Autobiograpy of Ferial, born 1951 in North Africa, raised and educated in rural southern England. Main interests: painting, geography, movement and theatre, landscapes, plants, people, animals, creatures of all kinds. And the Great Unknown. I have always co-existed with the awareness of a spirit world. From an early age there was a strange illumination in the West. Enhanced by T.V. the American continent became a magnet. Music became an obsession-especially Black American and Brazilian music. This increased the pull until after 5 years at art college and a year trying to find a way.I came across the Atlantic and settled in the Southwestern USA.

My main guiding light was a desire for home and hearth although I lived in many different rental situations in 3 different states. In my late 30s I achieved my dream of land ownership in a fairly remote valley straddling the southwestern corner of New Mexico and the southeast corner of Arizona. A dream landscape reminding me of old photos in family albums of places in Baluchistan or Sinai. Where craggy mountains dominates sparsely inhabited valleys. This was friendlier, still a far cry from the gentle verdant contours of southwestern England. It thrilled me in its strange peaceful remoteness. Living at first without water, electricity and phone. Life was a struggle but no less exciting. Hauling water made one aware of usage. Existing in a hot climate without cooling technology (other than damp clothes) became a challenge, a cult of shade as I thought of it began to obsess my mind. I poured over photos of hot climate architecture, tiny latticed windows in thick mud walls, courtyards, the effect of trees planted in groves to create canopies. My terrain is gently a gently sloping alluvial fan between the valley floor and the foothills covered in a low lying thicket of mixed acacia, mainly catclaw and mesquite. Following the example of a few old timers who knew, I started pruning the catclaw, removing all but the main two or three branches from each clump of thorny growth and delighting in the rapid growth that such pruning provoked. In a few years a knee length branch became a shade spreading tree. I envisioned a lacy canopy surrounding my dwelling. In May the acacia blossoms fill the air with a heady scent attracting multitudes of bees of all kinds.

I realized other ambitions in the building of two thick walled mud rooms, the digging of a well, the ownership of a small rugged truck and local work of my choice. This all took many years but brought mostly joy and a good creative outlet. There are challenging aspects, the sheer heat of summers, the presence never to be forgotten or ignored of rattlesnakes and the relentless driving spring winds, blasting sometimes for days at a time, filling the air with dust, leaching all moisture from plants and skin. The summer rains are extraordinary. After weeks of watching the sky for clouds and in June watching the clouds amass above the mountain ranges Before any moisture arrives there is the tension of dry lightening storms which set fire to mountain peaks and turn the landscape at night into Dantes Inferno as the jagged outlines are lit with the orange glow of flames burning out of control. Eventually the clouds burst into torrents of rain relieving everything. Relieving our mood of tension and expectation, relieving each living green plant, releasing the earth locked turtles and setting in motion the courtship and mating cycle of thousands of frogs and toads, filling the night with their chorus of voices. Dry heat becomes humidity and heaviness, the desert becomes swollen with plant growth, roads become mud bogs impassable, large machinery and smaller vehicles become immobilized. Large fissures open up on the ground.

It is never dull. Within one and a half to two months the dryness returns. I was always aware of the Mexican border pulsing, teeming, lively to the south, not too far away. The valleys, bordered by mountains running north and south, like the one I now call home were always corridors. On my first night on my land with barely a jug of water and minimal food as I painted the inside of a small rental trailer, two figures appeared at the window. I've always paid attention to signs especially at key times. In this case the key time was my first night there. The two figures were two men from south of the border. They were ragged and tired and held up a dead rabbit. My fear took control, I refused them anything and watched as they furtively ducked into a nearby wash, looking back several times as they went. (I thought) to make sure there was no one around, no dogs or sign of aggression. It took me several days to see with clarity that those particular individuals were not to be feared and I regretted not giving them a respite from their journey, lighting a fire to cook the rabbit and sharing the jug of water with them. The real message in the encounter was that I'd settled in a corridor for centuries and the feelings on the horizon to the south was that it would become more active still.

