Exodus: Border-Crossers Forge a New America
Page 9 of 10
|
|
I met Miguel in a fashionable bar on South Congress in Austin, a strip for hip tourists who ooze money. I was looking at some photos in a book on Juárez, shots of murders and rapes, when a middle–aged guy sitting next to me said, "That's my town." He'd just sold his fine home there, he went on to explain. He'd kept some ranches and things — I felt it wise not to pry — but he was getting out. He thought he'd buy a condo in El Paso for openers. He had two sons in Austin going to college. He was deeply involved in Mexican politics and the names of the elite who run Juárez tripped easily from his lips. One of his family had once sold a ranch to Amado Carrillo–Fuentes, the then–head of the Juárez cartel.
Miguel was part of an invisible flight of middle– and upper–middle–class people who have visas, come across, and then simply do not go home. He said the violence was too much, the economy was too bad, and that there was little hope of change. Like the pollos, he'd made a decision and marched north. But then Miguel was hardly a surprise — the publisher of the Juárez newspaper lives in an El Paso penthouse for safety reasons and also has his children in U.S. universities.
A few days earlier, I was staying at a ranch an hour south of Austin. A local white guy came out to spray the buildings for termites. He'd spent his life in nearby Gonzales, a town of 7,000 where the Texas revolt from Mexico began. He asked me what I was doing there.
I said, "I'm a friend of the owners. I'm down here writing about migrants."
He looked puzzled for a moment and then asked, "When you say migrants, do you mean wetbacks?"
"Yes."
"Well, what do you think we should do?"
"You might as well ask me what I think we should do about hurricanes."
He chewed on that a moment, and then offered, "That's what I think. Nothing can stop them. I've seen guys deported on a Friday and they're back here at work on Monday."
In Mexico
The catholic casa del Migrante Nazareth sits on the Nuevo Laredo bank of the Rio Grande. Men can seek refuge here for three days, women sometimes for six. But these days, the Casa is seldom open for the migrants. The woman who answers the door says come back in five hours when a priest will stop by. For blocks near the Casa, men are sprawled on the sidewalks. She looks out at them and explains they are not migrants and so not her concern. Across the Mexican north a silent battle has been taking place between priests influenced by liberation theology and bishops picked by the increasingly conservative Vatican. Here liberation theology seems to be losing.
Or maybe it is because the men who litter the nearby streets are Central Americans. The minute they step into Mexico they become illegal, and so they have been hunted for days and weeks as they have moved toward the line at Laredo, Texas. As in the United States, governments and charities put the needs of their own people — the Mexicans — over those who've joined them in the flood north.
The migrants slowly come out of the shadows of the street like ghosts. They are from Honduras, Guatemala, El Salvador. They refuse to give their names and insist on giving their stories. One Honduran wears a T–shirt that says "Tommy Boy." He thinks half the population of Honduras has already left. He is New York bound. He believes America is the land of opportunity. "But," he continues, "it is very hard to reach. I work hard in Honduras, but it is difficult to earn anything. If I go to the U.S., then I can build a home in Honduras. I have spent 30 days getting this far, and this cost me $1,500. I have seen others robbed. I have no money left for a coyote. I will try to cross by myself, but it will not be easy because of la migra. I will do anything. But I know nothing but the fields."
As the men speak, more gather. They beg for money for food and I fork over $25. A boy in a Yankees cap says, "I usually work construction. I left home a month ago. I am heading for Los Angeles."
First, he illegally entered Guatemala from Honduras. Then he entered Mexico illegally and boarded the fabled "train of death" where migrants hop freight cars. This part of the trip is very cold, and as a result many cannot hold on to the cars. The boy saw six dead bodies by the tracks. In Empalme Escobedo, Guanajuato, the police appeared on horseback with lariats and roped men around their necks. Some die from this experience. Also, he continues in his soft voice, the taxi drivers are treacherous. They take your money and then dump you by the road in the countryside.
"The U.S.," he believes, "must be better. I'll make enough money to build a little house back home. We are all single. There is no money for marriage. If we are sent back to Honduras — no jobs, no money — how can we survive? When I find enough money for water and food, I'll cross."
On the wall behind the men, someone has spray–painted BAR HONDURAS.
The Rio Grande is maybe half a block away and lush with trees. On the opposite bank are homes in Texas. From the Bar Honduras, they look like mansions. The men sit and stare out. They face a few problems. The local Mexican police control all the routes down to the river and if you do not pay them, they beat or kill you. There is no work in Nuevo Laredo, so their chances of earning money are close to zero. Coyotes charge $1,600 to $2,000 for passage to San Antonio, 150 miles to the north. Houston costs $300 more. The walk to San Antonio is five to six days.
This information comes from Antonio Canales, a man in his late 30s from Juárez — one of two Mexicans hanging around and eyeing the Central Americans. And he speaks with some authority, as he himself guides groups across, up to 15 people at a time. Thousands cross each day, he says, and there are moments when he'll see 200 people in the river. More cross at night. Of course, he says, there is a charge for real service, one that delivers you like a suitcase to some distant point in the United States. A Mexican who pays $2,500 to $3,000 will be put up in a cheap hotel and then led across the Rio Grande to the United States and dropped off at any point. A Central American must pay $4,000 to $5,000 for the same service. Those from South America (mainly Peruvians, Bolivians, and Brazilians) must fork over $10,000 to his organization. The business, he rolls on, is controlled by Mexican Americans, and they seem never to be arrested.
As Canales speaks, the Central Americans sit in silence. Some braid cords so that they can secure one–liter water bottles to their wrists. One fishes out a photograph of himself and says, "I am a tailor." He has an address in Houston and wonders if he can find work there. The air hangs with humidity, the heat is rising, and at times the only sound comes from the buzzing of flies.
Illustration: Harry Campbell
So we got what we deserve