The Coyote's Bicycle (28 page)

“My friend is curious about the
pollo
business, the one that used bikes,” Fernandez said.

“I hear they worked from this lot right here,” I added, and I pointed to the gently sloped land just below the truck trailer. It was so close a position to where we stood, I imagined one might have caught their conversations in drafts.

Mateo nodded and said, “That work is their job, not my job. It's bad business to explain other people's jobs.”

He looked around and found what he was looking for—the fat cop sitting in his pickup at the side of the International Road. Then he mentioned to Fernandez, “You two should go look for the graffiti you're interested in.”

As we made our way back down to the truck trailer, we came upon the older migrant we'd met earlier on the hill, the one who had followed us and, along with his partner, jumped the fence. A magician,
here he appeared back on Mexican soil. The man beamed as we came near.

“We thought, for sure, you were caught,” Fernandez said.

“No,” he said with a chuckle.

“How did you get away?”

“I just ran along the wall, on the other side, to down there. Then I jumped over.”

“
La migra
came for you.”

“Yeah, I saw them,” he said.

“Where is your friend?”

“He went the other way. I'll see him later.”

We walked together toward the trailer and Mateo stepped out. He grinned as well. “El Gordito is gone,” he said, shrugging, an apology for his curtness earlier. “I don't want any problems with him, because he knows me, he knows I'm always here.” He then congratulated the migrant on his escape.

“
Sí, gracias
,” the man replied.

“Gordito used to sell
pollos
like him to the bicycle coyotes. Down there.” Mateo indicated the lot. It was empty now, and covered with spring flowers. “Sometimes he would bring bikes to sell too. But always, he wanted money for allowing the migrants to pass over.”

This was the same lot El Negro had described as a base for bicycle crossing—where he stood when the Border Patrol agent approached on the other side, spotted the bikes, and asked why Mexicans didn't recycle waste metal. When I considered the site in Los Laureles Canyon that Oscar Romo discovered, a picture of a diverse enterprise revealed itself. This explained why each ranch and farm on the American side received its share of the abandoned wheels. I gathered that this lot was a secondary site, yet since it was located across the street from the supermarket, Comercial Mexicana, it was the one that everyone knew about.

Mateo became grave and asked, “Do I have your confidence?” He looked at Fernandez. She nodded. “Okay. After I first arrived here in late 2006, I started seeing some movement, at night. The bikes came in trucks and they put them down in here. They brought the bikes ready to go. I think bicycles from
el Norte
, but they were used. The
polleros
brought exactly one for each of the
pollos
. Every day, I saw the trucks coming with the bikes and
pollos
. Every kind of
bicicleta
—kids', mountain bikes,
turismos
. All kinds of people. They passed
migrantes
every day, even in winter.”

“Were the crossings steady, or did the numbers of migrants go up and down?” I asked.

“One year was extensive. I think 2008—it was very, very busy. And at that time I believe they were making rounds with the same bikes that went to the other side, because you wouldn't find any bikes in Tijuana. It seemed like that was a problem. This is when Gordito brought some bikes here to sell to the
polleros
. Maybe they didn't work, I don't know. I don't think the
pollos
had the money for him, or they didn't want the deal. Because one day Gordito and his partner cuffed the
pollero
. They must have come to some agreement because the next day, the
polleros
were right back here with a load of
pollos
and
bicis
.”

“Do you know the
polleros
personally?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “They worked there. I worked here.”

“Have you heard of a man called El Indio?”

“There are a lot of
indios
around here,” he said.

19

“We came to Tijuana in February of 2006 and we didn't know anyone in Tijuana and we didn't have anyone waiting for us here, or on the other side either,” said Leti, a twenty-one-year-old woman traveling with her friend Julia. “I think, like all poor Mexicans, one has the tendency to want to get ahead, to pull yourself out of the poverty hole,” she said.

Being young, they had also come for the adventure, just hoping that God would be on their side. At first Leti and Julia camped on the streets in the Zona Norte, a common staging point for
migrantes
. “I would sleep for a bit and then Julia would, so that we could watch over each other. Those were really hard times for the two of us. But after wandering around and getting to know the place for a good amount of time, we made a friend there in La Zona.”

His name was Tomas and he worked as the parking attendant at an unassuming hotel that catered to the Zona Norte's visitors. He was stationed in a glass booth that stood adjacent to the parking lot entrance. Being fixed on that busy street, Tomas was seen as a point of communication. Neighborhood people dropped by, leaving Tomas with messages, information, and gossip.

“He was funny and nice,” said Leti, “and Tomas seemed to have connections. We talked with him about our situation, and he told us that if we wanted, me and Julia could stay in his room.”

The space was very small, but the women immediately rearranged things to accommodate themselves. Their plan was to stay with Tomas while he looked for a way to get them across. The handsome parking attendant had mentioned a number of acquaintances. One was a friend's boss, a man he called El Indio, who passed migrants of all types. Tomas said he would try to speak with this man, to ask if he could do a special favor in this instance, because the women didn't have any money. It wasn't common, he said, but
polleros
sometimes did deals. And most didn't mind helping out a couple of girls, especially ones as sincere as themselves.

“Only a few days after we moved into the room,” Leti said, “some guy named Juan showed up. He had five
migrantes
with him, and he said he wanted to keep these people there with us, and that Tomas would know why. But when Tomas came back to the room just before sundown, he looked at me and at Julia, and was like, ‘What's up with all of these people?'”

Leti described the man who'd brought them. Tomas made some calls on his cell phone. “A little later,” she said, “the famous El Indio appeared.”

The women were surprised to see that the head man was so young, just a few years older than they were. He met their greetings with a clear, pleasant expression. His bearing was confident, somehow magnified by an inner reserve that seemed at odds with his youth.

