By the time we catch up with the migrant caravan, the group has already spent 10 weeks in the media spotlight and played a starring role in the midterms. Yet we are still unprepared for what we find—5,000 Central Americans camped in a small neighborhood rec center that reporters like to refer to over and over again as a “stadium.”
Keith Bowden and I had met up in San Diego and headed south to the border. Keith, 61, has lived on it for three decades—in Langtry, Texas, a town of 13. His Tecate Journals is an epic border tale, a chronicle of his canoe adventure down the Rio Grande. I got to know him early this year while I was traveling the U.S.-Mexico border by bicycle for this magazine. When I asked him in November if he wanted to go down and see the caravan first-hand, Keith responded within hours, “When do we go?”
We park on the American side early in the morning, change our dollars into pesos, and head for the San Ysidro Port of Entry. This is the most heavily trafficked border crossing in the world: a hectic labyrinth of converging highways and footbridges. Hundreds of cars inch through security checkpoints and are routed around enormous construction projects as the crossing expands to catch up with the daily crush of commuters. Everything is shoved up against fences from several different eras of border security, topped by halos of razor wire just installed by the troops sent to the border by President Trump. Three days earlier migrants attempted to charge the border here and were met by tear gas. As we wind our way through the different barriers and turnstiles, military helicopters fly overhead, and dozens of Mexican and American officers stand by in full riot gear.
A Tijuana taxi driver says he knows where the migrants are camped, and he has us there in 10 minutes. The Benito Juárez Sports Complex shares half a city block with an elementary school. Only a two-lane highway separates it from the border fence, but the closeness of the United States is an illusion. If you were to dodge the traffic and somehow climb over the 15-foot fence, there would be two more barriers even before you reach the stinking Tijuana River. Cross the river, and there are two more fences between you and American soil.
A block from the wall surrounding the sports complex, the Mexican police have set up a perimeter to keep out the Tijuana locals. Hundreds of people mill about between the two perimeters. There are medical tents, and the Mexican marines run kitchens at one end of the street to feed the migrants, who kill time in makeshift shelters on the sidewalk or simply stand around. Men crowd around a crate to gamble Honduran currency or cigarettes. Children chase each other, weaving between the aimless adults.
The scams start almost immediately. Keith breaks one of his cardinal rules (“When a guy comes up to you and starts with ‘Hey, my friend’—run”) and gives a Honduran man enough pesos to call his mother back home. He claims to have a 2-year-old son and to have been on the road north for 45 days, 12 of which he has spent in the Tijuana camp. We never see him use the payphone, and we spend a lot of time standing around studying the crowd as the compound we’re waiting to get into is only open to the press between 2 and 3 p.m.
Trash litters the streets. Filthy water streams along the curb. Knowing how many miles the migrants walked to get here, I am curious what kinds of shoes had brought them this far. Crocs seem the overwhelming favorite. We begin to notice the almost comic number of reporters amongst the crowd, as well as San Diego couples on some sort of “slum safari.” The migrants are remarkably young, most under 30. The longer we wait, the more Keith seems distressed. “What are they gonna do? How are they gonna get back? How are they gonna get across? They’re just kids.”
The origins of the caravan remain a bit murky, but it is thought that a group of 160 people agreed to head north together from San Pedro Sula, Honduras, on October 12. Grouping together seemed safer than walking or hitchhiking alone. On October 13, the Associated Press was reporting that a “spontaneous caravan” of 1,000 migrants was en route through Mexico to the United States. It seems to have formed through word of mouth—many people say they heard about the group on Facebook and made the decision to join in minutes. Now they’re here in Tijuana, more than 2,000 miles away.
Cars sporadically squeeze their way through the police checkpoint, and the listless scene at the sports complex snaps into life. People are lined up 50 yards deep long before the driver has time to open the door. If it’s common items like bottles of juice or slices of pizza coming out of the trunk, the line stays neat and organized. If it’s rarer goods like coats or blankets, a riot ensues.
Keith strikes up a conversation with a police officer in desert fatigues and a beret. He’s from Mexico City and his frustration boils over into a thoughtful, well-spoken dissertation on the scene we’ve been watching all morning. The police have a simple mission—keep the locals outside the perimeters and maintain an orderly environment within. The migrants, he says, shaking his head, “just won’t listen to anything.” They throw their trash in the streets. They urinate and defecate on the sidewalks. The police ask them not to stray outside the perimeter, but they roam Tijuana to panhandle or steal. It hasn’t been widely reported, but these behaviors led the parents’ association to close down the elementary school next door. “Whatever you do don’t come here when the sun is down,” the officer tells us. “Every night there are fights.” He says drugs are rampant inside the perimeter.
A man walks past our sidewalk huddle, and the officer recognizes a repeat offender. He stops what he is saying to lecture him against panhandling. “They don’t feed me,” the migrant complains. “I get in line, but they don’t feed me.” “That’s because you don’t stay in line,” the officer explains. “I got in line but it was taking too long so I just said ‘No, I’m not doing it,’ ” the migrant snaps back. “Just because you get in line doesn’t mean you are going to immediately get service,” says the officer, clearly bewildered to be explaining how to wait in line to an adult. “You see what I’m dealing with?” he asks us.
