comfortable white person in a room full of suffering brown ones Toribio Rezendis speaks last. He's a solid forty-two-year-old with strong Indian features who migrated from the state of Veracruz to sew leather covers on steering wheels. Like Gorda, "he says, only I did it for nine and a half years. " His elbows are so disfigured that out-of-place tendons are visible though the skin, and his arms hang at his sides, immobile and useless. "If I'd stayed home, he says,at least I'd still be able to work Toribio asks david why some American workers feel the mexicans have"stolen" their jobs David doesnt even glance over for help with translation, his Spanish is limbering up I guess because they don t know you, he says. They only think about what they lost Martha suddenly thrusts her face into David s and yells, We re not the enemies, guys! David jumps and scrambles back against the wall. "Yeah, he says, I know. By the end of the meeting, he's shuffling like a man in irons, as though hes dragging the burden of the mexicans stories. It's been a gloomy morning, and we're no closer to finding David's old job Lunch-chicken tacos-perks David up enough to make for a music store. The posters in the window are of guys in embroidered sombreros the size of satellite dishes -an unlikely place to find a rock band, but David wants to try. As he pushes open the door, he's rehearsing his Spanish. They're like he ramones, doing ska. Theyre like the ramones, doing ska. The woman behind the counter just arches her heavily painted eyebrows. Ramonays? Ska? Manuel is waiting to take us to meet someone named Alma, who might know someone in the breed plant. The afternoon is a horrific detour through a squatter camp that has grown from a garbage dump. The shortage of housing in Matamoros is so acute that 2,000 families live here. Shacks made of tar paper, tin and scarp wood stand amid mountains of plastic bags full of reeking refuse. The families live without electricity, water, plumbing, transportation or schools. Running through the camp is a creek that serves as an open sewer for maquiladoras upstream. A yellow liquid is flowing from a pipe into the creek, near where children are buying tamales from a cart, and the air is thick with stinging fumes. These people, Manuel points out, arent the poorest of the poor, because most of hese families have at least two members working in the maquiladoras Manuel's extended tour of maquiladoraland isn't just for our education- though the repetition of brutal scenes and tragic stories is working its effect-it's also a way for him to check us out, to see whether were worth helping. Alma doesnt know anyone from the Breed plant, she says, but apparently we have passed muster. As we leave the dump, Manuel is grinning. Davids old job isnt in Matamoras, he says, and it's clear he knew it all along. The job went about an hour away, to a factory in Valle Hermoso. Manuel graciously presents us with a scrap of napkin bearing the name of an activist there who can help us Good luck, he beams as we squeeze into a taxi held together with baling wire and virgin Mary stickers. The drive is a nightmare of shattered pavement and suicidal dogs, and as we bounce along David shares another memory that the events of the day have jarred loosecomfortable white person in a room full of suffering brown ones. Toribio Rezendis speaks last. He’s a solid forty-two-year-old with strong Indian features who migrated from the state of Veracruz to sew leather covers on steering wheels. “Like Gorda,” he says, “only I did it for nine and a half years.” His elbows are so disfigured that out-of-place tendons are visible though the skin, and his arms hang at his sides, immobile and useless. “If I’d stayed home,” he says, “at least I’d still be able to work.” Toribio asks David why some American workers feel the Mexicans have “stolen” their jobs. David doesn’t even glance over for help with translation; his Spanish is limbering up. “I guess because they don’t know you,” he says. “They only think about what they lost…” Martha suddenly thrusts her face into David’s and yells, “We’re not the enemies, guys!” David jumps and scrambles back against the wall. “Yeah,” he says, “I know.” By the end of the meeting, he’s shuffling like a man in irons, as though he’s dragging the burden of the Mexicans’ stories. It’s been a gloomy morning, and we’re no closer to finding David’s old job. Lunch – chicken tacos – perks David up enough to make for a music store. The posters in the window are of guys in embroidered sombreros the size of satellite dishes – an unlikely place to find a rock band, but David wants to try. As he pushes open the door, he’s rehearsing his Spanish. “They’re like the Ramones, doing ska. They’re like the Ramones, doing ska.” The woman behind the counter just arches her heavily painted eyebrows. Ramonays? Ska? Manuel is waiting to take us to meet someone named Alma, “who might know someone in the Breed plant.” The afternoon is a horrific detour through a squatter camp that has grown from a garbage dump. The shortage of housing in Matamoros is so acute that 2,000 families live here. Shacks made of tar paper, tin and scarp wood stand amid mountains of plastic bags full of reeking refuse. The families live without electricity, water, plumbing, transportation or schools. Running through the camp is a creek that serves as an open sewer for maquiladoras upstream. A yellow liquid is flowing from a pipe into the creek, near where children are buying tamales from a cart, and the air is thick with stinging fumes. These people, Manuel points out, aren’t the poorest of the poor, because most of these families have at least two members working in the maquiladoras. Manuel’s extended tour of maquiladoraland isn’t just for our education – though the repetition of brutal scenes and tragic stories is working its effect – it’s also a way for him to check us out, to see whether we’re worth helping. Alma doesn’t know anyone from the Breed plant, she says, but apparently we have passed muster. As we leave the dump, Manuel is grinning. David’s old job isn’t in Matamoras, he says, and it’s clear he knew it all along. The job went about an hour away, to a factory in Valle Hermoso. Manuel graciously presents us with a scrap of napkin bearing the name of an activist there who can help us. “Good luck,” he beams as we squeeze into a taxi held together with baling wire and Virgin Mary stickers. The drive is a nightmare of shattered pavement and suicidal dogs, and as we bounce along, David shares another memory that the events of the day have jarred loose