Cabuya
a: fiber from the agave plant used to make rope and cloth
b: rope, and especially that made from agave
In front of us is the river, the water that runs so fast, like a bad-tempered person, someone really angry, really mad. Everyone’s scared, and some of them start trying to organize the others, telling them who should cross first and who should cross next. They ask us if we know how to swim. I say, “sort of,” because I used to swim in the sea occasionally back home in my village, in Pueblo Cortés. My cousin is more worried for her daughter. She holds her tightly to her chest and starts rocking her to soothe her, but I think she’s making her more nervous. The baby cries and cries. She’s probably tired or hungry.
“How old is the little girl?” asks a man with a flashlight. He is from Honduras.
“Eight months,” my cousin replies.
“Are you here on your own?” he says.
“Just with my cousin,” she replies, indicating me with a flick of her chin.
“And the girl’s father?” he asks.
“In Honduras,” says my cousin. “He wouldn’t step up, he’s never cared about her.”
From a way off we can hear the cries of the people crossing the river. A girl who couldn’t cross because she wasn’t very strong starts to shout. Even though it’s dark, we catch a glimpse of her by the light of the moon. She’s gripping on tightly to the cabuya but she’s sinking because she’s thrashing around so much.
“Ay ay ay ay ay ay!” cries the girl.
She cries out that she’s drowning and everyone else gets scared, and soon lots of people are shouting. Some are shouting from fear and others are shouting to try to calm the others down. Some people are shouting that if they don’t stop shouting, Immigration is going to hear them. Some people on the banks, when they see the people in the river shouting, start to cry.
“I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die,” says a boy who’s soaking wet, who had changed his mind after he first got into the river and come back to the shore.
“Let God be the one who lets us cross safely,” an older woman says, trying to calm him.
“The water’s freezing,” says the little boy. “It’s so cold, so cold,” he says over and over.
In the middle of the river two men grab hold of the girl and help her so she doesn’t drown. Slowly, she calms down, and everyone stops shouting.
“If you hold on tight to the cabuya nothing will happen,” the man says to my cousin.
“How am I supposed to hold on if I’m carrying my baby?” she replies.
The man thinks for a minute. Someone else says to switch off the flashlights, that we have to save the batteries for when we’re on the other side of the river. We’re plunged even further into darkness, but once you get used to the light from the moon you can just about see.
“How old are you?” the man asks me.
“Thirteen,” I say, “almost fourteen.”
He thinks again, as if working out how strong I am, and then goes over to speak to the other men. My cousin starts crying and says, “Don’t cry, don’t cry,” to her baby.
“Put her on your breast, my child,” an old woman tells her.
“She doesn’t breastfeed,” I tell her. “She gives the baby formula, but we’ve run out.”
The woman ignores me.
“Put her on your breast,” she says again. “That will calm her down.”
“I don’t have any milk!” my cousin says through tears. “The doctor told me to give her formula because my milk wasn’t coming in and the baby was getting hungry.”
The man returns with another guy, a Mexican.
“Who have you two come with?” the Mexican asks.
“We’re on our own,” says my cousin.
“You didn’t come with a guide?” he says.
We tell him we didn’t.
“And how did you get here?” asks the man from Honduras.
“Well, like everyone does,” I say. “On the train.”
“And where are you going?”
“New York,” says my cousin, trying not to cry.
“We have an aunt there,” I say. “One of my dad’s sisters.”
“And how are you going to get all that way?” the Mexican asks. “You know it’s really far away, don’t you?”
“Well, like everyone does,” I tell him, because I have no idea.
The Mexican looks at his watch.
“What time is it?” I ask him.
“Almost three.”
The two men leave again to speak to the group trying to sort out all the chaos.
“I feel like I’m going to die,” says my cousin, holding on to her little girl, who won’t stop crying.
I don’t say a thing, because I feel like I’m going to die, too. I hear the river in the darkness rushing along, really loudly, like a really angry, evil person. Off in the distance you can’t see the people crossing over anymore; they must have reached the other side by now. I hope that the river hasn’t carried them off.
“Give the girl the breast, my child,” the old woman says again to my cousin. “Even if you don’t have any milk, it’ll soothe her.”
