Coyotes: A Journey Across Borders with America's Mexican Migrants by Ted Conover

Author:Ted Conover [Conover, Ted]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: arizona, undocumented immigrant, coyotes, immigration, smugglers, farm workers, illegal aliens, mexicans, border crossing, borders
Publisher: Ted Conover, via Smashwords and The Robbins Office
Published: 2013-01-10T06:00:00+00:00

Still lacking a good meal, we drove first thing in the morning to a large industrial plant. The windowless concrete structure was set in a huge dirt lot surrounded by orchards on three sides and the state highway on the fourth; eight-foot chain-link fences ran alongside this exposed flank and met at the center in a set of large gates. We parked near the gates. NO HELP WANTED said a big sign affixed to the gate. I translated it for Emilio, but he ignored me and walked up to the gatehouse. Máximo and I tagged along. The guard spoke no Spanish, and Emilio seemed to be having difficulty getting his message across.

“Tell him we want to speak with Gutierrez,” Emilio said to me.

This was, I was about to discover, one of the places where being undocumented makes you an insider, gets you past the NO HELP WANTED signs. The man got on the phone, and presently—after having our shoes and trousers misted with alcohol to kill possible carriers of orange blight—we were allowed to pass. Emilio led the way to a trailer on the back side of the factory. Gutierrez met us at the door, immediately casting a suspicious eye on me. “He’s a teacher; he came with us,” said Emilio. They shook hands warmly, and Emilio filled him in on the situation.

“How many did you say you were}”

“Eight.”

“And him?” Gutierrez asked, pointing at me.

“Well, seven without him. But he’ll work.”

“You will?” said Gutierrez in English, breaking into a large grin. I nodded, reminded of Máximo’s reaction when I said I’d like to travel with them. Only this time, because of the company I kept, I felt more secure.

“Has he done it before?” They nodded, and I did too. Gutierrez raised his eyebrows. “Well, okay. I’ll try anything once!” He had stolen my line.

We were to start the next day, picking juice oranges for the large juice concern that owned everything around us. Before then, we would need to buy the items which in Phoenix had been furnished us: gloves (a local 7-Eleven store, ever attentive to its market, had an entire wall-full), canvas sleeves to protect ourselves from thorns, and the full-size picking bags used in Florida (the Arizona kind, I discovered to my chagrin, was the more "humane" three-quarter-size bag), though the last could be purchased from the company and the expense deducted from our paychecks ("not the way you want to do it," Emilio advised me, indicating his distrust of the company). But before that, I discovered to my joy and surprise, it was time to eat.

Gutierrez had told Emilio we could sleep and park behind his house in town. It was a small, comfortable frame affair, up the income scale from the shantytown we had visited, but quite a ways beneath the nice middle-class houses we had seen on our first drive down Bridge Street. The backyard was screened from the neighbors by thick vegetation and sloped down to a small marsh. Emilio drove over the coarse lawn and around the house, parking under a large shade tree.

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