ON A BUS TO UNKNOWN
Journalists follow migrants to Chicago to learn about their experiences
Rumors had been floating around the Eagle Pass migrant shelter for days that a free bus would take people to Chicago, but so far, none of the hundreds of visitors there had any idea of when. Many had stayed in the windowless warehouse overnight, eating ham-andcheese sandwiches, calling their families and sleeping on mats on the floor.
At least a dozen people approached us for answers.
“Perdóname, pero no sabemos,” we told them. “Queremos saber lo mismo que ustedes.” (Sorry, but we don't know. We're trying to figure out the same thing.)
As journalists for the Houston Chronicle and San Antonio ExpressNews, we'd set out to follow one of Gov. Greg Abbott's Operation Lone Star buses offering asylum seekers rides to liberal northern cities to get a sense of what it's like for the thousands of people thrust into the center of a national debate.
Abbott's busing program has been the subject of intense disputes and accusations of callous inhumanity. Though immigration experts say the trips are “stunts,” they also say they are likely beneficial to most who participate. For the people directly affected, those arguments take a back seat to more pressing questions.
“The politics don't really matter to me. We're doing this because we don't have money, and we just want to get to work,” said Enrique Josue Tovar, of Venezuela. Like others we'd meet on the journey, Tovar spoke to us in Spanish.
Tovar, 30, had sacrificed a lot to make it across the border. He tried to feed his family by selling his two motorcycles after the economy collapsed, but the money soon ran out and he felt that he had no choice but to try his luck in the United States. The gruesome things he saw crossing through the Darien Gap, the lawless jungle travelers refer to as La Selva, still keep him up at night: a pregnant woman who died after impaling herself on a stake, and others who lost limbs. He doesn't have a phone anymore; he broke it saving a Cuban man who nearly drowned crossing the Rio
Grande.
Tovar now needed to find a way to New York and had no money to get there. There might be a free bus to that city in the future, but there was no telling when it would leave. If a bus to Chicago could take him one step closer to New York, where work might be easier to come by, he would be on it.
The shelter
The Mission: Border Hope migrant shelter sits on an open stretch of highway in Eagle Pass, a drab warehouse bordered by an auto shop and a vacant lot. There would be almost no way to tell that hundreds of newly arrived migrants were inside if it weren’t for the dozens of buses that come and go at all hours of the day, dropping people off after they’ve been processed at federal detention centers and taking them to their next destination — usually San Antonio.
Inside the shelter, toddlers clutched donated Captain America dolls and chased one another around a play area while their parents tried to connect with friends and family who could wire them $50 bus fare for San Antonio.
Many people wore clothes still damp from crossing the Rio Grande — minus the shoelaces that were confiscated at the detention center by Border Patrol as a precaution against suicide.
Private buses leave several times a day for San Antonio. Departures to Chicago, New York City and Washington D.C. on state-funded buses are less predictable, leaving every couple of days depending on how many people might be headed there.
Jorge Maestri, 32, did not have a set destination when he was taken into Border Patrol custody, so they assigned him a court date in New York City, he said. No one at the shelter could tell him when one of Abbott’s buses to New York might leave, however, so he decided to get one step closer by heading to the Windy City.
A mechanic in Venezuela, Maestri said the adjustments are harder for his compatriots because they don’t have an established network in the country to support them, as there are for Mexican or Cuban migrants . Taking the first free bus offered to him seemed like his only option.
“Right now, I don’t have anything to stabilize myself,” he said. “I don’t have clothes. I don’t have anything.”
When members of the Texas State Guard marched into the Eagle Pass shelter on Sept. 22, and staffers announced they were enlisting people for a free trip to Chicago, Maestri was one of the 30 or so people who got in line. They signed waivers agreeing to be transported to Chicago and absolving the state of Texas from liability. Twenty-five minutes later, they boarded a bus with a few migrants who had been picked up at the shelter in Del Rio.
They were on their way, with the two of us journalists in a rental car trailing behind.
The journey
Within a few miles of the shelter, the sleek white charter bus had pulled into a Department of Public Safety facility where officials searched riders with a dog, presumably sniffing for drugs. Then it was back on the road and up Interstate 35 another 10 hours toward Arkansas.
