KALAMAZOO (Michigan) GAZETTE

July 9, 2006

Migrant work camps offer few amenities

By Chris Killian

Special to the Gazette

Along a remote stretch of country road in rural Van Buren County, eight small dwellings can be seen in a wooded area, their rusting chimneys poking out of each tar-paper roof.

The first indication that anyone actually lives in this migrant work camp a few miles east of South Haven -- one of hundreds spread across southwestern Michigan -- is the work jeans hanging from clotheslines connecting the cabins.

On closer inspection on this June day, the scenes of everyday life come into focus: plastic toys and bicycles are scattered about the lawn, children are laughing and playing, men are sitting around a table, enjoying an after-work beer as dusk settles in.

For five months, when they're not picking fruit, they're living in cabins the size of a large living room.

``We are used to this,'' said Rogerio Belmanes, a migrant worker who has lived at this camp for the past 10 summers. ``We have to be, because this is our life.''

There is no indoor plumbing, no air conditioning and few comforts that would typically make an American house a home.

On this particular day, a health inspector from the Michigan Department of Agriculture has visited the camp to determine whether it was habitable.

A sign posted on the bathhouse reads, ``Licensed Agricultural Labor Camp.''

Belmanes, 44, motions to the sign, asking one of his fellow workers, ``How can it be all right when there is no running water here?''

The cabins don't have running water, but there is a hose attached to the bathhouse where residents get their water. Plumbing or not, this camp is their home, and the migrant workers do their best to make it so.

Inside the cabin of Pascual and Maria, both of whom requested that their last names not be published, scenes from the evening news flash across a small television near the bed where the married couple's three young children sleep.

Across the room is the kitchen area, where a few pots soak in a small porcelain sink. Boxes and cans of generic-brand food are neatly stacked in the corner. The dishes are washed and drying on an old dish rack near an aging gas stove.

In spite of the family's lack of material possessions, there is pride in this place. It's clean and orderly, the scraps of linoleum and carpet remnants that cover the concrete floor are swept. The refrigerator is packed with leftovers, mostly beans and rice, along with a few packages of hot dogs.

Outside, the camp's inhabitants are gathered at a table. The men sip their beer; the children take gulps of Mexican soda.

Kristian jumps into Pascual's lap. His father holds him as Kristian's long, wavy black hair settles on Pascual's strong forearms.

The workers talk to each other about their day culling apples in orchards near the camp. They talk about trying to make ends meet on $5.15 an hour, and wonder what the future holds for them as they notice more and more farmers choosing mechanized harvesting equipment over the migrant worker's hand.

Belmanes lights a cigarette and, holding it between his large, calloused fingers, takes a long drag.

``If they let me, I would work more,'' he said, the lines in his face deepening as he talks. ``My family in Mexico needs the money.''

The men don't seem to notice the three children running from the table to the outhouse a stone's throw from the camp.

Pascual's eyes eventually fix on them as they run back to where the men are sitting. Dulce takes a seat in a chair and falls off, trying to get her father's attention. They all laugh.

``All I want is a better life for my children,'' Pascual said. ``That's why we are all here, here as a family.''

His children run off, again toward the outhouse, screaming with laughter along the way.

Pascual sits back in his seat, a contemplative look on his face as he watches them play. He adjusts a baseball cap emblazoned with the word ``America'' on his head and sighs.