Category: Alejandro Mena Ortiz

We had no phones; we didn’t know what time it was and we couldn’t open the curtains. I was trying to joke and some people laughed, but we had 17 hours standing ahead of us, tightly packed, with leg cramps and sleepy.

Around 10 in the morning we arrived at the Mexican capital, which is a very impressive city. I was surprised by its sheer size. They took us to a warehouse on the outskirts that did not have even the slightest facilities. There were not only the 130 or 140 who came on that bus, but an additional 60 others arrived.

When I got off, I felt as if I had been hit with a wooden pole on my legs, my spine, my neck, plus my eyes were swollen. I ordered coffee, but they only had what they call “American,” not espresso, which is what I wanted, so I had to settle.

They gave us back our phones and I was able to talk to my family. On the other end of the call, they were crying and getting emotional, but I just told them: “I need to rest, let me rest.” When we got to the bedrooms, we got hit with another bucket of cold water (another nasty surprise): there was a large space and they had thin, dirty, very dirty mattresses on the floor. So much so that I wondered how I was going to sleep there. I was so tired that I finally slept four hours, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I thought then that it was time for a bath, but there were only three bathrooms for more than two hundred people. There were lines for everything: to use the toilets, to bathe with freezing cold water. I was afraid of getting sick, because the children began to run fevers and get diarrhea, and many adults too, so I decided not to bathe. I bought wet wipes and with that, I scoured myself.

I would tell myself: “OK, that’s it, it is what it is, this is not a tourist trip.”

I slept with a sweater on, with the coat that I had bought in Guatemala with a hood, pants with socks, and I covered myself with the blankets that they had given us, but even so, it was not enough and I woke up with cramps. It was extremely cold in that place.

Also, the food was no longer so generous. I didn’t like the Mexican tortillas, which is what they gave us. A little chicken with a tortilla, a little meat with a tortilla, some spaghetti… with a tortilla. And I couldn’t even eat. Luckily, they also had things for sale, so one day I sent for a Burger King Whopper. It was the first time I was going to try the famous Whooper, and when I did, I thought: Wow, incredibly delicious. It’s like the TV commercials or the series on  El Paquete*. I ate it with great pleasure, it settled in my stomach and, at least that day, I ate well.

While we waited to leave, I met a man who lived in Nicaragua, not too bad, but he believed that because of Ortega the whole country was being destroyed and that there was no way back from that situation, so his wife, who spent three months in prison at the border, went first. And now he was going.

I also struck up a conversation with two brothers from Ocotal, although one lived in Managua, who left because one of them got into drug problems and they no longer had anything to do there. One had taken part in the 2018 demonstrations, something similar to what happened in Cuba on July 11^th, and he told me that many people were hoping that Ortega would eventually leave. Since in the end there was no change, he decided to leave because he did not want to live in a dictatorship. And that was the only Nicaraguan I met on the road who said something like that to me. The others didn’t make mention of politics at all. 

I didn’t want to say that I had a fever, because in that case, they would not allow me to leave, but a Honduran noticed: “Hey, are you feeling sick? Do you need something, can I help you?”

I started to feel very sick: I had trouble breathing, I felt pain in my chest. They told us it would be two days, but we had already been there four or five. I even called my cousin in the United States and told him: “I can’t, I don’t think I’ll be able to. This is not normal. There are a lot of people here, it’s very crowded.”

One day I started with a fever and had to buy medicine. We were very afraid that it was COVID, in very crowded conditions, with more than 200 people together, but it turned out to be a stomach infection.

I didn’t want to say that I had a fever, because in that case, they would not allow me to leave, but a Honduran noticed: “Hey, are you feeling sick? Do you need something, can I help you?” I explained to him what was happening to me, but the worst thing was that I was beginning to have a panic attack, and he told me: “Hey, pal, don’t… don’t feel that way, come on right here,” sit like that, lie down here.” And that gave me great encouragement. My attack began to subside – your mind plays tricks on you – and all thanks to this Honduran friend, who I continue to be in touch with today.

