Coyote's Cackle
Mia Badillo
“Coyotes have the gift of seldom being seen; they keep to the edge of vision and beyond, loping in and out of cover on the plains and highlands. And at night, when the whole world belongs to them, they parley at the river with the dogs, their higher, sharper voices full of authority and rebuke. They are an old council of clowns, and they are listened to.”N. Scott Momaday
Author’s Note: All names were altered to protect identities.
Early March, late 1980s. Ten minutes south of the US-Mexican border, a pack of thirty men huddled together, their rapt attention directed towards the three coyotes at the front. Their lives depended upon it. For a moment, Gael Martinez sized up the strangers around him. They were from all parts of Mexico, all walks of life. All with the hopes of making it safely across the border to America. The coyotes, or crossing guides, were young. Strong. Fit. These coyotes, in particular, had made the crossing many times before and would do so for many times to come. The hopefuls held their breath, hearts pounding.
Gael listened closely.
“Stay close and follow us at all times,” one of the coyotes said. “Don’t fall behind, or you will get lost. If you get lost, there is no other help for you… and if you are caught, don’t mention any connection to us whatsoever.”
Everyone glanced quickly about, reading the same tightened expressions of fear and excitement, realizing the gravity of what they were to undertake. Gael could practically taste the intoxicating adrenalin hovering over the pack like an ominous cloud. Gael, wearing nothing but a T-shirt, jeans, and huarache sandals, hunkered down with the rest to wait. His pulse raced at breakneck speeds. A strong wave of nausea rose, as if he was about to blindly step before a huge audience for the first time. He couldn’t wait to be over and done with it, but they would not dare cross the border until nightfall. He did not pack any food nor water. No money or identification. In less than a day, they could be starting their lives anew on American soil.
Eight days before, Gael had committed to risk it all and cross to the United States. He planned for the event six months ago when he moved his family from Mexico City to Puebla. It was only a matter of time, saving up to pay off the necessary people that handled preparations.
There were three popular ways to cross the border. Gael weighed his options. He could cross via the Rio Grande, get through the fence on foot, or go through the main gate between Tijuana and California in a vehicle. Tijuana was the most heavily used crossing point. People from all over the world would come to Tijuana to make the crossing, be it Koreans, Filipinos, Mexicans, or others. Each route had varying expenses and risks. For perspective, in 1988, one US dollar was equivalent to 2.27 pesos. The Rio Grande route cost $200 US dollars (454.6 pesos), but was the least successful of the three. Making the leap on foot cost $300 US dollars and was equally perilous. If you were fortunate, you could afford the exorbitant fee of $1000 US dollars to get through the main checkpoint at the Tijuana/California border. Half of that expense went towards fake IDs and bribing the border patrol—relying on the coyotes’ inner knowledge of which guards would look the other way.
Eight days ago, someone asked if Gael was ready to cross to America. They asked if he’d go to Alaska and live with relatives who had already made it. Many former Puebla residents rendezvoused in Alaska; it was safer to stick together. Gael was ready. He contacted his aunt Marissa in Alaska. Six days later she arrived in Puebla to receive his payment of $300 cash in hand. Only then would she start making preparations. Marissa made sure everyone involved would be ready for him. When he arrived safely, she would pay them off accordingly.
The big day arrived. Gael got dressed early in the morning. He stood patiently as his wife, Rosa, touched his forehead, his chest, and each shoulder in turn, in blessing for a safe trip. Gael pressed his lips to her fingers and sealed the blessing with a kiss. He bent down to say goodbye to his five-year-old son, Esteban, and tussle his unruly hair. He turned to Lulu, his three-year-old daughter, who looked so much like his Rosa. He gently kissed her in parting as well. Little Lulu seemed to understand her Papa was leaving, and not for a day at work. She became wide eyed and frantic the farther he walked away. Not wishing to delay any further, he departed for the bus that would take him to Tijuana and onward to exodus of dreamers.
As the miles blurred by between his Puebla home and new destination, Gael’s thoughts turned from hopes and concerns to the noisy buzz of adrenalin. There was so much opportunity awaiting him. It would be challenging every step of the way, but Gael was ever the opportunist. He was nearly thirty and itching to succeed so thoroughly that he could bring his whole family to America. His sun-tanned hands wrung together. Sweat beaded on his brow, which had nothing to do with the heat. The bus route took two days with several stops. Through it all, Gael went in and out of restless sleep, using each break to move around and grab a bite to eat. Once in Tijuana, he travelled to the next checkpoint. The next step was to book a stay in a hotel.
There were three trusted hotels. He was instructed to rent a room in one of them, and await the coyotes. The coyotes would make their rounds and gather all those preparing for the trip. At about seven in the evening, everyone finally arrived for the coyote’s briefing. Once the coyotes finished, the men quieted in waiting for nightfall. Gael heard a few soft murmurs between some of the men who knew each other.
