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The sun has just risen. Juana Chavoya, a farmworker from Jalisco, Mexico, makes her way through the painful ground and moist, aromatic plants in a mint field in Tulelake, California. 

Tulelake is a small, rural, remote town with less than a thousand inhabitants, located in the northeast corner of the state of California, in Siskiyou County, just two miles from Oregon. 

Tulelake's economy is based on agriculture, with vast fields of onions, potatoes, mint, lettuce, alfalfa, garlic, strawberries and other fruits and vegetables grown by the hands of Mexican immigrants, who represent 49.81 TP3T of the population; 61.51 TP3T are white. 

Paradoxically, despite the fact that tons of fresh food come from the village, it is very difficult to eat fruit and vegetables; what is grown here is sold far away, in urban centers. 

I follow Juana with camera in hand and the mosquitoes, with their voracious appetite, follow me in droves. They are relentless, the peasants warn me, who have to spray themselves with repellent every morning; “and yet they keep biting us,” says Juan Chavoya, Juana’s husband, smiling.

Tulelake is a town of contrasts. Juana describes it as a “place where people work very hard and earn little money, but at the same time it is very beautiful because of its nature, quiet, ideal for raising children, and where people [the farmers] are united.” 

At noon, during their break, I chat with a group of peasant women in an onion field. They agree with Juana that they like Tulelake “for its nature and for how much the peasant women support each other.”

But the women in the group also stress that life in Tulelake is hard: “You work a lot and earn little.” “Sometimes we feel like we are in a forgotten village, without basic services, without a bank, without pharmacies, without services for people with special needs, without dentists, we are far away from everything.” 

The peasant women usually earn 16 dollars an hour. They say that this is barely enough to cover all their expenses. In addition, they have to save to survive in the winter season, when there is no work. 

But Juana is not discouraged, “and we are going to keep going, because that is what we have come here for, to fight to get ahead, to be a blessing to others and to raise our children,” she says. 

The working season in Tulelake runs from early April to late October. In winter, it snows heavily and most of the rural population is unemployed. Some, like Juana, are lucky enough to work in the few potato packing plants that remain in the area. 

“What are the main problems facing rural women in Tulelake?” I ask a group of women during lunch in an onion field. 

Ema Hernández, who has lived in the town for over forty years, responds quickly and the others nod in agreement: “the heat, the lack of transportation, health services and the fact that the work is temporary.” 

Summer temperatures in Tulelake can be stifling, ranging from 70 to 110 degrees Fahrenheit at midday. “You have to cover yourself well from the sun and drink water constantly,” says Ema. 

“Sometimes all your bones and hands hurt. Sometimes you come home with your feet swollen from the heat. Sometimes you come home thirsty, you sit down in a chair and fall asleep with your mouth open, from exhaustion, and the whole week is the same,” Juana explains. 

Other women, with whom I conducted a focus group, say that recently some workers have fainted while working in the fields, but companies hide the cases and employees are afraid to talk about the issue for fear of workplace reprisals such as dismissal. 

I noticed that rural people in Tulelaka are afraid to talk about some issues, such as labour injustices, which some describe as “conditions of new slavery”. 

Another issue is racism. Kelly Harris, from the organization TEACH- Training, Employment, and Community Help, says that “the Hispanic population has never been respected in this community; they are considered workers, not people.” 

On the other hand, there are still farmers who do not have health services because, despite the expansion of the Medi-Cal program (the state version of Medicaid) In 2024, it already includes undocumented people. There is a fear that requesting this service will count them as a public burden and they will not be able to regularize their immigration status. It should be noted that Media-Cal is not considered a public burden.

Added to this is the lack of medical infrastructure and health personnel. Laura Pérez, director of Early Head Start in Tulelake notes that they only have one clinic and that scheduling appointments can take time. months. "Those needing immediate care must travel 50 miles across the state line to Klamath Falls, Oregon, where doctors may or may not accept Medi-Cal depending on who is on call on a given day.”

Perez adds: “We don’t have a pharmacy. We don’t have transportation. There are no suppliers.”

The upcoming general elections in the United States, particularly the anti-immigrant rhetoric of former president and now presidential candidate Donald Trump, are also a topic of conversation among campesinos. 

“We feel attacked and discriminated against by Donald Trump, because of the way he addresses us, it is very hurtful,” says Juana. 

And contrary to Trump's statements, Juana clarifies: "We pay our taxes, respect the law and support our community. In fact, there are very good American people here and we have a good relationship with them. We feel that we are part of this place, because we are people who come with a clean mind and heart to progress and make this nation grow."

During the day, the streets of Tulekake are empty, giving the impression of a ghost town, especially because of the buildings with broken windows and dusty shops that have already closed, such as a bank and a cinema. 

But at three in the afternoon, farmers arrive on foot and by car to Vallarta Grocery Store Taquería, a Mexican products store that functions as the town's most important community meeting point. 

It opens at six in the morning and at that time some people stop by for a coffee and a Mexican bread before going to the fields. At three, when they finish work, they come to do their shopping and/or send money to Mexico, says Irma Alonso, owner of the place. 

Grocery Store Taqueria does not sell alcohol and is the only store where I found vegetables. The two non-Mexican stores are primarily liquor stores, from what I could tell. 

With the light, warm breeze of the evening coming to an end, the sounds of laughter, shouts of joy and Mexican band music come to me, blending together and fading into the distance. I approach guided by the tubas, trumpets and the party atmosphere. The person being celebrated is Dulce Ibarra, who is turning 15 and celebrating in style. 

I see familiar faces of people who hours before were working in the fields. Tonight, they are wearing their best clothes: cowboy boots, brightly colored shirts, elegant hats and leather belts with flashy buckles.

On the dance floor, with live music, everyone gives their all, dancing just like they do in Mexico: with passion, love, sweat, joy and, sometimes, nostalgia.  

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