The Devils Highway - Luis Alberto Urrea [25]
Mario Castillo Fernandez was a handsome young man of twenty-five. He was in good condition, a hard worker, his only curse poverty. His wife, Irma, was fiercely dedicated to him. Their love was still strong, though they’d been together since their teens. They had two young children, and like Enrique Landeros, Mario was facing school with no prospects for greater income. And, knowing his love for Irma, there would be more children.
Perhaps he could build a better house. Add a room. Send the children to school in good pants, with new backpacks, known as mochilas. Maybe he could buy Irma new furniture. The rumors said he could get to Florida, where it was warm like home. Pick oranges. How bad could that be? He liked oranges. He wasn’t afraid to work. He added his name to the list.
Don Moi drove from town to town, patient, happy. He called Chespiro, his shadowy boss in Hidalgo.
Yes, yes, it’s going well, jefe.
I have them lined up.
Several already. Seven, eight.
Don’t worry, I’ll get more.
3
The Coyote and the Chicken
There are things, unlikely as it seems, that unite the Mexican consular corps and the Border Patrol. In consulates, names of certain Border Patrol officers are spoken with respect, even affection—Ryan Scudder of Tucson is called a gentleman; Mike McGlasson of Yuma is looked on with respect; Ken Smith, at Wellton, is mentioned as a kind of patriarch of the wasteland. The Wellton boys like the Calexico consul and the Yuma consul, and they have a pretty good feeling about the Mexican Beta Group cops, who are the elite agents investigating narco and Coyote crimes on the Mexican side. Aside from that, they seem to see lots of the other Mexicans as communists and thieves.
But the two things that most unify the two sides are each one’s deep distrust of its own government, and each side’s simmering hatred for the human smugglers, the gangsters who call themselves Coyotes.
The sign is printed in black and blue and red on a white banner.
It faces south.
They have spent good money on it.
For the Coyotes Your Needs
Are Only A Business And
They Don’t Care About Your Safety
Or the Safety of Your Family.
DON’T PAY THEM OFF WITH YOUR LIVES!!!
The sign has been posted by the Mexican government at Sasabe, Sonora. It is as absurd a placard as might have been posted by the U.S. government. Policy wonks in Washington, D.C., are as ineffectual as policy wonks in México, D.F.
There is no real border here, just a tattered barbed wire fence, a dusty plain, and some rattling bushes. Walkers face the Brawley Wash and the Sierrita Mountains coming up from Mexico.
Don Moi never bothered with Sasabe. He wasn’t a walker. For Don Moi, the conspiracy was a thing of buses: the Tres Estrellas and Transportes Norte del Pacífico bus lines. Then a quick night tossing and turning in a Sonoita or San Luis or Douglas motel. A wad of colorful Mexican pesos and a nice lunch, and back home on the bus. It was all Playboys and American cigarettes, a tequila and maybe some girls. And so long, boys! I’m going home!
The border was the problem of others.
The Sasabe sign, which many of the walkers can’t read, is the only thing Mexico is doing to try to stop them from crossing. The Mexican army patrols the borderlands, sort of, though nobody can find them, probably because the Coyotes pay the soldiers off. Coyote gangs have more money than the Mexico City sign painters. What do Mexican soldiers care if alambristas (wire-crossers) walk into Arizona? Any one of the soldiers might very well head north himself at some point.
For a while, the Mexican government offered the walkers survival kits with water and snacks, but the uproar from the United States put a stop to that. Americans saw these attempts at life-saving as a combination invitation to invade and complimentary picnic basket. They were further astonished to learn that Mexico City officials put condoms into the boxes. Of course, Mexico City claimed this was a gesture of deep consideration