Published: Nov. 17, 2011 Updated: Nov. 20, 2011 9:36 a.m.

Mexican village serves as purgatory for the deported

In the Mexican village of Santa Barbara, hope shrinks and dreams shatter each day.

BY CINDY CARCAMO / THE ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

Second of two parts

For more than 20 years, natives of Guerrero, Mexico, have sought a better life in the U.S., with many of them settling in Orange County, especially in Santa Ana. Lately, what was a one-way wave of immigration has reversed. The slow U.S. economy and an unprecedented number of deportations have led many of those immigrants to return to Mexico. Orange County Register staff writers Cindy Carcamo and Michael Mello detail the phenomenon in a two-part story. These stories were made possible by a UC Berkeley Graduate School of Journalism grant that was funded by the Rosenberg Foundation.

TWO CITIES

Part 1: Immigration shift drains Santa Ana
Legal and illegal immigrants leaving for Mexico spark changes to Orange County's second-largest city.

• Immigrants' return to Mexico alters Santa Ana
• O.C. family returns to a violence-plagued Mexico

Part 2: Dreams die in wake of deportation
In the Mexican village of Santa Barbara, hope shrinks and dreams shatter each day.
•Mexican village serves as purgatory for the deported

•••

SANTA BARBARA, GUERRERO, MEXICO – The woman who sells sweets and knickknacks from her front porch tallied up 10 years with her fingers – the time of banishment handed down by a United States immigration judge for entering the country illegally.

Across the road, a couple clung to hope that their U.S.-born daughter might one day be their ticket back north.

A few blocks down, a stocky man who U.S. officials have removed several times hopped into a truck for the first leg of his journey to Santa Ana. These four people are part of a larger group returning to Santa Barbara – a rural community of about 800 in southern Mexico that's long been tethered to Santa Ana.

Until recently, Santa Barbara's rustic dwellings were mostly inhabited by children, women and the elderly. Most of the men and many families had left, settling more than 2,000 miles away in Santa Ana and regularly sending photos, letters and money back to Santa Barbara.

Now, some of the thousands of people deported from the U.S. to Mexico under the Obama administration are transforming this village, where only two phone lines exist and most jobs revolve around corn cultivation. Men and families are returning from Santa Ana and other areas, carrying with them a new set of expectations that is proving to be a challenge for them and the community.

Some say their return is punishment for not making the most of their life in the U.S. Others say they feel they are wasting away, joining the many others rummaging for meager work. Most simply wait in a place they no longer consider home – a purgatory that's lush and raw.

"This is an eternity," said Marta Adame, a 45-year-old who was deported with her husband four years ago.

The heavy clouds that drape the church and the abundant cornfields are about the only elements recognizable to Adame and others who return to the village after years – sometimes decades.

Many who return – mostly due to deportation – find it difficult to reintegrate into Mexican life because they have become accustomed to the availability of well-paying jobs and inexpensive food and clothing, paired with the ease and efficiency of American life.

After 13 years in the U.S. – about half of that time in an apartment on Flower Street and Edinger Avenue in Santa Ana – Maria de Jesus Memije and her husband, Bertin Olvera Saldaña, lament their homecoming.

"The bad thing is that you return worse off than how you left," Memije said. "You get used to the nice things. You leave and then you return and can't get used to this new way of life."

American dollars from Santa Ana fueled much of the homebuilding in Santa Barbara. However, as the occupants labored in Orange County, many dwellings sat vacant in Mexico. The sun and rain inevitably reclaimed the adobe buildings, eroding them after years of neglect.

Memije's and Saldaña's small wood-and-plaster home sits steps away from a bend in the river that later in the day fills with cackles and gossip as women douse their family's laundry with muddied water.

A mixture of detergent and ripened fruit perfumed the air as Saldaña looked around, talking about his disappointment in the condition of the home he returned to and helped build with American dollars.

"It was destroyed," he said of his house with its floor of hard-packed dirt. He pointed to the half-rotted roof. "It's going to cost $700 to replace the wood. We can't do anything about it because we have no money."

