They can easily crash—into each other, into the walls, into the police stands, into the female vendors perpetually wheeling carts of sodas, candies, CDs, pastries, or medicinal herbs up and down the aisles and across the dangerous intersections. Half a ton of fruit in cartons could easily come tumbling down on them. Diableros have been killed in these accidents, and are frequently maimed or injured. And if they somehow lose or damage a box of produce along the way, the customer often won’t pay a thing. As if all that weren’t enough, they worry about being held up by gangs and robbed not just of their money but of a loaded diablo. On a good day, they might earn $15. Organized into one of 30 organizations that license them to work and rent them hand trucks, they work 365 days a year. And many start at the age of 16.
On a wet day like this one, the ramps and passageways are especially treacherous, slippery with the soaked grime of the market. I stand on top of one of the bridges watching a young man who’s just made it up one side gathering his strength and resolve for the charge down. Sweat is pouring from his brow, and his eyes are anxious and tired. His diablo is loaded with 15 cases of tomatoes, at 22 kilos a case, and on top of those are stacked a few cartons of papayas. He, and the moment, suddenly remind me of another time and place. Many years ago I went to Lake Placid, New York, to write an article on ski jumpers, and this—the tension, the fear, and the suspense—reminds me of ski jumpers in the gatehouse high up the mountain at the top of their ramps, as they wait for the signal to shove off into speed and flight.
I can’t restrain my desire to ask the diablero if he feels frightened, and without hesitation he answers that he does, and that if he gets through this puente, he still has another three to go. And then he’s off. I hear the frantic slap-stamping of his sneakers and see the tall stack of produce wobbling as he picks up speed and then suddenly loses control, heading directly for one of the police stands in the middle of the intersection. At the very last second he manages to swerve and avoid it.
I ask Andrés Quintero if he knows of any diableros eventually making it to the top through some combination of hard work, ingenuity, and luck. He just shakes his head and says it can’t happen. Maybe a midlevel market manager might start his own business. Otherwise, it just takes too much capital to get started nowadays.
I don’t blame any young Mexican for striking out to make a new life in the United States. My friend Zenén grew up in Mexico City, and as a young boy worked in the market. Now he bartends and co-owns a trendy tapas bar here. He says that the diableros are the innocent ones, because they still believe that through such hard, honest, manual work you can get ahead in Mexico. Their innocence seems to both sadden and anger him. It would show more intelligence, he thinks, to join a gang. Failing that, they almost have no right not to do as so many millions of others have, and head for the States, where, at least, in exchange for hard physical labor, you can earn a decent wage and be in a position to send money back to your family.
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