Just after 2 o’clock, we pass through a metal turnstile into the sports complex with a group of reporters. The four-acre space is made up of a basketball court, two baseball diamonds, and a small soccer field surrounded by bleachers. But we are weaving through narrow lanes between tents. Every facility except the soccer field, which was being used for a pickup game, is covered with tents or makeshift tarps. In some places, large billboard advertisements and garbage bags propped up by bits of wood sub for tents. Laundry and shoes are hung to dry from every conceivable protrusion. If it weren’t for the scoreboard in center field, the larger of the two baseball fields would be unrecognizable. Its outfield is given over to showers and portable toilets. We count three outdoor showers with three dripping spigots each—two for men, one for women. Lines of people wait for each of the dozen toilets. It all seems pathetically little for 5,000 people.
A boy, probably 4 or 5 years old, runs up to us. As Keith talks to him, a young man in his mid-20s joins the conversation. Keith asks the newcomer—I’ll call him “Danny”—why he came to Tijuana. Danny says he came for a better job. Work in Honduras is scarce and often doesn’t pay enough to support a family. “If you have children, you have a real problem,” he explains. Keith asks if he plans to stay in Mexico, and Danny says, “Oh, yeah, I’m happy here. I’m fine here. I don’t need to go anywhere else.” The source of his joy is having earned $60 that week at a restaurant in the city. As they talk, other young men join the circle. Danny wants to know if acquiring legal work papers could jeopardize his asylum claim. Keith says he isn’t sure, but most likely yes. Questions start to pour in from the half-dozen men suddenly listening:
“If I get the interview what do I say?”
“There’s a lot of political problems in Honduras, should I tell them about those?”
“What’s the probability that we’re going to get in?”
This back and forth goes on and on, as a crowd gathers to hear what Keith is saying. The problem is horrifying and obvious. Asylum is intended for people who fear persecution for their race, religion, nationality, social group, or political opinion, but the Hondurans are telling us about their desire for jobs. “I can’t believe you don’t know,” Keith says to Danny, trying to explain that asylum has nothing to do with work visas. “We’re in the dark,” he says, and it’s been that way from the beginning. Rumor and speculation carried them thousands of miles to Tijuana, but now the dream is starting to fade. Pressed up against the U.S.-Mexico border, with the asylum-interview system backlogged for weeks, most of the migrants are beginning to realize how small their chance is of getting it. There really are only three choices: crossing the border illegally, accepting the work permits being offered by the Mexican government and finding a job in Tijuana, or climbing on one of free buses back to the Guatemalan border, courtesy of Mexico.
News reports, often studded with pictures of activists in neon vests, have given the impression that the caravan is an organized effort. But based on what we observe and our conversations with some of those who walked north, nobody was ever in charge or took on the responsibility of educating the migrants about just what they were headed for.
After an hour inside the camp, Keith and I walk several blocks to catch a taxi back to San Ysidro. We ask our driver, a Tijuana resident, about his thoughts on the caravan. “Trump’s policy on this issue may be the only sane policy he has,” he admits with reluctance. “According to Trump if he lets them in there’s going to be a flood of people that follows. I’m in agreement with that idea. Of course if they get in, it will inspire others.” He describes the migrants as “vulgar” and is irritated by their lack of gratitude for what the Mexican government is doing for them.
On November 19, a crowd of angry Tijuanans marched through the city protesting the caravan. The mayor has been especially outspoken, claiming that the city cannot afford to keep spending $30,000 a day on the camp. Our cabbie was frustrated but wanted to be clear that normally he’d be sympathetic to their plight. “I’m a moral person. I’m a conscientious person. I care about people, and I don’t feel good about agreeing with Trump,” he says. Mexico has a new president, Andrés Manuel López Obrador, and Keith asks the cabbie what he expects of the new leader. “We never know that,” the driver sighs. He says every candidate for office promises to represent the people but becomes part of the corruption as soon as he is elected. Perhaps this new president will be different: “My only hope,” he says, gesturing dramatically while steering through city traffic.
Back in San Diego, we settle down in our hotel. Heavy rain is predicted for the next day, which will surely flood the already saturated Benito Juárez fields. The medical tents are taxed as it is treating respiratory infections, and there are reports of chickenpox and HIV/AIDS. Hotel luxury feels shamefully far away from sleeping and coughing on a flooded baseball field.
Instead of sloshing around Tijuana again, we drive up to Los Angeles. According to the 2010 census, 633,401 Hondurans are living in the United States and 42,901 of them live in L.A. We want to talk to some Hondurans who have made it to the States and try the restaurant Dona Bibi’s, which sits in an edgy neighborhood directly across from MacArthur Park. There’s a giant map of Honduras chalked on one wall, and we’re the only gringos in the place. It’s a simple spot with wobbly tables and scuffed chairs, but nearly full at lunchtime and humming with conversation.
