In April 1994 I came to the United States from El Salvador. I came with three other young women and a coyotea border-crossing guide for undocumented migrants. We made the trip from El Salvador, through Guatemala and Mexico, by car, taxi, bus, truck, bicycle and a pedaled cart we called a tricycle. For the entire length of the trip, from the first time I crossed the border separating Guatemala and Mexico to the point where I was alone and afraid in a strange taxi taking me from Kennedy Airport to a small town in upstate New York, I tried to dress, talk and act like a Mexican. I had never thought much about the difference between Salvadorans and Mexicans, and I am still not sure there is one, but I know that pretending to be a Mexican got me where I am today and might have even saved my life.
My childhood friend María Eugenia lent me the money for the trip. Just before Christmas, 1993, after ten years in the United States, she had paid a visit to our hometown, Santa Ana. I was then in my early twenties, with no real work and no prospects in my own country. My older brother had been killed in the civil war, and most of the rest of my family had lost what little they ever had during the conflict. I was taking care of my older sisters seven children at the time of María Eugenias visit, and every time she and I went out together I brought all my little nephews and nieces along. I told her how desperate I was to leave and, without promising anything, she said she would try to help me. I didnt realize how quickly that help would come; three months later she sent me $1,000 dollars for my trip. When I got to the United States, she lent me almost $2,000 more, $1,500 for the coyote and $400 to pay two Dominican taxi drivers who drove me from Kennedy Airport to her house 90 miles upstate.
The coyotes name was Don Pablo, I had met him through a friend whose sister had left for the north three months before. She told me Don Pablo was an honorable man, worthy of confidence; that he had been taking people to the United States for years, but was thinking of retiring because the work was getting harder and less profitable. She arranged for me to meet him and it turned out he was willing to take another trip. He told me about the way he worked; that he always took very few passengers, a minimum of two and as many as seven. He explained to me how the trips were planned. He said it would cost me $2,500 dollars$1,000 upon leaving El Salvador and the balance upon arriving in the United States, and that the fee included the right of three attempts to enter the United States in case I was turned back. After we reached an agreement, we got together three times to talk about the trip and to plan our departure.
Our first attempt was a failure. We crossed Guatemala and got as far as an immigration checkpoint in southern Mexico where Don Pablos 16-year-old niece was detained by border police. Don Pablo had put me up in a popular hotel in Villa Flores, Chiapas, but after an anxious two days of waitingand praying in a local evangelical church whose members invited me to stay with themthe three of us were deported to El Salvador.
We recruited three new travelers to cover Don Pablos coststhe disheartened niece stayed homeand we started out again a month later. This time we were successful; we reached the United States in 15 days.
We set off on April 10. Our first problem arose on the El Salvador-Guatemala border. We went in pairs, a little spread apart. Three of us entered Guatemala, but they detained my friend Tere. I felt terrible because Don Pablo had put her in my care. I had left my country with great strength and with faith in God and myself. I told myself I was on this road with the permission of God. I was an evangelical Christian then and the night before I left I went to my church and a prophet prayed for all of us, as always. But that night I was praying with my eyes closed and I suddenly felt hands upon my head and a voice said: Look, I will keep you from evil! Pray for the envious ones and pray because the devil wants to snatch you up. Look that he who proposes marriage is not your husband. It will be another. Pray for him who smiles from far away. The prayer ended and I felt strong.
With that confidence, I took Teres hand and went into the Guatemalan immigration office to ask for a permit to enter the country. I became furious when they asked me for a Salvadoran migration permit. I told them I frequently went to shop on the border and no one had ever asked me for a permit before. We left the office and the policeman who had detained Tere approached us and asked us for money to let us through. I became even more angry and decided to return to the Salvadoran migration office which was only about 15 yards away. There I met the coyote. He gave me the money and I got the permits from both migration offices. It was about six in the morning.
We crossed into Guatemala and the five of us boarded a bus to Guatemala City. In Guatemala City we took another bus to a town called Coatepeque. We got to Coatepeque at about midnight. We slept in a small hotel and left early in the morning for a small town near the river that separates Guatemala from Mexico.