The bus made a handful of stops in Texas, where drivers and guards disembarked to use the restroom or grab a bite for the road. No such luck for the passengers. At a gas station near Dallas-Forth Worth, the passengers were told they would be able to get off in another couple of hours, according to a man who was communicating with us via WhatsApp.
The bus pulled off the highway about 1:30 a.m. in Arkansas and lingered in the darkness for nearly an hour, but still the passengers were not allowed off.
Commenting about his hosts, the man on the bus wrote, “If you’re going to offer us help, then help us, but please remember that we’re human beings and not animals.”
When asked whether this was common practice for buses heading north, Abbott’s press secretary, Renae Eze, said: “Each bus is stocked with food and water, makes multiple stops along the trip to refuel and switch drivers, and is provided with security to ensure a safe journey for all on board, including the drivers. Migrants are allowed to purchase any needed provisions, use the restroom, or disembark at any of these stops, as they have been processed and released by the federal government.”
Later that morning, a new driver noticed our car and began taking evasive maneuvers. So we opted to get ahead of the bus and meet the people on it in Chicago. The rest of their journey for those on board was, by all accounts, uneventful. Some said they were allowed off one or two more times.
As the Eagle Pass bus with Louisiana plates traveled toward Chicago, the man on board began messaging us in search of basic information. Was there a refugee center in Chicago, and if so, could we help him get there? Would we be able to assist him in finding a money wire service to collect a remittance from a relative?
Arrival
More than 24 hours after boarding the bus in the dusty, sun-baked expanses of Eagle Pass, the riders emerged. Gone were the snout butterflies that swarmed through the Texas borderlands like locusts, replaced by whitecollar workers and college students on crowded sidewalks. The smell of diesel fuel and marijuana filled the air.
Pedro Alvarez, from Nicaragua, took a second to breathe in the crisp fall air and take in his surroundings — the Willis Tower looming overhead, and the stately grandeur of Union Station across the street. It was an unlikely spot for a party, but Alvarez and his friends celebrated all the same.
“I’m feeling great. This city is beautiful. I’m happy to be here thanks to God,” Alvarez said.
Alvarez, 28, lit a cigarette while he and his friends high-fived and fist-bumped each other.
They took photos with local police officers and emergency officials there to greet them and cheered as a man from Lansing, Mich., embraced his two sons who had just stepped off the bus.
The celebration lasted all of five minutes. The migrants were quickly hustled onto a local transit authority bus to be taken to another shelter, where they would undergo health evaluations, bathe, eat and receive donated clothing. Local organizations would help them get in touch with family or fund their travel to their next destination. Families who didn’t have immediate contacts could stay in a hotel, and the state of Illinois would foot the bill.
The sheer number of people who have arrived in Chicago has strained refugee services in the nation’s third-largest city. Some Venezuelan asylum seekers who had been staying at a suburban hotel for over two weeks said they had yet to meet with someone who could help them apply for employment authorization or legal aid. Another Venezuelan said he simply walked to an auto shop near his hotel and asked for a job. He now makes $14.25 an hour doing oil changes and has been able to send home about $150 to his wife and four children.
The 37-year-old explained he hadn’t even told his wife that he was leaving Venezuela. He knew she would be terrified, and with good reason; on his way through Nicaragua, the bus he was riding crashed, leaving 16 people dead.
“In Venezuela, it’s $20 for a week of work. Here, it’s $20 for an hour, and that’s a big difference,” he said.
Sending money home to family is the reason that almost every passenger gave for leaving their homeland.
Renny Garcia, 25, wore a donated Chicago Cubs hoodie as he sat outside the hotel where he’d been living for two weeks. His 2-year-old daughter in Venezuela recently came down with dengue, he said. Basic medicine is largely unavailable in his country, and any medicine that exists is wildly overpriced.
“If it were up to me I’d go without food and clothes, because with a job I could buy that and also support my family,” Garcia said. “They’ve treated us really well (in Chicago) and I’m so grateful for the support and a place to sleep, but what we all really want is to work so we can help our families.”