The Coyote's Bicycle (6 page)

Prospects for food or a roof over his head in this part of Tijuana were slim. It was the absolute margin. Even the shantytowns thinned out and gave way before the boundary. One could sleep in a ditch, maybe, or a culvert. The downtown halfway houses that served migrants and deportees could board passers-through for only a few nights, and then the travelers were sent on their respective ways.

Often the next step for the deported was to take up residence along the Tijuana River, the stinking and paved no man's land. Here, the challenges of the disenfranchised were laid bare for the city to see—scrums of men surrounding acrid trash fires, faces sunburnt and blackened from exposure. Clustered plastic and cardboard hovels evoked a sense of establishment. These aboveground structures had cultivated a regional nickname,
ñongos
. But the crude holes that recent arrivals dug for shelter also had a term,
pocitos
, or “wells.” Many river dwellers existed virtually without a nation. Identification documents were consistently lost during the deportation process. In the streets of Tijuana, the lack of a voter ID card subjected one to arrest at any time; and gaining legal employment was impossible. Mexican federal law guaranteed the public use of water bodies and their shorelines, which made the river the only place to turn.

New migrants like Pablo who didn't have enough cash for a hotel room or the ability to pay a coyote soon found themselves in the same boat as the deported. Tijuana police kept their eyes peeled for
pollos
to sell, as each one was worth about a hundred bucks or so. Wandering men and women dressed in the clothing of peasants were stopped and questioned—amiably at first, but always with the threat of arrest. If the migrants didn't have the ability to pay smugglers for their services they couldn't be sold by police. In this instance, officers would take whatever they had in their pockets. Sometimes even belts and shoes were seized. To ensure that victimized migrants couldn't make a claim, the police often took their identification, a
wound that was sure to hasten stagnation and hunger.
Tijuanenses
called potential crossers
migrantes
and this term carried a measure of respect for people out to do better for themselves. But just a short stint in the river garnered a new status,
indigentes
, the indigent—which suggested a person with fewer prospects than the outright homeless.

To live in a dirt well, scamper from police, abide in a river community ruled by drug users—to slip farther from the lowly rung of
migrante
into the
indigente
—was not an option for Pablo. It was not the dream he nurtured. Yet it seemed that in the period before Solo arrived, Pablo was at risk of losing sight of his goals. The masses of cars and heavy trucks, the roar of jets out of Tijuana International, the multistory buildings that stretched higher than the tree line of his foothill village—they all created a dizzying sense of dislocation. Pablo coped only by keeping on the move, by hiking and walking.

A lone juvenile who stalked the margins, keeping a distinct distance from the camps of strangers, however, would have led a haunted existence: eyeballs and portions of faces peering from tin-roofed shanties in
el Cañón de los Laureles
, the gazes of passing motorists on the International Road. What did they see? A
pollo
or an
indigente
? One could only duck and run at the sight of the municipal police and their flashing blue lights. At some point Pablo's rambling caught the discerning eye of a well-respected coyote, one of the
polleros viejos
. Roberto did some work along this corridor—not as much here as in the old days, but there were still some opportunities. This was old ground and it was his habit to notice every movement in it.

One evening, Roberto assembled his workers and
pollos
in strategic position at the lip of Slaughterhouse Canyon. The sky was riven with gold desert light. But on the western horizon, a great cloudbank surged into the snowy reach of a mountain range. Once the sun dipped into the peaks and ridges of cloud, Roberto knew, all would
become gray. He scanned the terrain, including a perch where a white-and-green Border Patrol jeep was parked just on the other side of the boundary.
El coyote
's survey continued before locking on the form of a young man—this figure squatted on haunches below a stand of mule fat and sagebrush.

“You,
joven
,” Roberto said. “Come here.” The drifter obliged—but neither too fast nor too slow. When the hunched youth drew near, Roberto asked, “What's your name?”

“Pablo,” he answered. The coyote paused; he already knew.

