The border is closed. Over the chicken wire fence, a protest roars. Loudspeakers fight; roll over the hills of corn growing row by row that sur- round this border town. She’s standing over a grill, a bag of coarse salt, and quartered limes next to her. The sweet smells of sugars caramelizing sit in the air. She keeps the big notes tucked in her bra, a thoroughly modern woman. It’s good for business, this civil unrest. Locals watch the tourists play a game of cards with cornhusks in their hands. One suggests they bribe the officials for a stamp on the pages of their passports. And another says, “That woman, she controls this town.”