Poverty feeds U.S. dreams

MICHES, Dominican Republic - Three years ago, Epifania de

los Santos nearly drowned trying to flee this desperately poor town by a boat

that she hoped would carry her to a better life in Puerto Rico and, ultimately,

New York City.

One of three survivors when her boat capsized in turbulent seas, the mother

of four swore she'd never again set foot in a vessel, much less one that would

carry her to another country.

But in the past year, the price of rice has nearly tripled. The peso has

lost half its value. De los Santos' husband, a butcher, has almost no customers

- few can afford beef.

So once again, de los Santos wants to make the perilous voyage, even though

she still has nightmares about her previous attempt. "Life is so hard here

that if I could just get a captain I trusted, I'd do it," she said recently.

With the Dominican Republic reeling from its worst economic crisis in

decades, the number of Dominicans attempting the often deadly journey to Puerto

Rico aboard shallow, open-deck vessels has more than doubled in the past year

and could reach a record level, according to U.S. and Dominican authorities.

"Dominicans want to reach the United States the way flies want to enter a

sweet shop," said Capt. Jos� Alejandro Liriano, a spokesman for the Dominican

Navy. "As long as people without food or money think they'll find a better life

there, they'll keep trying to leave."

Since Oct. 1, U.S. and foreign authorities have intercepted 6,430

Dominicans trying to leave their Caribbean island nation by sea, according to

U.S. Coast Guard officials.

That number is more than double the 2,823 Dominicans turned back from the

previous October through May, the Coast Guard says. It's also nearly twice the

number of Haitians fleeing by boat during those same eight months, even though

Haiti, which has an equivalent population, lost its government in February in a

bloody uprising and was teetering on civil war.

The vast majority of Dominicans travel from Miches and other eastern ports

through the 80-mile Mona Passage to Puerto Rico. From there, the primary

destinations are New York and Miami.

It is relatively easy to use false documents to board planes to the U.S.

mainland from Puerto Rico because, as a U.S. commonwealth, its border

procedures are less stringent than at international departure points.

U.S. authorities estimate hundreds of Dominicans have died in recent years

trying to reach Puerto Rico on small, wooden motor boats known as yolas.

However, they doubt the numbers are as high as those cited by the Dominican

branch of the International Migration Office, a nongovernmental group that

claims that of every 10 Dominicans fleeing by boat, one dies, three are caught

and six reach land. That would mean 2,143 passengers have died so far this

fiscal year.

"What is certain is that the crossing is extremely dangerous and often

deadly," said Victor Col�n, assistant chief patrol agent of the U.S. Border

Patrol in Puerto Rico. "The boats are grossly overloaded, there is no safety

equipment and the vessels aren't made to withstand the 15-foot swells."

Higher crossing cost

As the number of departing Dominicans rises, so have interceptions by U.S.

authorities. Rather than deter would-be migrants, the crackdowns merely have

hiked the price for the one- to three-day voyage to Puerto Rico.

"Ten years ago, it was so cheap to cross that some captains would accept a

pig as payment," said Richard Contreras, who has been captured 11 times since

1996 trying to leave by yola to join his father in Brooklyn. Contreras, 29,

hopes he can eventually raise the crossing fee, which is now 25,000 pesos ($555

U.S.) - about half his yearly salary as a lobsterman here.

A wretchedly poor town of 35,000 at the foot of lush mountains that touch

the clouds, Miches is the busiest illegal departure point in this nation of 8.8

million. When seas are calm, residents say, one yola a day leaves from nearby

bays.

With little work apart from fishing or subsistence farming, most residents

here live off human smuggling, locals say. A captain can earn nearly $850 - the

only income around here that even approaches what an undocumented Dominican

could earn in New York.

For lesser fees, scouts scour the nation for passengers. Then drivers bring

them to safehouses. Carpenters work in the mountains to build yolas that they

sneak down on wheels or on their shoulders.

To evade authorities' monitoring of gasoline sales, drivers of scooters

that serve as taxis siphon off a bit of their fuel when they fill up and sell

it to the human smugglers.

Even members of the Dominican Navy, who are deployed here to stop the

smugglers, assist in return for payoffs, according to current and past captains.

Liriano, the Navy spokesman, said collusion was uncommon. Anyone involved

in such illegal activity is immediately investigated and, if found guilty,

punished, he said.

Yola captains contend they are performing a valuable service. "The

passengers need the ride. If I didn't take them, someone else would," reasoned

Maltire Torres, 28, who recently served 5 years in U.S. prisons for ferrying

Dominicans to Puerto Rico.

'Nothing to save us'

Still, profit is more important than safety. "We'd never be allowed to use

life vests; they're too expensive," Torres said.

De los Santos, 33, didn't think twice about the risk when she boarded a

30-foot boat crammed with 56 passengers in January 2001. Instead, she was

thinking of the $100 weekly she hoped to earn as a maid in Puerto Rico. "I

couldn't dream of that money here," she said from her dilapidated cottage in

Miches, which was mostly bare since she had sold her belongings to pay her

passage three years ago.

De los Santos hoped to get working papers in Puerto Rico and head to

Washington Heights or the Bronx, home to large Dominican communities. But two

hours into her voyage, waves as high as rooftops appeared from nowhere and

crashed into her yola, sucking the passengers underwater.

"People were screaming. They couldn't swim. There was nothing to save us,"

de los Santos recalled.

Waves miraculously carried a gasping de los Santos to the remains of the

yola. For three scorching days, she lay on the wreckage without food or water,

watching others slip into the sea. "All I could do was pray to God to save me,"

she said.

Finally, a passing fisherman rescued her.

De los Santos forbids her children, who range in age from 6 to 17, to talk

about leaving on yolas.

But she thinks she has no choice but to take that risk again herself.

"Otherwise," she asked, "how will my children eat?"