Category: Mario Penton Martinez

A cold wind, in keeping with the altitude, and the endless lights leads us to believe we have arrived at the capital. The danger of a special police checkpoint makes us throw ourselves from the truck as fast as we can and take off into the semi-desert. The guide hurries us. Again, an altercation with the tropical version of the “revolutionary tough guy” is about to get us deported. The intervention of women prevents a river of blood, at least for the moment. The night passes without other mishaps.

To the joy of some and sadness of others, tonight is the last time we see the Hindus and the Central Americans. Halfway along the road a vehicle intercepted us, they climbed on and quickly took another route. According to what they tell us, they will enter at another border crossing.

We meet the “patroness,” a lady with the credentials of a trafficker who combines, in her features, virility with cunning and the female sixth sense

We arrived in Mexico City at three in the morning. A beautifully designed house, full of artworks and books of literature, religion and history suggest to us that we are in contact with someone knowledgeable and sensitive to the world of culture. Meeting the “patroness” is a huge surprise, a lady with the credentials of a trafficker who combines, in her features, virility with cunning and the female sixth sense.

“One Cuban who is coming alone!” Timidly I raise my hand. “Another!” A boy from the group joins me. “Another Cuban who is coming alone!” she says imperiously. “You! Get up, let’s go!” Maikel is traveling with his uncle, but his pleas are useless. It is decided and there is no turning back. He will have to leave his uncle alone.

The Cuban “tough guy,” who tried to sneak into this first departure, ended up with his tail between his legs on learning that even though he had given his wife’s jewels to the coyote in Guatemala, supposedly his money is not enough and he will have to wait in Mexico. We immediately think that this is the response of the organization to the aggressive attitude of the guide who took us to the capital.

After breakfast they lead us to a trailer. On the way I confirm my suspicions: the “patroness” is a woman of exceptional intelligence. Easy conversation and well-formed opinions, who holds forth fluently about the Mexican reality. She has dedicated her life to study, is not married and her main hobby is travel, such that in her 40 short years she knows well a good part of the world, including Cuba. After wishing us the best part of the journey, she makes us appreciate the privilege bestowed by the Cuban Adjustment Act and asks us to take advantage of this opportunity to improve ourselves and become good men.

The truck driver is also easygoing. His name is Oscar. He has spent many years transferring goods to the United States border. Although he is forced to smuggle Cubans to support his family, according to what he tells us, it has never entered his head to emigrate to the United States. With the money he makes, he “scrapes by” he tells us.

For nearly fifteen hours we are locked in that trailer, in places specially designed to hide people. Tiny little spaces we have to get into at every checkpoint that trips us up along the way, although, according to what Oscar says, everyone is paid.

“Corruption is the cancer that afflicts Mexico,” complains Oscar, “but we are all corrupt because the politicians themselves are the first in corruption and enrich themselves at the expense of the country.” While he traffics with three little Cubans towards the neighbor to the north, the generals, he thinks, do the same with arms and drugs. Everyone is involved, just at a different scale.

A white pick-up controlled by the fearsome Zetas is charged with getting us to the border. The trafficking ends with them, because they are the ones who control the underworld of the border area.

In Nuevo Laredo the border crossing is organized. A white pick-up controlled by the fearsome Zetas is charged with getting us to the border. The trafficking ends with them, because they are the ones who control the underworld of the border area. They tell us to leave everything we have, that is, barely a bag with a change of clothes that we carry hidden. Supposedly we should arrive at the international bridge to Laredo, Texas, with nothing, so as not to raise the suspicions of the Mexican police. After an exchange of words with our dealers, I manage to save the papers that testify to my university degree and a Cuban flag. All the rest is left in the past. They give us four Mexican pesos, with which we begin a new life. Before us, the bridge that marks the end of a life without rights.

Nothing compares with the thrill of feeling free. Holding back the tears, we advance as fast as possible to reach the other shore. The nightmare is over. Jungles, swamps, police, the fear of an assault, narcos, traffickers, all is left behind like the price to be paid for freedom.

A group of around 80 Cubans is spending the night at the US immigration facilities, which are overflowing with the flood of Cubans. Some have been waiting days to process their paperwork. Not all of them arrive for political reasons. Many comment that their intention is to return to Cuba as soon as they obtain US residency. They left Cuba, selling their homes or going into debt, via Ecuador for two basic reasons: desperation in the face of a situation with no outlet, and fear of losing the privileges awarded by the Cuban Adjustment Act, with the recent openings toward the regime in Havana.

They have never heard about any rights and they don’t know what democracy is.

It is a time to give thanks, for us to rejoice on reaching the land of freedom. Also a time to mourn for those who did not make it. We have crossed our on Red Sea, and now the task before us is not to long for the onions of Egypt, although what lies ahead is the desert that faces every migrant.