One fine day they came and told us that, at dawn, we would leave for Monterrey, without explanations of how it was going to be or anything. I took out the last 250 Mexican pesos I had left and bought medicine, cookies and Electrolytes. They woke us up at 10 that night and took us out in some vans, one of those little buses that can carry around 18 or 20 people. In a place quite close by, on a very dark street, they quickly allowed us to get off, we threw our backpacks in the trunk of the bus and, running, we got in.

That time, I thought we weren’t going to be overcrowded, but I was wrong. More and more people kept coming in, too many. And it was that way the whole trip to Monterrey, 15 horrible hours of travel.

Tomorrow

In Monterrey, each cartel assigns a code to its migrants

*Translator’s note: El Paquete, or The Packet, delivered once a week for $6.50, has become the primary way Cubans receive illegally recorded American media, news and entertainment.

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It was drizzling and we went in there, all wet and muddy from the coming and going of shoes, very dirty, very dark, with very many children

The children played with each other on very thin foam mats and the mothers were desperate. One approached us and told us: “Hey, you have to go in, you can’t stay there” because according to what they said, the migra (Immigration agents) and the Federals were constantly passing by and shouldn’t see anyone outside. But in reality, everyone knows what happens there. Everything I saw in Mexico was too much.

Luckily, the driver took us to his house, which was on the outskirts, and had one of these empty warehouses, so we were the only ones there. His wife was very friendly, she treated us very well. She made us some fried fish and she gave us a drink. They would say to me: “Look, Cuban, try this fruit.” On the farm they had pigs, birds, rabbits, everything. There, I ate fruits that I had never eaten in my life, fruits I didn’t even know existed.

We slept in a bed each, with air conditioning, though I was already beginning to feel the Mexican cold.

The next day was February 14^th, the Day of Love and Friendship, and they had a celebration with streamers and tequila. They gave me beers from Mexico to try and they asked me about Cuba. I wanted to be more discreet there, but I told them a few things. That man belonged to a cartel, according to other migrants, of the Zetas, and God knows what things he must have done, because he had a good position within the cartel. All in all, that man was very sympathetic to the Cuban situation that I was telling him about: he didn’t know anything and he told me that he hoped everything would happen soon, because Cuba must be a beautiful country.

They were planning the route to go to Cancun, because from Palenque they distribute migrants to Villahermosa and to Cancun

That night, three Cubans arrived, two young girls and a young man, who were surprised to find out how quickly I had gotten there. They were planning the route to Cancun, because from Palenque they distribute migrants to Villahermosa and to Cancun. There, they had to board these famous Mexicali flights, from where you cross the border on foot. In other words, there is no river there, they open a small door for you, you cross and you are already in the United States.

The next day, the man calls and tells his wife to get ready, because there are 80 Cubans on the way to the house. And I couldn’t believe it, there was hardly room for 30! But I started organizing with her and I even helped make food for everyone, and they thought I was one of them, and I had to tell them that no, I was just another Cuban.

There, because the world is as small as a handkerchief, I found a person who stood in line at Trimagen, a store in my Havana neighborhood. The man started talking to me.  He used to stand in line holding places for others, for a fee, but that the pandemic… “you know,” and the son was in the US, so he and his wife managed to get money to get out. That entire group, all 80 of them, went by way of the Cancun visa. They protested a lot, because they said that they were treated like cattle and they had paid a lot of money: some about 5,000 dollars, others 7,000 dollars. Each one is different.

I also met three Hondurans there, and I told them the story of Cuba, emphasizing what had happened last year and since Díaz-Canel took over the presidency

I spent four days living practically like a king. Juana took care of me perfectly. I requested what I wanted to eat, and then I told her that I needed a coat, a hat, and gloves, because they had told me that it was very cold further north, especially in Mexico. I gave her 27 bucks and she bought me all of that. I gave her a white shirt, the shirt I left Cuba with. I told her: “Look, I wore this shirt when I left Cuba and I don’t think I’m going to wear it anymore, give it to one of your grandsons.” And she, very grateful, gave me a chocolate and an orange that her son sent.

