It was 1:53 a.m. and Peter Fink was on a barren mountain plateau near Campo, California, handing out blankets to people from four continents who had arrived there under the cover of night.
This had become a nightly ritual for the 22-year-old, who wore a ball cap and wool overshirt and whose perch – just over 1,000 feet above a rocky slope from the U.S.-Mexico border wall – had become an all-round, carefree ritual was. Watch boarding area for people who had illegally set foot on American soil.
With Mexico’s armed National Guard Migrant routes, now based at the most popular border crossings in southeastern San Diego County, have shifted further into remote wilderness, where people face more extreme terrain and temperatures and have little to no infrastructure to stay alive.
For migrants aiming to be apprehended by U.S. Border Patrol agents and apply to stay in the country, Mr. Fink’s makeshift camp, a dirt patch beneath the bars of a power transmission tower, had become the first port of call, providing modest food Donated food, water and firewood helped the migrants survive as they waited for agents to cross the countryside and arrest them before their health dangerously failed.
Migrants have waited hours and sometimes days to be detained at this and other sites along the border, and a federal district court judge ruled last week that the Border Patrol must move “expeditiously” to move children to safe and sanitary housing. But unlike outdoor waiting areas that had sprung up in more populated areas, Mr. Fink’s site had no relief tents or medical volunteers, no dumpsters or port-a-toilets – just a hole he dug as a community toilet, and Mr Fink yourself.
In the morning there were Indians, Brazilians, Georgians, Uzbeks and Chinese there.
Officials say federal resources and personnel are far too limited to keep up with the surge of border crossings in the region, and operations like this have become a source of great tension in San Diego County.
Asked whether he feared his humanitarian aid could encourage more people to enter illegally, Mr. Fink shook his head.
“People don’t spend their savings and risk their children’s lives so they can try these peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,” he said.
Peter Fink is blonde and fresh-faced, and grows a beard just to match his age. He grew up in the Pacific Northwest and learned Spanish at a summer job as a cherry picker. Intrigued by the immigration crisis of 2020, he spent months in Arizona, trekking across the border by day to volunteer at a migrant shelter in Sonora and earning an international studies degree online by night using free Wi-Fi local McDonalds.
He didn’t create this mountaintop camp; he found it. A local had noticed that fires were burning on the plateau every night, and Mr. Fink, a wilderness firefighter and avid camper traveling through the region, volunteered to spend the night on the property in a tent to watch see what happened. Within hours, more than 200 migrants arrived on foot – including pregnant women, children and the elderly – huddled together in the biting wind.
The news spread throughout the southern communities of the so-called Mountain Empire, an area so isolated that the small desert town of Jacumba Hot Springs (pop. 857), 30 miles away, became the operation’s headquarters. Volunteers collected firewood from waste from an ax throwing facility and a table maker. An abandoned youth center was used to sort non-perishable donations. A shipping container in someone’s yard became a sort of depot for crates of water and tarps.
After that first night in early March, Mr. Fink spent another, then another. He set up a series of four-person tents in a neat row, squeezing ten people into each when the wind became particularly unbearable. Using white paint, he labeled the drawers of old filing cabinets in four languages and designated the portions of applesauce for children and formula for toddlers. He established guidelines for his campsite: one snack per person; dumping garbage prohibited; save firewood; Women and children have priority in the tents.
That day the sun was almost directly overhead when Mr. Fink peered out through his binoculars and saw A couple is dropped off by an unmarked vehicle on a dirt road in Mexico and treks through the dry undergrowth towards the United States. The woman began to slow down. She was visibly pregnant.
Mr. Fink grabbed two water bottles and began his descent into the ravine below, waiting for the pair at a safe distance from the boundary wall so as not to encourage them. Once on U.S. soil, the woman panted heavily and collapsed to the ground. Her husband crouched in front of her and took her face in his hands.
“Is that good?” he whispered, wiping the sweat from her forehead. She nodded.
There was silence for a moment. Then Mr. Fink asked in Spanish where they were from (San Salvador), how soon the child would be born (in a month) and whether the two had been extorted for cash by Mexican authorities on the way to the border wall. The couple said they didn’t do it.
“Good luck,” he said.
He led them as they climbed toward camp, past abandoned bags and clothing and using footholds he had dug into the ground using a technique he had learned fighting forest fires. As soon as they reached the camp, he turned and sprinted back down into the valley. He had seen a young girl in polka dot pants and a ponytail wandering around with her mother and could tell they were about to take a turn in the wrong direction.
When the girl, Briana Lopez, 5, arrived at the camp, she ate Welch’s fruit snacks from Mr. Fink and talked on the phone with her father, who was still at home in Guatemala.
“How are you, my child? Lucky you?” he asked in Spanish.
“Good!” She said. “Yes!” Good! Forks!
Her parents discussed how she and her mother could cope with immigration detention after her arrest. Briana chimed in excitedly – she thought they were going to Disneyland.
The last group of migrants was picked up at dusk, and Mr. Fink huddled in his tent, chewing a piece of flatbread and arranging for donations to be dropped off on his cellphone.
This was around the time he usually went to sleep, hoping it would be a few more hours before the first nightly wave arrived. But in the distance he heard desperate breathing, and a woman appeared alone, fell into his arms and cried.
Her traveling companions left her behind, she said, following an underground railroad and going too far west to disappear into the wilderness. Now they were missing.
Mr. Fink climbed to the highest point of the ledge, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted in Spanish, “Here we have water and food!” Don’t be afraid – come this way!” His voice echoed through the valley. “Hey, welcome to the United States!”
He wrapped the woman in a blanket while she waited. “Dios te bendiga,” she said. God protect you.
Finally, her two lost companions climbed over the ridge from the other side of the plateau, sobbing, and wrapped their arms around her. Mr. Fink packed a bag for each of them as they followed Border Patrol orders and stripped down to a layer of clothing and climbed into a government van.
By 8:13 p.m. the site was quiet again, except for the hum of the power lines above us and the dogs cooing their evening songs on the Mexican side. In the darkness, Mr. Fink disinfected and tidied up the tents, then lit garden lights and glow sticks along the path to camp for those who would arrive that night.
Within a week, Mr. Fink would be heading to the northwest, where the sorghum and amaranth planting season would begin and where landscaping and construction work awaited him. But his tarps, firewood and filing cabinets on the mountain are still there, and supplies are regularly replenished by volunteers.
The following week, as a group of Colombians were released from Border Patrol custody into the United States, an aid worker overheard them talking about “an angel” who had kept them alive and won their hearts – “un güerito.” , who they said spoke very good Spanish, and who they found hanging around in a tent.
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2024-04-12 03:09:49
www.nytimes.com