It was a gradual development; there passed many months occasionally a year would go by without encounters, but there were always stories from other parts of the valley. There would be polite break-ins for the essentials of food and water and possibly a small note left behind as an apology. I began to use votive candles left burning if I needed to leave my home as a symbol of peace. I learned the value of dogs. When my first two dogs died of old age within a month of each other, for the first time small noises outside of my shelter assumed menacing proportions. One winter night in bed with the window open and my cat beside me, a noise outside made her prick up her ears and listen intently. Within seconds we heard the unmistakable tread of human footsteps passing within twenty feet of home, a procession carrying backpacks or so I imagined from the chinking sound of buckles. I found two more puppies within a short time and once more had the warning system of their barks at night. Humans, coyotes, rattlesnakes, javelinas all provoke barks of varying tones. I've learned to be especially appreciative of the coyote bark which morphs into a yodeling howl. If the coyotes are out it generally means people are not.

I became friends with a man named Cal who lived on the opposite side of the valley, a true individualist, gun enthusiast, living in a spot surrounded by BLM land with a distant view of the other houses from one side only. An old friend of his, Jim, who had been in the employment of the Border Patrol for may years and had by then an exasperation with the agency, its' ineptness, corruption and the frequent changes in strategy as ordered by higher ups in Washington. The Washington people lacked the field experience and knowledge of the terrain and practical measures. Gradually the Border Patrol tactics became known as the funnel effect whereby stretches of the border (mainly Texas and California) were policed to the extent that the flood of people coming across were pushed toward central Arizona and New Mexico. A cruel strategy for people who had no idea what lay ahead, dressed and shod inappropriately, they found themselves in vast regions of desperately hot, dry terrain. A crueler strategy was that of the coyote people, smugglers, content to take large sums of money from families sending one or two members north and then dumping them close to the Mexican border on the USA side- maybe Bisbee or Nogales and telling their charges This is Phoenix. Many people died in atrocious conditions trapped without air in boxcars or trucks.

The desperation grew. The break-ins became more malevolent with gates and doors flung open, livestock lost or damaged, fences cut. The people coming north were referred to as wets or illegals or worst still unidentified aliens all dehumanizing names reducing the impulse to be charitable and regarding the incoming flow as a frightening plundering army instead of desperate people in need. People armed themselves more, put bars on windows and razor fences and got guard dogs. At night sometimes we would hear the rapid fire of machine guns echoing in the mountain canyons.

Not far from Cals home is a large lovely wash funneling out of the eastern range bordering the valley. A wide swath of sand shaded by desert willows, a magical place where I would gather sand by the bucket load for stuccoing my home. I would drive to the big wash on early summer mornings before heat bore down and as I sifted and filled a truckload of 5 gallon buckets I would enjoy the peace and beauty of the place where creatures and birds were abundant and one could see a variety of paw prints in the sand. But the wash had long been a drug runner route- easy to duck out of sight and travel its length south to north toward the destination of I-10. One dawn Cal heard a machine gun fire- we assumed between rival drug groups more litter was left by the travelers; water bottles, paper. I stopped going there alone.

Jim would warn us about upcoming activity You guys are about to be inundated whenever he knew of more aggressive funneling strategies in our area. It usually didnt take long before we experienced the effects.

