Tijuana Chaos

We'd set out earlier that day, and at my insistence, diverted from route 89 North once hitting Flagstaff, (A route that I later discovered to be an excellent drive through the "free" Painted Desert, and on up to the Grand Canyon with the Vermilion Cliffs overlooking the massive trench, further still to Zion National Park and Bryce Canyon.) driving eastward, along highway 40, towards The Painted Desert National Park and Petrified Forest which both turned out to be not worth the 6 hours that they had set us back from our final destination of San Diego. We piled back into the car after disappointedly surveying the scene of once living trees, now eternalized tree-fragments, which lay strewn across the silvery whites and deep purples of the sandy, rolling landscape that is the Painted Desert. Repeatedly blasting The White Stripes through the weak, crackling speakers, we headed back in the direction from where we had come, again passing through Flagstaff, a simple reminder of the time that had been wasted on the worthless drive down bland highway 40 in the hopes of seeing something new and wondrous. Now the effects of the grass was wearing off, and another doobie was in order, along with a change of music, and a change of drivers. With the sun waning in the orange sky, and The Grateful Dead gently soothing our weary minds, we were claimed by sleep somewhere near the California Border, one by one, excluding Hayes, the lone driver, who suffered through 4 cycles of American Beauty, which under normal conditions, would be appreciated, but tonight, burnt out from the grass, certainly had him in a trance wishing he was sleeping, until I awoke, breaking his trance, and changed the CD, eventually taking over driving duties allowing him to take a brief rest from his own conscious thoughts.

Driving under the moonlit night, we arrived in San Diego seeking a cheap motel where we could really get the restorative rest we craved. Every hotel, motel, and inn in San Diego was either fully booked, or out of our price range; that's the way it seemed anyway. I casually navigated the city and surrounding suburbs for hours not really looking too hard for a place to stay, but stopping at various points rather, such as a random beach where we smoked a joint on the life guard hut and listened to the Pacific, excluding Wolf, who tried to sleep in the car but was politely woken by a reasonable cop, who informed Wolf that we needed to leave the lot in which the car was parked, as it had officially closed hours ago. When we returned to the car, hearing the news, we headed back into the heart of San Diego, stopping at an open air mall, seemingly designed by Dr. Seuss himself, with irregular shapes and vibrant colors that contrasted with the blues and greens of the glass skyscrapers beyond, glistening in the California dawn. After thorough inspection of this abandoned fun-house, we made our way to Old Town San Diego as it was known; the historic district so to speak, with various vendors clinging to a historic past they knew nothing about, only to sell a few trinkets to unsuspecting tourists. This is where we found our motel at 7 am, and where we passed out on its soft sheets.

"Jail time?" I'm thinking to myself, "for a five dollar bill?".

I awoke to the information that a few girls, who Sam knew from his brief span enlisted in the Marines and stationed in San Diego, were minutes from arriving. I pulled my dirty self out of the sheets and groggily headed towards the shower, where I quickly washed away my drowsiness. When I emerged back into the room, feeling fresh, there were three new faces, all female of course, and we all chatted a bit but I soon found myself losing interest in the shallow conversation with the immature girls. I set out for the store with Wolf soon thereafter, where we picked up a few food items and of course a handle of rum, with some Coca Cola to accompany. Once back at the motel we consumed a fair amount of alcohol, and were somewhat buzzed when two of the girls left. Leaving Sam with the company of the remaining girl, Hayes, Wolf, and myself mixed one last drink and swilled it down as we took the short walk to the trolley station, who's train-car would deliver us to the US border and essentially Tijuana, a place we had intended on checking out while planning this trip.

We got off the trolley at the last possible stop, and followed the procession of underage Americans over the bridge and across the border where Mexican cabbies waited at the ready to take us to the center of Tijuana, but more importantly they waited for our US dollars which would bring bread to their tables back home, or Tequila to their bellies at the various dives around the miserable city. One of these such cabbies took us to the main drag where we entered one of the multiple, brightly colored clubs, that played obnoxiously loud music reminiscent of the hip hop of the United States, with pounding beats and lyrics you don't care to understand, only here you simply couldn't understand them, whether you cared to or not. We paid the 12 dollar cover charge and were pleased to discover that the beverages were free, no matter how much you drink.

