From across the Rio Suchiate comes a staccato patois, not Spanish, not quite French. Distant figures on the Guatemalan bank of the river begin to board a flotilla of wooden rafts, moored beneath a white cross tinting pink as dawn approaches.

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Soon, the wobbly fleet plunges into the murky water, the passengers perched unsteadily on planks lashed to inner tubes. The drivers dip long poles into the river bed for propulsion.

“Africanos!” murmurs one of the bicycle rickshaw drivers on the Mexican side, waiting for the fresh arrivals from Guatemala to reach shore.

The 60 or travelers — all black, mostly young men, but also several women and children — disembark and gather up their backpacks and bags. Three Somali women don the distinctive headdresses of their East African homeland. All make their way hastily up the slippery incline, passing trash heaps, scurrying rats and campfires warming coffee and tortillas.

“We are from Congo,” explains Luc Hillegeon, 31, as he, his wife and infant son navigate the muddy path beneath the majestic ceiba trees. “We would like to go to the USA.”