A short, sturdy man, Bernardo, his shaven head tattooed with scorpion characters, came to the Tijuana Elegante, a hotel in Tijuana and gave Aaron a brotherly bear hug, looking at the Nina Gazukin covertly. She could not help but laugh how he stammered and rolled his eyes with a twisted face in his struggle for speech, his voice husky, strained and aggressive. In a warped English accent, he told Aaron of his plan to get them across to the States. He took out a moldy, roach-ravaged map and showed them an outline that made them more confused than enlightened. Tijuana, he showed them, was on the border with the States in the northwest corner of the Baja California Peninsula. Across the border was San Ysidro, an adjacent township to San Diego. The Rio Tijuana, a narrow river, meandered in and out of the borderline and intercepted it at a point close to the Revolucion Avenue of Tijuana. Where the river flowed into the American soil, toward the Pacific Ocean, was the easiest point of crossing. First, they must consider the triangular block of land on the Tijuana side, between the toll road, the western bank of the river and the line of the border. On the San Ysidro side, there was a smaller triangle of land between the western bank of the river and the line of the border. For them to cross into the border, they must cross the big triangle of Tijuana to the smaller triangle of San Ysidro. Then they would have to swim across the river to the eastern bank.
The next day Bernardo took them to the bank of Tijuana. Nina shuddered when she saw the crowds of people living in squalor, disease, hunger, drunkenness and debauchery, all of them waiting for a chance to cross into the States. Here, she thought, rivers of different cultures and nations had met in a confluence of the vilest degradation, people risking their lives or selling their souls to cross into a better world where there might be misery and degradation, too.
She looked at the river plunging and meandering into the Tijuana and San Ysidro territories, calculating her skill and strength to swim across. The river’s current flowed swift and strong, hauling islands of debris, carcasses, containers, bundles of clothes, and other things, the water reeking of putrefaction and filth. Everywhere, US patrols stood vigilant and fierce against the ten-foot wire fence. Five or six towers with rotating flashlights stared like monsters ready for an assault.
On Bernardo’s advice, they moved from the Tijuana Elegante to the Tijuana Triangle amid makeshift shacks of corrugated zinc, clapboards and tree branches. Clothes lines, filled with clothes, crisscrossed in a jumble and flapped in the wind to add to a hellish festivity of marimba, cumbia, ranchera and banda songs. Naked, diseased children ran about, eating mud or squealing. Beggars and thieves came in different ways to survive or profiteer. Fights and quarrels broke out and heightened into gang wars and murders. Men raped women as if it were easy as smoking a cigar. In the absence of pure water, the people drank from the polluted river and relieved themselves in secluded corners in communal ease. Everywhere stray dogs and carrion crows battled over filth, carcasses and corpses.
Bernardo found them a shack, which they shared with a Chinese man, Henry Foo; a Russian girl, Oskaya; and an Indian girl, Smita. They cooked outside the shack and slept in hammocks inside at night.
Nina found relief and new life in the company of the other two women. They talked about everything: their trip, country, career, and prospects. To whisk themselves out of the squalor and noise, they went to such places such as Plaza Rio Tijuana and Mercado del Artesanias and shopped. Sometimes they watched bullfights at Toreo da Tijuana and rodeos at Lienzo Charro La Maison.
Nina listened to the others’ stories and thought how close were theirs to hers, a deliberation to seek a better life from their miseries and drudgeries. Like her, they had braved the long and wild trip through the Latin American mainland to cross the border into America to find something they couldn’t find in their own countries, enduring rape, illness, despair and violence.
“Does this worth it?” she asked them.
Oskaya smiled and said in Russian: “I heard that in America they leave you on your own and give you a little chance.” She was in her twenties, blonde with green eyes.
“Why did you take such a risk?” Nina asked her.
Oskaya chuckled. “I am escaping from a communist insurrectionist group to join my husband in Washington. He told me that I have great scope in the States since I am a medical doctor.”
“If I were a doctor like you, I would have stayed in Russia.”
Oskaya fell quiet, biting her nails. “They were trying to kill me.”
Smita, a brown-skinned girl also in her twenties, with long hair and dimpled cheeks said: “It is not easy too in India. Amid the splendor and ancient culture there is so many corruption, hardly a place for a woman.” She said that she was running away from the drudgery and cruelties of her husband to start a new life. Her brother Romesh would put her up in Texas until she found a job.
Nina shrugged and said: “Yes, we have dreams, but the big monster is before us: the border. I have heard a lot of people didn’t make it.”
Bernardo waited for a rainy night, and when it came, he gave them silver-gray jump suits to wear to defeat the rotating tower lights.
“Now our time,” Bernardo said, trying to boast his authority rather than giving clear instructions. “Nina first, Smita second, Oskaya third, Foo fourth, and Aaron last. Look out for rotating lights. Lie down when they come.” He paused. “And I hope all of you can swim.”
