Chapter One Migrant Mountain (Mexico Sector) In the Big Rock Candy Mountains, there's a land that's fair and bright Where the handouts grow on bushes and you sleep out every night Where the boxcars are all empty and the sun shines every day . . . Oh, I'm bound to go where there ain't no snow Where the rain don't fall and the wind don't blow In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.--"Big Rock Candy Mountains" I never knew the dark to be filled with so much light. But as we moved silently and in sequence through the underbrush of the basin, the nighttime sky concealed by the reaching branches that took the form of a camouflaged canopy, the twilight gloom began to percolate and bleed into phantom phosphorescent streaks. The visibility spectrum was exploding, disassembled into crimson and sapphire shadows that crested across my field of vision, forcing me to stumble. And as the darkness deconstructed itself, I knew I wasn't going to make it. I hadn't even crossed the border yet and already I was going crazy, made lame by so small an annoyance as too little light. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping for a renewal of vision, and dropped down to the earth--moist and dewy--hydrated by an early predawn mist. I felt confused legs carefully s¡eeking out each step bump into me from behind, followed by distraught falling yells offered in a cascading descending Spanish as the two Mexicans behind me reached out hopefully for branches to keep their footing. Their fall sent the leaves about them flapping in snapping wobbling ricochets. The coyote leading us, disguised under a black ski mask, turned and offered a forced hushed whisper of admonishment. Shut the fuck up! But in Spanish. Which, of course, was a language I didn't speak. I winced in the darkness; I hated being admonished by human smuggling coyotes. I moved to the side of the passing line on weary wobbly ankles as I heard the rustling of corduroy pants, soggy sneakers, and the gentle parting of leaves peeling off pants. I crouched in silence, counting their number as they passed before I moved into the last position. There were twenty of us in all. Twenty individuals whose names I didn't know. Twenty individuals whom I didn't know anything about except that we were linked by this shared covert journey that made me feel a desperate kinship born out of necessity and circumstance. We were a caravan of migrants, men and women, children and adults, strangers and family, and our temporary cooperation seemed a testament to something profound and invigorating about the potential of civilization. If we could cooperate, entrusting our lives with one other, then it seemed too as if there was potential for the rest of the world to get along, for nation-states and divisive religious sects and warring ethnic enclaves. The silhouette figure ahead of me suddenly disappeared, merging with the shadows, and I felt the subtle push of panic at my heart, fearing that they had all suddenly disappeared, leaving me alone in the wilderness. I dropped to my heels on a small vertical muddy incline as I peered into the darkness, my eyeballs hurting as I strained them against their sockets--everyone was still there, just resting quietly, sitting off to the side of the trail, silent save for the panting breaths that came in ragged random bursts. I sighed with relief realizing I wasn't alone and collapsed on my butt, participating in the shared stillness. And it was then, for the first time, that I noticed the cacophony of noise all about us: the screaming crickets, the hum of a light wind rattling the leaves above the basin's rim, and somewhere, the distant sound of water. It was the sound of the river that made my heart heave heavily in my chest, careening against the side of my rib cage. It was the sound of the river that surged the blo Excerpted from Border Crosser: One Gringo's Illicit Passage from Mexico into America by Johnny Rico All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