That night we barely slept, thinking of how we were going to cross the river into Mexico and even how we would be dressed. We had brought enough clothing to always be cleanly dressed, to not look like pollas, which is what they call the immigrants who travel these roads. As the coyote gave us instruction for the crossing into Mexico, we made little jokes and talked about our motives for trying to go to the United States.
One of the women, Betty, was going because her husband had sent for her. He had left for the United States three years ago and she had not seen him since. She cried when she told us her story. She had left two children in El Salvador. Another companion, Carmen, told us she was going because her husband abused her and she was simply running away. He hit her and was a big womanizer and an irresponsible drunk. She had also left her children behind. The other, my constant traveling companion, was Tere, at 18 the youngest of us all. She was sent for by her sister, and also left a two-year-old baby behind. But of the three, she was the most certain that she had left her baby in good hands, with its grandmother.
I was going further than they were and it almost seemed ridiculous to tell them about it. I was going to join my childhood friend in New York State to start a new life. I had loved María Eugenia and her three children like my own family. Before starting out I put a picture of the two of us in my suitcase. It was a recent picture, taken just a few months before on her visit to El Salvador. On the road, whenever I felt afraid of what lay ahead, or when what lay ahead just seemed interminable, I looked at this picture of the two of us and thought of what our reunion would be like: It would be at the airport in New York; we would embrace and her children would be calling me Tía, Tía.
The night before we crossed into Mexico, Don Pablo told us that we would travel to the river on tricycles that were very common in the area. We were now so far away from our country, and these tricyclesreally big three-wheeled cartswere so strange to us that riding them seemed like a great joke. When we finally found ourselves riding the three-wheelersthe driver seated over the back wheel, two passengers upfrontwe had to struggle to keep from laughing.
Our two three-wheelers kept a certain distance from each other. Tere and I went behind; the coyote, Betty and Carmen ahead. They crossed without a problem, but some Mexican border guards detained Tere and me near the river. They told us that if we handed over the coyote they would let us cross. They had seen the coyote waiting for us on the other side of the river, but we said we were traveling alone. Then they asked us for money. I said we had none, because they were asking for a lot, more than we had. I felt frustrated and full of worry because I didnt want to be deported a second time.
Now I faced the guards with my mind completely empty. Tere and I looked at one another and the border guards did the same. At once I felt secure and words came into my mouth. I offered them the money the coyote had put in my hand saying, This is all the money I have, taking it out of my purse. But they did not want to take it since it was so little. Please let us pass, I begged them. We know how dangerous it is to try to go to the United States, and we wouldnt do it if the situation were not so bad in our country.
One of the guards asked us where we were from: If you tell us where you are from we will let you pass. I told them we were from El Salvador, that the war had recently ended and that there was no work. I know that you know poverty as much as we do. I know this isnt very much money, but take it and let us pass. I could see how their faces changed when they heard what I said, and they began to joke: Yes, and when you come back here in your big new cars you wont be paying us any attention at all.
I said: OK, then give us your names and thats how we will remember you. They remained silent. Havent you ever done an act of charity? Dont we all, at some time or another, need the kindness of others? Now its the two of us; tomorrow it might be you. God sees everything and forgets nothing. At that, the guard said Go ahead, and he stretched out his hand for the money.
Tere and I went ahead. We crossed the river, found our companions, and with a great deal of caution, walked until we came to a small farm not far from the river. In the house lived a single mother with five children who helped the coyote with information about the situation in town. I felt strange in this place. I had always thought my world was the only one that existed and thinking about other lands was like thinking about other planets. Everything else seemed infinitely distant, but there I was, beginning to cross Mexico. My companions and I sat behind the door, full of fear. The woman of the farm prepared us food and coffee.
We left there, and just a few steps from the ranch, some men awaited us with other tricycles. We rode across town until we arrived at a house where we changed clothes to look more like mestizas from Chiapas. A car and a pickup were ready, but the men, remembering that just a month ago the coyotes niece had been arrested while riding in that same car, only took us to a nearby road where we could take a bus. They told us not to sit together and they followed in their car. On the way to a town where we would have to pass another immigration checkpoint, the bus was detained and two Federal policemen got on to look for illegals. When they boarded the bus, they looked at me and then continued to the back of the bus, reviewing the passengers. One of them stopped in front of me a second time. He asked me for identification. I said nothing to keep from giving away my accent. I tried to open my canvas purse but it was tied very tightly and fortunately the policeman couldnt wait and he left the bus, indicating to the driver to continue on. Perhaps my new clothes saved me.
