Category: Non Fiction

I arrived at the Tijuana airport one cold morning in October 1977. I had decided to cross the US border illegally. I was young and fearless, and I was glad I was doing it. I knew it was the perfect time to do it—except for one thing: My wife was seven months pregnant with our first baby. I had a hunch she would be a girl. I even had a name for her already—Michelle.


I’ve never been to this city. The cops at the airport asked me what business I had in their town. I told them, “I’m a tourist.” They ask the same question to all young guys from out of town because they assume they’re trying to cross the border illegally. I felt a little offended. After all, I am Mexican. I could travel anywhere in Mexico. I wanted to answer, “That’s none of your business,” but I knew better.


I rented a room in a decrepit third-class hotel near Downtown. There were dozens of bars everywhere: topless bars, dance halls, and discotheques. A billiard hall caught my eye. I thought it was the perfect place to find a ‘coyote’ (smuggler). I felt safe when I entered the site because I’d spent much time in places like this. I’m sure they can smell my intentions somehow. It could be my appearance or demeanor, but within less than ten minutes, someone asked me if I needed help crossing the border.


“Yes, I’m going to Los Angeles. How much do you charge?” he seemed to be as young as I am, in his mid-twenties. He looks distrustful and keeps looking over his shoulder.


“Two hundred and fifty dollars,” he responded.


“Alright, when do we leave? I’m ready anytime.”


I’ve been planning this trip for months. I even tried to get a tourist visa, but they declined my application. Those individuals at the American Consulate must be very well trained, as they accurately guessed my intentions.


“Do you have any bags?” the recruiter asked.


“Yeah, in my hotel.” I sounded like a tourist with that response.


“Go get them. I’ll wait for you here; hurry up.” Inside the suitcase, I had four changes of my best clothes, and a nice pair of Italian dress boots (imitation, I guess). When I returned, my new ‘friend’ said we must take my bag to an apartment building nearby.


They already had more than a dozen bags and boxes there. My new friend, the recruiter, told me they’ll bring the bags to LA. The next day. We’ll meet at the bus depot at eight tonight. From there, we’ll take a bus to Tecate, a small town a few miles away.


I returned to the hotel, unhappy about what I had just done. I had left all my earthly possessions with a stranger. I felt like a fool, like I had given my stuff away. I thought there must be another way, and I know there is. It’s called a passport or visa. In my case, I have to accept whatever they offer me. My precarious situation wouldn’t allow for any other choices.


Before deciding on this drastic move, I was working in a bank. It was a decent job, better than average. I had recently married; my wife was pregnant with our first baby. Some friends couldn’t believe I would quit such a ‘good job’.


The uncertain future led me to make this drastic decision. Some co-workers didn’t even own a house after 15 years of loyal employment. The job was okay, but it was only suitable for young, single employees. It takes many years to climb the ladder and earn a better salary.


When I arrived at the bus station, the smuggler had gathered about a dozen more people. The packed bus had some people standing in the middle aisle. My only concern was to keep an eye on my ‘coyote’. I had to make sure not to lose him; he was my only connection to my suitcase and destiny.


After we traveled for half an hour, the bus driver stopped, and many people got off. It was completely dark out there. The outline of the nearby mountains was all I could see. I couldn’t figure out where these people were going, but I didn’t care. My guide was still on board.


At the Tecate bus station, I followed my guide. I had a strange feeling when I saw him walking away by himself. I hesitated for a second, but then I got back on the bus. By then, all the passengers had disembarked and spread out. They all went their different ways. I panicked and returned to where I last saw my ‘connection,’ but I couldn’t find him.


I realized too late that I was supposed to go with everyone who got off in the dark. I felt stupid and lost.


I was lucky to find a line of taxicabs in front of the Plaza, less than a block away. I told the driver my story and asked him to take me to that dark mountain place. I felt nervous on our way there because I remembered I had no cash. I had a cashier’s check for $850.00, which was as good as trash in such a ‘dark place’. I found the place a few minutes later, or so I thought.


It looked darker and scarier than before. Even if that was the place, they had at least an hour ahead of me. The taxi driver said, “I wouldn’t dare if I were you. You don’t stand a chance.”


Wise, friendly advice from a person I was about to rip off (not because I wanted to) on our way back, and with my fingers crossed, I began to explain my money dilemma. I showed him the cashier’s check. I offered the sweater I wore as collateral until I could cash the check in the morning. I was relieved when he agreed because three more taxi drivers were beside him.