Nina felt her heart pounding like horses’ hooves. In the persistent flash and flare of the lightning, she could see the roofs of shacks blown away, screaming children running frantically, women trying to save their babies.
As she set out to go, reports from guns blasted across the border. Wailing and screaming followed in the rain and thunder. She hesitated for a while, then slipped on her silver-gray cap and waited for the rotating lights to pass. When the place became dark again, she ran out of the shack, but the lights were coming upon her again. She threw herself facedown on the ground and waited again for it to pass. Dark again, she scrambled to her feet and began running faster than before. Soon she gained the fence. The light was coming again. She flung herself on the ground and lay splayed on the sand and rubble. The lights passed, and in lightning speed, she bored through the aperture in the fence, an exultant thrill whipping through her. As if they were a demonic intelligence, the lights were coming on her gain. Guns barked; men voices shouted alarms. She flung herself heavily on the ground, waiting for the moment of bullets and her final pain, but the gunshots and voices subsided. She got on her feet in renewed life and bolted toward the river. In three minutes she reached the bank. The lights came again and missed her.
After sliding down into the water, she slipped out of her jump suit, made it into a bundle and fixed it firmly on her head. Then she began swimming, battling against the tide, stench and debris. She thought about Oskaya and Smita and wondered if they could make it. Why did they leave their countries for this hell? she asked herself. Why was Marco putting her through this test? Soon she found her head aching, her feet numb, her energy ebbing. For a moment she wanted to surrender and add to the burdens of carcasses and corpses in the river, but her inner self scowled and said no.
She reached the other bank and rested for a while, then slipped back into her jump suit and began running again. In seconds she reached a small clump of bushes, then a tract of jungle, through which she picked her way in the convolutions of vines, trees and brushes, the branches and spikes tearing her skin. Half an hour later, she emerged into a crisscrossing of streets, lights in houses everywhere.
Running again toward the east, she reached the Interstate 5 Highway, where ceaseless streams of vehicles roared and raced on the lanes. She looked about warily, stomping her foot for a break in the traffic. Suddenly the traffic thinned and disappeared, leaving momentary empty lanes. She took a chance and ran like a sprinter, and in seconds she reached the final lane. But she was still in danger. An approaching car was five seconds away from her. With all the speed she could muster, she made a lightning dash, the car whizzing past in defeat.
Now she had to cross the other side of the highway, the vehicles coming from the other direction. As if she were in the gods’ favor, the stream of traffic broke again, giving her a chance. She sprinted with closed eyes, causing screeching tires yards away. In her tenuous bid between life and death, she felt caught in another world, a strange world where two faceless beings on a frontier were in a contest to pull her over to one side. In the end, the stronger contestant won, and she crossed to a patch of grass, a car roaring past in a close shave.
Following Bernardo’s instructions, she headed for San Ysidro Boulevard, crossing more lanes. When she reached there, she found the relief of traffic lights and pedestrian crossings. In a spurt of exultation, she slapped her chest, and crossed into a filling station compound, where a truck awaited her. An hour later Aaron came.
“Where are the others?” she asked him.
“The patrols shot all of them,” he said.
The next day Bernardo took them to the bank of Tijuana. Nina shuddered when she saw the crowds of people living in squalor, disease, hunger, drunkenness and debauchery, all of them waiting for a chance to cross into the States. Here, she thought, rivers of different cultures and nations had met in a confluence of the vilest degradation, people risking their lives or selling their souls to cross into a better world where there might be misery and degradation, too.
She looked at the river plunging and meandering into the Tijuana and San Ysidro territories, calculating her skill and strength to swim across. The river’s current flowed swift and strong, hauling islands of debris, carcasses, containers, bundles of clothes, and other things, the water reeking of putrefaction and filth. Everywhere, US patrols stood vigilant and fierce against the ten-foot wire fence. Five or six towers with rotating flashlights stared like monsters ready for an assault.
On Bernardo’s advice, they moved from the Tijuana Elegante to the Tijuana Triangle amid makeshift shacks of corrugated zinc, clapboards and tree branches. Clothes lines, filled with clothes, crisscrossed in a jumble and flapped in the wind to add to a hellish festivity of marimba, cumbia, ranchera and banda songs. Naked, diseased children ran about, eating mud or squealing. Beggars and thieves came in different ways to survive or profiteer. Fights and quarrels broke out and heightened into gang wars and murders. Men raped women as if it were easy as smoking a cigar. In the absence of pure water, the people drank from the polluted river and relieved themselves in secluded corners in communal ease. Everywhere stray dogs and carrion crows battled over filth, carcasses and corpses.
Bernardo found them a shack, which they shared with a Chinese man, Henry Foo; a Russian girl, Oskaya; and an Indian girl, Smita. They cooked outside the shack and slept in hammocks inside at night.
