Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1 LIFE FOR THE 3.3 MILLION people who live in San Diego County is, in large part, defined by one''s travel patterns. A complex of freeways and interchanges carve up the landscape: I have experienced several two-mile journeys that involved three freeways. There''s the 5, the 54, the 805--these numbers contribute to each person''s identity, establishing patterns that relay something about income bracket and lifestyle; they facilitate relationships and intensify alienation. This persists in the eastern part of the county, where crosswalks give way to cattle gates but locals still orient using highway numbers--Old 80, Route 94. Even those who use public transportation can''t avoid this dynamic: buses use the slow lanes and many of San Diego''s signature red trolleys run parallel to the freeways--the sound of sweet, soft bells is enough to terrify any driver within earshot who realizes a trolley is about to temporarily block an intersection or freeway on ramp. I grew up in the region and don''t remember hearing adults reference north or south, east or west. Giving directions always sounded more like "out toward the 15" or "head over to the 73.
" When I was eight I had no idea how to use a compass but could tell you which freeways led to the beach, the mall, church--any integral part of my life. Now I''m reacquainting myself with the roads after two decades away, and I''m letting The Wall determine my travel patterns. I''ve been searching for a way to figure out what a border really looks like in an increasingly interconnected world. I am hopeful the prototypes will help me get to the bottom of this. And not just the construction itself, the crews and the 50,000-pound concrete panels, but the people living and working and crossing the border in the same county where construction is happening, the same county where, every day, 70,000 vehicles and 20,000 pedestrians use the San Ysidro border crossing, the busiest in the Western Hemisphere.1 I want to know how the reality of the region comports, or doesn''t, with all the ideas and expectations we form when viewing the border as a clean line on a map. So far I have discovered that clean lines generally mark the most complicated places. None more so than the 8 Freeway.
Everyone in San Diego County is familiar with it, either by commute or reputation. It runs from ocean to desert, parallel to the line dividing Mexico and the U.S., and it may be fifteen miles to the north but I have become convinced it is the real border. Not because the residents of the South Bay are any less American than the locals in Del Mar or Encinitas, to the north of the freeway, but they are not generally incorporated into the county or the state or the country in the same way. The roads in Nestor do not look like the roads in Torrey Pines, neither do the public schools or job markets or emergency services. And there is a broader disconnect between those who live north of the 8 and those who are south. For many people north of the freeway, going south means tacos at El Gordo or surfing the slews at Imperial Beach, special trips to special places outside the quotidian.
Otherwise, the band of land between the 8 and the international line has, historically, functioned more like a U.S.-controlled buffer zone between the two countries. Congress allocated $20 million for the prototypes to go up south of the 8 Freeway, but the federal government hasn''t finished perusing all the bids for the job. The process was supposed to move faster: it is August of 2017 and the Department of Homeland Security originally scheduled contracts to be awarded two months ago--by June 14, with construction to start "eight days later." Those dates passed without so much as a cement mixer showing up. The revised timeline is increasingly unrealistic: completion by next month. There is no barricade on Enrico Fermi yet, no fencing around the construction site.
The rocky drive across the desert is ill advised in my budget rental but still I risk it regularly, parking near the spot where the secondary fence comes to a sudden end and the empty staging area begins. I sip coffee and wait for action. When I get tired of the quiet and the stillness I work on a list of all the things I''ve ever seen or read about borders and walls--every song and image, every history lesson, story and myth. Two memories from childhood: -- Mister Rogers'' Neighborhood, vintage episode, King Friday builds a wall to fortify his castle. --Memorizing Robert Frost''s "Mending Wall" in the sixth grade: "Something there is that doesn''t love a wall." Every now and then there is action at the construction site but it''s generally subtle, meetings between Border Patrol representatives and the local companies contracted to provide everything from porta potties to chain link fencing. Then one morning, finally, I see a small crew: three men with hammers and a pickup truck full of lumber. They do not wear uniforms, only yellow neon T-shirts and faded jeans; something seems entirely unofficial about them, particularly in anticipation of a major federal government undertaking.
The spot where they work is about a hundred feet to the north of the staging area so something is a little off. They start by getting posts in the ground and use the rest of the lumber to build two basic frames, at least 15 feet tall. When they stop for a break I walk over to ask what they''re up to. I ask in Spanish because they''ve been bantering in Spanish. They don''t respond, either ignoring me or unable--perhaps unwilling--to interpret my mangled Spanish, I can''t tell. I shrink away and turn to look at the Border Patrol agent staked out on the ATV under the shade of a scrub oak about a hundred yards to the north. He is unmoving, slumped over his handlebars. The three men seem to be doing work that is at once rogue and sanctioned.
A couple of days later I return to see what''s become of the frames and now they''re both billboards with identical advertisements: TRUCKNET San Diego''s Only Full Service Truck Stop YARDS AVAILABLE FOR LEASE Truck Net is owned by Roque De La Fuente, as is the land where the new billboards stand. If Aurelia has the closest seat to the prototypes on the Mexican side then it is definitely Roque De La Fuente on the U.S. side. The staging area is trapped between the primary border fence made of corrugated metal and Roque''s 2,000-acre spread of mostly undeveloped desert land. He has the government essentially surrounded at the border and they are well-acquainted neighbors (see various lawsuit briefs2). Roque positioned the billboards perfectly, to be captured as backdrop for the prototypes, anticipating the moment the cameras arrive. Roque knows theater when he sees it.
His global portfolio of commercial properties fluctuates regularly with new acquisitions, new sales, but in California alone Roque currently owns property in twenty-five different cities. He is often on the move, ubiquitous but nowhere to be found. I have been struggling to meet him in person. He is generous with his time on the phone; sometimes we talk for more than an hour, but he remains noncommittal regarding his location on any given day. He is always dashing off to Mexico City or Chile or talking about dashing off to these places--it isn''t easy to discern which. Once, we spoke for an hour and a half and the whole time I thought he might have been in Uruguay but toward the end of the conversation I realized he was in San Diego, downtown getting a pedicure and manicure days before his daughter''s wedding. (It was "give the girl the extra ten"--softly, in the background--that gave him away.) After offering to meet him in various places at various times, I asked what would increase my chances of making it happen.
"Luck," he answered. He easily gives an hour spontaneously but has very real difficulty committing to a specific place at a specific time. He keeps the irregular travel patterns of a person who answers to nobody. Sometimes I randomly stop in at the offices of National Enterprises Inc., the real estate company Roque founded. I''m looking for that luck he spoke of but haven''t caught it yet, though I have had a few minor breakthroughs: on one visit a friendly receptionist phoned Roque to tell him I was looking for him; he sent his regards from Santiago and told the receptionist to give me a tour of the place, which, more or less, doubles as a Roque De La Fuente Museum. There is the cover of the Los Angeles Times with a picture of Roque walking across the Otay Mesa pedestrian border crossing, the first to do so when it opened in 1985. There is a framed picture of a jumbo billboard, Roque2016.
com! , which is still up in the desert near Tecate, long after his unsuccessful run for president. The conference room is adorned with proclamations and resolutions from the State of California and the County of San Diego, all involving Roque, and newspaper clippings, mostly featuring Roque. Also multiple credenzas showcase a couple dozen awards, the majority made of engraved glass, cut into one abstract shape or another. Most of them celebrate hitting certain financing benchmarks: $75 million with this bank, $15 million with that bank. There is enough artwork in the lobby to give it the feel of a gallery, and it continues into the hallways leading to offices. A few paintings--including an oil portrait of Roque''s younger self--but mostly sculptures, standing and hung on the walls, all revealing an acute aesthetic: intensely bronze and very tough guy. The walls of.