I didn’t care about the sweater; I knew it was worth more than the taxi fare, but my troubles were not over. I couldn’t return to Tijuana because the buses had stopped running for the night. Besides, I had to deal with the cash problem, and now, to add more issues to my crisis, I had no place to sleep, and it was getting colder by the minute.


Not even ten minutes had passed, and I was already missing my sweater. It was ten minutes before midnight, and the cold made it impossible to think. All I had to trade was my wristwatch— a Citizen watch I had bought during the good times. The recent events have pushed my pessimism to the forefront.


In a short time, I lost my suitcase, my guide, and my pride. I thought I was smarter than that.


Then I went to look for a place to spend the night; any cheap motel would do. The one I found was probably the worst in town. It was dark, dirty, and ugly. The manager seemed bitter and sullen, but anybody would seem that way working in such an environment. I explained my extreme, dire situation and showed him my check and watch, but he wouldn’t take them. I told him I would pay him cash when the banks were open in the morning. The stubborn old man wouldn’t take it until a young man behind him said, “Come on, Dad, let him stay. It’s okay.”


It wasn’t the Hilton, but I was tired, thirsty, and hungry, mostly tired. In the morning, I cashed the check and bought another one for a smaller amount. I went back and retrieved my watch. Then I went to find the taxi driver, retrieved my sweater, and took a bus back to Tijuana, hoping to find my suitcase and Italian boots. And I promised myself never to get lost again.


When I returned to Tijuana, I registered in the same hotel, and when the employee asked, “No suitcase this time, my friend?” I felt sad and defeated.


Immediately, I went out to retrieve my luggage.


I knocked on the door of the apartment unit where I had left my suitcase, and a woman answered. Looking over her shoulder, I saw that all the bags were still there.


I told her my story, and she said, “I don’t think that’s how we do things around here. My instructions are to take all these bags to LA.”


“I don’t care what you think. That is my bag, and I can tell you what’s inside. I will take it, and I don’t want any problems.” Then the lady said, ‘Okay.’


So far, I have lost a day, wasted some money, and gotten lost. I’m nervous and desperate, but it’s no big deal. I’m back to square one. Next, I returned to my favorite place in Tijuana, the pool hall.


I must have a sign hanging from my neck, because not even fifteen minutes had passed when a guy came up to me and asked, “Are you looking for a coyote?”


“Yes, $250.00, right?” I responded.


“No, it’s $300.00.”


“But yesterday was $250.00,” I replied, not believing how inflation inflates so rapidly at the border.


“That was yesterday, man. So, are you interested?”


“Yeah, okay.”


“Do you have any bags?”


We went to an apartment building nearby, and to my surprise, it was the same unit and the same woman as earlier. This time, I didn’t feel like a big dummy. Then, the coyote tells me to meet him outside the pool hall at 5:30 in the morning.


Going out and having fun was tempting, but I’m restless and know I’ll only end up thinking about tomorrow’s trip. I decided to have some rest instead. Tough luck because as soon as I lie down, I hear noises. Headboards hitting against the walls, regular sex talk, like, “Yes, yes, give it to me,” or “Oh, honey, you’re so big.” And it went on for hours.


Early in the morning, I feel glad to see my ‘coyote’ waiting for me, but I try not to show how happy I am to see him.


“Hey,” I say casually.


“Did you eat something? He asks.


“No,” I replied.


“See that lunch truck across the street? Go buy their biggest chicken torta and get a gallon of water, too.”


“But I’m not hungry. Besides, I don’t like chicken tortas.”


“Just go fucking get it! You’ll thank me later.”


Then we went to the apartment where they stored the bags and met with a dozen more people, including another smuggler, who might be the boss. They told us that we would take the bus to the outskirts of town. As we travel through the city, I conclude that Tijuana must be in the top ten ugliest towns in Mexico. I’ve decided not to get lost again, so I walk next to my guide and ask for his name; he responds, “We have no names.”


I can’t see any more houses now, and we’re heading to the mountains. Although it’s sunny, it’s still cold. At the crack of dawn, we start to walk for about two hours until we reach the mountains. They told us we need to wait here for the right time. I’m glad I have my sunglasses, another useless luxury. (I paid five hundred pesos or a hundred dollars) which is about three days’ salary for a decent city worker.


