Border Photographer:Blending in to Report

Monday, 02 November 2009 04:12

First Impressions

In setting out to see what those who live in border towns think of immigration, and all that is going on in terms of border issues, I hardly expected to find someone who moved out there specifically to immerse himself in the chaos.

Enter Karl W. Hoffman, a 57-year-old photographer, videographer(who recently finished a film which has been four years in the works,"Living on the Border"), journalist, rancher, former jeweler, topless-club bouncer, cop and rugged outlaw persona complete with tattooed biceps, a twirled cartoon-like handle-bar mustache and stories of motorcycle gangs and mafiosa.

His eclectic jobs and life experiences are all parts of what he calls "Karl the Artist", and have prepared him for the challenge of covering life in the Sonoran Desert in Arivaca, Ariz.,which he describes as having "the crime of a city, all the danger of the wilderness, and no law."

Hoffman says his ability to "change hats" is important in covering a town so small, it has one bar, and where animosity between border patrol, human rights organizations and the residents that live there, is rampant.

Despite the fact that there are problems, Hoffman obviously had an idea of what he was getting himself into. He loves small town life on the border, although he misses being able to go camping like he frequently used to in Colorado, where he lived prior to Arizona.

The constant threat of drug violence and theft between residents and those treading through the desert terrain is a daily concern. However, he has a certain air of calm about him, and resists declaring anyone worthy of fear and of putting up walls. While he says that he won't go out where he might be so vulnerable as to be asleep in the desert at night, he has hardly any means of security surrounding his home, a ranch  complete with a 2,000 acre backyard of desert.

Although, when out on his horse shooting photographs, or hiking with his wife, Audrey, they always make sure to carry a pistol.  With telephone lines shaky and a wild-west type atmosphere, the two necessarily and lovingly keep tabs on one another's whereabouts. If one of them is not home within a certain number of minutes of saying they would be, the other will set out, armed, to find the other as quickly as possible.

And they have good reason to do so.

In the thorny brush behind his home, there is a wash through which migrants and drug coyotes regularly walk, says Hoffman.

As Hoffman guided my colleague and me down the path,  looking around was enough to confirm that indeed this is a regularly used route. Strewn with backpacks, water containers, items of clothing, toiletries, and weapons, we walked slightly spooked that people might be nearby.

Most disturbing, especially given that it is within a five minute walking distance to Hoffman’s home is what he described as a “rape tree," where "each act is represented by personal articles hung up to boast to other coyotes." US Border Patrol-Agent Chaplain Jim Stout of the Tucson, Ariz. sector said that a trees like this one are common near  pick-up points. Although, he admits that he has never seen one, only heard of them from women who have been victims.

(A Tucson Citizen article “Border violence increasing in Arizona” February 24, 2009 reported on the issue of these trees in an article detailing a senate panel which discussed border violence.)

Bras and underwear hung from the branches of the tree. A packet of multi-colored birth control sat upon a bed of old backpacks. Hoffman said he had not seen it there when he recently came by.

Passing the tree, I felt an urge to start taking video (albeit with my little Nikon Coolpix camera) of the path where so many have obviously spent their last hour or so of their journey into the US.

Soon they either escape to a friend or relative's house, or are discovered, and sent back to Mexico. Hoffman said that at this point in the journey, many migrants are so tired they decide to give up and surrender to border patrol. They are found sitting on the sides of the road, waving their arms in desperation. This is their only choice to return, he says, as crossing back over the border line, they become lost in a deserted wilderness even greater than exists on the Arizona side, and they are likely to die.

Another half hour to an hour of walking and there was what seemed to be a pickup station, a couple of good hiding trees before the brush lets up and open hillside takes over.

Wondering Why

Listen to Karl W. Hoffman explain why he needed to live on the border to do the best job covering the immigration crisis as possible, and how his life experiences have shaped his desire to photograph and his ability to get the picture and the story.

A Big Persona in  a Small Town

Hoffman has been covered before, like in this July 10, 2008 Tucson Weekly article. His willingness to divulge information as bluntly as possible is refreshing, but is also a detriment to him in such a small town with deep-seeded adversity. The town of Arivaca consists mostly of strongly opposing groups, including “hippies, ex-cops and artists” said one resident, known as Sundance.  Border patrol and drug cartel families are a huge part of the mix as well, according to Hoffman.

“When I first moved here I was told that if you’d ever been to prison you were ok, but if you were ever a cop not so much.”

Of course, Hoffman is a former officer, not to mention an avid NRA supporter. Hoffman's neighbor, a retired police officer as well, often comes over to share town gossip over coffee.

Although Hoffman works at the Co-op across the street occasionally, he and his wife were banned from the only bar in town,the La Gitana Cantina, after a late night vocal rift between them and the owner, according to Hoffman.

It sounded small, simply a fight over the level of voices during a guest music performance. It was likely a final blowup between the remarkably different personas forced to reside within one bar, in one tiny town.

Walking through the doors of the bar is kind of intimidating, like something out of an old west brawl scene. Listed by Esquire Magazine as one of the best bars in the United States, it definately has a rugged feel.

“If La Gitana were in Tucson,[it] would have been shut down years ago,"said Hoffman.

However, during the day, it seemed to be pretty serene. Seated at the bar at 11 a.m. on a Saturday were some self-proclaimed hippies with one word names. A little girl drew on some paper a few feet from a man named Sundance, who beamed while talking about the bar, drinking some beer and watching football.

"This is our community center, even though we have a real one, this is really it," said Sundance.

Another man, Chance, pointed me in the direction of a picture he was in of the old group of commune-dwellers and told me that the animosity between groups in town is nothing new.

"The cops used to come around and knock down our adobe houses," Chance said.

The strong colors of the community, while causing opposition at times, seem to be what make it feel so much like family.

"The whole town watches your kids if you got em,"said Sundance.

He and the bartender nodded and smiled as they talked about how much they love their town and don't even feel the need to carry a gun. Though they did admit they were shaken by some random events, such as the home invasion in May, and were quick to assert that the town, while without a police force, is very protective of one another.

"We're a real nice community, but we watch over each other,"said Sundance. "If anyone is caught being hateful toward a woman or a child, they'll no doubt be strung up by  a tree."

Luckily, despite the fact that he was a cop, the locals seem to have  great deal of respect for Hoffman's photography.

"Have you seen his work?" Sundance asked, "It's some really, I mean really great stuff."

Even with the recognition both locally and nationally, Hoffman has remained focused on  staying low-profile and self funded in an effort to uncover the truth of what is happening at the border.

"Everyong should give something back," he said, "I have had a wonderful life as an artist and this is my gift to future generations."

Written by Samantha Luvisi