The “Devil’s Highway,” originally, was a U.S. federal highway in Arizona - one that bore the unfortunate designation of U.S. 666. That name, with its associations with the “number of the beast” that is said to describe the Antichrist in Revelation 13:18 (“Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is six hundred threescore and six”), caused U.S. Highway 666 to have all sorts of weird occult associations until the highway was redesignated as U.S. 191 in 2003. Yet when Luis Alberto Urrea uses the phrase “devil’s highway,” he does so metaphorically – to describe the hellish desert borderland that undocumented immigrants often attempt to cross, in order to leave their Mexican homeland and begin a new life in the United States of America. Sometimes, making that voyage can be deadly, as Urrea chronicles in his 2004 book The Devil’s Highway.
Urrea, a professor of creative writing at the University of Illinois – Chicago, conducted extensive (and dangerous-sounding) primary research in the border area in order to write this concise and powerful book that is subtitled simply A True Story. The true story that Urrea is relating here is that of an unfortunate group of undocumented immigrants who have become known to history simply as “The Wellton 26.” These 26 unfortunates were brought across the border in May of 2001 by “coyotes,” smugglers working for organized-crime figures along the border. The “coyotes” got lost and abandoned their charges in the desert; 14 of them died in the 115-degree heat, while 12 of them were rescued by U.S. Border Patrol agents operating out of a station in Wellton, Arizona.
The Devil’s Highway sets forth in hair-raising detail the background against which the tragic story of the Wellton 26 unfolded. Urrea emphasizes the odds against the undocumented immigrants. Organized-crime figures along the border, men with nicknames like “El Negro,” grow rich promising impoverished and desperate Mexicans in states like Veracruz an easy and safe trip across the border. In fact, what the top gangsters care about is flaunting their fine clothes and fancy cars and the company of beautiful women, and they could not care less about the immigrants, or about the ”coyotes” who are hired to take these refugees (known as “walkers”) across the border.
(Content Notice: Please note that some of the remaining quotes from this book contain harsh language and disturbing images.)
A Mexican Government sign at Sasabe, Sonora, on the Mexico side of the border, is used by Urrea as a symbol of the tragic situation that undocumented immigrants face. The sign warns that “For the Coyotes Your Needs Are Only a Business and They Don’t Care About Your Safety or the Safety of Your Family. Don’t Pay Them Off With Your Lives!” (p. 55). It is sound advice. But, as Urrea somberly adds, “The Sasabe sign, which many of the walkers can’t read, is the only thing Mexico is doing to try to stop them from crossing. The Mexican army patrols the borderlands, sort of, though nobody can find them, probably because the Coyotes pay the soldiers off. Coyote gangs have more money than the Mexico City sign painters” (p. 55).
Urrea traces the long process that brings the “walkers” from places like Veracruz to the border, where they pay the gangsters exorbitant amounts of money they can’t afford and then are handed over to smugglers or “coyotes.” There is considerable focus on one “coyote” – named “Mendez” for the book, as everyone goes by aliases – who is in charge of getting the walkers to a safe destination inside the U.S.A., but has no clear idea what he is doing, as becomes clear during Mendez’ futile efforts to lead the walkers toward the vital landmark of Bluebird Pass:
As they walked, they started to lose themselves. Their accounts of the following days fade into a strange twilight of pain. Names are forgotten. Locations are nebulous, at best, since none of them, not even the Coyotes, knew where they were. Nameless mountains loomed over them, nameless stars burned mutely overhead, nameless demons gibbered from the nameless canyons. (p. 108)
Mendez, it turns out, was basically leading his charges in circles; and eventually, he and his accomplice demanded money from the walkers and abandoned them, heading north with the dubious claim that they would come back with water. It is at this point that The Devil’s Highway becomes particularly grueling, with its description of the suffering of these men as they waited, under the pounding unbearable sun, for Mendez’s unlikely return:
The desert, out of focus and suddenly terribly sharp, burst white and yellow in their eyes. It tilted. Elongated. It was at an impossible angle! It tipped up toward the sun, and if they didn’t crawl, they would slide right off it and fall forever. It made noise: THERE WERE ENGINES BENEATH THE DESERT. It made evil grinding noises, mechanical humming. No, it was insectile, the screech of hunger and derision. The devils were under the rocks, spitting insults. THE BLACK HEAD LAUGHED. I believe in God the Father, creator of heaven and earth. No, it did not fucking laugh – it was as silent as a graveyard out there. Just the crunch and slide, crunch and slide, of endless, hopeless footsteps. Hundreds of footsteps. (p. 159)
A final chapter, titled “Home,” sums up what happened to a number of the principals in the Wellton 26 case – the coffins of the dead refugees being taken home to Mexico; the surviving refugees seeking to use what leverage they have in order to stay in the United States; Mendez confessing in hopes of staving off execution and minimizing his jail time; El Negro fleeing the border and defying the police forces of two nations to “Come and get me!” Urrea’s indignation at the continuing horrors of the border situation is palpable:
Since that May of 2001, the filth and depravity of the border churns ahead in a parade of horrors. The slaughtered dead turn to leather on the Devil’s Highway, and their brothers and sisters rot to sludge in car trunks and sealed in railroad cars. The big beasts and the little predators continue to feed on the poor and innocent. (p. 204)
And Urrea was writing more than a decade before the Trump presidential candidacy and the “Build the Wall!” chants, and the family separation policies and children in cages – none of which stopped or even slowed the northward movement of desperate migrants. More than two decades after the suffering and death among the Wellton 26, the Devil’s Highway remains a deadly path through a trackless wilderness – one that unfortunate people still travel at the risk of their lives.