While I was there, like on the third day, two young women in nurses’ attire came with portable coolers and clipboards and papers, asking who was not vaccinated. They had Moderna vaccines, and Juana was missing the third dose, that is, the booster. “I’m missing the third, can I get it?” she asked them. “Yes, come this way, please sit over there.” And in less than a minute they gave her the dose, and filled out her data… and I kept thinking: “Well, in Cuba, even to get vaccinated you have to stand in line.” She told me that the first few days there was a waiting line to get in, but not anymore. There are many people who have not wanted to be vaccinated, for example Juan and the coyote.

On the fourth day I met two other people: the one who would be my guide, who was called El Gordo (Fatso), and a 17-year-old Honduran girl, Alison, who would come with me to the very border, to the Rio Grande.

At four in the morning, they woke me up and, after cleaning up to leave, they told me that, since I was Cuban, I had to separate myself from the group, to go around a border point before reaching a place called La Técnica, where the Usumacinta River is located, which divides Guatemala from Mexico. Of course, getting charged a lot more than the others. So they put 30 people on a wagon and I went in a car.

They took me to a house about three blocks away, where there was a Cuban in a hammock, and told me to wait with him. I got scared and told myself that something strange was happening, because the guy was a bit mysterious.

According to what he told me, he had lived in Russia for three years and, after falling on bad times, with only the 50 euros that he had arrived with, he began to pick up Cuban tourists at the airport, or those who went there to shop, and set them up in apartments. But then the pandemic came and, since his sister lived in the US, he decided to come here. He explained to me that a Cuban cannot go directly to Nicaragua from Russia, but that he had to return to Cuba. From the same airport in Managua, he had gone directly to Santa Elena, without stopping. He was exhausted.

We were there, talking, when a car came to take us both. The driver also talked a lot with us about Cuba, and he too could not understand how people put up with so much, with so much ruthlessness. The man asked us to carry 20 dollars in our pocket in case the police came, and the trip was very tense. I had to lend the Cuban-Russian the 20 dollars, which he did not have, in case they asked us, because we are Cubans and we have to help each other.

The driver told us: “Take these 100 quetzals. If the policeman says something to you, give them 100 quetzals, and if they want more money, give him the 20 dollars and that’s it. There is no more money and then it’s OK for them to kill you.” He told us, just like that.

Luckily, we only found a small checkpoint and the driver said: “Hello, I have two little boxes here. I’ll give you this. It’s all I have, because there may be more checkpoints ahead, if I give it all to you now, I can’t then give it to the others, and look, it’s just two little boxes”. The policeman told him, “Ok, no problem, go ahead.”

Later, when we were bordering the mountains, we had a motorcycle in front of us that was warning us of where there were policemen or cars, then, we would avoid them by turning on a different block. Although it was quite a harrowing journey, I saw some truly beautiful scenery. The geography of Guatemala, in general, is spectacular. If it hadn’t been for the danger we were in…

In the end, we arrived at a little town with barely three houses, and he stopped the car at a grocery store, which are small stalls that are in front of the houses where they sell everything. We went in and bought some chips, some juice and some soda crackers before continuing. We were very close to La Técnica. 

“Take these 100 quetzals. If the policeman says something to you, give them the 100 quetzals, and if they want more money, give them the 20 dollars and that’s it”

There, a man got out of a thicket and almost scared me to death. This guy explained to us that we had to walk approximately one and a half or two kilometers, but not to worry, there was no slope to climb, that everything was flat, but please, we had to walk as fast as possible. On the other side, a man would be waiting for us on a motorcycle to take us to the wagon where the others were going.

We crossed two pastures with barbed fences and some huge cows. One stared at us and the man told us: “Stay still, because if you run, he will come after you.” Finally, we arrived where the motorcycle was. I had kept the 200 quetzals that I had in my pocket where I keep my cell phone, but I had taken it out to film videos and the bills must have fallen on the road.