We all spread out under the trees or bushes to hide from the Immigration Officers, or ‘la migra’. I can’t believe how fast most in the group fall asleep in a moment like this. I guess we all have to be alert. We must be able to outrun la migra at any moment. Oh well, I lie down on the ground too. I close my eyes, and I put my sunglasses on. Next to me is my gallon of water and my chicken torta. It feels like a day at the beach.


I’m almost at the top of the hill. I can see the valley below across the valley in front of me, a road hugging the mountain, and a few border patrol vehicles: green vans and pickup trucks lifting dust behind them. I’m sure they can’t see me.


“Hey, you fools over here, ha, ha! I’m invading your country, as you say. Or getting it back, as we say.” I smile as I keep thinking pure nonsense.


I also begin to think about this rugged, arid region, with its trees, their pale, green leaves covered in dirt. Not a single flower in sight, just tall, discolored weeds—nothing pleasant to see. God has forgotten about this area. He takes his clouds and rain somewhere else. I’m sure some people find beauty even in this ugliness.


I wonder if animals see invisible barriers or borders. If the eagle knows that this is Mexico, or if the birds sing in Spanish, or if the pregnant snake crosses the invisible border because she wants American baby snakes. And I comfort myself by thinking that God likes me. He’d rather be here with me than with a thousand church rats. And I continue thinking pure nonsense.


When I opened my eyes and looked around, I couldn’t find anybody around me. I stood up and panicked. Again. Oh fuck, you stupid ass, you did it again. You’re lost! I can tell there are only a few minutes of light left before it gets completely dark.


I can’t remember being as scared as I am now. I know I’m not going to die, but at the moment, I hate myself. I’m shaking, and I’m about to scream. Then, I barely notice a line of people in the distance, far away. It must be about 200 meters down in the valley. I knew I wouldn’t be able to see them a couple of minutes later. I’m sure of that.


Immediately, I began to run like hell. My life was disappearing with the last person in that line. I kept running and running, and then I suddenly stopped. Shit! I left my sunglasses, water bottle, and my delicious chicken torta.


I turned to see the tree where I had fallen asleep and looked the other way to see the rest of the group. I hesitated only for a fraction of a second, then continued running towards my ‘coyote’ without a name and my beautiful group. I caught up with them after a few minutes, and I must admit, I was running faster than ever before.


I promised myself never to get lost again (again) and not to be smart anymore. I need to act, think, and do whatever my group does. And grab my coyote by the hand.


It’s dark already. The moon looks beautiful hanging up there. A million stars start showing up. I take back what I said before; God must be around here, too.


I can tell it’s going to be a cold night. I’m wearing a T-shirt under a long-sleeve shirt, a sweater, and a jacket. However, after walking for a couple of hours, I began to sweat and removed my coat, sweater, and shirt. And when we stop to rest, everything goes back—one by one. After a little break, we walk for at least two more hours.


I’m thirsty, tired, and hungry, but mostly thirsty. Some people had already run out of water, and others began drinking from watering troughs. Excuse me? No way, not me. I’m not doing that. A few more hours pass, and I can’t resist my thirst anymore, and then I start drinking some liquid that’s coming out of a suspicious-looking pipe. It’s dark, and I can’t see. There’s no smell or taste, so it must be water.


The man with no name says that someone in a car will pick us up in a few hours and that we can rest for a while. We’re about a block from the road, lying on the sand, and now it’s colder than before. A man begins to dig a hole in the sand, and we join him. We stay close together, like sardines, to keep warm, but sleeping or resting isn’t easy in this cold. I keep thinking about my chicken torta and bottle of water, mostly about my torta.


Then somebody says, “órale, the car is here. Hurry up, let’s go.” I get up and run faster than anybody until I crash into something invisible and fall on my back. Fuck, it was a line of barbed wire. I got up immediately, jumped the wire fence, and was still ahead of them. At least they know there’s a wire now.


All I want now is to sit down in the front seat of the car. But when I get there, the other ‘coyote’ says, “Not there, pendejo, right here in the back, by the foot of the seat.” I have to do what he says, and the other guys start piling up on me. Some of them have to go in the trunk. It’s a Ford Galaxy 500. At least I’m not cold anymore.


After driving for a while, we stop in a little town or ranch. It’s dark, and I can only see a few houses. We all go into a small house. An oversized, worn-out couch is the only piece of furniture in the room, and it’s dirty and messy. But the place is warm, and everybody’s happy to be indoors.