We arrived at a village called La Arrozera, the site of the immigration checkpoint. We got off the bus and the coyotes helpers were there. One of them came up to me and nervously gave me a piece of paper with some instructions, and he also gave me some coins and told me to take a taxi to this place. We took a taxi, but when I read the instructions on the paper to the driver, he asked if we had documents. I dont want to have any problems with immigration, he said.
I said, then let us out here. And he said No, because I left other passengers behind in order to take you.
But thats no problem, I said. Here take this money for the trip.
You are pollas, he said, and I am going to turn you in. And he refused to let us out. But when he stopped for a red light I shouted to my companions, Quick, lets get out of here. I threw the money at the driver and he said, Im going to turn you in anyhow, but I heard those words from far away because the moment we left the taxi I saw the white car of the men who had given us that paper and I shouted to my friends: Get in the white car!
The men took us to a hotel. When we entered we found Don Pablo waiting for us. We told him what had happened to us. This was precisely where his niece had been arrested last month, and the three of us deported. We drank some juice and we immediately left. On the road we changed plans. The coyote decided that we would stay in the house of an old friend of his, Agustín.
This time we were careful. We traveled for half an hour and arrived at Agustíns house where they served us supper. It was late and we hadnt eaten anything since very early in the morning. The people who lived in the house were Agustín, his wife, two children, two brothers and mother. We spent the night and planned to leave very early the following day, but the truck in which we were going to travel was filled with sugar cane and wouldnt be available for another two days. We wanted to leave that afternoon by bus but we were afraid of being recognized by the migration authorities at the checkpoint where the coyotes niece had been arrested. So we decided to stay another two nights in order to travel in the truck; the truck had a hidden compartment under the seat in which one person fit, but we thought that Tere and I, both being small and thin, could fit inside together.
It was our second night with the family. At supper, the table was set for 12 people. After dinner we stayed to speak with Agustíns mother. She spoke to us sweetly and encouragingly. She told us some customs and vocabulary of certain parts of Mexico. We tried to learn some of it to hide our origins and even though we laughed at ourselves trying to imitate Mexicans, in the end it worked.
Two days later the truck arrived at five in the morning. Agustíns brothers lifted the seat and Tere and I got in. We couldnt move at all; we were too squeezed together. The truck left rapidly and on the road one of my arms fell asleep. I heard the voice of one of the brothers asking us if everything was all right and I answered that we couldnt take much more of it. He told us to bear up a little longer; that we were almost at the checkpoint. I was right behind Teres back and couldnt hear her breathing. I got frightened and asked if she was OK. With difficulty, she said no. I told her everything would be all right.
I couldnt feel my left arm. I wanted everything to be all right, but being together in that little box with two men seated on top of us was not very agreeable. Then I heard one of the men: We just passed the migra. In a minute we will stop so you can get out.
And so we got out and sat with the men in the cabin of the truck as we continued on the road to Villa Flores, the town where I had once waited for Don Pablos niece. This time we waited at a little cluster of houses for the coyote and our two companions. We waited for a few minutes and I began to get anxious; I couldnt stop thinking of what had happened the first time. I tried not to think any more and thought only of God. After a while a bus stopped and out stepped the coyote and our two friends, and I remembered that he had told us: If we make it to the houses past the checkpoint, we have made it. They came over to us and he said in a low voice: We made it!
From Villa Flores, we made our way through small villages up the Pacific coast through Chiapas and into the state of Oaxaca. We rode second-class buses and combisvans with seating for about ten peoplefrequently separating into two groups, trying not to say anything, trying to blend in as much as possible, trying to stay a step ahead of the Mexican police who were on the lookout for illegal migrants. The coyote told us that once we got to the city of Oaxaca we could take buses that would travel on highways all the way to the U.S. border, and that we would no longer have to worry as much about standing out as foreigners in small Mexican villages. So Oaxaca City was our goal.
