By Robert Rhodes
Mennonite Weekly Review

ALTAR, Mexico — The youngest one, who said he was 15, lounged on a wrought-iron spiral staircase while a group of fellow migrantes sat in the chilly shade of a walled courtyard off one of Altar’s side streets.

They had all just arrived in Sonora state the night before from southern Mexico. Some have the distinct features of Tzotzil Mayas, the Indian tribe indigenous to war-torn Chiapas. Others are tall Latino men of various ages, the oldest about 45.

Many in Altar see the migrantes as hopeless passersby in search of illusory dreams.

Others, like Roman Catholic priest Rene Castaneda Castro, who runs a community center in Altar for the migrantes, see them differently.

“They’re blood brothers and sisters of mine from our country,” said Castaneda, a native of Nogales. “It actually makes us sad to see people coming through here, because we’re losing them.”

The center Castaneda runs with the blessing of his archdiocese, the Community Center for Migrant Services, offers a variety of assistance, including guest lodging.

The church-run guesthouses are of far better quality than the 130 private establishments in Altar, where the 15-year-old and his companions have come. There, an inescapable squalor has replicated in every room.

Relative newcomers, they still had no concrete plans about how they would proceed toward the U.S. border — the destination for nearly anyone who comes to Altar.

Most have paid about $130 in bus fare for the long trip from southern Mexico.

Hundreds or even thousands more will be paid to the “coyotes” who spirit them across the border.

At the Lupita Guesthouse, they pay 20 pesos, or $2, a night — more if they want the simple meals of beans, rice and tortillas prepared in the bunkhouse’s cluttered but busy kitchen.

The beds, crowded into a front room and near the door to the rear courtyard, are crude steel frames with plywood and squares of shag carpeting instead of mattresses.

The triple-deck platforms sleep two on each level and are strewn with the few possessions the sojourners have brought with them — a coat, a spare shirt and little else. In the streets outside, other migrantes carry sacks of food and gallon jugs of water — provisions needed for their desert crossings.

Many wear new winter coats, probably bought beneath one of the many tents in Altar where vendors peddle gloves, blankets, sock caps and other cold-weather gear.

Backpacks are another necessity for the migrantes, and are widely available from local merchants.

Graffiti scored into the bunkhouse walls tell the stories of past visitors, where they came from and what they expected to see in America — tall buildings, American flags and dollar signs.

When Castaneda arrived in Altar in 1999, about 400 migrantes passed through each day. Now, as many as 1,500 arrive daily, all of them bound for the hazards of the Sonoran Desert.

“And of course, what we see at the same time is a corresponding number of deaths,” Castaneda said, as many as 2,500 in recent years.

At the Lupita Guesthouse, the men say they know about the deaths and are concerned about their safety in the desert.

During winter, the risks are largely related to freezing night temperatures. In summer, when the most deaths occur, the perils of heat and dehydration multiply.

Some have crossed the border before, only to be arrested and sent back. For others, the journey ahead will be their first attempt to enter the United States.

One man, a middle-aged farmer, said he had left his wife and six children in Chiapas to pursue work north of the border.

The money that workers like him send home constitutes one of Mexico’s main sources of income — topping $10 billion in 2002, up from $5.8 billion in 1999, according to Mexican government figures.

Back home, the farmer said, he had only a small, rocky plot to cultivate, making it practically impossible to support his family.

Others who had worked as farm laborers said they might make 25 pesos a day during harvest but much less the rest of the year.

For most migrantes, money for their trips north come from relatives in the United States, whom they must then pay back.

Some have no idea where they might go once they get across the border, though some mention Atlanta or North Carolina as possibilities.

Others are less certain.

“Someplace where they pay us well, hopefully,” the Chiapas farmer said.