Choosing a table on a high floor, we ordered Long Island Iced Teas from one of the servers who roamed the club taking orders, but after ten minutes and no drinks, duplicated our order with a second server. Before we knew it, we each had four Teas in front of us, and all with one in our hands, and Hayes was yelling over the music, "we gotta drink em before the ice melts!". This made perfect sense at the time, after all, Mexican water legandarily causes stomach problems, so we set in on the chore of downing these drinks before the ice melted. Of course by the time we had finished our third servings of the poison we were all lit and didn't give a damn if the ice melted or not; and we were actually enjoying the music, pounding our fists on the table, keeping the beat, the vibrations causing the remaining drinks to dance around the table until one of them hopped right off the edge, splashing on the people one level below us who were probable too wasted to care. With this, we ceased the pounding of our fists and erupted into laughter, starting in on our what was left of our beverages. Just as I set down my tea, two well-built Mexican guys approached our table one with a small towel, the other with a bottle of liquor. The one with the towel tipped my head back and placed the towel under my chin, while the guy wielding the bottle proceeded to pour plenty of the good stuff down my throat, an exploit in which I was a willing participant. After they'd finished boozing me up, they asked, in broken English, who would get the liquor next. I selected a random kid at a nearby table, pointing his way. I watched as he resisted their attempts, only to be placed in a choke hold and have liquor not only dumped down his pie-hole, but also splattered all over his face, and for a period of time considerably longer than my comparatively, brief taste.

All the booze was really starting to settle in our stomaches now, but we couldn't turn down the offer of White Russians, presented by yet another server, who's job it was to get us Americans as incoherent as possible, so that wed be unable to resist the inevitability of being hussled later in the night. I started dancing on the main floor and sort of lost track of Hayes and Wolf for a while, but was reunited with a sloppy Wolf and a screaming Hayes shortly thereafter. Hayes was screaming about something that I couldn't comprehend, as he wasn't really articulating much besides the fact that he was angrily screaming, his voice being swallowed by the dominating music. We left the club in the hope that the booming music would calm Hayes down or at least allow us to hear what he was so pissed about. Instead of discovering the reason behind his rage, we attracted the attention of the local cops, who weren't interested in why he was angry, just that he needed the shut the fuck up. After frisking us and having a quick talk which wasn't understood by us dumbfounded, English-speaking drunks, they gave us a flier which basically said not to do anything illegal or you'll be taking a visit to the local jail, and ended on the note that the message was supplied via the "courtesy of the Mayor of Tijuana, and his friends". "Who the hell are his friends?", is the question on my hazy mind as I staggered away from the cops and lost track of my friends yet again.

The next thing I know I'm trashed and completely panicked at 2 am because Ive lost my friends, and foolishly, thinking that they must have gone back to the border, I hop into a cab with no cash in my pockets, and no knowledge of the pin number to my ATM card, and ask to head for the border, and I'm off. When I realize I have no cash at the border and inform the cabbie of the situation, we get out of the cab and I can see America, but he brings me to a couple of cops, who, after hearing whats happened, tell me that I can pay my bill with jail time. "Jail time?" I'm thinking to myself, "for a five dollar bill?". So I inform them that I have an ATM card and just need to go to an ATM machine. I knew I couldn't get cash but figured I was better off pretending I could than going to some grimy Mexican jail. We must've tried 20 different ATM machines, and I seriously considered bolting at a few of them, but I got back in the taxi after every unsuccessful attempt to get cash or get away. I was always under his watchful eye, until that is, he dropped me off, frustrated with his wasted time, at some random, run-down location in Tijuana where I, a white kid in a Mexican slum, wasn't exactly at home, to say the least. After a few minutes of sullenly wandering the filthy streets, a Mexican guy skeptically approached me, saying "What are you doing around here? You could get into some trouble here, gringo.". I just threw my hands in the air, exasperated, on the verge of insanity, and didn't even know how to begin to reply. I didn't have to say anything, luckily, because this Mexican Angel waved down a cab and paid my fee back to the main, tourist strip.