On the way to Oaxaca, we passed through a small city called Juchitán. It was there that I realized just how resourceful the coyote was. I also realized just how many people in Mexico earned a living by passing migrants along. Don Pablo found some boys to walk with us from one end of town to the other, where we would get another bus going further north. Again, Tere and I separated from the others and strolled with the boys as sweethearts, dressed in Oaxacan clothing the coyote had gotten for us. As we walked, one of the boys got a little drunk and started really trying to make love to Tere, who looked like she was about to panic and scream. I saw an old well-lit railroad station up ahead and shouted Lets sit there for a while! It seemed to be a romantic spot for strolling couples, but because it was so well-lit, I thought we would be safe. And we were. We were even relieved when two policemen drove slowly by. We talked for a long while, the boys ardor cooled, he remembered his job, and they finally took us to the bus stop where we got the first of two combis the coyote told us to take to Oaxaca.
In Oaxaca, Don Pablo put us on a first-class bus all the way to Mexico City. In all my life I had never seen a bus that luxurious. From Mexico City we took a less luxurious bus all the way to Guadalajara, and from there to Nogales, Sonora, on the Arizona border.
It was at the end of the trip, at the Arizona border and again in New York, that I had to once again try very hard to be a Mexican. When we got to Nogales, we went to a small park while the coyote looked for some people he knew who worked as guides, helping people cross the border. He returned with three boys who would help us cross. They told us that if we were detained not to give our real names but to give names more typical of the region.
We memorized the names. The name I chose was Rosario Marroquín. At ten in the morning we started to cross. We took a bus and in a few minutes we were overlooking a gully on the outskirts of Sonora facing the United States. We were all tense and anxious, carefully observing from above the terrain over which we were going to travel. We four women all embraced, divided into the usual pairs and started our journey.
We were well within the gully when we heard a voice that we couldnt understand but we could imagine what it was all about. We remained silent for what seemed like a long time, without moving, hidden among the thickets, but it was useless. Two Border Patrol officers had seen us and we walked toward them.
From a distance they called to us in Spanish: Are you all right? Have these men hurt you? We responded that we were OK. They handcuffed the three boys. They put us in a Cherokee and drove to a hill on U.S. territoryexactly the hill we were headed for. We were more anxious than ever at that moment because everything depended on whether they believed we were Mexicans; if not we would be deported all the way back to El Salvador. One thing I had told the others before leaving was that if we believed in our Mexican identities, they would believe in us as well, to which my Salvadoran companions responded with a very spirited ándale.
We arrived at the hill. They parked; the men from the Border Patrol opened the doors, remaining seated with their feet on the ground and questioned us in the car. After the questioning, they closed the doors and drove us away. Through all this we had no idea whether or not they believed we were Mexicans. Then they opened the door and let us return to the Mexican side along with the coyote, keeping the three boys in the Cherokee.
We returned to the same place from which we had left. We were ecstatic and we told ourselves: It worked! At the same time we had no idea where to seek refuge. We had the feeling the Mexican police were watching us. We tried to hide ourselves among the stalls of Nogales street vendors, walking the streets among so many people. Finally we came to a church; the doors were open and we went in.
The coyote went to look for the boys again. After the elation of being mistaken for Mexicans, the four of us now felt somewhat defeated. We knelt and prayed. We were finishing our prayers when the coyote came back. We all left the church and returned to the park. There we were reunited with the three boys who had left without any problem. By then we were all hungry, and the boys went to get us some tortillas, avocado, salt and cheese. It was one of the most delicious meals I had ever eaten.
We finished eating, and once again we were ready to leave. We got on the same bus, and we were soon in the same place we had been in before being apprehended by the Border Patrol. We looked over the entire area; it looked like a river of sewage flowing between two small hills, filled with vegetation, some of it dried out, some still green but with very little water, with some small houses on the tops of the hills.
We began the short journey once again. This time we felt more relaxed; our footsteps felt firmer. Halfway to our destination we heard voices again and stopped, hunching down behind a tree. One of the boys and I inched up, peeked around the tree to see better, and saw some childrenmaybe nine or ten years oldup ahead on the same path. We carefully approached them and asked if they knew when the Border Patrol changed shifts. They said it was happening right now; that at the moment there was no vigilance. We asked them if the knew the path to the other side of the hill. They said yes and they offered to guide us. They asked us not to start out until they got a little ways in front of us so that they would not be suspected if anything were to happen. With a gesture, they indicated that we should follow.
