There are snakes out there, in the desert, on the border at Sonoyta. We went up to the border but there were loads of federales, and immigration officers, and the sheer number of police spooked the guides, so they left us there, on the Mexican side. I had come with a cousin of mine who was a year older than me: I was fifteen, he was sixteen. My cousin told me we had to wait now, said we hadn’t come all this way just to stay where we were. It wasn’t just the fifteen of us who had left Guatemala together. There were more of us now, twenty or so—from Honduras, El Salvador, Mexico, even one from Ecuador.
The immigration agents knew we were migrants, obviously, because we were in the desert, on the border between Mexico and the United States. When they saw we were in Mexican territory they didn’t say anything, just stared at us from a distance. You could see they weren’t taking their eyes off us, and there were snakes there, too, in the way they stared.
We were in the mountains now, up on a hill looking out over the desert, and we had to stand around waiting, seeking out the shade of the few trees there were, or making shade with our own bodies. It was May or June, I don’t really remember, and it was really hot, and the sun was strong, and we were burning. But the guides said we had to stay alert, we had to look and see if there was a chance to cross, a chance that Immigration might get distracted and then they could send us through. But time went by and nothing, just the heat and the sun that burned, and someone said that there were snakes out there, the dangerous ones, the ones that can come while you’re asleep and sting you with their poison. It was someone who’d been over there already, someone who’d been sent back and who said that if Immigration caught you they put you in a cell where you never saw the sun, they gave you a cold burger to eat, and sometimes there was no space to lie down, you had to sleep sitting up.
My cousin kept saying to pay him no attention, that Immigration wasn’t going to get us, that we hadn’t come all this way—Chiapas, Hidalgo, Oaxaca, Guadalajara—just to stay here. Night fell, and we could see the lights of the cars over there, on the other side of the border, and someone said that, over there, there were no snakes. Over there, compared to our towns, it was completely different, really sophisticated. Now it was pitch black, and a hunger came over us, and we each took out what we’d brought to eat: tins of fish, of ham, canned hot dogs. And we had to eat just a little and ration it out, because we didn’t know how long we would have to wait. The guides told us that they could take us back to the house where we’d been before we reached the border, but then they wouldn’t be able to take us across.
After the night came down, I felt scared and sad, I felt so far away from my family, from my little brothers and my mom, and I felt bad for my dad, who is an alcoholic. He can’t really take care of us. There are snakes there, too, in my dad’s head. I couldn’t sleep because I was worried. I had to stay alert to see if there was any chance of crossing and, besides, there were lots of sounds out in the desert, things crawling along that I thought were the snakes, those snakes that come and sting you with their poison if you fall asleep. And there were coyotes, too. We could see them in the distance, and they didn’t come any closer, but some people said that if we listened we’d be able to hear them howling.
The night passed like that and then the day, and then another night, and my cousin said that we had to hold on, that if we’d held on this far we couldn’t go back now, that we knew how difficult it was going to be to cross the desert, more difficult than the part on the train. In Oaxaca we had to sleep on the train for part of the journey, which is really dangerous. We were traveling up top, on the roof, for half a day and a night, risking falling off. They say lots of people have died coming north this way on the train. A few times we slept on the bus, too, and others we had to sleep by the sea, on the beach, and in Chiapas we had to sleep by the river, and sometimes, like in Mexico City, we slept in a hotel. When we were in Mexico City I went out to buy something to eat and there was a group of people in the street—I think they were Zetas—and they were clashing with the police. There was a fight right there in the street, people with guns, with snakes in their heart.
And on the third day in the desert, on the border at Sonoyta, there were still loads of federales, lots of Immigration. At one point I found a snake—we found a snake, I mean, me and the people I was with, but luckily we managed to kill it. They told us it had the dangerous kind of venom that could kill you.
My cousin wasn’t scared of the snakes and said that we hadn’t escaped from the gangs back home just to be killed by some snake’s poison. And I remembered that some of the guys in the gangs had tattoos of snakes, snakes on their arms, or on their backs, even on their heads or their bellies.
There was one guy who was in a gang who actually threatened to beat me up. It was at school, and he believed he was in charge because he was with this gang—and that’s when I felt like I was in danger. And all for a silly little thing. I was talking to a girl in my class about an assignment, and he thought I was flirting with his girlfriend. And for that one silly little thing he wanted to take my life.
I had to change schools, but even then, there was a time when they came after me. When I got out of school they chased me and wanted to kill me. But I managed to escape; I ran off and got on one of the school buses that took me home. But I didn’t feel safe anymore, I was afraid they might come around the corner and kill me at any minute. They had blades, knives, they could have had guns. I’d heard that they’d whacked other kids and that was when I started to worry that they might do something bad to me or my family, because back there anything can happen; it’s not safe at all. The guys in these gangs can kill your whole family.
And all that running away just to end up in the desert, on the border at Sonoyta, with no way of crossing. I was already getting desperate, what with the days we’d spent in the desert, our skin all burned, unable to have a wash or anything proper to eat. I was getting desperate and I said that the best thing for it was to hand ourselves in, so we’d get sent back to our country.
There were about ten of us boys who wanted to hand ourselves in. Then the guides said that we could go back or do whatever we wanted, that it was in our hands, because they weren’t going to take us over anymore. But one of the boys who’d crossed over before and been arrested said that we didn’t know what a cell was like, those cells they call freezers. That for people like us who hadn’t experienced it, being locked up like that, without seeing the sun, was really hard, and they treat you like a prisoner. And then I thought that I would prefer not to see the sun, because it was so hot in the desert and the sun was really strong, and I could handle being in the cell, since there are lots of people who come with little children, little kids who are brave enough to come this far. Crossing the desert is really difficult, but there are kids who come on their own and pregnant women about to give birth.
Five days went by in the desert, on the border at Sonoyta, and I told my cousin I couldn’t take it any longer, that I really was going to hand myself in. We walked down the hill to where the Immigration agents were. To help take my mind off the snakes I thought about a memory from when I was really little. What I liked doing most of all was being a businessman and going to work with my dad. I used to go with him to sell things, when I was four years old, before I started school. He was a carpenter, and I helped him to sell his products. We’d leave the house and it’d be a nice day, sunny, but a normal sun, not like this sun that was burning me out here in the desert. He’d hold my hand and take me with him to see his customers, and what I loved most of all was just being with him.
We ten boys walked down the mountain and that’s where I had to hand myself over to Immigration. We told them to send us back and that’s how we handed ourselves over: We crossed the border and they were there, waiting for us. They put us in cars to take us to the freezers.
If I go back to my country, I feel something bad will happen to me.