I went back into the club where I had already paid the cover, showing my stamped hand as I entered, hoping in vain that one of my friends would be inside. Of course they weren't, but I mingled with a few other Americans my age and had a few more free drinks before my new found friends were moving on to another bar. I left with them, but instead of following them to the next bar, I asked which way to the border. They pointed me in the general direction and I started walking, not knowing just how far I would walk. The sun was barely rising now, heating things up and revealing the urban terrain in more detail, and everybody seemed to have a place in this strange, new world except for myself. I watched a boy of 12 or 13, still half asleep, leisurely setting up a burrito cart, where, each morning, he probably helped make ends meat for his family. He glanced at me for a short second, quickly continuing with his daily duties, and certainly didn't know or care what a wretched situation I was in, after all, Tijuana was life for him, maybe since he was born, maybe 'til he dies.

I saw a few cops casually joking, chatting, drinking coffee, and eating donuts, just like their American counterparts; perhaps these were the same faceless cops who had lined us up against the wall not so long ago. Knowing that I was getting closer to the border, I interrupted their morning routine and asked them how to get to there. One advised me where to go with a sly grin, and as I headed that direction, I noticed all three of them begin to chuckle. I asked myself, were they laughing because they had just sent me the wrong way, or had one told the others a quick joke? Was I headed someplace where I wouldn't be welcome, like the place the cabbie dropped me off last night, or was I headed for the border? I was almost certain they had misled me, sending me the wrong way, but went the way I'd been told despite these feelings. As I went further and further, I noticed more and more people, ready for work, heading the direction from which I had come, and I finally turned around, with bitter feelings towards cops in general, and headed back, standing out in the midst of all these brown-skinned people headed for work across national lines, past the three pigs, who had added more time to my journey, and eventually to the border. The line to get back across the border, littered with migrant workers, was much more stagnant than that line filled with Americans shy of 21 I had followed just a few hectic hours ago. A slow, two hour wait brought me to America, and I was never more thankful for being an American.

Arriving at the southern most trolley station, I slid my debit card into the automated, point of sale system to purchase my 3 dollar ticket. To my surprise it spit the card right back out and had me wondering why, as I knew that my bank account contained plenty of money; well it did before I went to Tijuana. Just then a cop, noticing the frustration my body language and facial expression were undoubtedly revealing, relieved my financial worries with the information that the machine was out of order and proceeded to tell me where I could find an ATM machine; somewhere past Burger King, that's all my sleep-deprived, alcohol-blurred mind could absorb, as he pointed westward, away from the trolley and it's tracks. Confused as to whether this guy really was a cop and unsure of his directions, I boarded the automated trolley without a ticket and dropped my limp body on one of the precious benches, giving my legs a break and falling into a slight doze almost immediately. Just seconds later, the same cop, he was a cop, shook me awake and told me again to head towards Burger King, and asked if I was drunk. I managed to get out a tired "no" and stumbled off the trolley, heading towards Burger King.

Well I got to Burger King and just kept on going, never seeing any trace of a bank. I walked and walked, until the summer sun was blistering down across the Southern California Coast. I must have looked like a maniac, staggering along the roadside with no shirt on, but one tied around my waist and one around my shoulders, as I clumsily cocked my thumb out at the yuppies on there way to work. It's no surprise they didn't pick up such a specimen as myself on this long, wretched walk, but there was hope; I heard the whistle of the trolley in the distance and immediately changed course accordingly. Keep on walking, keep on walking; that's all I could tell myself to do. All I wanted to do was sleep under the shade of every tree I saw, but kept pushing on, not allowing myself any rest. Walking down one of the side roads, headed towards the alleged whistle, (For all I know I heard something else and imagined it to be the trolley whistle. For all I know the trolley doesn't even have a whistle.)