“That's right, Pablito from Oaxaca.” Roberto nodded. “You look surprised. I have a memory for such things. Last time, you said you were waiting for something, an idea you had.” Roberto quietly stepped to the side and evaluated the migrant in profile. “Are you still waiting for that idea,
amigo
? Or are you ready to cross tonight?”

Pablo stiffened, but followed the coyote with his eyes. Otherwise, he didn't blink or swallow or respond in any way.

“To be reserved is a good quality, especially here.” Roberto looked over at his people milling about. “
Oye
,” he shouted, “get in the van.” Then he turned back. “No need to say more than is required.”

The
jefe
folded his arms before Pablo. He assessed the sky. Pablo followed his gaze out to the cloudbank approaching from the west.

“Or is it that you can't trust anybody?” Roberto asked.

“I trust people all right,” Pablo answered.

“Look, I have a whole group going over tonight. You can see them there in the van. Those are my expert guides. They will lead this group across and take them to a safe place.
La migra
won't notice
nada
. Same for you. Name your city, Pablito.”

Pablo remained quiet and continued to search the sky for the important thing Roberto had seen in it.

“Over there,
joven
, you see those people. That's you too if you want it. Tomorrow, you'll be toasting Budweisers with them.”

“I'm not crossing tonight,” Pablo said. “I'll let you know when.”

“What's the holdup? Is there someone on the inside who can spot you? A brother, a cousin, someone from the village?”

“I have a family right there in San Diego—mother, father, brothers, sisters. But I haven't seen them in a very long time.”

“And you are here. They crossed without you, the youngest, asked to stay behind before you understood what that meant. Then something happened. Am I right? I also happen to know what the true holdup is,
amigo
: it's pride. You're too proud to ask for anything.”

Roberto possessed the alert but distant quality of someone who negotiated deals while his hands worked at small tasks. He was a ticket taker with an eye on the crowd, the other on the clock, and an ear for the whistle. The light of the sky flickered as tendrils of vapor passed beneath the sun, and then, with a seeming hush, the
pollo
and
pollero
were left in shadow as the quiet of low clouds fell upon them.

“Consider the passage as good as earned,” Roberto said. “People owe me favors. I will set you up with a job, and you will pay me back. I've passed many people this way.”

“I'm going to cross when the time is right.”

“And this moment is not right,” he said, nodding with gravity. “But if you're not a customer there's no point in hanging around,
verdad
? This is a place for workers and
la migra
. You can go on your way wandering around Laureles and Cúspide or wherever you visit.”

Pablo turned to leave without a good-bye.

“Unless . . . you
are
a worker. And I sense you might be—a hard worker prepared to learn.”

Pablo stopped. He faced Roberto again.

“You've probably noticed in your walking, it's been very hot for over a week. They're calling for a sea fog now, and believe me, when God's blanket comes rolling off the ocean that thick,
la migra
goes blind—the agents, their binoculars, night-vision goggles, the heat sensors, those little laser trip wires they have there hidden in the
bush,
todo
. Even the floodlights get trapped by the water in the air and become pale little moons. The light doesn't even strike the ground.
La migra
might as well pack it in for the night. Look here.” Roberto pointed at the cloudbank. “The fog is coming now.”

The cloudbank that had looked like mountains now filled sky.

“The important thing right now is that some of my people are hungry and thirsty. The key to a long career in this business is to put the people's well-being first—everything else comes after.” Roberto reached into his jeans pocket and withdrew a roll of money. He leafed some bills off the roll and handed them to the young man. “Okay, Pablito from Oaxaca, hustle down to the Comercial and buy some tacos and water. There are twelve of us, plus you, lucky thirteen. Don't be stingy. Workers like to eat.”

Roberto expected Pablo to hurry, but the youth turned and ran. He sprinted down a switchback trail and crossed the trough of the canyon, threading the ragged edge of a shantytown before heading up a goat path on the following side. As he disappeared over the lip of the canyon's far wall, Roberto experienced a trace of familiarity. This
migrante
was a rare one. It was as if the country bumpkin had arrived at the central station intending to meet a connecting train, but in the lay time between trains, he'd become transfixed with the station itself—the architecture, the steam, the whistles, the buzz of the crowd. And he refused the onward passage. It was rare for economic migrants heading for low-wage jobs to see the real earning potential on the boundary. It was rare, but not unheard of, and this young man reminded Roberto of someone.

