Human life is cheap in the Southwest Desert
Officially, migrant deaths here each year number in the hundreds. Humanitarians who hike this country call those numbers bullshit. They say the desert is haunted by thousands of unfound dead people. Out here, a corpse gets about two weeks, tops. By then, sun and scavengers have sealed the deal.
A handful of rescue volunteers have come across bodies, but everyone has seen the bones. And in a place where mortality crunches underfoot, folks can get a bit touchy.
Take the feds and the humanitarian outfits. They’ve never shared much in the way of mutual adoration. Sure, everyone pledges bonhomie—each appreciates the other’s “tough job” or “dedication” or “good intentions.” But those are just words muttered to reporters. As it happens, the thing keeping them at odds also binds them together: death all around. Death behind that shrub or in that wash, or settled in the shade of that half-buried boulder.
Death is the third partner in a relationship that nobody wants. The humanitarians provide assistance, food and water to migrants. The feds mostly leave them alone to do so.