The Border Patrol spots them and passes the news along by radio. Their dream is about to end 70 kilometers southeast of Tucson, Arizona. On Route 286, behind the wheel of his Chevy Tahoe, agent Jim Hawkins of the Border Patrol hears the message and enters the ranch on a dirt path. He soon leaves the path to follow streams and gullies.
Hawkins has to follow the helicopter as a guide. He comes out running and joins other agents who are combing through the thicket, running through cacti. Everything is over in minutes.
In silence, squatting on the sand with their backpacks are 94 men, women and children. An agent speaks to them in passable Spanish and explains what will happen now. Everything is quiet since the helicopter has landed, it seems as if nothing has taken place. In reality, nothing extraordinary has happened to anyone, except for those witnessing this for the first time.
“They know that we are doing our jobs, and we know that they are doing theirs,” said Hawkins. Frustration is displayed along with furtive glances. Few words are exchanged, and many express the same thing – bad luck, maybe next time.
“We know they’ll come back,” said D.J., an agent of Mexican origin, as young as many of the detainees. “I always tell them that if they don’t make it the third time, give it up. If they aren’t lucky, give it up already.”
Diana is the oldest sister in a family of nine. They are from the state of Michoacan. Will they try again? Diana nods. When? She makes an inarticulate gesture. Tomorrow? Yes, she says, they will try again tomorrow.
Tomorrow they will return. This afternoon they will be deported to Mexico (voluntary repatriation) across the Nogales border. A few will go home, but many will go to the bus station heading toward Altar. From Altar to Sásabe, and once there, they will be inside again. In this apart of Arizona alone, 3,500 people cross the border every day. In all of the southern borders, hundreds of thousands try and tens of thousands succeed. In the United States there are more than 12 million undocumented people, almost 5 percent of the active labor force.
The town of Altar, in the north of the state of Sonora, survives from the thousands of people that gather there before crossing.
Wilfrido, 19 years old, has spent two nights and a day on a bus from Hidalgo, and it is the fourth time he crosses over to the United States.
“I would like to be legal, to do the same thing I’m doing now, but to come and go on an airplane,” he said. He stays warm by walking.
“You walk at night and rest during the day where no one will bother you,” said Wilfrido. “If they grab you, they ask your name and you tell them, how much money you have on you and you tell them that, too, who you are with, you’re alone, you say, and where you are going, and you don’t answer. They put you in the car and they take you to Tucson. There they take your information and from there they take you to Nogales, and then to Altar.”
Marisol is two years old. She is with her mother, Rocío; her grandmother, Elena; and her Aunt Flor. They are from the state of Oaxaca. The little girl is the only one with papers, since she was born in the United States. This does not save her from having to cross illegally.
“Nothing will happen to her,” assures her mother. “She doesn’t have to walk. We have a baby sling to carry her in,” she said.
Trucks, like the old Ford seen now, cross this border every day, the only vehicles you see crossing every couple of minutes. Bags, empty cans, and plastic bottles fill the dirty ditches at the side of the road, as do old exhaust pipes.
The old Ford truck goes surprisingly fast for the 366,048 kilometers it has traveled in its lifetime, aside from its broken windshield. And then it stops.
“A tire blew out. Same as yesterday,” said Eleno Austreberto, directing the tire change. Everyone gets out of the truck without complaining. In the ditch, Rafael and Gerardo, from Guerrero, take advantage of the break to smoke a cigarette. Rafael is 28 years old and has more experience than he would like crossing the border.
“The first time it took 15 tries, once a day until I got across,” he said. “God willing this will be the last time.”
Gerardo is traveling to the United States to earn enough money to be able to start a business.
The route goes on and on. More and more cars and trucks go by full and come back empty.
One of the principle dangers on the border are civilian groups that take matters into their own hands, since they believe the borders are not sufficiently secure.
“Sometimes they show up and set up observation decks and they call us to report people,” said Agent Hawkins. “We are concerned about incidents between them and the coyotes. Either one could be armed.”
On Route 286, an agent has stopped a blue Oldsmobile with Arizona license plates. Hawkins stops the vehicle. It has two occupants. One does not have papers, and he carries a toy pistol.
“It looks like mine,” said Hawkins.
Hawkins carries a 40 caliber H&K USP in one hand and in the other he holds the toy gun. In his Jeep, Hawkins also keeps a 5.56 millimeter rifle.
“Sometimes the coyotes carry weapons and sometimes they don’t. Every time there are more,” he said.
The driver of the Oldsmobile has previous convictions for drugs, but at this time there is nothing against him. The other is handcuffed and detained. Could he be a coyote?
“Maybe,” said Hawkins. “We don’t know. We have asked for information. If there is nothing, we’ll let him go.”
After seven years on the Border Patrol, Jim Hawkins says that most of the people he detains are “good people.” And he knows most will keep trying to cross.
“What can we do? We tell them not to, not to run risks, but they are economic refugees and they will probably keep trying to do it.”
During his 15 years on the border, Mario López has seen many things. “And, well, some things make you want to cry. When we find groups we ask them if they have food and water, if they have family, if they have women coming on their own. And that’s it. We tell them, good luck, take care. You say to yourself, gosh, I hope God will protect them. What else can you do?”