We continued walking in pairs, each pair well separated from the next. We crossed streets, neighborhoods and small hills. The children told us to cross the yards around these houses, signalling with their fingers, and they stayed there on top of the last hill. We were in the United States, far from the Border Patrol! There the coyote gave us the instruction to all meet in a McDonalds, and we all split up again.
The coyote left with Carmen and Betty, while Tere and I went with the three boys. We came to a railroad track and a train happened to come along just as Carmen, Betty and the coyote crossed, and we were separated. Again we were anxious, afraid that someone would see us from the train and report us to the police. Finally the train passed and we were able to cross. We walked a few blocks to McDonalds. There we all met, and we went into the bathroom to embrace. We were all excited; we couldnt believe we were thereon the other side and a good distance from the border. We left the bathroom and one of the Mexican boys treated me to a hamburger and a coke. While we ate we tried to relax, but we remained separated.
I saw Don Pablo talking with a tall white man who appeared to be a Mexican-American. And now what? I asked the coyote. He said the man would take us to a city called Phoenix. The coyote then paid the three boys who helped us cross and we said goodbye, divided now into two groups. I got into the front seat of one of the cars, pretending to be the wife of the tall white man. The coyote and Tere got in the back, Tere lay down on the back seat and the coyote lay on the floor, covered with a blanket. The other two women traveled in the other car with two of the coyotes partners. After a long drive we arrived at the house of the tall man in Phoenix.
After a long, worrisome wait, the other car arrived with our two companions. Don Pablo went out to pay the two men who brought them. The coyote told us the tall man would put us up in his house until our relatives or friends wired them the rest of the money. We gave the phone numbers of our friends and relatives to the coyote and he and the tall man began to make the calls. Some of the relatives wanted to speak with us to make sure we were all OK before sending the money. Some were still not convinced that all was well and Don Pablo asked me to speak with them to let them know that he had been magnificent and responsible throughout the trip. Despite my intervention, Teres family never sent the money and Don Pablo ended up driving her to Los Angeles to try to collect from her sisters family. I never found out if he was successful. Bettys husband decided to pick her up personally, which made her quite happy after three years of separation. The tall man drove Carmen and me to the airport; Carmen took a plane to Los Angeles and I got on a plane to New York.
But my much anticipated airport reunion with María Eugenia never happened. She had gotten lost at Kennedy Airport and I found myself all alone at the exit gate. Two men approached me and one said in Spanish: Its too dangerous for you to stay here.
Its not your problem, I responded.
You are illegal, he said. We have a taxi; we can help you.
My sister is meeting me.
If you find her, fine. Otherwise we are here to help.
María Eugenia was nowhere to be found; I was cold, frightened and alone. The men asked me where I was from. You are taxi drivers, I said. Why do you have to know?
Are you from Colombia? one of them asked. I said nothing. They ran down the countries: Peru? Ecuador? El Salvador?… I said nothing. Mexico? I nodded and whispered ándale. I was visibly shivering and one of the taxi drivers lent me his overcoat. I had María Eugenias phone number, and he made the call for me. María Eugenias sister Luisa answered, and he handed me the phone. She told me María Eugenia had gone to the airport hours ago and must be lost. I asked if I should go with the men. She asked to speak to them.
One of the men got on the phone and got directions to the house 90 miles north of the city. He said they would take me there for $400. (I later learned its a $30 trip by car service.) He assured me that everything was OK, but I was as terrified as I had ever been crossing Mexico. I got back on the phone. Luisa told me to be careful but to go. She said the men were thieves but probably reliable; that unless María Eugenia showed up, I had no other choice. She would pay the men when we got to her house. I was frightened throughout the two-hour trip, and at one point considered escaping from the car and running into the upstate hills.
But the men delivered me to my promised land. Luisa paid them the $400 and shortly afterwards, María Eugenia and her children returned from their misadventure at Kennedy. We had pizza for dinner and the children showed me where ITía Anawould be staying.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ana Guillén left El Salvador for the United States in 1994. She received a temporary green card in 1998 and now lives in Brooklyn, NY with her husband and baby daughter. For reasons of confidentiality, the names of her fellow migrants have been changed. Translated from the Spanish by NACLA.
