Counting Migrants a Daunting Task

It was just after dawn and Benjamin Leff, census taker for a day, trudged through a narrow, swampy path in search of subjects for the nation’s population count.

Latino day laborers en route to prospective jobs periodically passed on his left and right, behind him and in front of him, but few were close enough to allow the counter to veer from his soggy route and ask his array of questions.

“You’d have to have an army of 100,000 people out here to count ‘em all,” a frustrated Leff said as he came to a dead-end, his forward progress blocked by a boggy channel leading from the Agua Hedionda Lagoon. “Anyway, it’s an adventure.”

Leff’s difficulties were emblematic of those faced by the 200 or so census takers--”enumerators”--assigned to count residents of the migrant camps of San Diego County, one of the nation’s largest outposts of homelessness. Hours after the count, officials acknowledged that a recount might be necessary.

Here, in the shadow of suburban homes, live day laborers--mostly men from Mexico. They reside in a variety of crude squatters dwellings ranging from shacks fashioned from scrap wood and plastic to bunker-like caves excavated from the dirt--”spider holes,” as they are known.

Estimates of the number of such homeless migrants range from 5,000 to 30,000, many of them undocumented.

Census authorities in San Diego had pledged to do their utmost to count the migrant population--whether they are legal U.S. residents or not.

“We’ll go wherever these migrants live,” vowed Maureen R. Wanzie, the census bureau’s district office manager in Carlsbad, on the eve of the count. “We’re talking about canyons. We’re talking about spider holes. We’re talking about temporary housing that may consist of just a blanket or a piece of cardboard.”

But counting the migrants proved a daunting task. Finding them was a big part of the problem. And then there was the fact that many census takers did not speak Spanish.

As a result, census counters largely dispensed with in-depth questioning.

“Sign language,” one census taker explained when asked how he expected to accomplish his goal.

By 6 a.m., with dawn already arrived and an early fog lifting, two census counters who spoke little Spanish were found wandering by themselves through a field along El Camino Real, the main curbside hiring venue for migrant workers.

“You seen anyone yet?” asked Robert Nelson, winded after a mile walk, as he climbed over a barbed-wire fence.

“We haven’t seen a thing,” said Nelson. “Not even a jack rabbit out there.”

Ahead were two small migrant camps. “Census? I haven’t seen anyone from the census,” said Juan Prado, a 22-year-old undocumented Mexican man who was just waking inside his wood-and-plastic lean-to wedged into a scenic hillside dotted with migrant outposts. “Maybe the census people will come by the packing house later,” Prado theorized, speaking of the flower-packing facility where he occasionally finds work.

Down the road, hopeful day laborers were starting to gather at the Country Store, one of the favorite migrant waiting spots for roadside labor. Also present early Wednesday were a number of census counters, one of whom dutifully took information from a number of men standing in front of the shop.

“Hey,” another census taker said, interrupting her busy colleague, “all of these guys have already been counted.”

Most migrants appeared willing to chat with the census takers, despite their fear of authorities. “I’ll do whatever I can for the government of the United States,” offered Francisco Carvajal, a 42-year-old Mexican man who had just been interviewed by census officials in a nearby shopping center. “They need to know that we’re here.”

Nearby, four census takers began walking through a swampy path they hoped would lead to a camp. The route quickly led into a thickly vegetated quagmire, and it became clear that no further progress could be made without risk of becoming covered in the inky goo.

“The best you can do is count ‘em as they come out,” said a woman census taker proceeding gingerly along the sodden trail.

“One problem,” said Leff, who was following along the trail, “is that no one seems to know where these people are for sure. There’s nothing you can look at and say, ‘It’s here.’ ” Eventually, he and his partner arrived at the impassable channel. They stopped, watching the occasional migrant emerging from the hillside, in sight but out of reach.