- Associated Press - Sunday, October 31, 2010

THERMAL, Calif. | In the five years Pasquala Beaza has lived in a squalid trailer park for migrant farmworkers, she has endured the stench of sewage overflows, as well as street flooding and blackouts.

When temperatures soared to 115 degrees in the baking Coachella Valley and an electrical fire killed the power for a month, her family couldn’t take any more. Her husband and four other residents sued their landlords in state court.

In doing so, they joined a small but growing minority of trailer dwellers fighting to improve conditions at more than 100 poorly maintained mobile home parks that dot the dusty crescent-shaped valley 150 miles southeast of Los Angeles.

“We didn’t want to go all the way to a lawsuit, but with a situation like this there was no other way. It’s a basic necessity and we were forced to,” said Mrs. Beaza, 51, a hotel housekeeper, whose trailer was labeled unsafe by the county because of the power outage. “And the problem that we have is almost nothing compared to the problems at other places.”

Once afraid to speak out about deplorable living conditions, residents like the Beazas are taking trailer park owners to court and winning.

A sign at a sewage pond at an unpermitted trailer park in Mecca, Calif., attests to the hazard there. Squalid housing for migrant farmworkers has for decades been a reality in many places where crops are grown. But the situation in the Coachella Valley, 150 miles southeast of Los Angeles, is unique for both its severity and for the hundreds of hidden and largely unplanned trailer parks that house workers. (Associated Press)
A sign at a sewage pond at an unpermitted trailer park in ... more >

A Riverside County judge who restored the power last week at the Beazas’ park recently ordered the landlords to maintain the sewage and electrical systems and refrain from evicting tenants or raising rent in retaliation. Residents at two other parks — mostly housing low-income farmworkers, many of whom who are illegal immigrants — have also sued and another filed a complaint with the state’s Public Utilities Commission about water rates as high as $595 a month.

The recent victory marks the first time an entire park has organized itself and represents a turning point in a decades-long debate about how to address an affordable-housing crisis that has beset the eastern Coachella Valley.

“The model is to have the community be the driving force,” said Sergio Carranza, the executive director of the recently formed Pueblo Unido Community Development Corp., one of several nonprofits spurring activism. “We want to give the power to these families.”

Wretched living conditions for migrants predate the arrival of Dust Bowl refugees in California’s fertile fields, but the situation in the Coachella Valley, known for its table grapes, dates, chili peppers and other crops, is unique for its severity. Dozens of hidden, illegal trailer parks pop up faster than regulators can inspect them in the vast rural county roughly the size of New Jersey.

“It’s sort of an epidemic,” said Megan Beaman Carlson, an attorney with California Rural Assistance League Inc., which is helping residents with lawsuits. “I think it became too big of an issue for the county to be able to properly monitor.”

At one of the more notorious parks, a 4,000-person rural slum taken over by a federal receiver, wild dogs roamed muddy alleys, raw sewage overflowed into the streets during heavy rain and flies swarmed children. Tangled electric wires dangled like spaghetti, sparking a dangerous fire that left 120 people homeless.

At the Hernandez Mobile Home Park where the Beazas live, power surges damaged appliances and occasional septic backups spilled human waste into the mobile homes and into dirt yards.

The brothers who own the park say they toiled as farmworkers for years and pooled their money to open their property as a way of helping migrants.

The situation grew out of their control as families planted their trailers for $200 a month, said Oscar Hernandez. Now the brothers are stuck with a 24-trailer site they can’t afford, but can’t shut down because of the court order.

“My brothers made this to help people in need. People came saying, ‘I don’t have a place to stay, I need a place to stay’ and now they’re suing us,” he said, as his older brother Miguel listened. “They’re trying to make us look like bad people, but everything we have is here.”

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