When El Gordo asked us for the money, of course, I couldn’t find it. So I had to give him those 20 dollars from before, which the Cuban-Russian had already returned to me, and we got on a little bus that took us down a rather ugly road, through which we arrived at La Técnica. It is a place that might seem touristy, but in reality, it is full of migrants: a good number of those who try to reach the United States cross through there.

We had lunch in that area, in a restaurant on the way down to the river, and immediately a man came and asked us for unlocked phones. There, we changed the phone lines that we brought, mine from Nicaragua and Alison’s from Honduras, to an already configured Telcel line, with mobile data and everything.

There was a great number of Cubans, at least 40 or 50, with two or three guides who seemed to be bull-fighting Cubans, because, as someone in Palenque told me, we are a bit undisciplined.

The tickets to go to Mexico are sold there.  I don’t know how much they cost, because our guide bought them. It is controlled by a cartel that manages the passage of migrants.

Our guide knew them: “Hey, guys! What’s going on? I’ve got two little boxes here.” He paid them and we were able to take one of those boats, like a very large wooden canoe, with an outboard motor.  Then we crossed the river, which had a very strong current.  The landscapes were beautiful and I was able to enjoy them.  We crossed to the other shore without any more incidents.

Tomorrow:

Encounter with Ángel, the gang member who fled from crime____________

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Normally the guides say that if they take us prisoner, they take care of it, but my faith was a bit shaky at that moment. We hadn’t gone back even a kilometer and a huge black truck appeared, with the famous boss. They positioned themselves in the middle and got off. The policeman would point with the machine gun and I thought: “They’re going to shoot each other here and I don’t know what’s going to become of us.”

But they managed to fix the situation by slipping him some dough, which is what Guatemalans call money, and the policeman allowed us to continue, with the black truck in front of us all the way, making way for us. Thus, every time we passed near a patrol car, those in the black truck were there and waved their hands at us to advance.

We arrived at a restaurant in the middle of a town. It was 10 in the morning, too early to eat, but we had to eat. They gave us orange juice, a tortilla, cheese, beans, beef, very tasty, with onions… They told us that wherever we stopped to eat, we should do so, because one never knew when we could do it again later.

We headed out again, and when we reached a river intersection, we parted ways. I was going to Santa Elena and the others were going to a place called El Naranjo, on the border with Mexico, further north, because they were going to Cancun, to sort out the famous fake visas and be able to fly to Mexicali to cross the border. Unfortunately, I haven’t heard anything from them or from Lauren. That was the last place we saw each other. I hope they have arrived safely at their destination.

When we crossed the river, the guide in the black van told me: “Come, Cuban, you’re going the other way.” And then he spoke with a man in a minivan, which was on route to Santa Elena, and he took me with him. I told him: “Hey, are you going to leave me alone?” And he replied: “Don’t worry, if that man hands you over to someone other than the one I’m telling him about, we’ll kill him. Him and his whole family.” He told me just like that.

He gave the man $40 and said: “Listen to what I’m going to tell you: hand him over there, and make sure nothing happens to him. And if it goes well, I’ll have more work for you.” So, the man took me to a little town, one of those typical ones that have many small markets outside the houses – there was such beautiful fruit, melons, oranges, grapes, even strawberries – and I didn’t understand it.

The man took only me, but in the end, about five more people got on board, and I had to ride while hiding my nationality, because, according to what I heard, if they found out you were Cuban, they viewed you with distrust.

Finally, the man left me in Santa Elena. Just before arriving, I contacted the person who had to pick me up and sent him my location via WhatsApp. He was waiting for me, he got in front of the truck and said: “Unload the Cuban,” as if I were a sack of potatoes.

From there, he took me to a motel, a very humble, simple little hotel, but the truth is that those were the few days I was able to rest from the entire trip, which had been quite stressful until then. In fact, I felt very safe in Santa Elena, in Guatemala.

I met Juan and Juana, the manager of the little motel and the cook, a very nice old lady, very friendly. She had lost her husband in the pandemic and she had to sell everything to go live with a son, but she was building a house thanks to the work the manager gave her.