At long last, the night sky conquered the watchful eye of the sun. Coyotes gave the signal and the countrymen filed into a single line as they walked swiftly and stealthily northwards. Their careful steps crunched ever so softly, but to Gael, each step seemed to echo through the night like a gunshot. The coyote trio took up their positions: One in the lead, another in the middle, and the last taking up the rear to ensure there were no stragglers.
Getting through the fence was the easiest part—child’s play. The fence consisted of crisscrossed metal, crowned with endless spirals of barbed wire. The barbed wire did little to deter the tenacious band as there were several pre-cut holes all along the border’s fence. In the blink of an eye, they were all through. With the first obstacle met, now began the true test of Gael’s persistence.
The coyotes had planned to take the mountain route. They moved with a stealth and alertness akin to their animal namesakes. Gael set his eyes ahead towards the mountain peaks as they wove through the scattered, dry, stunted bushes of the desert. They traveled over rocks and sand, over grass and sod. There were no animals present aside from the incessant chirping of crickets. Gael felt the constant, forceful thumping of his heart against his chest, his pulse ever present in his ears. The only thought in Gael’s mind was the survival-narrowed need to follow the coyotes.
As they neared closer to the mountains, in between the peaks they saw lights appear to their left. They were the night patrols of la migra[1] The coyotes shifted course, heading away from the lights. Minutes later, more beams of light interrupted the darkness, this time from their right. Gael knew in the back of his mind, they were being herded like cows to slaughter.
As the patrols closed in, there was nowhere else to go. The coyotes found the lid to a sewer and quietly beckoned everyone inside. Gael was sure that the sewers did not smell inviting, but due to his terror of being cornered, he didn’t recollect anything beyond keeping moving. Each man waited their turn to descend the ladder into pure darkness. Gael stepped off the ladder and sank until his feet pressed off the concrete bottom. The sewer water reached up to his waist. The only light provided was the smallest of flashlights, wielded by the lead coyote. Gael was not the shortest man there by any means, so the water levels for each man varied.
As they waded onward, the water settled chest high. At times the contaminated liquid made its way all the way up to his neck. He strained to keep his chin above it. Gael did not stop to consider the cold, or the stench, or what was really surrounding him in the wet pitch blackness. The sloshing and combined breathing echoed eerily throughout the damned tunnel. For hours and hours, they continued.
Finally, the coyotes stopped at a ladder. One climbed to open the manhole cover. He slowly pressed as if to crack the lid as quietly as possible. Nothing happened. He pressed a little harder but it still wouldn’t budge…a ripple of worry spread throughout the group. The next man in line climbed close behind to help. They both shoved and strained, but it became clear that the way out had been sealed. Immigration knew all too well the paths that the indocumentados[2] used and took care to place large rocks atop the lids. In doing so, the exit points were limited to easily controlled checkpoints. There was nothing left to do but continue on to the next ladder.
By the time they reached the next ladder, it was four or five in the morning. Mercifully, this lid opened. Like sewer rats, the men scurried up the later and clumped and milled outside the entrance until the last man reached the top. The sun was minutes away from rising. Everyone’s eyes adjusted to the slight improvement. In that quiet, breath-held minute they were surrounded by darkness. The next, blinding white lights obliterated the morning from every direction!
“¡La Migra! ¡La Migra![3]” a petrified man screamed. Everyone scrambled and bolted in all directions. Some leapt onto and over the hoods of cars. They were completely surrounded by border patrol.
A calm, reassuring voice on a loudspeaker started speaking over the ruckus: “Paranse, no corran. Aquà estan seguros[4].”
Gael paid no heed and did not look back. He zeroed in on a fleeing coyote and knew that following him was his only chance out. He belted away, jumping over fences and dodging around any other obstacles on the way. His jeans got caught as he jumped over a fence. He tore at his pants with all his might and kept running. Lungs burning, throat raw, he pumped his arms and legs onward. Each pounding step seemed to say “Don’t-Stop-Don’t-Stop-Don’t-Stop.” He did not spare any energy on prayer.
After what felt like an eternity, the commotion and fear started to fade into the background. Gael relaxed enough to look down only to realize with a start that he was only wearing his white cotton T-shirt and underwear. He had no idea when he lost his pants, or his shoes for that matter. The soles of his feet were battered and his right foot had sustained a large gash. Of the thirty men that started the crossing together, the only ones that escaped the ambush were Gael, a young man who introduced himself as Leo, and a sole coyote.
Once they reached a safe stopping point, the lone coyote stalked over to a payphone. He contacted the next coconspirator and told Gael and Leo that they were waiting for a ride. Thirty to forty-five harrowing minutes later, a large sedan with tinted windows rolled by and picked them up. Gael and Leo climbed into the backseat and allowed themselves a quick sigh of relief. The faceless driver transported them to a nondescript apartment. Nearly everybody’s face was a blur to Gael ever since starting the cross.
