The Devils Highway - Luis Alberto Urrea [26]
Fifteen hundred walkers a day depart from under the Sasabe sign. The writer Charles Bowden, on a visit to Sasabe in 2003, counted five thousand walkers in one afternoon.
Although our Wellton 26 did not cross at the sign, their trail leads to the region surrounding it. The Lukeville/Organ Pipe border was too busy for them, so they scooted off to the side and tried to backtrack to the Lukeville paths once they were in the United States.
No matter where they entered, they had only to step over a drooping bit of wire fence, or across an invisible line in the dust. Near the legendary crossing at El Saguaro, there is often no fence at all. Along the Devil’s Highway near Tinajas Altas, there is nothing but a dry creek bed and a small sign telling walkers: Y’all better stay out or else we’ll be, like, really really bummed!
Tucson’s newspapers described their entry as having been “somewhere between Yuma and Nogales.” This is a safe bet—a cursory glance at a map will reveal that most of the state lies between Yuma and Nogales. Several accounts say they crossed at a tiny burg called Los Vidrios, not to be confused with the Vidrios Drag.
A woman named Ofelia, or Orelia (depends on who you ask), Alvarado runs a small truck stop at Los Vidrios. Many walkers stop at her store before they cross over. Near Mrs. Alvarado’s store are signs that warn walkers “USA Prohibido!” Walkers see them, scratch their heads, and continue. At best, the signs imply, in bad Spanish:
TO USE IS PROHIBITED!
To use what? The trail? The sign? The desert? Spanish? Nobody, it seems, told the Yanquis who put the signs up that in Mexico, “USA” is spelled “EEUU.”
Mrs. Alvarado never saw the Wellton 26. She told reporters that a young man had gone a few days before they did, and he’d returned, burned black and vomiting blood, after they’d left. He told her God was coming to get him.
So Los Vidrios, as generally reported, was not their crossing point.
Most of the survivors say they crossed at El Papalote. That would be a tiny scatter of wrecks and huts whose name translates as “the kite.” The trail probably led them into the Quitobaquito Hills. These confusions and guesses should suggest why it’s so difficult to enforce immigration law on the border. Of the men confirmed to have survived from the group, none can agree on where, exactly, they entered the United States. Perhaps only one person knew where they were trying to go once they were here, and that was their Coyote.
From El Papalote, it seems like the myth of the big bad border is just a fairy tale. One step, and presto! You’re in the EEUU. Los Estados Unidos. The Yunaites Estaites. There’s nothing there. No helicopters, no trucks, no soldiers. There’s a tarantula, a creosote bush, a couple of beat saguaros dying of dry rot, some scattered bits of trash, old human and coyote turds in the bushes now mummified into little coal nuggets. Nothing.
The smugglers tell the walkers it’s just a day’s walk to their pickup point. If they are crossing into Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, it’s literally a walk in the park. A couple of hours, heading north for Ajo, Arizona. Cold soda pop and a ride to work.
How bad can it be? A day of thirst, some physical struggle—they’ve lived like that all their lives. The place may be alien to them, but the situation feels like home. After all, they tell themselves, America’s a country with a state called Nuevo México. Other states are called Red, Snowy, Mountain, and Flowery; several of them were going to Flowery, and some of the others were going to Northern Caroline to see about making cigarettes. The state of Nuevo México even has a capital city called Holy Faith: Catholicism, New Mexico.
And then there’s the hilarious Chi-Cago. (“Piss.” And, “I Shit.”) It’s funny until they feel the cold of winter.
Illegal entry is the sole reason