This is the fifth installment in a six part series on a Nicaraguan's journey to the United States. You can find the series in its entirety here.
As Choco ran he didn’t reflect on his journey, on its purpose, on whether or not it had been worth it; all he felt was adrenaline elbowing his chest cavity with all its weight. He didn’t even realize he was running hand in hand with the pregnant Honduran, until she started to drag.
The others had approached the SUV as it got closer, but Choco had remained suspicious, and the Honduran had stayed with him. By the time the letters on the SUV became legible, it was already too late for the others.
The Honduran was not keeping up, and they attempted to hide in a private ranch. Upon reaching the barbed wire, a man appeared out in the distance and aimed his rifle at them. The shots echoed everywhere, further disorienting them, but also providing a new boost of frantic energy.
As Choco looked around desperately, the Honduran watched their shadows run alongside them, like an inside-out mirror. They bobbed and panted for another twenty minutes, reaching a group of grazing cattle. “You see those cows, they have to belong to someone. Lets hide out here until the owner comes.”
A small, elderly cowboy arrived in a pick-up and, hearing the ruffling of the bushes where they were hiding, approached them. They both began to cry and beg for help in Spanish. The man, handsome in his natural old age, tried to calm them down using the only Spanish he knew: “De donde son?” When Choco mentioned Nicaragua, he asked excitedly, “Granada?” “No, Esteli.” “Oh, I don’t know Esteli.”
The man managed to convey to them their options. They could go to his house and call Immigration or call someone to come pick them up and take them back to Mexico. Choco suggested calling a family member of his from Atlanta, who could come pick them up. “Atlanta?” the man said. “Do you have any idea how far Atlanta is?”
But it all worked out. The family member arrived several hours later (the man, meanwhile, fed them and let them get cleaned up), and drove the both of them to his house in Atlanta. Choco still lives in Atlanta; the Honduran, and her child, live in Miami. They have not had to face any trouble since.
I dig this series!
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