Upon arrival, Gael found the apartment overcrowded. All three bedrooms were packed wall to wall with about 20-30 people each: a sweaty bundle of desperation. He wondered at the strength of the structure. With no other choice, Gael and Leo were sent to another apartment. It was there that he was given some much-needed new pants and shoes. His missing pair would serve as a defiant monument, wherever it may have landed.
Two men bustled and bumped around in the kitchen, making food for all the weary travelers that made their way thus far. Gael guessed from the two’s feminine gestures and mannerisms that they were gay. Despite being in a room full of religious men, the pair didn’t receive any grief for their sexuality. They owed much to the men’s secret aid. Thanks to them, Gael enjoyed his first American breakfast: bacon, eggs and plain pancakes. He was given a small cup of orange juice which he drank greedily, savoring the sweetness and soothing liquid.
One last time, Gael and Leo climbed into a transport car. This time they crawled into the trunk side by side to make it to their final LA destination. They arrived at a safe house belonging to a kindly lady named Ana Gallegos. Ana had family in both Puebla and Alaska. She served as a middle checkpoint for many undocumented immigrants. Also present was his Tia[5] Marissa, who had taken the flight to LA two days prior and waited there for his safe arrival. It was there Gael received his fake IDs for the upcoming flight landing in Anchorage, Alaska.
Gael finally hopped into a glorious shower and washed away the filth from his journey. Ana brought in salves and bandages to treat the gash in his foot once he was clean. The disinfectant stung and burned along the two-inch opening. Painful? Worth it. Ana bound his foot firmly and declared him on the mend. The pair visited for a while before retiring to a small room bedroom. To his surprise, Leo knew his Tia7 Marissa. In fact, he was dating Marissa’s daughter, Isabela. He marveled at what a small world it was. Leo hadn’t even told Isabella he was coming to America, not wanting to disappoint if the journey had gone awry. He was bursting with eagerness to set eyes on her again. Gael chuckled and rolled over on a small couch to sleep. They would spend the night as their flight wasn’t until the next morning. Getting through airport security was yet another obstacle to face.
Against all odds, Gael and Leo were soon stepping off the plane into the Anchorage airport terminal. Thankfully, nobody looked too closely or pried with questions. Gael did not speak a word of English, so he stuck close to Marissa, wrapping his thin jacket tighter. It was freezing here! He mused if he would ever get used to it, already missing the Mexican winters that were balmy in comparison. Gael glanced over at Leo. He could see the young man’s barely restrained excitement to spill his surprise…
Tragically, Isabela was indeed surprised. Not expecting to see Leo for a long, long time, she had been secretly dating another. Leo had the misfortune to walk in and find the dastardly intruder within. Gael watched Leo’s dreams crumple before his very eyes. All the risks he’d taken, for naught.
They couldn’t bear the awkwardness of their living situation. Gale devoted all effort towards moving out as soon as humanly possible. Leo starting cleaning office buildings after hours. Gael found employment as a dishwasher at an Italian restaurant. The owners were Greek, and most definitely did not speak Spanish—but for $10-15 an hour, it didn’t matter. The pay was surprisingly good considering the times. He would be a fool to pass up the chance of a lifetime. Gael worked as a dishwasher from 10am to midnight, seven days a week. When he finished the dishes, he would then spend an additional two hours cleaning the rest of the restaurant for the next day. He became so reliable that the owners gave him the key to lock up at two or three in the morning. After his sixteen-hour shifts, Gael had no choice but to go home, sleep, and repeat.
Throughout his days as a dishwasher, Gael would let the constant, rhythmic scrubbing and splashing fade into the background. He would strain to learn whatever bits of English that he could. Some considerate co-workers would help point out certain dishes and objects in the kitchen and dutifully correct his pronunciation. Gael refrained from falling into his comfort zone by only speaking to his Hispanic coworkers. He knew he would never learn English by doing so. He even bought a Spanish-English dictionary that he brought to work every day.
As he carved out a life for himself, he still couldn’t shake the feeling of being caught at any moment. Sooner than he could have hoped for, Gael and his companion were able to move into their own apartment. They never saw each other as they worked opposite schedules. Whenever he returned, he’d always find empty liquor bottles. It seemed Leo handled his lost love with the tried and true Mexican custom—tequila.
He lost track of the days, as every day was the same. Before long, it was November. With the grace of the Simpson-Mazzoli Immigration Reform and Control Act, and a few convincingly doctored documents, Gael went to apply for a green card. The process was long and tedious, and above all nerve-wracking. He had to prove to have been working in the U.S. for a full year already as a documented immigrant (most claimed to be working in the fields of California). The entire process from application for a green card to citizenship would take a minimum of seven years. Gael was in for the long haul, and with his doctored papers, he was able to get off to a good start. Two years later, his wife and children would join him after their own harrowing journey across the border.
Gael would often think back to the fateful day that he trekked across the deserts of Southern California. On those nights, if he listened closely enough, he could almost hear the coyote’s cackle carrying on the wind. Even here in Alaska, the coyotes responded in kind.