My cousin does as she says, but the baby won’t latch on. I think she’s out of the habit now, since my cousin hardly ever breastfeeds her.
“How old are you?” the woman asks my cousin.
“Sixteen.”
“And you came here on your own?” the woman asks.
“Yes,” replies my cousin. “Just the three of us.”
“Do your parents know you’re here?”
“No,” I tell her. “We just left.”
“So you ran away,” says the old woman.
“Pretty much,” says my cousin. “My dad died. I lived with my mom and she never has any work. Sometimes she takes in laundry. It’s a really hard situation. I want my daughter to have a better future.”
“And you?” the woman says to me. “What do your parents do?”
“Nothing,” I tell her.
“Nothing? What do you mean, nothing?”
“Well,” I say. “My dad’s a musician, he plays guitar, but he doesn’t have anything stable. Sometimes he gets paid for playing at a party, or in a bar, and we wait for him to get home so we can eat. Sometimes he doesn’t come back. Or he does, but he doesn’t bring anything. Sometimes we don’t have anything to eat.”
“What kind of music does he play?”
“He plays punta,” I say.
“Is he good?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her.
“Do you like to dance?”
“Yes,” I say. “I love it.”
The man comes back to us. Other people start getting into the river, others say they’re going to stay here on the shore. Maybe in a little while the river won’t be so strong, so angry.
“I’m going to carry her for you,” the man says to my cousin.
“And how are you going to do that?” the old woman butts in.
“I’m going to carry her up high,” says the man, “with my arms up.”
“The river will carry her away,” says the woman. “It’s too dangerous. And anyway, if you’re carrying the girl in your arms, how are you going to hold on to the cabuya?”
“The other guys will help me,” the man replies, and turns around, ignoring her. “If you want, I’ll carry her for you,” he tells my cousin. “But it has to be now. I’m going to cross over now and there are some other people who can help me.”
My cousin looks at me. I nod my head.
“Thank you,” says my cousin.
“Thank me when we get to the other side,” the man says. “You can’t take anything, no backpacks, nothing, leave it all here. And take off your shoes.”
I bend down to take off my shoes and then my cousin passes the baby to me so she can take hers off. The baby isn’t crying anymore. I think she’s tired of crying. Her eyes are open and she’s clenching her little fists as if she’s got a stomachache. She yawns.
“Nothing’s going to happen,” I tell my cousin. “You see how lucky you are? What does that man get out of helping you? He could easily leave you here with the baby and just worry about getting to the other side himself.”
“It’s amazing,” my cousin says, “how people help you.”
There was a boy we met on the train who helped us out every time the gangs got on. They wanted us to pay them to let us pass, and the boy helped us so that we didn’t have to pay. He looked after us. Who knows how he did it or what he said to them. He helped us so much. I even thought that he might have had a crush on my cousin, but she told me she wasn’t in the right frame of mind to think about a boyfriend. And then there were all those people standing by the train tracks who threw food to you when you went past. Rice and bean burritos. Sandwiches.
We walk up to the riverbank and a few people start to get in, all in a line, holding on to the cabuya.
“How long will it take?” my cousin asks the man.
“If we’re quick, about fifteen minutes,” he replies.
“It takes twenty minutes at least,” the old woman butts in again.
I put my feet in the water and the cold surges through my whole body: It’s true, the water really is freezing. We get in slowly, gripping on to the cabuya, me first, my cousin behind me, and then the man with the baby in his arms, with two other men helping him, sort of holding him up.
“The most important thing is not to get nervous,” says the man. “Don’t you worry about the little girl, nothing’s going to happen to her,” he tells my cousin.
We carry on walking, the water up to our knees, our thighs, our bellies. Soon we can’t touch the bottom anymore. The river pushes us forward, trying to drag us away, angrily. The cold numbs our legs, our arms; it’s hard to keep breathing. Every now and then I swallow some water, but I don’t let go of the cabuya.
“Don’t let go of the cabuya!” someone shouts. “Hold on tight!”
Some people start to cry. Others shout that they can’t do it, that the river is going to carry them away. We’re in the middle now, and you can’t see the banks any longer. But I look back, and by the light of the moon I see my cousin’s baby high up, the man’s strong arms protecting her, a little baby girl crossing the border, high above the water.