Mojado

It's 7 in the evening, I'm just home from work, and I have a proposal to write before I get into work tomorrow morning. Judging by the very few blogs I read, this is prime-optimum-ideal time for me to update. So update I will.

I discovered today that the mother of one of my colleagues has gone mojada to the States. That is to say, travelled illegally by land from Honduras up through Guatemala and right up to the Mexican border, slipped over the border on a freight train, and then travelled by truck all the way to New Jersey. And she - Paulina's mum - is now in New Jersey with a bunch of people she knows, waiting for the recruitment agency for indocumentados to find her a job.

Before leaving, she - I don't know her name so let's call her Suyapa - she had to do a whole bunch of medical tests. The coyotes may be illegal people traffickers, but that's not to say for a second that they don't know how to run a business. Going mojado is a tricky business, involving at least 3 days walking across the desert, maybe as many as 12, and no promise of food or water beyond what you're carrying. So if your blood pressure is dodgy, or your heart isn't up to much, you can keep your $5,000, because who wants to run someone who's going to drop dead on them. Suyapa passed the tests, and made it to the States no problem. My boss, clearly impressed, commented that she must have had a very good coyote.

Jesus, the driver I mentioned a while back, made it in the end, on his third attempt. Deported twice, he refused to be beaten, and now he's washing dishes for a pittance in Houston. Is it Houston? I don't think so. I can't remember where he is. He arrived and the following day he had a job, lined up by his brother in law.

It's amazing being privy to these chats, everything casual and taken for granted, like we talk about our cousin in Australia. It's an insight into what so recently was reality for Irish people too, and what interests me is just that casualness. I used to think that migrants, or their families, must suffer shame; but not here, not at least if you succeed. It's such an absolutely standard escape route, and everybody talks about it openly, from the taxi drivers to work colleagues.

My boss told a story about visiting a migrants' refuge in Mexico last year, where many of the people have lost limbs. The train isn't for passengers, it doesn't stop, and noone is protected. People lying on the very roof of the carriage drop off to sleep with the slow chugging, fall, and never have the time to pull their leg away before the wheels cut through it.
Suyapa was pretty lucky to have found a good coyote.