Despite being what he was, because he was a human trafficker, I saw that man help several people in the four days that I was there. The first day I saw a Cuban couple, his name was Yasmani and he was an ambulance worker in Cuba.

On July 11^th, he took to the streets to protest, but afterwards he was so disappointed… The funny thing is that he told me that the next day they were handing out clubs to defend the ambulances’ parking lot, and to beat Cubans on the streets. “But how is this possible?” He told me. So, he came in and said, “Hey, the ambulance is smashed, it can’t go out today.” And he turned around and went home.

“Brother, after what I experienced on July 11^th, the repression, the beatings and those who were imprisoned, I said to myself: “I can’t continue in this country,” he told me. He asked his relatives for help, took out a little money that he had collected from a business and set off for Nicaragua.

They were going to take the girl and him to Los Naranjos first, and then to Cancún and Mexicali. They were charging them $7,000 each, in addition to the ticket. By the way, first they had to travel to Barbados, then to Jamaica, with a stopover in Panama and from there, to Nicaragua. Huge rounds they had to do. I didn’t see them again afterwards, because they left at dawn. And those were the last Cubans I saw in a long time.

Tomorrow:

On the border with Mexico, if you don’t pay the ‘tax’ you get shot

Translated by Norma Whiting
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Throughout the journey, despite being so unpleasant and having mud everywhere, we saw some very beautiful landscapes, with exuberant vegetation, and a river with transparent water. All the Cubans who had been traveling in a now disabled van were washing themselves there.

We didn’t know we had crossed the border until we saw a stone, half covered by vegetation, that indicated it: “Welcome to the Republic of Guatemala”. There, they took us out of the vans and put us in some other smaller, cramped vans. There were almost 200 of us in three vehicles. We arrived at a post where there were many Guatemalan soldiers, with their machine guns, but what they did was open the fence and let us through, no problem.

When we arrived in Morales, they left us in a house on the outskirts that was full – of course – of Cubans. We crowded into the patio of that house, because they told us to please not to stay outside so that the police wouldn’t see us. Inside the house itself, a woman had a table where they sold everything: drinks with electrolytes, to avoid dehydration, soft drinks, water, apples, bananas… A captive audience, we bought some things, although they sold at a fairly expensive price.

The intermediaries that were there said that they would contact the relatives of those who did not have money, so that they could send it to them

Coincidentally, the group of 15 Cubans who had been robbed in Honduras, at the Danlí terminal crossing, was there. Most were from Havana. According to their version, the old man who was driving the van was in cahoots with the assailants, three Hondurans who appeared from the middle of nowhere, at four in the morning, in the dark, with guns that they began shooting into the air, telling everyone to get down from the bus. Then they lined them up and searched them everywhere. They took absolutely everything; they only left them their clothes and coats. Although they had come this far because they had paid for it in advance, they couldn’t continue, because at that point they had to pay more money.

The intermediaries that were there said that they would contact the relatives of those who did not have money, so that they could send them some. At least half fell by the wayside. The rest of us were sent to a small hotel to rest and to continue the next day. They called us by the coyotes’ names. They told us: “Junior’s list, top, money”, for example, although, in many cases, the coyotes already had our money, from the relative who advanced it, so they gave it to us to pay for food and basic things.

From the house in the outskirts to the hotel in Morales, we arrived in something similar to a cocotaxi, whose driver told us: “Do you know that Ricardo Arjona is Guatemalan? I’m going to play a song by him called Mojado, (Wet) because at the end you ‘re going to get wet in the Rio Bravo and this song is about that.” I tell him: “Come on, yes, put it on”. I went with a girl and a guy, and the three of us sang it. There was an emotional moment, because one wonders: “What am I doing here? What am I doing here?” It is a little difficult.

In that hotel there were more Cubans, two from Santiago, with whom I spoke. One of them had the loud voice of a television announcer but multiplied by ten, but it was to make a video call to his daughter and tell her that he might not see her again, because they were going to kill him on the way, and he burst into tears. That made me remember my family, call them and cry too, like them. From Cuba, my wife and my parents encouraged me, told me that everything was fine, although I knew it wasn’t, that their pain of being separated was the same as mine.

