My simulated crossing of the US-Mexican border has further increased my respect for illegal immigrants

On my three-week North American road trip I’ve been following the build-up to the first United States election primary in Iowa like the political junkie I am. It’s quite the spectacle, with the undisputed star and panto-baddie of the piece being Donald Trump.

On the day of the primary itself, I arrived in Mexico and drove out into the middle of nowhere so was unable to follow the live results. Mind you, I had other things to worry about. I had signed up to take part in a simulated illegal crossing of the US-Mexican border. This “Dark Tourist” attraction was led by a couple of ex “coyotes”, or people smugglers, that wore balaclavas and were not messing about.

We set off at 8pm, swapping the comforting lights of the village for the ominous blackness of the countryside. Soon we were walking in single file, unable even to see the person in front, reliant on the sharp, whispered commands of our lead coyote. Fifteen minutes into the caminata, two police jeeps burst through bushes and started to chase us. Sirens blared, spotlights ducked and dived, and the unnerving sound of gunfire echoed in the hills above us.

We all dived for cover, lying prone in a soggy ditch until the patrol moved on. After another hour of blind hiking we were ambushed by a group of brigands wielding baseball bats who proceeded to drag people out of our group and rough them up. I kept myself flat to the floor and tried to stay hidden – until I spotted the tarantula… I have a serious spider phobia. I leapt to my feet, screaming, and began to run away. One of the brigands knocked me to the ground. Then the border patrol reappeared, and the brigands fled.

There were more gunshots and suddenly we were all running again. I ran straight into a cactus that punctured my skin in about 100 places but I was so pumped on adrenalin I didn’t even cry out. We crawled through a long, wet tunnel only to spot a gang of angry locals with torches. On and on this went for four, maybe five hours, until finally we were told we had crossed the border.

We clambered into a van that drove fast with no lights. When it stopped we were blindfolded and frog-marched down a long hill. By now, I was in a state of total confusion and couldn’t quite take in the scene once my blindfold was taken off. The whole village of “cast” members was there. The steep canyon that we stood in was lit up by hundreds of flaming torches, each representing someone who had died while crossing the border. It was an emotional end to an eye-opening experience.

The next day, I managed to get online and learned that Ted Cruz had defeated Trump, the blowhard. It was fabulous news on my first morning in “America”. I have the utmost respect for people who are prepared to risk everything, including their lives, to make a better life for themselves – something Trump, who inherited everything, has never had to do.