A day in a border town left me disillusioned and disappointed. by Caleb Regan
Four men sat at the end of the bar, playing dominoes and drinking Negra Modelos. One of the four put our empty Dos Equis bottles on the bar in front of us to keep track of our tab. Another leaned over to me after a short while, shaking my hand and telling me in Spanish that it was evident that my brother Josh and I shared a close friendship, una amistad unida.
This was the Mexico I had envisioned. The small cantina on a side street of Tijuana had a curtain for a door, was dimly lit and the absence of music was peaceful.The only sound was the quiet chatter of the four domino players.
A friend who lives in Puerto Escondido, a Mexican beach town had told me about the serenity and peaceful, quiet calm of the small fishing town. He had told me that none of the locals gave two pesos whether you were white, black or purple. That was the Mexico I had anticipated when Josh and I walked across the border at 3 p.m., after the 5-mile drive from San Diego.
Aside from the cantina with a curtain for a door, it was not the
Mexico I encountered.
We were greeted by throngs of children as we made our way across the bridge connecting the two countries. They juggled, performed magic tricks and simply tossed and caught trinkets. After each show, they held out their hands, saying quietly, "Dinero." The swarm of kids slowed our way into the city. We wanted to give them money, but we didn't want to open the floodgates for the other children.
It took 30 to 45 minutes to make our way across the bridge and into the city,a distance of less than half a mile.
We walked the streets and found the cantina. Josh and I stayed there for a couple of hours, returning to the streets just in time to glimpse the last bit of sunlight of that Tijuana day.
When the sun went down, the city turned. The kids disappeared. Men in their 30s whistled and shouted after us,"Mi seester, man, $15." Prostitution was pitched to us block after narrow block.
Finally, we found a spot in a bar on a balcony overlooking the city.Within two hours we had befriended a Mexican-American from Santa Fe,N.M.
The waiters seemed to like our boisterous friend, but when the truck driver got up to use the restroom, the wafter stole his Mariboro Reds, passing them out to his coworkers. It was a ruthless display.
Low on cash and having seen all we wanted to see, my brother and I ordered two last beers and asked for our check.
The waiter brought over six bottles. I told him there was a mistake. We only wanted two. "No," said the waiter in perfect English. "The caps are popped. You have to pay for all of them."
We ordered two and we would pay for two, we insisted. "If you don't pay your tab," he responded, "we will call the police."
I decided to find an ATM and pay the $12 so we could leave. All six waiters were gathered around us. One of them looked at me and said, "I'll take you to the ATM." He pointed at Josh. "He's got to stay here."
The largest of the waiters walked down the steps of the bar ahead of me. I realized we weren't going next door. He led me to a well-lit side road. I knew he wasn't planning to mug me, but my hands were sweating and
the enchiladas I had eaten earlier tied themselves in a knot in my stomach.
As we neared the Western Union, my escort pulled out a crack pipe and a baggie with who-knows-what kind of white substance in it. No, I said, I just wanted to pay my bill.
I made my way toward the Western Union, overtaking his lead. I entered and felt instantly safer, even though I noticed him coming in behind me. A girl with beautiful brown eyes and a smile that could light up any situation sat behind the counter.
I asked the woman to withdraw 200 pesos, roughly $20 and enough to pay the tab and maybe buy another Cuban cigar. The man behind me piped up, "You need 2,000 pesos." I looked at the girl, knowing something wasn't right. Without hesitating, she looked at me and said, "He's right."
I hesitated, then asked for 2,000 pesos. She handed me a large pile of bills. I stuffed them in my wallet, then led myself out of the Western Union. I took the most direct route to the main street; I saw the bright lights as protection.
When I get back to the bar, the man in charge grabbed for the bills. "I'll count it myself," I said, trying to figure out how to give him the 120 pesos we actually owed. "I don't think this is the right exchange rate."
"Amigo, I will count it for you. It is right. Now pay your bill and leave," he said without a hint of accent on the English.
He grabbed the money and took it behind the bar, returning with $8.
We left the bar, making our way into the streets. The kids who'd been missing since dusk reappeared on the bridge toward the border, again pleading for money. I had already spent enough.
After finding our car on the American side of the border, I went to an ATM. Sure enough, $200 withdrawn. The U.S. consulate for Mexico's Web site explicitly warns visitors about Mexican border towns, like Juarez, Nuevo Laredo and Tijuana. You can be ripped off or, even worse, physically hurt.
Someday I will visit the beautiful, rural Mexico I've heard about, but I will put border towns in my rear-view mirror as quickly as I can.
11. 30.2006 JAYPLAY <15