From T.J to L.A.

 From Tijuana to Los Angeles

I arrived at the Tijuana airport one cold morning in late October 1977. I had decided to cross the USA border illegally. I was young and fearless. 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 was going to 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 than that.

 
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 looks or demeanor, but in less than ten minutes, somebody asked me if I needed help crossing the border.

 
"Yes, I'm going to Los Angeles. How much do you charge?" he seems to be as young as I am, in his mid-twenties. He looks distrustful and keeps looking over his shoulders.

 
"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 guys at the American Consulate must be really good because they guessed right about my intentions.

 
"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 had more than a dozen bags and boxes there already. My new friend, the recruiter, says they'll bring the bags to L.A. the next day. We'll meet at the bus depot at 8:00 P.M. From there. We'll take a bus to Tecate, a small town a few miles away.

 
I returned to the hotel, not happy about what I just did. I 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 going to Los Angeles, I worked 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."

 
What made me take this drastic decision was the uncertain future. Some co-workers didn't even own a house after 15 years of loyal employment. The job was okay, but only for young single employees.

 
When I arrived at the bus station, the smuggler had gathered about a dozen people more. 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 station, I followed my guide. I had a strange feeling when I saw him walking away by himself. I doubted my next move for a second, but I returned to the bus. By then, all passengers were off the bus and had spread out. They all went different ways. I panicked and returned to where I last saw my 'connection,' but I couldn't see him anywhere.

 
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 place in the mountains. 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 in collateral until I could cash the check in the morning. I was relieved when he agreed because three more taxi drivers were next to 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 missing my sweater already. It was ten minutes before midnight and too cold to think. All I had to trade instead of money was my wristwatch, a Citizen watch I bought during the good times. The recent events pushed my pessimism to center stage.

 
I lost my suitcase, "trustful coyote," and pride. I thought I was smarter than that.

 
Then I went to look for a place to spend the night, a motel, hotel, or whatever. The one I found was probably the worst in town. It was dark, dirty, and ugly. The manager seemed to be an unhappy man; he had to be, working in a place like that. I explained my extreme, dire situation and showed him my check and watch, but he wouldn't take it. I told him I would pay him cash in the morning when the banks were open. 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 got my watch back. Then, I went to find the taxi driver, got my sweater back too, 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 defeated.

 
Immediately, I went out to get my luggage back.

 
I knocked on the door of the apartment unit where I had left my suitcase, and a woman answered the door. Over her shoulder, I could see 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 L. A."

 
"I don't care what you think, this is my bag, and I can tell you what's inside. I'm going to 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 got lost. I'm nervous and desperate, but 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 on my neck because not even fifteen minutes had passed when a guy came to me and asked, "Are you looking for a coyote?"

 
"Yeah, $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."

 
"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 hole at 5:30 in the morning.

 
Going out and having fun is tempting, but I'm restless and know I'll be thinking only about tomorrow's trip. I decided instead to have some rest. 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," etc., and it goes on for hours.

 
Early in the morning, I'm 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 and buy the biggest chicken torta they have 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 kept the bags and met with a dozen more people and one of his partners. They said we were going to take the bus to the city limits. As we travel through the city, I conclude that Tijuana must be the ugliest city in Mexico. I've decided not to get lost again this time, so I walk next to my guide and ask for his name; he says, "We have no names."

 
I can't see any more houses now, and we head to the mountains. Even though it's sunny, it's cold. At the break of dawn, we start to walk for about two hours until we reach the mountains. They said we needed to wait there for the right time. I'm glad I have my sunglasses, another useless luxury (five hundred pesos), about three days' salary of a decent city worker.

 
We all spread out under the trees or bushes to hide from Immigration officers, or "la Migra." I don't understand how fast they fall asleep in a moment like this. We 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 and can see the valley below. Across from the valley in front of me, I can see a road hugging the mountain and a few border patrol vehicles, green vans, and green 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, the trees, with their pale, green leaves full of dirt and not a single flower in sight, just tall-discolored weeds, nothing pleasant to see. God's been relentless with this area. He takes his clouds and rain somewhere else, but I'm sure you can also find beauty in ugliness at times like this.

