The Good Samaritan: Migrant House

At the Bojay Community, in Atitalaquia, Hidalgo, by the side of the train tracks, lies a small white house called "The Good Samaritan". Underneath the shadows of some trees, sleepy migrants rest half awake with their caps on. Their backpacks, sacks or black garbage plastic bags were used as pillows or seats, a half-finished bottle of Coke sniffed by a rusty dog was chased away by some stones.

Some people know their way through this house, it's not their first time here. To those who don't come and ask me at the reception what to do, I write their names down on a sheet of paper with simple information: Name, country/city of origin, gender, and date of birth.

Their birth dates reveal their age, some of them are really young to be here. Their bronzed skin contrasts with their beautiful light brown eyes, dust in their heads and red eyes reveal last night's whereabouts. Some were chased by dogs that were let out by drunk neighbours, some did manage to get some sleep despite the cold weather.

"Loving the helpless, the poor and the stranger is the
beginning of brotherly love". Erick Fromm

Their nationality reveals the majority of people coming in from Honduras. On a 9 to 1 ratio, women, for obvious reasons, are the minority. I look at a young girl and ask her age, she is already a mother that left her kids behind, she's wearing a tight Kate Perry t-shirt. 

They get warm, tasty food from a cozy kitchen that has been working since the early morning. Big pieces of toasted bread with butter, gleam in stark contrast of the black, hot coffee. Everyone is laughing inside the kitchen. They're making jokes, letting their guard down for a bit. It's 10.30 am, there's still time to relax for a few more hours before jumping to The Beast again.

As they scratch their eyes, they start small conversation, as they recount their hardships through their travels. "No one told us, people actually push you off the train!" One man laughed as he looked to another that nodded and also smiled at this comment. Another man showed some scars on his leg: "If I'd worn jeans instead of shorts, this would've never happened... The heat on The Beast gets to be so high on the tunnels that it burns your skin off!" A tired woman looked at this man's leg as she moved her eyebrows with the least amount of effort, half of her body had almost surrendered with exhaustion over the table.

"My friend didn't make it the last time", added another pensive man with his gaze lost in the pattern of the tablecloth. "He jumped but fell down, the train cut his leg off". Everyone sighs, look down, then try to take that image off their heads.

After getting a basic kit of shampoo, soap, razor, toothbrush and toothpaste, they make a line to get three clothing items offered by the wardrobe room. People usually wear off their shoes to the point of leaving them behind, others, get their shoes stolen from other migrants. This is why shoes, any kind of shoes are the highest regarded items in their mental list. Jeans, underwear, socks and t-shirts come next. Extras are pants, sweaters, scarves, jackets and sweatshirts.

Some take showers afterwards, it seems they want to wash their fears away but still maintain a tense expression in their faces. According to a map, they still have a long way to go.

"The Doctor is here", someone said. I am asked to give some numbers away to those who need to see him. The Doctor is way too young, no signs of facial hair, an optimistic look. We are all glad no one's lost a limb or is bleeding badly. Some nasty scars, a woman looking for some vitamins, another man has a persistent cough and some fever.

Other people are waiting on another line, they have three minutes to make phone calls to their families. They become restless, it's just around 2pm., that means it's almost time to go. The Beast is huffing in the distance. People start to get ready to go, and that means us too, our job for the day is done. 

Another train before The Beast, comes in, slows down. Stops. Changes rails, moves again. As I'm filming some footage, I notice the daunting height of first step in the ladder of the train, the rocky terrain I would have to run through if I were to climb unto this ladder and the slow, and I repeat, slow, speed this train has, which has nothing to do with the tremendous speed The Beast really charges through.

Serbians, Hondurans, Mexicans. There is no real difference in what motivates and takes these people through these constant sets of uncertainties. Inflatable boats, running trains, lone deserts and abusive people feeding off these predatory chains. But just for today, with no regards to making a stand of what country should be responsible for fleeting mankind, or the origins of these issues; good people treated strangers with a great amount of dignity and care.