I came to a dead end, but it wasn't dead for me; I slipped right under the chain link fence, slicing my shoulder in the process and kept on moving. Passing over the far end of somebody's property, I came across their grassy field to a brief wooded area that overlooked one of San Diego's several highways. Now I did take a break in the shade and it was so damn relaxing with the cool breeze blowing on my sweaty body; too relaxing in fact, and I had to move on or be taken by sleep. First, I had to traverse down the steeply inclined obstacle course before me, loaded with pricker bushes to scratch, and loose, abnormally shaped rocks, both large and small, to stumble over; and hopefully, once at the bottom, I wouldn't stumble right into the road and ultimately, into oncoming traffic. I carefully headed down the hill, emerging from the sweet shade and remembering why both my shirts were off. Tucking behind scraggly bushes and trees as I went, to hide myself from the people on the road, mainly due to the rather strong paranoia of cops that I was feeling this particular morning, I managed to reach the highway at the bottom of the incline. Arriving at the bottom, I waited for the right time to cross; when nobody would see me; and soon realizing that I wouldn't be able to be as stealthy as I'd like to be, I darted across the road with 5 seconds to spare, attracting the eyes of four lanes of commuters as I evaded their bumpers and headed up the grassy hill that led to an offramp. I had to move quickly now; I was in the spotlight and needed to get the hell out of it. Checking both ways, even though traffic was only moving one, I continued across the single lane swiftly, several seconds before an 18 wheeler roared, thunderously by, bellowing his impressively loud horn at my dangerous activities. Now, creeping down the green hill I was nearly done with the obstacle of the highway and slightly closer to my destination. I crossed one last, double-laned section, similarly to the previous two, and headed up the final hill, which alike the first hill, was littered with pricker bushes and rocks of all shapes and sizes. Making it under the fence at the top of the hill was exhilarating, and with a major hurdle out of the way I walked a little faster, with a bit more spring in my step and a smile on my face, and all I needed was some water to make up for all the sweat I had lost.

Any good effects of the huge amounts of alcohol consumed the night before were wearing off, but the hangover was setting in, again reiterating the fact that I needed water, now. Choosing the first convenience store I came upon, I went for the water and drained half of the bottle before reaching the checkout counter. Handing the clerk my card, I took another long pull of the bottle. My fucking card was declined. I understood why it didn't work at the trolley stop, but now here? Something was awry. What, I didn't know, but something had happened down in Tijuana with my card damnit! I just threw up my arms and muttered something that even I couldn't understand as I left the store, with half a bottle of water in my belly. (This was my general feeling throughout the morning. That is I throw my arms up in defeat, sort of giving up, but still pressing on.)

Back on the street, I saw the red trolley, smoothly cutting across the scene, not a mile away! With a meager amount of fluid restoration, I ran toward where the trolley had passed, with a new sense of hope, only to have that hope crushed upon seeing that I had at least two more miles down this long, straight stretch of track before the next stop. Walking down this barren track reminded me of years passed when I used to walk along similar train tracks back home, to go fishing, or to avoid the bus after school, but this time I hadn't chose to take this route, it had been forced upon me. Upon arrival at the trolley stop, somehow more alert than at the previous station, although more fatigued for sure, I scanned the area for police before approaching and lying on one of the backless, concrete benches, and waited for the next northbound trolley. Euphorically boarding the trolley after it screeched to a halt, I found an empty seat and waited the 20 minutes that stretched for days before my stop finally came. Getting off the train, having been delivered to Old Town, I tried my luck at another convenience store but my card was turned down again, and I knew something certainly had gone wrong with my debit card, presumably while I was blacked out in Tijuana. Finally, making it back to the motel at around 12 noon, having spent the past 7 hours marching away from the clubs of Tijuana, walking miles upon miles across Mexican and American landscape alike, I told Sam the short version of what had happened and passed out in the cool, air-conditioned room.

After all was said and done, I don't think I'll ever be going back to Tijuana. For one thing, I'm old enough to legally drink in America now, and I'd rather party on the beach, or somebody's house, or in a motel room for that matter, than go to Tijuana and get hussled anyway. It turned out, as I discovered weeks later, that one of the several ATM machines, which is most certainly run by "the Mayor of Tijuana's friends", must have took my card in, but spit out a nearly identical card which originated from the same, national bank as mine, the only difference being the information on the front. That is the name on the card wasn't mine at all, but the card I held in my hand once belonged to one Melisio Patino. Hayes had been screaming because he'd lost his wallet, and eventually his exploits led to him being jumped by a few Mexican kids, and with his wallet already being gone, they took all he had left of any value, his cell phone. Without an ID, he had a long, difficult time just at the border crossing, and ended up walking much further than myself once crossing the border, arriving at the motel around 4 in the afternoon, waking me up with his startling entrance. Wolf was the only one who didn't really get hussled, although he did in a way. He spent something to the tune of 350 dollars throughout the course of the night, and while he legitimately spent that money with his own free will, his judgement had undoubtedly been hindered by the massive amounts of alcohol he'd consumed, due to the fact that the drinks were "free". Never assume that anything is free, there is always an underlying reason why it seems to be. From the wild offers of free iPods on websites, to the "free" drinks pushed on us by the servers of Tijuana's clubs, if something is advertised as free, there will always be a price to pay.