Borderline Bigots

Each year hundreds of thousands of optimistic South and Central Americans travel north to see whether things might be less crappy for them in the United States. The problem is they have to cross Mexico to get there. And Mexico is riddled with inhospitable local authorities and migrants who are as eager as they are possessive of the American passage. Both groups treat Southern transients the same way US authorities treat illegal Mexican aliens: like human refuse. I wanted to witness and document just how bad things are for South and Central Americans, so I caught up with a group of Guatemalan chapines and Honduran catrachos in Chiapas, near Mexico’s southern border, as they made their way up to the States. It’s a prime spot to observe. In broad daylight you can witness legions prancing over the increasingly defined line that divides one country from another. I soon saw that immigrants have two options northward: riding a bus or hopping a train. Either way, Mexicans with machine guns and shitty attitudes await them.

If you are an illegal immigrant riding a bus, known as a tijuanero, across the border, you’ll need to be ready to talk your way through numerous police checkpoints. Rides cost about $80 and take travelers from the south of Mexico to the primary crossing hubs of the northern frontier. The idea is to blend with the Mexican crowd to ensure safe passage.

Mexican immigration officers frequently stop Central and South Americans for a special brand of abuse and hassle, and travelers without proper documentation must rely on their inner Mexicality to dodge deportation. To prove their citizenship, they are required to complete tasks like singing the national anthem and answering historical and regional questions. Here, an official questions an immigrant from Guatemala.

A common misconception about immigrants of any sort is that destitution drives them from their native country. But in Mexico, even if immigrants are brave enough to attempt the treacherous passage without help from the coyotes, they still need plenty of cash for food, bribing local police, and extortion-happy drug dealers, or Zetas.

In broad daylight and yards away from the border-inspection point, dozens of people cross the Suchiate River, which divides Mexico from Guatemala. Yes, that is a baby in that teen’s lap. Good times.

One morning I met a group of immigrants scoping out potential trains to jump. After hours of looking for a place hidden from the view of the border patrol, we found a shaded spot and relaxed for a bit. The travelers talked about what it was like to live in Honduras and the daredevil act of entering and exiting Mexican trains. Suddenly, we heard a whistle. Everybody went silent and prepared for a sprint to the rails.

Travelers grabbed their backpacks and tied five-liter water containers to their pants. The mood was tense. Everyone remained hidden until the conductor’s car passed, and then, a few moments later, they started to run and jump aboard—women and children first.

Some didn’t make it onto the train, but those who did smiled in relief as they waved goodbye. Their trip, however, was far from over. These are cargo trains, so passengers must climb to the rooftops or tie themselves to the stairs so they don’t fall overboard while sleeping. They also have to be mindful of the metal, which can get so hot that you can fry an egg on it or so cold that it causes hypothermia.

There’s an immigrant house in Saltillo known as Casa Belén, where I spent time with various South and Central American immigrants. They told unnerving stories about the hardships of their travels involving the Zetas, rape and physical abuse at the hands of Mexican authorities, and armed thieves. There are many of these impromptu crash pads throughout the country where travelers can rest, sleep, eat, and even take a shower after days of traveling on cargo trains. Few, if any, have the blessing of local Mexicans.

Most undocumented immigrants travel in groups that are constantly adding and losing members. Solidarity and safety in numbers are fundamental to achieving their goal of arriving safely in the States without getting robbed, deported, or killed.

Later I met Ester, a Honduran immigrant who lost her legs while trying to catch a train. I asked her what had happened: “All my dreams are lost now. Sometimes I just can’t take it anymore and wish I were dead because of everything that has happened to me. Everything went downhill when I lost $300—the only money I had. I went from train to train for 15 days, and when I got to Tierra Blanca I phoned my mom and told her I’d call when I got further. Two days later, I phoned her again: ‘Mom, I lost my legs. I fell from the train. I know I’m still alive and I can hear you and my son, but it’s tough being here.’”