Keith tries to talk with two men at the table next to us. One outright refuses to talk. Many of the people we met on this trip were reluctant to talk to reporters, and a high percentage of those who would refused to give their names. Our less taciturn neighbor is originally from Honduras but now lives permanently in Los Angeles. He is full of despair about the caravan. “Didn’t they know that no matter where they came that was going to have to be the end of it?” he asks in a low voice between sips of coffee. “It’s no secret your president has been saying for weeks what’s going to happen when they get here.” It is an uncomfortable conversation. We are very much not wanted here. We pay and leave, stepping back out into the drizzling rain.
The Honduran consulate occupies a small suite in a tall downtown office building. There are people waiting in the hallway outside, but that’s nothing compared with the dozens sitting in a waiting room. The staff work quickly behind a glass window. The consul general, Pablo Mario Ordóñez, graciously agrees to see us.
Ordóñez is in his early 30s, dressed in a navy suit and a light blue and white tie that perfectly match his country’s flag. He’s says he’s just returned from Tijuana, where he’s been working with the Mexican government to handle the migrant situation. “First of all I would like to say that contrary to a lot of opinions, our government is not promoting the caravan,” he tells us. It’s a ridiculous theory, he says, but reporters keep asking him to validate it. He acknowledges that Honduras has problems and that a lot of Hondurans have been misled into thinking that asylum is possible in the United States. “It gives a bad perception that we’re basically living in a jungle or something.”
He is very frustrated by Hondurans’ ignorance of the U.S. asylum process and tells me about a man he interviewed on his recent trip. He made it past the first interview, which established that he may have a “credible fear” claim. But he’s now been held in a detention facility in Calexico, the U.S. city directly across the border from Mexicali, for two months waiting for the second, much more comprehensive interview that will decide whether he receives permanent asylum. He told Ordóñez that he wants to return to Honduras and try to apply at a U.S. embassy because he is tired of being in “jail.” None of the migrants Keith and I talked with understood the asylum process and certainly didn’t know they might spend months in a detention center as their claims are investigated.
The next day we head back across the border into Tijuana and learn that the migrants are moving to a new camp. The Benito Juárez complex is being shut down due to poor sanitary conditions. The new camp, an open-air concert venue, is on the outskirts of Tijuana past miles and miles of shacks and trash heaps where the city’s very poorest residents live. It’s in a small neighborhood at the base of a mountain ridge. Buses arrive at regular intervals to drop off the migrants. As before, the police have set up an exterior perimeter of chain-link fences to separate the migrants from the locals. The new camp has the appearance of a Spanish fort—high, whitewashed walls, accessible only through a pair of tall, rust-colored gates. Inside, the ground is entirely concrete. Those without tents have grabbed coveted spots in the porticos along the wall. The location seems almost ideal for the purpose—far bigger than Benito Juárez and guaranteed to be cleaner.
Keith and I talk to some of the locals. “They’re just looking for a better life,” says the owner of a hardware store. “In every group, there are bad ones and good ones, and you can’t judge the group by one or the other.” Yet young men waving a Honduran flag are already slowing down traffic to panhandle. Eating tacos in a restaurant the size of a walk-in closet, we chat with the owner. He strikes similar notes to so many of the other Tijuanans we have encountered: compassion for those seeking a better life followed by resentment of these particular people who are causing so much trouble and bad press. The Mexicans we talk to put a high value on their country’s generosity and willingness to accept so many newcomers. But they have drawn a line at the recent caravan. The migrants’ attacking Mexican police officers during their ill-fated charge on the border was the nail in the coffin.
We head back across the street to see more of the interior of the compound. Keith strikes up a conversation with two young men, cousins, who say their only shelter during last night’s rainstorm was their backpacks. Why did they come and what do they hope for? The talkative one admits, “the only reason we came is to work,” and says that they will stay in Tijuana if they can’t enter the United States.
A large crowd gathers to sing hymns and line up for dinner. But a dozen people sit separately, heads in their hands, many of them crying. They are waiting to board a bus back to Honduras. Teenagers kick a soccer ball around on the far side of the courtyard, and a truck full of wooden cargo pallets pulls in through the gate, setting off a mad dash. We call it a wrap after a man calling himself Alvarez passionately describes his daughter’s need for surgery and then sneers at the peso notes we offer him.
It is dark by the time we get back to San Diego. Widespread misinformation and naïveté have caused 5,000 people to uproot their lives to walk to the U.S. border. The caravan is overwhelmingly made up of young men looking for work, not women and children as we’d been told to expect. A large percentage of the men, as Keith sees it, are just “punks” he wouldn’t trust to rake the leaves in his yard. “There is an insolence about them. . . . I think they were worthless in Honduras. They’re going to be worthless in Mexico. They’re going to be worthless wherever they end up.” Even the idea of a “caravan,” with a beginning and an end, is misleading. Two weeks after it supposedly reached Tijuana, a steady flow of migrants arrives each day without fanfare or press coverage. We met good people among the migrants, people we hope can succeed and who through no fault of their own have attached themselves to a naïve and dangerous group.
