Life in Mexico
- Grace Slaven
- 3 minutes ago
- 8 min read
The Rio Grande was only knee-deep.
We stood nervously at the edge of the international border, contemplating the noble river in front of us. Rivers are a big deal to Ohioans. In northern Ohio, the Cuyahoga River represents an environmental redemption story. In the 1950s-70s, the Cuyahoga was so polluted that it caught fire on twelve separate occasions. Now, the restored river winds peacefully through Ohio’s own Cuyahoga Valley National Park. On the southern border of our state, the muddy Ohio River is transected by soaring bridges and traveled by long tugboats. Even moving at highway speeds, our broad river takes about thirty seconds to cross on one of those big bridges. Every second feels momentous. Ohio’s rivers are big, deep, and significant. They hold priceless ecological value in our glacier-carved landscapes. They are highways of commerce. Ohio rivers are a big deal.
But the Rio Grande?
It was small, shallow, and unassuming. Yet, somehow, it seemed more significant than all of Ohio’s rivers combined.
Featured photos: https://photos.app.goo.gl/ceunZDGMQpcdHNf98
February 16th, 2025 - Big Bend Day 3
A spinning grey wheel was our only indicator that the kiosks were functioning. Tyler’s passport dangled from his hand, his smiling photograph oblivious that it had just been scanned by a Border Patrol kiosk. It was stuffy in the small pueblo building. Nearby, a Border Patrol agent perched on a stool, her sharp eyes roving over a handful of American tourists. She had interesting tattoos, I noticed. Still waiting on the spinning wheel of death, I studied her tattoos absently. If I had more presence of mind, I would do better to avoid these mindless moments. It’s not a great idea to stare at a Border Patrol agent while you’re trying to cross the Mexican border, Grace.
A chime sounded from the kiosk. Success! The United States government had deemed that we were harmless tourists. With nervous excitement, we stuffed our passports into our backpacks and headed to the Rio Grande. Just ahead of us, two men carefully carried a long solar panel between them. Their shoulders strained under its weight. Curiously, our gazes followed them as we reached the river. Putting the solar panel down with some relief, the men waved at a red pickup truck on the Mexican shore. A man in the truck waved back. As we watched, he stepped down to the river, pushed a rowboat away from the bank, and then stepped in the water after the boat. He didn’t even bother to get in the boat. Casually, the man sloshed across the Rio Grande, the water barely reaching his knees. The rowboat bobbed affably alongside. Rapid conversation in Spanish followed as the men loaded up the solar panel, floated it across the river, and transferred it to the truck bed. Then, in a cloud of dust, the truck roared off to Boquillas.
Boquillas del Carmen is a tiny Mexican village on the very edge of Big Bend National Park. It is a landlocked region, a tall fence of mountains separating the village from the next Mexican town 150 miles away. Due to its proximity to the Rio Grande, Boquillas has always had a unique relationship with the United States. In the early 1900s, Boquillas straddled the Rio Grande as two separate mining camps, Boquillas of Texas and Boquillas del Carmen. When mining was no longer profitable, Boquillas del Carmen shifted to tourism as their primary source of income. Tourism has kept the village afloat since the 1930s.
Once boasting 2,000-4,000 residents, Boquillas has dwindled down to approximately 200 citizens. Populations plummeted after 9/11-related border closures in 2001, and again during the pandemic restrictions of 2020. Tourism is a fickle way to make a living, and if the tourists aren’t plentiful, your very life could be at risk. Boquillas’ isolation also puts its inhabitants in a tough spot. Most of Mexico is simply out of reach for the low-income residents of Boquillas. If they don’t have the proper documentation, America is out of reach too. The residents of Boquillas must wait, and pray, for enough visitors to keep them afloat. This, too, can be tricky. Big Bend National Park ranks 116th on a list of most-visted American national parks, memorials, and historic sites. In 2025, the park received 568,104 visitors. If only Boquillas could benefit from the 11,527,939 visitors to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park!
Though we research our trips thoroughly, we were lucky to stumble across Boquillas. It was quite the happy accident! Several months before our trip, Tyler and I were together in our kitchen at home, listening to an audiobook while I made supper. At the time, we were working through Leave Only Footprints by Conor Knighton. The charming book detailed the experiences of a CBS correspondent as he traveled to all 63 US National Parks over the course of a single year. Many of his fast-paced trips and jaw-dropping experiences were familiar to us. We found ourselves grinning and nodding our heads along with the stories. When he described Big Bend National Park, we paid attention. What should we expect from the Texas park? We visualized hot, dry mountains and little available water. Instead, he described Boquillas. He described life in a little Mexican town. A jovial old man sang across the Rio as Conor Knighton crossed in the rowboat. The old man proudly showed Knighton around town, making him feel at home amidst the colorful homes and laughing children. Knighton ate lunch at a restaurant called Jose Falcon. While the name sounded vaguely like a Chicago mob (in my opinion), the restaurant Knighton described was full of life and resilience. The restaurant was family-owned, started by Jose Falcon himself in the 1970s. The restaurant became a keystone of Boquillas, the place where people gathered to hang out and enjoy each other’s company. After 9/11, the restaurant fell on hard times. With no tourism to support the town, Jose Falcon’s family left Boquillas to find work elsewhere. The restaurant closed. Yet that wasn’t the end of the Jose Falcon story. In 2013, Jose Falcon’s daughter reopened the restaurant, filling it with life, laughter, and vibrancy once again. Jose Falcon piqued our interest. The restaurant’s story was one of resilience, undying determination, and a loyal connection to one’s familial roots. We wanted to see it for ourselves. That night, we added Boquillas to our itinerary.