“Well, I was interested,” he said later. “I really liked this kid.”

4

From Terry's pile, McCue withdrew a burgundy ladies' ten-speed. It sported decorative lugs at the joints and a lovely little step-through frame. After dusting off a portion of the down tube, we could see that it was called the Free Spirit.

“My fiancée is going to love this,” McCue said.

She hadn't yet learned to ride a bike, and McCue aimed to teach her. He pulled a twenty from his wallet and handed it over to Terry. The bill was crisp. McCue's smile was earnest. Terry wore the pursed lips of a trader. A later Internet search valued the bike at fifteen dollars. And Terry sold dozens like it for ten.

“All right,” the rancher said, folding the twenty into his jeans pocket. “Deal.”

I've always had a thing for ladies' bikes. The act of mounting a man's diamond frame is accompanied by a certain mindset. You throw your leg over, find the seat, grip the pedals, and the subconscious says, “Okay, we're going to ride now.” You don't have to have any thought at all sliding onto and off of a ladies' step-through. It's an effortless motion and, once engaged, the bike disappears and you're simply floating on a parallel plane with the earth.

Victorian women of the 1890s championed this version of the newfangled “safety”—bicycles with same-sized wheels. Entitled
young men of means, wearing mustaches, small caps, and tight pants, preferred the stylish high-wheel; the safety was but a curiosity. Yet because it was the first machine to give women independent mobility, the ladies' safety soon became an icon of the suffrage movement. They were such potent symbols of women's struggles for equality that opponents of the movement took to calling them broomsticks, as in, “Did you see Ms. Smith ride past on her broomstick?”

The Free Spirit's rear tire had been slashed through to the tube with a box cutter, a disabling tactic employed by Border Patrol. Still, it was a lucky thing the agents hadn't run the Free Spirit over. In recent days, Terry had come upon several frames that had been “taco-ed” under the weight of a jeep or “kilo” truck. To a bike enthusiast, the tactic seemed a bit hard-hearted.

“Why would Border Patrol do that?” I wondered out loud. “Frustration?”

“Maybe,” Terry said. “But there's a definite chance bikes are getting picked up here, taken back to TJ, and then rolling across the same way again. The exact bike could be crossing, shit, I don't know how many times. That's if I don't get to 'em first.”

McCue and I loaded the Free Spirit into his vehicle. We said our good-byes to Terry and began to make our way off the property. And then, wondering just how a ladies' ten-speed could cross the most militarized portion of a two-thousand-mile border, we decided to head up to the border highlands, because topography, it seemed, had something to do with it.

The same could be said, of course, about the car tires. But even before the Tynans' forty-foot Dumpster brimming with rubber receded to a green speck in the side mirror, I'd completely forgotten all about the car tires. Now I only cared about bicycles, and how they crossed this prohibitive, fortified, and rugged terrain. And where they went from there, and how many times one bike could cross and
cycle back through, and who rode them, and, I guess, where the bikes originated from in the first place. And who, exactly, arranged it all.

“Can you imagine,” I asked McCue, “a migrant bombing down into the American dream, from one of these hills, on a bike called the Free Spirit?”

I could see a young woman's face, wind in her hair, a backdrop of roiling dust, and only the light of a radiant future ahead.

At the time, I didn't know that Free Spirit was a brand that Sears department stores had sold for decades. They'd been built in every country that made bikes—some to exacting standards, some not—and around the time this little burgundy gem was produced in Taiwan, the brand represented a good percentage of all bikes rolling through America's suburban streets. The idea that an undocumented migrant crossing via bicycle would ride high in the saddle of a Free Spirit was not ironic. It was the odds-on favorite.