New Encampment for Migrants Rises From Ashes of Old

Less than a month after a windblown brush fire swept away their encampment, migrant workers already are hammering away in McGonigle Canyon to rebuild their illegal community.

Their status as squatters, trespassers on private land, makes little difference in their eyes. They are unconcerned that the city has said they must move or be moved because their camp fails to meet sanitation standards. To them, the issue is simple: They cannot afford to buy or rent area housing, so they must make do.

“Of course we’re rebuilding. Where else are we going to go?” asked Candido Ortiz Leon, 32, a Mixtec Indian from Mexico. “We endure many hardships during our adventure here, but we keep on going. We endure.”

As he spoke, Ortiz used a stone to drive a nail into the wood that will provide the frame for his new home. A group of young men played soccer on a charred clearing nearby. On the singed hillside, workers were out in large numbers putting up makeshift walls and roofs. A catering truck hawked burritos and soft drinks. Life was returning to the once-bustling site.

The fast-moving fire of Nov. 28 deprived Ortiz and perhaps 100 other immigrant workers in the well-established camp, which contains smaller mini-communities, of even minimal shelter. The blaze swept through the canyon with flames rising 50 feet in the air, quickly incinerating one of the area’s largest migrant laborer encampments, near Black Mountain Road.

The blaze was “definitely” set deliberately, although no suspects or motives are known, said a San Diego Fire Department spokesman. About 4,500 acres were burned, the spokesman said, but no one was injured and no permanent structures were damaged, with the exception of a few power lines.

But for those who call the rugged chaparral home, the loss was massive. Although permanent structures were spared, the damage for canyon residents was comparable to what would have resulted if the blaze had roared through a residential neighborhood.

Consumed by the flames were cash, cherished family mementos, critical immigration documents, prized possessions such as radios and vehicles and practical items, from blankets to beds to bicycles. Some said they had as much as $2,000 in savings concealed inside their dwellings, much of it to be used for trips back to their home nations during the holiday season. Also lost, of course, were the simple structures of scrap wood and plastic that they have called home. Since the fire, some have slept outside or in some of the dwellings that escaped damage.

Jose Perez walked through the ruins of what was once his community, stepping over burnt bedsprings, scorched shards of glass and the mangled remains of what was once a bicycle. A thriving subculture is glimpsed in the charred debris: A letter in Spanish to a parent in Mexico, a notebook of English phrases, a fire-blackened medal of the Virgin of Guadalupe.

“These were all little houses,” Perez said, gesturing to the seared landscape of McGonigle Canyon, sending up puffs of ash with each step. “I lost everything I had. Whatever investments I had, they were in that house. It wasn’t much, but I lost it all.”

Perez is not a traditional homeowner, bemoaning his losses after a fire. He is a migrant field hand, one of thousands who live outdoors in crude dwellings scattered throughout northern San Diego County. They find work here, but are unable to find housing they can afford.

Ramiro Martinez also hammered away, constructing a new outhouse alongside the charred hulk of what used to be his car. The 47-year-old Guatemalan was at work when the fire broke out and unable to move his 1970 Chevrolet Camaro, which was engulfed in flames. “Bad luck,” Martinez said with a smile.

The sound of hammers echoed last week throughout the communities that make up the encampment; nails were pulled from the rubble, straightened out and used again. In general, the scattered settlements are divided along the geographic origins of the migrants. Thus, one area may have a cluster of Mixtec Indians from Mexico’s Oaxaca state, another may be home to workers from a region of the Mexican state of Guerrero, while a third region may have a large concentration of Konjobal Indians from northwestern Guatemala.

Employers have provided wood and other building materials, the migrants said, and the the city of San Diego’s Housing Commission contributed $10,000 to be distributed by Catholic Charities of the Diocese of San Diego for food, transportation, blankets and other emergency needs.

Perhaps the most striking contribution was the dozen or so prefabricated, plastic-and-wood multicolored sheds provided by the Rev. Rafael V. Martinez, a Protestant minister who runs the North County Chaplaincy, a religious social-service agency for migrants. The sheds, which offer considerable protection from rain, are a marked improvement over the primitive dwellings that are the norm.

“The position of these people is that they ain’t going anywhere,” noted Rev. Martinez, a tireless worker on behalf of immigrant laborers. “There’s no place else for them to go. If they’re forced out of here, they’ll just go over the hill to another canyon. . . . The rains are about to start, and they need places to stay. It’s a very frustrating thing. They can’t wait until some committee somewhere makes a decision to help.”

The extent of the destruction underscores the dangers faced by migrants in the camps. Most residents are young men, but there also are women, the elderly and children. Both documented and undocumented workers are part of the mix.

During what is shaping up to be the driest year in the county’s history, the handmade structures are a real fire hazard. Built among the brush, often with plastic roofs, the hooches can quickly become infernos, particularly during the dry months, when population at the camps is highest. Candles, widely used for light, are often the catalyst. There is no electricity and limited running water. Lives were probably saved in the last month’s fire because the blaze swept through during the late morning and early afternoon, when most residents were at work.

Many residents were able to save their dwellings and possessions by hauling water from a nearby stream. Others were just lucky: The fire didn’t reach their homes.

Two weeks ago, a group of camp residents gathered in a willow thicket to celebrate Catholic Mass, as they do each Saturday. They also gave thanks that they had survived and expressed gratitude for the support of an outside community that has for so long resented their presence. Along with the thanks and Christmas cheer, there was also a palpable sentiment that perhaps something good may come of the flames that gutted their insular neighborhood.

“As tragic as the fire was, I think it also provided people an opportunity, for the community to reach out to them; it could help bridge the gap of prejudice,” said Gina Velasquez, a volunteer who has worked extensively in the camp along with others from Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Church in Rancho Penasquitos. “Maybe the fire brought a little bit of new hope. Any time you’re down as low as they were, you reach a point where you can’t go down any further, and you have to look upwards.”