We can finally say, like José Martí: “Freedom is expensive and you have to decide to pay its price or resign yourself to living without it.”

Several thousand dollars are paid out on the trail of the main route of the Cuban exodus. People disappear falling in to the sea, are assaulted by thugs, women are raped… A whole accumulation of stories that we know by word of mouth and that some day the historians will have to write down for the historical memory of the Cuban nation.

Night falls at the moment when they suddenly alert us: “You’re leaving in 20 minutes.” Joy, surprise and consternation after 15 days of waiting, last words to family members, preparation for the final departure. “My brother, if you don’t hear anything of me in 15 days, you can tell Mom that something happened to me in Mexico.”

This is a truly dramatic moment for everyone. We will join another group of Central Americans on the road, at least that’s what we’re told. We have to get through 27 fixed checkpoints between Guatemala and Mexico City, plus whatever the Mexican Federal Police improvise.

The van ride to the river lasts half an hour. The coyote’s strident Christian music contrasts with the stillness of the cornfields. Finally, the coyote hands us over to the guide, the person who will take us to Mexico City. A final prayer with our solemn envoy, like the missionaries do it, is the memory our coyote Juan leaves us with.

The guide, Carlos, is a simple person, and I dare say there is something noble shining in his eyes. He lived for a time in the United States as a “wetback,” but returned to Guatemala when life became unbearable without his family. Now he dedicates himself to this “business,” which, according to what he tells us, earns him in one week what it would take three months to earn in his job as a farmhand.

They tell us we will be joined by two Guatemalans, among them a girl who, before leaving, asked the coyote to bring enough condoms because she fears being raped

The first challenge is to cross the Suchiate River. It is midnight and it was swelling, to the point of having to wait two hours to be able to do it, and not without risks. A fragile tractor innertube tied to some boards carries us to the other side. Here they tell us we will be joined by two Guatemalans, among them a girl who, before leaving, asked the coyote to bring enough condoms because she fears being raped. We walk for around two hours among cornfields and jungle. The dogs and lights from houses make us run like crazy. We all follow the leader because the orders are clear: we are in an exercise for survival.

We come to a creek that the recent rains have turned into a heavy stream. The water pushes us hard, reaching our chests, while we carry our passports on our heads so they won’t get wet. The two women in the group, one Cuban the other Guatemalan, have to be helped. This night ends around four in the morning, when we come to a house in the middle of nowhere. There we meet the other part of the group, eight Hindus who, without a word of Spanish, have launched themselves on the adventure of crossing half the world to join their families through the porous southern border of the United States.

Before dawn we are led, just as we are, wet and shivering with cold, to an island in the middle of a swamp. The boat trip is, without a doubt, spectacular. The richness of the mangrove, filled with alligators of course, reminds us of the Zapata Swamp in Cuba. The forests, the clouds painted red with the rising sun, the sensation of being close to the sea… On that island we hide all day.

On one side the sea, on the other the swamp. That is where I meet Erick, age nine, who with his deep black eyes and indigenous accent tells us of the dangers of the jungle and his dreams of becoming an architect to build a beautiful house for his mom, the powerful dreams of a child contrasting with the humbleness of dirt floors and sheet metal roofs.

One meal a day gives us strength to continue. At night we leave again, by boat, for the mainland. We are taken in trucks to the Mexican Army checkpoints, surrounded by thickets full of dangers: rivers, poisonous snakes, farmers protecting their properties from thugs… Long hours on the road at night, accompanied by the image of the Virgin of Charity of Cobre, Cuba’s patron saint.

Once more, I confirm how little those of raised under the Revolution are trained to coexist with those who are different but pose no threat

Day surprises us in the heart of the jungle. We will have to wait for the protection of the night to continue on our way. A torrential rain makes us crowd tightly together under the only available blanket. These are difficult hours when care not to be discovered is combined with protecting our documents that prove we are Cubans. Again, one meal a day.

With my deficient English I try to translate what the guide is saying for the disconcerted Hindus. Some Cubans start to show an antipathy towards those of another race but the rest pass the time praying. Mutual ignorance, fueled by the primal instincts of a suspicious islander, thin the atmosphere almost to the point of starting a fight. Playing the role of mediator is hard work. Once more, I confirm how little those of raised under the Revolution are trained to coexist with those who are different but pose no threat. The anthropological damage is done and it will take generations to overcome it.

Again, roads impassable at night, feet covered with blisters, skin bitten by insects. Hungry and tired we cross a railroad line, toward another border checkpoint. It is two in the morning when the guide tells us to be silent, after hearing movement up ahead. The sharp stones of the rail bed don’t help. Apparently attacks are common here. Tonight we’re lucky. The attacker pretends to be asleep next to a huge machete. Accustomed as he is to frightening small groups of Central American “wetbacks” who don’t usually exceed three or four people, our group seems like too much for him to take on alone. For now, we are safe.

