I just said goodbye to Ricardo, one of my friends here in town. I’ve mentioned him before, he’s the microbus driver that brought my mom and aunts to our village a few weeks ago. His is one of the success stories in our village: he’s young (22), responsible, doesn’t drink. He worked in the US for a little while, like everyone else here, but he saved all his money and brought it back to start a small business as an owner-operator of a microbus. He takes good care of his microbus and his customers.

So, when he came to me last week to tell me he would be leaving for the US, I was a little sad. Too often it happens that people here get idas about “making it big”, and make the dangerous trek northwards. They brave shady smugglers, desert border crossings, and armed patrols, all to get to a place where they aren’t really wanted, have no rights, and every day they live with the fear of deportation. Sometimes, they fall into alcoholism or drug use, get involved in something illegal, and get deported after spending some time in jail. But then I heard wonderful news: he was going by airplane! This could only mean one thing: a resident visa.

For many Guatemalans, getting a visa is nearly impossible. The American government has entrance quotas, and there are a hundred times more applicants than available spots. But Ricardo, it seems, had the right combination of luck and circumstance. His father and brother live in the US already as permanent residents, and now he will be able to rejoin them. Although I will miss him, it’s nice to know that he is going somewhere happy to be with his family. I am going to look him up when we get done with Peace Corps, and stop by to see how he is doing in his new life.

This is in contrast to another kid we know, Roble. He is the eldest of Manuel’s sons. Towards the end of Nas Palas’s birthday party a few nights ago, Manuel made a big speech about birthdays and families. At the end, he announced that Roble would be leaving at 5am the next day, to sneak across the border with the coyote (human trafficker). Wow, what can you say to that? There were tears all around, and the kid looked pretty frightened. And why not? People DIE doing that stuff: murdered for what little cash they carry, dead from exposure in the desert, suffocated in a secret compartment in a semi truck or train car. And they pay anywhere between Q6,000 and Q18,000 to the coyote for this privilege.  

But I am not sure I can blame him, and am not really surprised this happened. Manuel is a big proponent of sneaking to the USA (he’s done it twice). Roble is a quiet, skinny, unassuming teenager who works all day in his father’s tiny carpentry shop. I don’t think he has any schooling, as Manuel doesn’t seem to encourage that in his kids. Roble’s also at that age where he would want to get out from under his dad, and his did is… well… quite a piece of work. And with the scarce economic opportunities here in the village, viajando bajo del agua (traveling “under water”, as they say) is probably the only option he can imagine.