the Mexican side, an old wall made of rotting metal is full of white crosses, each with a name on it. The hung crosses stretch as far as the eye can see and further. The names they bear are the names of those poor souls that lost their lives in an attempt to cross the treacherous border. Some do not even bear a name, stating instead simply “non-identificado.” Through holes and cracks in the wall, the American side of the border is visible: a cement and Plexiglas contraption, with spikes and wires on top. In between the two walls, about 30-40 meters of uncovered ground are monitored by sensors, and tall light poles are positioned in regular intervals. How anyone could get past this much security is beyond me. Why anyone would try even more so. The task seems absolutely impossible.

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From the walls, we made our way to the top of the Mesa de Otay, a hill on the north-side of Tijuana, to the site of where an old maquiladora, Metales y Derivados, once stood. The formerly American-owned factory operated for years without any regard to labor rights or environmental harm of the products used in its manufacturing processes. People who worked in the factory had no idea that they handled toxic lead waste, waste that stuck to their skin and their clothing, waste that was easily transferred to their children when they picked them up after arriving home. Outside the factory, a mound of the toxic lead waste was carelessly deposited by the owners and the managers. No one cared to dispose of the waste in an appropriate manner. For years, the waste lay on top of the hill, with winds and rain freely carrying it down the hillside into the workers’ settlement at the bottom, the Colonia Chilpancingo. Rain did the most damage, we found out from our hosts, as it carried the waste down an arroyo directly onto the main road of the settlement, right past a kindergarten. Many children suffer even today from learning disabilities because of the toxic water that contaminated their playground, though most of them remain undiagnosed and do not receive proper help because their parents lack the money for proper health care.

EHC campaigned hard and long to get attention from the Mexican political leaders, but even after they managed to condemn the factory’s actions, its owner simply declared bankruptcy and moved back to San Diego, escaping liability. The site remained contaminated for more years, with neither Mexican nor American authorities willing to foot the bill for the cleanup. The North American Free Trade Agreement, which was set up to promote jobs and investment in Mexico, was partly at fault for the problem. Although taking environmental concerns into account and creating an agency which could study environmental impacts by trade, the agreement failed to give the agency bite: the agency could only study problems – it could not attempt to remedy them by charging fines, bringing suits, or otherwise forcing offenders to face the consequences of their actions. In the end EHC and the colonia’s residents prevailed. Money was given for the cleanup, but the solution is less than great. A part of the waste is to be stored in metal containers, which are to be laid in a cement pool on site at the Mesa de Otay; another part was transferred to the country of origin, the US, where it was deposited in a small, poor Latino community outside the urban areas of California.

The story of the Metales y Derivados contamination and cleanup efforts hit most of us unawares. Shock and disbelief was on everyone’s faces. However, we did not realize the true impact of the maquiladoras and their blatant disregard for human rights and environmental law until we descended down into the Colonia Chilpancingo. The part of the colonia directly beneath the Mesa consist of a small “town” of shacks in which the workers live with their families. From cardboard to plastic – the shacks are built of every non-sturdy, non-lasting material one could imagine. Wooden planks are the sturdiest material available, but they are too few and too small on most of the homes. Electricity and water are luxury commodities for most people. A water truck brings water for cleaning and bathing; drinking water must be bought separately (and at high cost as we found out later). Yet, we were told, people there still clung to the little shacks they lived in. When rain storms hit the region, the mayor of Tijuana himself came to urge people to move to shelters. Most did not leave, however. Those who did were women and children. Men stayed behind to guard their families’ earthly possessions.

We were led through the colonia to a river, if it can be called as much, which passes through the entire settlement and flows into the Tijuana River, which in turn flows into the Pacific Ocean. As we were told about the river by one of the EHC representatives who has lived in the Colonia her entire life most of us tried to bring to life her story in our own imaginations, some more successfully than others.

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The river is clear and blue and deep enough to swim in. Children play in it, and adults sit on the sides of it, picnic blankets underneath them, and food in front of them. The lush greenery of a park surrounds them as they sit and chat about life and work and many other things. A father stands in the river with his fishing rod, waiting for fish to bite. Catfish are especially abundant in the river. The family will have a nice meal if he catches a couple. More children run in and out of the water in their bathing suits. They splash each other, then run in the other direction. The bigger ones swim to their hearts content.

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As I listen to the story told by our hosts, I look at the river. The small river is green-brown in color. Yellow-green reeds and trash litter the seemingly ankle-deep water. Pollution from the maquiladoras discolored the water and killed all the fish in the river.

I look over to the small bridge made of few wooden planks over which we all walked, single file, to get to the other side of the settlement. A couple of children run across it, playing some sort of chasing game.

On the other side of the settlement, two children forage a mound of debris for salvageable things. A little closer, a man is shoveling dirt and debris away from his home. It’s back-breaking work, but he does it relentlessly.

The son of one of the EHC women looks at the water truck that brings washing water, driving around a tractor that is attempting to resettle the earth around the settlements closest to the river. The tractor and its driver were hired by the families whose homes are closest to the water. They are paying the man out of their own pockets to ensure that their homes do not get destroyed, or worse, polluted. The city of Tijuana gives them no help in the task.

The city of Tijuana gives them little help with anything. It sees the workers as squatters. Their homes are not really theirs – they have no property rights to the land they are on. That is why most of the men stayed behind when the rain came. The shacks are not much, but they are home. Leaving them could have meant losing a roof over one’s head.

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As we are leaving the workers’ settlement in the colonia, I look back one more time as I am crossing the little, wooden-plank bridge. Two little girls have found their way close to where we had just been. They play in the dirt with their dolls, unaware of how dangerously close they are to the polluted water. As I turn the corner, making my way back to the charterbus with everyone else, the first sight I see are the tall boilers (or were they smokestacks?) of a maquiladora. The meshing of those two images, one full of innocence, one completely lacking it, remains ingrained in my mind till this day.

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To end the day, we all went to EHC headquarters. We were welcomed with a warm, home-cooked meal. Each of us received a large serving (too large for some) of beans, rice, and spicy vegetables. Warm tortillas and cheese were stacked plentifully on several piles along the table, and everyone was treated to drinks. In the background, the documentary made by EHC and the female workers detailing their travails played as all of us tried to regain our bearings after all the things we saw and heard during the day.

After lunch, we all sat together recapping what we experienced that day, letting out our thoughts and feelings. The shock and disbelief that was present since the morning on all faces finally let themselves be heard. Some of us even shed tears at the thought of how the beautiful river was turned into green “slime,” at how little was done to help the workers and their families by the government, at how strong the women (yes, it was all women) of EHC were in fighting for their families’ well-being. Fighting through my bad Spanish (and English), I could hardly manage to express the frustration and the sadness I felt at knowing that here was a peaceful country in which so many people lived in inhuman conditions and suffered from the neglect and indifference of their government. I thought that was only possible in war-torn countries like my native country. How wrong I was about that.

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We left EHC in the early afternoon, taking pictures of the entire group together and saying our goodbyes to the women of the organization. Then we got on the bus and took off towards our hotel…