We were in Palomas, Mexico, working on a story, and I told reporter Lauren Villagran about a town where most of the immigration stories I use to cover were located; this town called Las Chepas. I was interested to see if the town survived after all the violence and the lack of immigration in the past years. I was introduced to Las Chepas approximately 12 years ago when I met immigrants from all over the southern states of Mexico, many from Veracruz, waiting to board school buses in the main plaza of Palomas for the 16-mile drive west to this small border town. It was in Las Chepas that the immigrants would prepare for their treacherous journey across the border and into the United States.
In late January of 2015 Lauren and myself made our way to Las Chepas. The last time I was there was 2010 and I didn’t know what to expect of this once active border town. Lauren and I were short on time because we were losing daylight. The road from Palomas to Las Chepas is unlit and in years past, rumored to be dangerous for anyone to travel at night. Foot and car traffic was always done during the day. We spoke to one of the original members of the town, Ramon Marquez, and he described how the town arrived at its current vacant condition. He told us it was a combination of violence, town members immigrating to the US, and the decrease of immigrants coming through the town, that caused the economy of the town to dry up. The increased border security at the area made it to difficult for hopeful immigrants to attempt to cross, and they went to other border towns and areas. We left the town that same night but decided one more trip was needed to talk to the remaining people that call Las Chepas home. We returned two weeks later where we met more residents who told us their stories. Lauren’s full story on the change seen in Las Chepas can be read here: Las Chepas: A whisper of life remains. The following are my thoughts and memories of the town back then and now.
Las Chepas was at first glance a sleepy little town, but when you took a closer look it was a town of immigrants hiding, waiting, and planning, in abandoned homes on the outskirts of town. There in those abandoned homes they would leave messages, phone numbers, and names, on the empty walls. Arriving from Palomas on old school buses, so frequently at one point it was hard to count them, the buses would hold 10 to 20 people at a time. Once they got off the buses they immediately headed to several stores in town to buy supplies that would make the trek across the desert mountains more tolerable. Groups of men and women would find a comfortable spot within the courtyard walls of a particular store run by Mr. Rojas. His courtyard contained the only tree on the premises and therefore the only comforting shade as well. Others would talk about their experiences of getting to northern Mexico. On several occasions couples would try to make the journey together. Not all were talkative; some had traveled alone and didn’t want to interact. There was so much for them to contemplate once darkness settled in. Mr. Rojas, the store owner, played traditional Mexican music in the background to lift spirits. Meanwhile, as planning and strategy was being discussed the few remaining border patrol agents were leaving their post and were replaced by the incoming shift. Some took advantage of this shift change to climb the surrounding hills for a better vantage point.
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The dozen or so folks still living in the few standing houses in Las Chepas continue to hang on with pride. But as far as outsiders, Lauren and I were the first strangers the Arreolas had seen in a long time. They seemed eager to talk and reminisce about the old days. As we sat and chatted in their humble living room, I noticed a shrine to the Santo Niño de Atocha (Child Jesus) taking up a great amount of space in the corner. Throughout the time we spent interacting I notice Mr. Arreola either couldn’t or wouldn’t make eye contact with me and I didn’t think much of it until we started to leave and his wife Herlinda took his hand as if to guide him toward the front door. He was almost blind from cataracts. As we drove away I couldn’t help but think of their current lives spent in almost total isolation with the silence only broken by a small bell left in front of the now empty church ringing from a faint wind. I don’t know when I’ll be back. But when I return, I hope someone is still there to recount the memories for what the town once was.
© 2026 Albuquerque Journal
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