 
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 believing 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 I have a few minutes of light before it gets completely dark.

 
I can't remember having been so scared in my life. 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 two hundred meters down below in the valley. I knew that I wouldn't be able to see them a minute later. I'm sure of that.

 
Immediately I begin to run like hell. My life is disappearing with the last person in that line. I keep running and running, and then I suddenly stop. Shit! I left my sunglasses, gallon of water, and delicious chicken torta.

 
I turn to see the tree where I fell asleep, and then I look the other way to see the rest of the group. I hesitated only for a fraction of a second; then I continued running towards my "coyote" with no name and my beautiful group. I caught up with them after a few minutes, and believe me. 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 and think and do whatever my group does. And if possible, grab my coyote by the hand.

 
It's dark already; the moon looks beautiful hanging up there, and 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, and then my sweater and jacket on top. But after walking for a couple of hours, I start sweating and remove my coat, sweater, and shirt. And when we stop to rest, everything goes back. After a little break, we walk for at least two more hours.

 
I'm thirsty, tired, and hungry, but mostly thirsty. Some people had run out of water already, and some began drinking water 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 from 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 sleep for a few hours. 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 it's hard to sleep or rest. I keep thinking about my chicken torta and bottle of water, mostly about my torta.

 
Then somebody says, "orale, 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 barbwire. I got up immediately, jumped the wire fence, and was still ahead of them. But at least the rest of them know there's a fence.

 
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.

 
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, dirty and messy. 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, some tortillas, and half a gallon of orange juice. Before I grab anything, the 'coyote' with no name comes from behind and asks, "You have any money?"

 
With a five-dollar bill in my hand, I begin to make a collection from other people. I collected almost forty dollars, and he 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 keeps smiling at Juan, and he seems happy too. Soon mother, daughter, and Juan are walking side by side. I guess what happened between them was some 'voluntary rape' or 'consensual rape'; no harm done. I kept my mouth shut.

 
Here we go again, back to walking. After eating together last night, we don't feel like strangers. Most of us are smiling and talking, finally realizing we have much in common. We left our families and friends to find something better for ourselves. Let's hope God allows it.

 
We're fifteen people in the group, four women and eleven 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 crates full of leaves. It'd be hard to run in the dark. But the landscape is getting greener.

 
Our good luck ends when a helicopter appears over our heads. Suddenly, we spread out to hide under the 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. 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 to each other, 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 uproar settles down, I'm the first to come out. No one's around but me. I'm still free, but I wonder if that's good because I need to figure out where to go. I don't want to get arrested and end up in Tijuana again. Hopeless, for a second, I even consider calling "la Migra" to come and get me.

 
I'm about to cry, full of frustration when I hear somebody whistling. Happiness returns to my soul when I see Juan again. One by one, they begin to reappear, and in the end, we're missing six people. Then, I gave the old man what he had dropped. A five hundred Mexican pesos bill is worth three working days for a city worker but fifteen days or more for him (probably a farm worker). He smiles and hugs me, showing me all his gratitude.

 
That same day we arrived in Los Angeles around midnight. It was the fifteen of October 1977. They dropped us in North Hollywood, only a few blocks from my brother's house. Before Juan left with her future mother-in-law, her daughter, or wife. (I hope) he came to say goodbye and to 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 make an oral agreement. We ask for a service and pay for it, and when they do the job properly, and no human abuse is involved, in my eyes, they're not committing a crime. (Except for what I guess happened between Juan and the girl.) In any case, some of us got lucky with Juan.

 
I never returned to claim my suitcase and boots because I wanted to be a new person. Sometime later, I learned that getting from Tijuana to Los Angeles takes three hours by car. Well, it took me three days through the mountains.

 
My brother went to get me at 5:30 in the morning. At 6:30, we were working hard doing construction work at a new apartment building. Around noon, he went to get us lunch. As I was waiting for him, an American guy began to talk 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 repeat that phrase ever again.

The following week I registered to take English classes at night. I also promised to work hard and save some money to bring my wife and daughter to join me as soon as possible.
 
But under no circumstances will they come through the mountains.
 
 

 
Edmundo Barraza
Visalia, Ca. 09-10-2010