Across the Wire Read Free Page B

should do it.
“Orale
,” the dude tells you, which means “right on.” You must wait in Colonia Libertad, the most notorious
barrio
in town, ironically named “Liberty.”
    The scene here is baffling. Music blares from radios. Jolly women at smoky taco stands cook food for the journeys, sell jugs of water. You can see the Border Patrol agents cruising the other side of the fence; they trade insults with the locals.
    When the appointed hour comes, you join a group of
pollos
(chickens) who scuttle along behind the
coyote
. You crawl under the wires, or, if you go a mile east, you might be amazed to find that the famous American Border Fence simply stops. To enter the United States, you merely step around the end of it. And you follow your guide into the canyons. You might be startled to find groups of individuals crossing the line without
coyotes
leading them at all. You might wonder how they have mastered the canyons, and you might begin to regret the loss of your money.
    If you have your daughters or mothers or wives with you—or if you are a woman—you become watchful and tense, because rape and gang rape are so common in this darkness as to be utterly unremarkable. If you have any valuables left after your various negotiations, you try to find a sly place to hide them in case you meet
pandilleros
(gang members) or
rateros
(thieves—ratmen). But, really, where can you put anything? Thousands have come before you, and the hiding places are pathetically obvious to robbers: in shoulder bags or clothing rolls, pinned inside clothes, hidden in underwear, inserted in body orifices.
    If the
coyote
does not turn on you suddenly with a gun and take everything from you himself, you might still be attacked by the
rateros
. If the
rateros
don’t get you, there are roving zombiesthat you can smell from fifty yards downwind—these are the junkies who hunt in shambling packs. If the junkies somehow miss you, there are the
pandilleros
—gang-bangers from either side of the border who are looking for some bloody fun. They adore “taking off” illegals because it’s the perfect crime: there is no way they can ever be caught. They are Tijuana
cholos
, or Chicano
vatos
, or Anglo head-bangers.
    Their sense of fun relies heavily on violence. Gang beatings are their preferred sport, though rape in all its forms is common, as always. Often the
coyote
will turn tail and run at the first sight of
pandilleros
. What’s another load of desperate chickens to him? He’s just making a living, taking care of business.
    If he doesn’t run, there is a good chance he will be the first to be assaulted. The most basic punishment these young toughs mete out is a good beating, but they might kill him in front of the
polios
if they feel the immigrants need a lesson in obedience. For good measure, these boys—they are mostly
boys
, aged twelve to nineteen, bored with Super Nintendo and MTV—beat people and slash people and thrash the women they have just finished raping.
    Their most memorable tactic is to hamstring the
coyote
or anyone who dares speak out against them. This entails slicing the muscles in the victim’s legs and leaving him to flop around in the dirt, crippled. If you are in a group of
pollos
that happens to be visited by these furies, you are learning border etiquette.
    Now, say you are lucky enough to evade all these dangers on your journey. Hazards still await you and your family. You might meet white racists, complimenting themselves with the tag “Aryans”; they “patrol” the scrub in combat gear, carrying radios, high-powered flashlights, rifles, and bats. Rattlesnakeshide in bushes—you didn’t count on that complication. Scorpions, tarantulas, black widows. And, of course, there is the Border Patrol
(la migra)
.
    They come over the hills on motorcycles, on horses, in huge Dodge Ramcharger four-wheel drives. They yell, wear frightening goggles, have guns. Sometimes they are surprisingly decent; sometimes they are