The smuggler is discussing with two women. I think they’re mother and daughter. The young one must be around fifteen, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. Then, he takes only the young girl into the room with him.


Nobody seems to be in charge of the place. I look in the fridge and find a few eggs, tortillas, and half a gallon of orange juice. Before I grab anything, the ‘coyote’ with no name comes from behind and asks, “Do you have any money?”


With a five-dollar bill in my hand, I began collecting money from others. I collected almost forty dollars, and the guide sent somebody to get more eggs, tortillas, and juice. That night, we had a great banquet. After we finished, I asked the coyote for his name again, and he said, “You can call me Juan.”


In the morning, Juan announces, “One more day, and we’ll be in Los Angeles. We need to walk a little more.” We know that a little more means most of the day. Now, everybody’s carrying water, including me.


The teenage girl smiles at Juan, who also appears happy. Soon, the mother, daughter, and Juan walk side by side. I guess what happened between them was some kind of ‘voluntary rape’ or ‘consensual rape’. No harm done, I think. I keep my mouth shut—a crime within a crime, within a crime. The world keeps turning.


Here we go again, back to walking. After eating together last night, we don’t feel like strangers. Most of us smile and talk, realizing we have a great deal in common. We left our families and friends to find something better for ourselves. Let’s hope God allows it.


The group consists of 15 people: 4 women and 11 men. The youngest is probably fifteen (and in the process of getting pregnant), and the oldest is a man in his early sixties.


Today’s a nice day in many ways. It’s not too cold. We’re not hungry or thirsty. We’re a friendly group getting close to our destination.


The ground is uneven, with holes everywhere. They seem like craters full of dry leaves. It’d be hard to run in the dark. But the landscape is getting greener.


Our good luck ends when a helicopter appears overhead. Suddenly, we scattered, hiding under bushes and behind trees. The old man drops something, and I catch it just before I hide in a deep hole in the ground and cover my entire body with dry leaves. We hear vehicles getting closer and dogs barking. I stay put under the leaves in my hiding place.


My heart beats so hard that I’m afraid INS agents can hear it. I feel like an ostrich hiding under the ground with my eyes closed. Then I hear two agents talking. They’re so close to me that their dog begins to lick my nose, and I’m about to sneeze. Then somebody calls them, and they leave.

When the commotion subsides, I’m the first to appear. I don’t see anyone else around me, and I need to decide what my next step is. I don’t want to get arrested and end up in Tijuana again. Feeling hopeless, for a second, I even consider calling la migra to come and get me. Full of frustration, I’m about to cry when I hear somebody whistling. Happiness returns to my soul when I see Juan again. They reappear one by one. In the end, we’re missing six people.

Then, I gave the old man what he dropped, a five-hundred-Mexican-peso bill. Worth three working days for a city worker, or fifteen for him. (probably a farm worker) He smiles and hugs me, showing me all his gratitude.

On October 15, 1977, we arrived in Los Angeles around midnight. They dropped us off in North Hollywood, only a few blocks away from my brother’s house. Before Juan left with his future mother-in-law and daughter, he came to say goodbye and wish me good luck.

Sometimes, smugglers are caught and sent to prison, accused of kidnapping, false imprisonment, human trafficking, etc. I’m sure some of them are mean bastards. But we made an oral agreement. We ask for a service and pay for it; when they do their job correctly, and no human abuse is involved, in my opinion, they are not committing a crime. (Except for what I guess happened between Juan and the girl.) In any case, some of us get lucky and arrive safe and sound.

I never returned to claim my suitcase and boots because I wanted to start anew. Sometime later, I learned that driving from Tijuana to Los Angeles takes three hours. It took me three days to travel through the mountains.

My brother went to get me at 5:30 in the morning. By 6:30, we were working hard on construction work at a new apartment building. Around noon, he went to get us lunch. As I was waiting for him, an American guy started talking to me, and, of course, I didn’t understand anything he said. I told him, “Sorry, I don’t speak English,” and he left. I immediately regretted it and promised myself not to use that phrase again.

The following week, I enrolled in English classes at night. I also promised to work hard and save some money to bring my wife and baby to join me as soon as possible.

But under no circumstances will they come through the mountains.

Edmundo Barraza

Visalia, CA.

Sept-2010