My world was rocked one afternoon by the sight of a vehicle convoy rumbling down my private road. The road does not connect with another, it dead ends at the corner of my land. The only way to access it from upslope is to cut across country on a privately owned parcel of land catty corner to mine and go through a fence line and cross country onto my road. That first sighting irritated me but I assumed it was a party of locals who had visited someone upslope from me and were taking a shortcut out despite the fact a county maintained road lay in the direction theyd come from. The 2nd day it occurred my irritation grew and by the 3rd day Id made a sign to hang on the fence. NO THROUGH WAY private property! That morning I started up my road toward the fence on which I planned to tie the sign. Before I reached the place I encountered a big black truck. Impatiently I waved the driver to stop. It was a large heavy set Hispanic man with a goatee and shifty eyes. He barely cracked the window and clearly did not want to speak to me. A woman sat beside him. Older, maybe a relation, also shifty eyed and highly nervous. I recognized them both from an encounter a year previously when these two had stopped me on another dirt road and asked if any connecting roads from the highway to a foothills road passed through my subdivision (otherwise uninhabited). At that time I told them no and pointed in the direction of the only connecting road there is to the south. This time once again I told the man he was on the wrong road, this was not a right of way and please use the correct road. He barely mumbled and drove on. I continued up toward the fence theyd come through and when I saw the wires neatly slashed it all became clear. He was a coyote, hed been scoping out the land a year before and was looking for a way to avoid a stretch of highway. At that time Higher Ups in Washington had ordered no off-road searching, only road blocks on the major highways. As only one main highway passes through our valley, north-south, a regular roadblock appeared for several weeks. After my encounter with the big man in the truck, the traffic increased on my road less than 1/8th of a mile from my dwelling. There would be trucks, painted white U-hauls (U-haul lost many vehicles at that time), station wagons, sometimes in a convoy of 5 vehicles- at any time of day or night. At the roadblock I pulled over to report the activity to the Border Patrol. They gathered around me with smirks and barely disguised humor and recommended getting a gun and mean dogs. I pointed out that my road is visible even from the highway but the agents shook their heads. Nothin we can do ma-am and I drove home encountering 2 more illegal trucks on my way. A few weeks later the Higher Ups mustve switched tactics and allowed the off road forays for their agents because 2 polite young men, fresh from the east coast, new recruits came to see me, alerted by a friend who knew of my situation. I showed them the cut fence line and newly made track and they assured me theyd work on getting this stopped. What really stopped things was a flooding summer rainstorm which washed out part of the road and for awhile the encounters slowed down in my immediate neighborhood. The Fear, however, increased. Laws came into effect banning hiring, assisting, sheltering and giving rides to the people coming across. The polarization grew- 2 extremes. I want to help you all I can, give you food, clothes and shelter to Ill blow your fucking head off if step inside my yard. My own memories of travel in Mexico and the generosity of the very poor played into my feelings. After reading Charles Bowdens Down By the River I was left awash with emotion and empathy toward anyone up against such a huge system of corruption and cruelty. The knowledge that cartels moving from Columbia to the Mexican border, taking over rural areas of heartbreaking beauty and forcing the countrys inhabitants into their service on threat of death only increased my feelings. At one instance I declared to myself that I would refuse no one help within reason. It became almost common for southern travelers to approach houses and beg for a phone call to Phoenix- numbers scrawled on fragments of paper of supposed safe houses or connections for transport to cities in other states where enclaves of the Hondurans, Guatemalans, El Salvadorians besides Mexicans had grouped together. Two young men came to my door one morning with a scrap of [a[er. I tried the number for them and it had been disconnected. All I could do is give them food and water and point them in the right direction of I-10. If Id obliged with a ride to Phoenix or even just to I-10 I ran the risk of losing my home and going to prison.

Walking around Cals home and the surrounding land was once a pleasure. After several encounters with groups of young men in dark clothing with hawkish faces heading south my walks became shorter. It became common knowledge that after drug runners drop their loads on I-10 and head south they are especially emboldened in approaching people for food or breaking into houses. If the Border Patrol catches up with them, its a ride back to the border, a few hours of processing paperwork and release back to Mexico.

My inspiration has been the handful of pure souls who resist arming themselves and who thus far avoided harm. Elderly women living alone and maybe past the point of really worrying about the circumstances bearing down on us all.

Now every week there is a story one friend had new clothes and fool stolen last week, and could ill afford the loss. Another friend heard a noise at her door early one morning and realized that someone was trying to enter without knocking. She and her dogs charged out the door taking the 5 intruders by surprise and sending them away racing into the bushes. As they were on their way back south and felt free to plunder on the way. Despite it all, I keep extra water bottles in the back of my truck and practice peace in my heart and understanding. But I also frequently sleep in my clothes, know where my shoes, keys, escape routes are and each evening climb up on my roof to check out the land before retiring, locking my door for the first time ever.