The road to the next point of rest is extremely uncomfortable. In a fetal position we are crammed into and hidden in the truck. Only the moments where there is a threat of the police are a break, because we have to get down and rush to hide ourselves in the bush. The night ends and the signs announce we are in Veracruz. We have spent three days in the land of the Aztecs. We arrive at a farm where we spend the day.

Mexico City, the next stage of the journey, is getting closer.

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Editor’s note: The author worked as a religious consecrated to the Catholic Church in Guatemala for almost two years before embarking on the journey to the United States.

It took a few hours to get over the shock: the decision was made. I would melt into this human river that had been written about in the independent media, and that few or no one in the world knew: the hemorrhage of Cubans who risk Central America and Mexico to get to the United States. Rather than return to slavery, at least I would try to get to a land of freedom. I knew it could cost me my life, but it was worth it to try.

The whole border region lives off human trafficking. My experiences confirmed it.

The first point was to find an appropriate coyote. Not all are reliable, so you have to make sure it is someone who has made successful trips. Through friends who made the journey previously I got Juan’s number. What first drew my attention was his ring tone. It was a popular Christian doxology. “It is so people will feel confident,” I thought. On the other end of the cell a voice assured me that the journey would be a success and that a group of Cubans was already waiting for me to leave. The cost, $2,500 US, in cash in Guatemala, was the price of the American dream, $5,000 if it was from Ecuador and you wanted to be sure to arrive. I had to leave, on my own account and at my own risk, from one of the most violent countries in the world to a border city with 18,700 quetzales in exchange. They were waiting for me there.

The bus that took me to the site was a tower of Babel: Africans, Hindus, Cubans… It seemed very ordinary, as no one was surprised. After a six hour journey, I arrived at my destination. At least a dozen people crowded around the terminal offering, to anyone who looked foreign, help in crossing the border illegally. Another passenger told me that the whole border region lives off human trafficking. My experiences confirmed it.

Behind me, making me shudder: “Are you Juan?” I was facing the emissary of my coyote. Following a positive response, we wended our way through a web of intricate alleys to a poor neighborhood on the outskirts of the city. “Don’t worry, bro, this neighborhood is controlled by us, there’s no problem.” Both the fake Cuban accent and the difficulty of getting to the place sparked the exact opposite of what the guide intended.

That same afternoon, I was installed in one of the many houses used to hide the island migrants. In the full light of day, and unrestrainedly, because the law in Guatemala constitutes these networks tied to violence and nobody knows for sure how many millions of dollars move. Just to give an idea, it is said that globally, human trafficking generates gross revenues of more than 32 billion dollars annually, some $13,000 on average that each subject brings his coyote.

It was there that I met in person, I learned later, one of the most recognized coyotes in the traffic between Central America and Mexico. His humble demeanor hardly reflected the power he possessed. Emerging from the underworld of rural Guatemala, this person had trafficked drugs and belonged to the maras (armed groups or gangs who generally control the extortion, human trafficking and drugs in the region). Alcohol and drug use, along with little schooling, marked his life. In time, and according to what he himself told me that afternoon, he converted to evangelical Christianity, and today is its staunch promoter.

It is said that human trafficking globally generates more than 32 billion dollars annually, some $13,000 on average that each subject brings his ‘coyote’

Juan alternates conversation with preaching, and while he charged me $2,500, he affirmed to me that today Christ is the center of his life and the one who has given him everything he possesses. “God and Cubans,” he corrects himself. Under his protection are charitable sites and he shares his life between both passions: “The Church and crowning people so that they get to their destination: the flagpole with the stars and stripes.” Before leaving he let me know that I should leave there everything I owned. I will only be allowed to depart with a change of clothes and my papers. The rest will go into the coffers of his charities. “It doesn’t matter, at the end of the day when they will crown you in la yuma,” he blurts out as consolation.

Once the coyote left, I was alone in an unknown house, in the midst of an unknown city and in the hands of unknown people without very good references. I’m facing a mountain of clothes, shoes and the belongings of those who came before me. Judging by the number of garments there were dozens. On the walls graffiti recorded the names and hometowns of Cubans. Manuel from Matanzas, May 2013; Yoenia González from Camagüey, December 2013; Yendry from Bayamo, June 2015… What had become of them? Did they make it to the United States or are they in a mass grave? Images of Auschwitz crossed my mind, while on the roof rats frolicked. The die is cast. I waited three days in solitary confinement, three days “with the Creed in my mouth” as my grandfather used to say: facing death and praying to God to save me.

Thus began the long road of a “rafter” on foot. Swamps, jungles, rivers, robbers, internal divisions and police would take turns adding to the difficulties of a crossing already difficult, to reach free soil.

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Editor’s note: The author worked as a religious consecrated to the Catholic Church in Guatemala for almost two years before embarking on the journey to the United States.