The 52-year-old and his wife said they were deported after being duped by a bad immigration attorney. While the couple made enough money with Saldaña's carpentry job to support their family in Santa Ana and later Arizona, mounting bills, a growing family and legal fees devoured the rest. They said they were penniless upon their return to Santa Barbara.

Their two adult daughters – both in the U.S. illegally – stayed behind while their youngest U.S.-born child, Myriam, 9, joined them.

The couple said they'd grown accustomed to a steady job and paycheck every other Friday.

"Over there, if you work hard, you have everything at your disposal," Memije said.

They are growing corn as a way to make a living, but it's not enough, they said. Moving to a bigger town, such as Acapulco, with better job opportunities is out of the question because of the region's security situation. Guerrero has become a staging ground for a horror show of mass killings and lawlessness stoked by a drug war.

On the other side of town, Marta Adame gazed out from her makeshift store stocked with sundries. She told her tale in an even, emotionless voice.

She and her husband returned to Santa Barbara four years ago, after an immigration attorney tried to legalize their status based on a false claim of political asylum, she said. The couple say they weren't aware of the situation when they penned their names on the fraudulent documents.

In turn, an immigration judge barred them from legally setting foot on U.S. soil for a decade, punishment for entering the country illegally and lying to immigration officials.

Adame, who left behind an adult son in Santa Ana, said time is too slow in Santa Barbara.

"I'm bored," she said. "You can't find enough to do here."

In the U.S., she'd become accustomed to hustling to her various odd jobs, such as cleaning homes. On Sundays, she'd gather with family and friends at a restaurant or stroll past the Fourth Street's Latino businesses, hunting for good buys.

"Life over there is beautiful. Even the poorest person lives like a rich person," she said.

In Santa Barbara, there is none of that. No restaurants. No shopping centers.

Her store – selling everything from candy to flashlights – is the closest around. Dusty jars showcase an array of sweets, such as pink and white marshmallows, chocolates and gum.

She opened her shop because there was nothing better to do in town. It makes just enough profit to help pay for phone calls to family in the U.S.

There's no alternative but to wait, Adame said. She refuses to make the illegal trek in her later years.

"It's too dangerous," she said. "I won't go without papers."

Santa Barbara's inhabitants have adapted to nights without electricity – a result of afternoon tropical storms that knock down power lines. On a night in August, the town's only illumination came from worn candles, dimmed lanterns and the twinkling of stars that choked the night sky.

Adolfina Saldaña and her estranged husband, Baltazar, made do with an anemic flashlight, attempting to pack their truck with family members and food before hitting the road to visit a sick friend.

After forging a life in the U.S. for 20 years, the couple moved back to Mexico three years ago. The economy had soured and Baltazar Saldaña, a legal U.S. resident, was unemployed and about to lose his Santa Ana home to the bank.

Baltazar said he is content to live a calm life in his native country.

Adolfina, who lacks legal status in the U.S., longs to return to Santa Ana. She said she's lost an adult son to an accident and has suffered from chills and depression since she arrived in Mexico.

While they now lead separate lives, they remain companions when they visit their country home in Santa Barbara, attempting to help those who weren't as lucky.

Adolfina says she's perceived more positively in Santa Barbara than people who are returned by U.S. officials.

Adame, owner of the sundries store, said she and others who have been deported are still seen as failures.

"Family helps you, but many make fun of you if you're deported," she said. "It shouldn't be this way."

Few are willing to lend a hand.

The Mexican government offers to recoup up to $380 of the costs associated with deportation, including transportation, lodging and meals as the deportees travel from the border entries where immigration officials drop them off to their hometowns. However, only about two people a month make claims in Guerrero state, according to state government officials. At the same time, hundreds return each month.

Many don't take advantage of the program because it isn't well-known and it can take a long time and several trips to the state capital to get the reimbursement, Baltazar Saldaña said.

SHUNNED BY COMMUNITY

His eyes fatigued with worry, Ernesto Almazan Serrano said he doesn’t have any family in Santa Barbara.

“I’m alone,â€