Our entry to Boquillas was hilariously lowkey. A small rowboat awaited us on the shore of the Rio Grande. We climbed in carefully, the boat swaying as it balanced on the rocky sand. Another family climbed in behind us. A Mexican man patiently waited in the river, his pants rolled up above the water line. When his boat of actively-sunburning tourists was fully loaded, he wrapped a strong hand around a rope fastened to the stern. He stepped backwards three steps, flipped the boat around to face the Mexican shore, and gave it a shove. With a gravelly rasp, our little rowboat landed in Mexico. I videoed the entire affair. From start to end, our border crossing only took 32 seconds!
We joined a chattering throng of excited families on the Mexican shore of the Rio. A dusty half-mile road lay between us and Boquillas. Most people shouldered their backpacks and took off on foot. I was feeling very extra, so I convinced Tyler to let us ride burros into town instead. To be clear, there was no need to ride the burros into town. It was an easy walk. I just really wanted to say I rode a little donkey into Mexico!
My burro was sweet. She plodded along faithfully, her long ears turned back to listen to me shower her with praise. Tyler’s burro had some serious workplace angst. Tyler’s burro had the motivation of a burnt-out accountant who just survived his last grueling tax season before retirement. Tyler’s burro was so unenergetic that one of the donkey handlers had to walk the entire half mile with us and periodically smack the donkey’s furry rear end with a rope!
As we traveled into Boquillas, it became evident that burros were a key element to the charm of Boquillas tourism. There were just as many burros as people. And why shouldn’t there be? The hardy little animals were well-suited to surviving on the dusty, sparse plants in the desert. Their cute faces and fuzzy ears were an instant tourist attraction. And at $15/person for a ride into town, they were an easy way to earn a little cash to make a living.
Selling wares was another common way to earn a little cash in Boquillas. Little kids ran excitedly to tourists on every new street. In their small hands, they clutched cardboard sheets with homemade bracelets stretched across them. They waved these sheets in the air, smiling, shouting, asking again and again, “Would you like to buy?” One particular girl caught my eye. She stood near a table decorated with clay mugs, wire scorpions, and colorful scarves. She held a cardboard sheet of bracelets in her hands. She was surrounded by brilliant bursts of excited color, but she was serious. She surveyed us over the top of her glasses, her sharp eyes almost severe in their expression. I immediately understood. She was young, but she wasn’t a child. She understood life in Boquillas.
As we wandered the streets, we began to understand life in Boquillas too. Behind the colorful homes and plentiful trinkets, there was a harshness. Rumbling trucks with beds full of military men patrolled the streets. Large guns were held loosely in their hands. A horse stood tethered on the dirt porch of a pueblo home. Litter and trash blew about when the wind kicked up. We stepped inside a single-room grocery store, absent of the long aisles and fluorescent lighting of Walmart. The humble shelves held ingredients for humble living: rice, beans, tomato sauce, powdered coffee creamer, toilet paper. We caught snatches of conversation as we passed local businesses. Two men were discussing a service being held later that day. When asked if he was attending, one man shook his head sadly. He had to keep his store open for tourists. We later understood the conversation when we passed by the open door of a blue church. A row of quiet, sorrowful women slowly filed into the small building. Buried in the deep shadows inside, a coffin was just visible. It was a funeral.
As we ate lunch at Jose Falcons, we thought about what we had seen. Boquillas was a wonderful place, but there was distinct sadness there too. Little boys sat in plastic chairs and held conversations like men. Little girls silently scolded you over their glasses. The adults were kind and friendly, but I thought I detected quiet desperation in their voices too. Stability was a rare commodity in Boquillas. Planning ahead for the future, I realized, was a privilege not everyone had.
We left Boquillas with new experiences and new perspectives. We rode burros into town while little kids chased us with bracelets to sell. We ate goat tacos at Jose Falcons while an old man played music for tips. I took photos of the town and its people while they held a funeral, earned a living, and tried to make ends meet. What was a novelty to me was reality for them.
As I finish this blog post, I’m left with a conflict of emotion. It was a joy to try out someplace new. It was wonderful to gain new perspectives. Yet being a tourist in Boquillas felt somehow exploitative. The keepsakes I purchased directly affected a family’s weekly paycheck. The keepsakes I didn’t purchase had the same effect. Every moment we spent and decisions we made created ripples in the river of commerce for this small town. It was a responsibility I was unprepared for.
I’d return to Boquillas in a heartbeat. I would encourage you to do the same. But I wouldn’t return to Boquillas for myself. Now knowing what I do, I’d go to Boquillas for them.
Read more about Boquillas:
Comments