That night I was able to sleep, although there were eight of us and there were four beds, two in each. I was also able to bathe, with very cold water, which came directly from a spring.

I brought enough wet wipes from Nicaragua and I began to clean my clothes, my shoes, my backpack, full of mud, as best I could. We were also able to buy water, beer, soft drinks in a small lobby… I spent a dollar on a bottle of apple-flavored water and I didn’t like it. The others bought beer and drank it. I wasn’t in the mood for beer.

Since the food was not that good, someone suggested that we buy some pepperoni pizzas that cost 15 dollars and, since they were very large, we shared them between two. They also brought us three-liter bottles of a carbonated orange soft drink that I loved and drank throughout my stay in Guatemala. Imagine, Little Caesars Pizza… The pizza made our night a happy one; it was a moment like being with family.

Tomorrow:

Scare in Guatemala: they looked at Cubans with distrust

Translated by Norma Whiting
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That also had an impact on politics there. Many Hondurans I met complained about Juan Orlando Hernández, who was recently extradited to the United States, and he told me that they are happy with Xiomara Castro for now, but that “if she started playing funny games, they would remove her.” At the end, when I got on my motorcycle, the man said goodbye to me and said: “Cuban, long live free Cuba!” And he raised a fist at me and tears came to my eyes.

We started to climb mountains, muddy paths, at night, in absolute darkness. We were a 30-motorcycle caravan with 30 Cuban riders. On the way, we also passed five vans, which normally carry at least five people in front and another 15 in bed behind them.

There was an incident on the way, because one of the Cubans fell into a ravine, but he was lucky that both he and the driver got caught in some branches and, with help, managed to get out. The motorcycle was lost, but the Cuban was put on another one and we all arrived safe and sound.

Already in Santa María, the owner of a truck, who had come by a less cumbersome road, said that he was bringing 15 Cubans when three Hondurans assaulted them at gunpoint in the middle of the road and took everything they had. I met those 15 people later, when I arrived in Morales, in Guatemala.  I will tell you more about that a bit later.

There were two yellow buses with just 10 people on them, but many more were waiting to fill the buses. Of course, almost all of them were Cuban, although there were some Nicaraguans and a few Hondurans. We saw each other’s faces and made signs to each other. I said to many: “Free Cuba.” It was very emotional.

The trip to Danlí was pretty smooth, but I had a problem because of a wrong decision I made.

The one who was taking me on a motorcycle had entrusted me to a guide who was taking three Cubans. “Hey, please, take care of this little Cuban. Help him out,” he told the guide, who replied not to worry. I had to continue on that bus, very uncomfortable, by the way, to Tegucigalpa, but the guy told me: “Hey, we’re going to change buses, because we’re very uncomfortable here. It costs five dollars, it’s not much.”

So, we boarded the other vehicle – the number of migrants in that city getting on buses to the capital was amazing – after buying something, a pizza, bread and a hamburger each and a Coca-Cola (all very cheap, like a dollar and a half). Changing buses had not been necessary. At our arrival at a checkpoint called Las Crucitas, we were stopped by two guards, who got on the bus and began to ask everyone for their documents.

– Where are you all from?

– From Cuba.

– Passports?

The man left with the passports, crossed to the station, checked them, came back and told us: “Have a good trip”. Just like that, no more. To this day, I don’t know if they paid for that or if they let us go that easily.

We went through some incredible landscapes, many crops and cattle, and we arrived in Tegucigalpa, a rather gray city. It is very developed, but there they do attack you in a dirt quarter, as we say; they rob you and take everything from you. They tried to take my phone from me when I was taking pictures, but we were able to protect each other.

Something that struck me about Tegucigalpa, something that I had not seen in Nicaragua and even less in Cuba, was the number of begging children. We are not talking about children aged 10 or 12, but of 6 or 7-year-olds. “Please, sir, buy from me, buy from me so I can bring home some water, please buy from me”. Children at that age should not have to work.

