Telling Fortunes in Phoenix

Chui

On the southernmost border of Arizona, far from the metropolitan centers of Phoenix or Tucson, lies the Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, five hundred and seventeen square miles of protected wilderness containing the largest collection of Organ Pipe Cactus in the United States. Though not as tall as the towering Saguaros that reach forty and even sixty feet, the Organ Pipe is a significant giant in its own right. Like the pipes of the church organ it is named for, a mature specimen’s cluster of spires begin at a base twelve feet in diameter and climb to sixteen feet in height.

Arizona State Road 85 cuts south through the eastern portion of this park, changing its name to Mexican Federal Highway 8 when it crosses into Mexico. The Park and hundreds of square miles of desert surrounding it, inauspicious with rattlesnakes and sun, would seem an unlikely border crossing for illegal aliens. Yet it is a popular route, possibly because this untracked parcel of land, larger than many countries, is impossible to patrol and the agencies assigned to do so are few.

This wasteland has a long history of covert movement. Arizona’s initial development of the park system was driven by the desire for an improved road to bring in good Mexican alcohol during the Prohibition so Federal and State funds built S.R. 85, much to the relief of Arizona’s imbibers. In modern times this was the route to Arizona’s nearest oceanfront, the beach at Rocky Point, so the officers manning the border must make American tourists welcome while repelling Mexican smugglers and illegal immigrants.

Eddie’s coyote did not bring the Mexican family in at the legal crossing but walked them through the nearby desert so there was no surprise when the family quickly fell asleep in the cozy blankets at the rear of the van. One of the passengers, though, was awake. Jesús Marones Rodríguez Griegos was ten years old and had never wanted to come on this trip.

Jesús, or Chui as he was called, enjoyed his life in the tiny village that was his home before this frightening journey. He was a good scholar and enjoyed helping the younger children with their lessons. He was the best English speaker in the village and was welcomed in the few homes with television where he would translate old black and white movies, using funny accents for the different characters. He looked forward to harvest when the whole town would converge on the fields in a frenzy to bring in the corn and squash before the rains of autumn came. He saw no reason to leave.

But his father had been told there was work and convinced his nearest and dearest to come with their children on the trip. Jesús argued about this with his cousins but they disparaged his views. Everyone knew life was better in the United States where there was money and plenty of opportunities. The cousins he left behind were jealous and wished they could take his place. Chui wished they could as well.

Though he argued the subject with his peers, Jesús never brought his concerns to Papa. Papa was the head of the family and his decision was final. He loved his children and wanted more for them, so off they went.

During the long trek from their remote village Chui became ever more convinced that something was wrong. Chaco was very good at moving them. He knew when it was safe and never became lost; he’d obviously done this many times. But there was no friendly chat, no winks or jokes. If they’d been sheep he was herding he could not have shown less interest in Chui’s family. Didn’t the man depend on return business, on word of mouth? He had showed up in their village as a complete stranger and now, meeting the big white man, Chui felt more like merchandise than a family of workers.

The white man thanked the coyote and handed him money. Chui had heard that the coyotes charged a great deal of money but it never came from the Americanos, always from the Mejicanos. Another piece that did not fit.

The summer before a Spanish Edition of the complete Harry Potter series had been donated to his town and Chui had lined up with the rest for his turn to read the engaging fantasies. As Eddie handed around food and drinks Chui remembered Harry Potter being offered tea by the despicable Delores Umbridge. Harry pretended to drink but remembered what Mad-eye Moody said about sharing food with known enemies. Taking Mad-eye’s advice, Chui consumed none of the picnic the white devil handed out, though he was careful to appear to eat and drink. That white man scared him and he would not eat his food.

After the meal he crawled into the van with his family and, though he was afraid, the quiet peaceful night and the comfortable warm bed soothed his empty stomach and troubled mind. Soon he also slept, deep and relaxed, surrounded by his family. Chui did not wake as they travelled the rugged track leading out of the canyons or on the sudden smoothness of S.R. 85, but when they turned onto another dirt road his eyes opened to darkness and he could not think where he was. He tried to get up and the surrounding warm bodies and the smells of dirt and sweat brought him back to the present. They were not yet at their journey’s end.

He felt the strong shape of his father and shook him but there was no reaction. His papa’s chest rose and fell but no amount of prodding awakened him. He poked at a woman, his mother? Or his aunt. He pushed at her but she did not move. The van slowed and turned and the boy scrambled over a carpet of soft bodies until he met a wall. No one complained or shouted at him though surely it hurt when his knees and hands crawled over stomachs and arms? Why did they not cry out? His breath came fast. The van stopped. Footsteps crunched on gravel and the doors were unlocked and pulled open.

Chui lay collapsed against the wall and did not make a sound. He laid there, barely breathing, pretending with all his heart to be asleep like the others, his eyes closed to little slits because he dared not wait in blindness to find what this white devil would do. The fragrant air of the desert night poured in as the white man glowed like cold fire in the moonbeams. Leaving the doors swung wide the man flicked off his torch and left them to head for a well-lit house partially revealed beyond the van.

The ten-year-old scrambled over his father and uncle to the opening, watching from the shadows as the man spoke with a woman on the porch of the house. Without being aware he’d made a decision Chui slipped out of the cargo bay and scurried into a tangle of mesquite bushes lining the yard. His heart pounded. Sweat trickled into his eyes. He blinked to clear them but did not otherwise move nor take his eyes off of the white, white man who had not yet noticed the escape of one of his captives.