Nina found relief and new life in the company of the other two women. They talked about everything: their trip, country, career, and prospects. To whisk themselves out of the squalor and noise, they went to such places such as Plaza Rio Tijuana and Mercado del Artesanias and shopped. Sometimes they watched bullfights at Toreo da Tijuana and rodeos at Lienzo Charro La Maison.
Nina listened to the others’ stories and thought how close were theirs to hers, a deliberation to seek a better life from their miseries and drudgeries. Like her, they had braved the long and wild trip through the Latin American mainland to cross the border into America to find something they couldn’t find in their own countries, enduring rape, illness, despair and violence.
“Does this worth it?” she asked them.
Oskaya smiled and said in Russian: “I heard that in America they leave you on your own and give you a little chance.” She was in her twenties, blonde with green eyes.
“Why did you take such a risk?” Nina asked her.
Oskaya chuckled. “I am escaping from a communist insurrectionist group to join my husband in Washington. He told me that I have great scope in the States since I am a medical doctor.”
“If I were a doctor like you, I would have stayed in Russia.”
Oskaya fell quiet, biting her nails. “They were trying to kill me.”
Smita, a brown-skinned girl also in her twenties, with long hair and dimpled cheeks said: “It is not easy too in India. Amid the splendor and ancient culture there is so many corruption, hardly a place for a woman.” She said that she was running away from the drudgery and cruelties of her husband to start a new life. Her brother Romesh would put her up in Texas until she found a job.
Nina shrugged and said: “Yes, we have dreams, but the big monster is before us: the border. I have heard a lot of people didn’t make it.”
Bernardo waited for a rainy night, and when it came, he gave them silver-gray jump suits to wear to defeat the rotating tower lights.
“Now our time,” Bernardo said, trying to boast his authority rather than giving clear instructions. “Nina first, Smita second, Oskaya third, Foo fourth, and Aaron last. Look out for rotating lights. Lie down when they come.” He paused. “And I hope all of you can swim.”
Nina felt her heart pounding like horses’ hooves. In the persistent flash and flare of the lightning, she could see the roofs of shacks blown away, screaming children running frantically, women trying to save their babies.
As she set out to go, reports from guns blasted across the border. Wailing and screaming followed in the rain and thunder. She hesitated for a while, then slipped on her silver-gray cap and waited for the rotating lights to pass. When the place became dark again, she ran out of the shack, but the lights were coming upon her again. She threw herself facedown on the ground and waited again for it to pass. Dark again, she scrambled to her feet and began running faster than before. Soon she gained the fence. The light was coming again. She flung herself on the ground and lay splayed on the sand and rubble. The lights passed, and in lightning speed, she bored through the aperture in the fence, an exultant thrill whipping through her. As if they were a demonic intelligence, the lights were coming on her gain. Guns barked; men voices shouted alarms. She flung herself heavily on the ground, waiting for the moment of bullets and her final pain, but the gunshots and voices subsided. She got on her feet in renewed life and bolted toward the river. In three minutes she reached the bank. The lights came again and missed her.
After sliding down into the water, she slipped out of her jump suit, made it into a bundle and fixed it firmly on her head. Then she began swimming, battling against the tide, stench and debris. She thought about Oskaya and Smita and wondered if they could make it. Why did they leave their countries for this hell? she asked herself. Why was Marco putting her through this test? Soon she found her head aching, her feet numb, her energy ebbing. For a moment she wanted to surrender and add to the burdens of carcasses and corpses in the river, but her inner self scowled and said no.
She reached the other bank and rested for a while, then slipped back into her jump suit and began running again. In seconds she reached a small clump of bushes, then a tract of jungle, through which she picked her way in the convolutions of vines, trees and brushes, the branches and spikes tearing her skin. Half an hour later, she emerged into a crisscrossing of streets, lights in houses everywhere.
Running again toward the east, she reached the Interstate 5 Highway, where ceaseless streams of vehicles roared and raced on the lanes. She looked about warily, stomping her foot for a break in the traffic. Suddenly the traffic thinned and disappeared, leaving momentary empty lanes. She took a chance and ran like a sprinter, and in seconds she reached the final lane. But she was still in danger. An approaching car was five seconds away from her. With all the speed she could muster, she made a lightning dash, the car whizzing past in defeat.
Now she had to cross the other side of the highway, the vehicles coming from the other direction. As if she were in the gods’ favor, the stream of traffic broke again, giving her a chance. She sprinted with closed eyes, causing screeching tires yards away. In her tenuous bid between life and death, she felt caught in another world, a strange world where two faceless beings on a frontier were in a contest to pull her over to one side. In the end, the stronger contestant won, and she crossed to a patch of grass, a car roaring past in a close shave.
Following Bernardo’s instructions, she headed for San Ysidro Boulevard, crossing more lanes. When she reached there, she found the relief of traffic lights and pedestrian crossings. In a spurt of exultation, she slapped her chest, and crossed into a filling station compound, where a truck awaited her. An hour later Aaron came.
“Where are the others?” she asked him.
“The patrols shot all of them,” he said.