Tomorrow: 

Armed Coyotes, powerful Toyotas to cross Honduras

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they maintain uncertainty until the end. Until the plane took off, it was not clear to me that they would not make me disembark.

The vast majority of passengers talked about the same things: where they planned to leave, how much their coyotes charged them, who they would travel with… Nobody around me was going to Nicaragua as their final destination. It was a mass exodus before my eyes.

The treatment was not very good upon arrival in Nicaragua. As soon as I arrived, I was scammed into buying a Claro phone card for $20 that was supposed to have 13 GB of data and unlimited social networks, among other benefits. The next day, I had to recharge it for 100 córdobas, about three dollars.

Observing Managua from the plane, all lit up, shocked me. At the airport and on the way to the hotel, many advertisements, cafes, restaurants. The hotel was nothing to write home about, but it was cozy and had a pool. However, no one was swimming. It is hot in Managua and no Cuban goes swimming, because everyone knows what they are there for.

The first day I went out with a guy I had met and we passed by a gas station. My impression was great when we entered that tiny gas station and saw the immense variety of products they sold: all kinds of gum, chocolates, soft drinks, hotdogs… And that still hadn’t reached Walmart. I can’t even describe here what I felt when I saw all that abundance, all that immense space, with so much and so much merchandise, so varied. I didn’t even know in what direction to walk.

Then I felt very sad. I didn’t understand why we didn’t have these things in my country, why we have to go through so much trouble to buy a piece of frozen chicken or some hamburger meat or some eggs to be able to eat. When I got back to the hotel I talked to my family on WhatsApp and I got a lump in my throat, I felt very powerless to be able to have all that here and that they didn’t have it there.

The coyotes came to pick up many Cubans here during the first day and a half that I was there. I met two of them. One was a medical student in Cienfuegos and he told me that he had to take advantage of the opportunity, because in the third year they are regulated and they cannot leave Cuba. The boy has family abroad and he paid $6,000 to be dropped off at the border. He was nervous and I tried to calm him down by encouraging him.

One was a medical student in Cienfuegos and he told me that he had to take advantage of the opportunity, because in the third year they are regulated and they cannot leave Cuba

The other was named Lazarito, a slightly confused boy, from Havana. His father is in the US and paid for his ticket, in addition to the $7,000 for the coyote. He was even more nervous, because the coyotes had to come pick him up at 6:00 in the morning. They arrived at 8:00 and he finally left with them.

My trip began one day at 6:30 in the morning, when a taxi picked me up and left me at the Managua bus station. There, I boarded a bus to Ocotal, in the north of the country.

It was a very calm trip, very beautiful, the landscapes caught my attention, the fields of Nicaragua are planted, not like those of Cuba. On the way, I talked with Brenda, a 38-year-old Nicaraguan who lives in Ocotal but works in Managua, and she told me that she has three children. She works in the house of a rich man, she told me, taking care of the children, and she only gets four days off a month. During those four days, she takes a bus, takes care of her family and returns, and spends one more month locked in that house. She has been doing it for 5 years, she says, to ensure a future for her children.

I got off at Ocotal, which despite being a small town has many things, something that continues to impress me wherever I go. There, something caught my attention that I did not see in Managua: a lot of Sandinista propaganda. I arrived at my guide’s house, where I rested and was able to taste Nicaraguan beer, La Toña, very tasty, very similar to the Cuban Cristal, which brought back many memories. In the afternoon, we left for the border, a fairly long journey but in a very comfortable van.

It was night when we arrived at the border crossing, which connects the municipality of Jalapa, in Nicaragua, with a very small town called Trojes, in southern Honduras.

There, we got out of the car in the middle of a field and had to cross an area of crops that measured about 400 meters, in total darkness. There was practically nothing to be seen and we had to walk fast so that the police would not catch us. On the other side, there was a barbed wire fence, and a man with a motorcycle was waiting for me. The guy revved it up to about a million mph, and it was cold. My forehead froze, but in just three minutes, I was already in Trojes.

Translated by Norma Whiting

Tomorrow: Caravan through Honduras — there were 30 Cubans traveling on motorcycles.

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