Meddling about in Tijuana needs little description. We knew the basic rules and stayed away from any opened food or drinks, we practiced the basic rules of haggling by telling all the shopkeepers that 'the guy over there asked for less', and we always paid close attention to our wallets, watches, and jewelry when suddenly finding ourselves in a crowd. After a few hours, we were finally ready to leave after having bought a couple boxes of cereal, a cheap Superman bust, some Spiderman knock-off toys, Chiclets, of course, and Lisa's Grecian column that matches the one she has at home. Pedestrian Line After finding our way to the border, we crossed a very busy, yet very still, eight lanes or so of nearly stopped United States bound traffic. We crossed a few lanes, through a barricade of some kind, more lanes, a gate, a couple more lanes for buses, and then through an opening through a fence that blocked off and marked pedestrian traffic. Hauling a miniature pillar in one arm and a bag of something heavy in the other, Lisa carrying three bags, we make it to the end of the pedestrian line of people wanting nothing more at this point in time other than to get back home. There's something funny that comes over you when coming to the end of your brief stay in Mexico. Well, not Mexico per say (Mexico is indeed rich with plenty of beautiful things to see and relaxing places to lounge about), but more specifically Tijuana. When you're done, and you make your way to your car or to that line, all you want in all the world to just make it across that border, incident free. A paranoia sweeps over you. You keep remembering in the back of your mind that the Customs Agents don't like jokes, and that when you're asked what your citizenship is, you say United States and nothing else. You make sure that you're overly cooperative and make available all your possessions for search. It's kind of creepy, actually, but all in all it's an adventure. We're in line, and just ahead of us is some sun-tanned hung-over American with a loose Hawaiian shirt (the top half unbuttoned), dirty black jeans, greasy hair, and a black backpack. The line's moving quite slow, and that's enough to get him talking, "This line's going so slow. Expect to be here for at least three, maybe four hours. I was here last night when everyone was going home, and the line was this long, and it took three to four hours. So, you know, we'll be here three to four hours." "Really," I said, "it doesn't seem to be moving that slow." "Oh yeah. Three to four hours easily." "Oh well. I'll just have to be patient then." "I was here last night, and we were clubbing, and it was awesome. I even saw some guy throw up right over there. The line was really long though." "That's great." And on and on this went. This fella' just prattling on about literally nothing. He was alone, and he looked a bit hung-over, so who could blame him? Still, though, enough is enough. If you insist on talking to me, at the very least stop yourself, regroup, and say something new. Want A Bike? "No thanks." "Only six dollars." "Thanks again, but no thanks." "Ok, five dollars. You don't have to wait in line anymore. You don't even need to ride it. Get a better line. Five dollars." "What? Forget it. I'll just wait here." Finally something new spews out the mouth-shaped hole of my neighbor in line, "You should get the bike. We're going to be here for hours, but with the bike you can be across in fifteen minutes." "Oh really? Why don't you get the bike?" "You should get the bike. It's a good deal." "I'll be fine." "Come on man," the fella' on the other side of the fence says, "I'll give it to you for four dollars. Final offer." "No." Mr. Friendly And His Knife Lisa and I patted each other on the back for being smart enough to evade getting suckered into a seemingly simple scam. The line bottlenecked and eventually formed into a single file line, one person at a time, so as to ease our passing through the first of three screening areas. This first area was a metal detector, x-ray machine, and plenty of armed military and border-patrol personnel. Mr. Friendly with the hours-of-waiting advice walked through the metal detector without a beep. His bag, however, didn't fair so well as, when it went through the x-ray machine, it caused alarm to be raised and the female soldier behind the scanning screen jumped up and, while pointing at our pal-in-line, shouted, "Got a mark, one point!" I have no idea what that meant, but he was hauled aside pretty damn quick and put in front of a table with his bag already on it. He was asked to open his bag, and from it pull out a rather large, folded knife. "Sir, what is that?" "My knife." "What kind of work do you do?" "I work for [such and such company that sounded kinda' corporate]." "And in what way are you required to employ the use of this weapon?" "It's not a weapon…" and that's all I heard. I was busy just walking through, unbeeped just like my fiancé ahead of me, with all our crap coming out the x-ray machine without alarm. Not So Fast, Buddy I didn't really think that much of it. I know that there's lots of Mexicans that try to sneak into the United States every day. That's why we have a Border Patrol and some really creative border walls and such. But I never thought any of them tried just waiting in line. The one place you'd be sure to be caught, and they tried it anyway. Is life in Mexico really that horrible? Still, though, it kinda' shook me a bit. I'm so incredibly paranoid it's got to be unhealthy. I started thinking to myself, "If they caught THEM, they just might catch ME." What the hell kind of thoughts are those? They weren't American, and they have every bit of proof on them that they were Mexican. I, on the other hand, was 100% American, and I had a driver's license and a firm grasp of the English language to prove it. They wouldn't, couldn't, possibly 'catch' me. Yet I panicked anyway. I kept this nonsense quiet from Lisa, because I knew it would just cause her beautiful blue eyes to roll in that 'oy is this guy a putz' maneuver. Bike Buyers Bigger Suckers Than They Originally Thought A man that was about, oh, ten spots ahead of us in line, carrying only one bottle of Kahlua, after sending it through it's last x-ray, and finally getting it back, after just a little over an hour of waiting, dropped his bottle on United States soil and was red with anger. Poor guy. That was the only thing he chose to bring back, and the instant he got home, it was destroyed. It was funny in itself, but I felt for the guy. The people that bought bikes to speed their passage into the United States were furious, however, and I was near tears with laughter. Not only were they, all of them, passed up by people on foot, but those bikes they 'bought' were merely rented, and there were people from the Border Bikes company on the other side ready for people to 'return' their bikes. These people just paid extra money to wait in line longer, shlep more crap across, and eventually be robbed, ever so politely, of their last and final purchase. Home Free |