Yet, Leti said, “even he—El Indio—asked, ‘Why are these people here? Whose are they?'”

Tomas answered: “I suppose they are yours,
amigo
. Juan brought them.”

Indio made a phone call himself. Before Tijuana, Leti and Julia had never lived in a house with a telephone, let alone a place where everyone carried phones in their pockets. They watched Indio as he stepped out and conveyed orders into the device. Soon afterward, a van arrived. El Indio and the driver ushered the migrants into the vehicle and then they all sped off.

“Seeing how efficient and confident he was there at the house,” said Leti, “me and Julia decided to go down to
el Cañón de los Laureles
with Tomas. And I tell you, we were able to see the way that man worked. It really was a whole affair—people running this way and that, talking on the phones, and sometimes yelling in panic.” In her singsong voice, Leti mimed the workers. “‘What do you mean I didn't tell you that, man? Next time pay more attention! Okay, okay, anyway . . .'”

Leti felt a burst of excitement when El Indio gave instructions; suddenly the dream seemed real.

“Follow the person at the front of the group, the one guiding—that was emphasized the most,” she said. “And it was really cool when the
gancho
went to distract
la migra
. Right away the agent guy rushed down and chased after him. With that, the guides, the migrants—
todo
—took off flying to the inside. One straight line. A minute later, they just disappeared from view.”

The next day, the women woke early and returned to the canyon alone. They found El Indio in a rush—one of the workers had forgotten water for the crossers.

“I said to El Indio, ‘Give me the money and I'll go to the Comercial to buy it.'”

Without a word, Indio thrust a wad of pesos into her hand and turned back to his work. The women ran off toward the International Road and the blocky, bright orange supermarket—hustling there and back, over the rough terrain, as fast as they could. They bought small individual bottles instead of the gallons they'd seen the day previous. El Indio commended the decision.

Leti offered the
pollero
his scanty change, a gesture that seemed to surprise him. In response, Indio said, “Tomas explained your situation. Let me see what I can do for you.”

Leti said, “If you have someone who can give us work over there, we'll make payments to you weekly, I promise. If you please help us out, we won't let you down.”

El Indio made a gesture suggesting that she should be patient. He went back to his business. Not long after, he approached the women. “Listen, one of you is going to the other side right now. Who wants to go first?”

Communicating via imprecise shrugs and hand signals, the women came to the conclusion that Julia would be the first to leave.

“From the time I sat down on the bicycle, preparing myself,” she said, “I had this strong feeling, like,
this is something I never thought would happen to me
. When I saw the leader beginning to take off, my whole body started trembling. I couldn't believe it,
me
, trying to cross by bicycle into the United States! And the pace became fast really quick. By then my body was really shaking, all-out adrenaline. In the distance, on top of a hill, I could see a
migra
truck. I was scared. But maybe it was the fear that kept me going, kept me from blacking out. That first burst was really tiring. I felt lightheaded. I pedaled as fast as I could go. Then, around ten minutes after we tore out of there, the guide slowed down to gather the group. It seemed like we
all
were falling apart. Some of our riders were covered with dirt from crashing. I fell too—but you'd just get right back up and start again. No one could wait or help anyone else. A guide was there in the back keeping an eye out, but really, no one can ride your bike for you. It was each person's responsibility to either keep going or stay behind.”

Down a dirt track, the group reached a thicket of bushes that signaled the river and wetlands just beyond. They entered a trail that revealed itself only once the guide waved the first riders through, but
the ground became too soft and soggy to continue. The guide ordered the migrants to dismount and leave the bikes.

“We just threw them down,” Julia said. “Then we ran for about five minutes until we reached a road. There, the people who were going to pick us up were already waiting.”

Solo made it known to the new workers that El Indio was bringing in a professional to handle general management, as well as some supply and cash-flow issues. This person was to be obeyed as if Indio himself had made the orders. Further, Solo said, Indio would be scaling back his own trips to the inside.

“But as you can see,” Solo added, “we have more migrants than ever. We'll be running more trips per day. This means more opportunities to make money.”

A man nicknamed El Cholo had been deported from the United States, and like El Indio, he had walked the borderline from the mountains to the sea looking for an opening. After a few days, he began to go hungry. Then he came upon a group of
polleros
staging a crossing from Los Laureles.

“That's where I met El Indio,” Cholo said. “He gave me food when I was just starving. He said, ‘Why don't you go ahead and help that guy over there fixing bicycles, right near the border?' He paid me well—a decent guy like him, it motivates you to work.”

El Ruso—the Russian—had also been deported after getting caught up in some shady business. He said he was conflicted because he wanted to live as an honorable person. But without a voter ID card, the only work he could find in Tijuana was the illegal kind: selling drugs, smuggling drugs, robbing for the police, and killing for money. For him, pitching in with El Indio's gang was not only a lesser of these evils but, frankly, also a means to survive.

Solo, El Ruso, and El Cholo had arrived at the canyon a few hours early one day and were working on a pile of bikes near the
fence. Cholo squatted on his haunches, helping Ruso adjust some brakes.

A nondescript white van with tinted windows appeared on the access road above and rolled with the creeping sound of granite gravel being crushed under weight. At the end of the track, it slowed, made a three-point turn—its big engine bubbling like a race boat's—and then backed farther in.

“Whoever gets out . . . if you get a bad feeling,” Ruso warned Cholo, “jump the fence. We can come back later.”

“Okay,
amigo
.”

The men heard a door slam before they saw the driver. Around the side of the van stepped a tall, dark-haired woman. She wore black sunglasses, a light tank top, and a short skirt.

“Is this bad?” Cholo asked.

“I can't tell,” said El Ruso.

Solo couldn't be sure where Marta's arrival placed him in the pecking order. He didn't intervene or even acknowledge that he knew the woman.