South of the border

"Oh didn't we have a lovely time the day we went to Bangor Tijuana!"

45 A.D.

It was to be a What Carcass Day by default – Tim had shown little interest in going to Tijuana from day one of the trip and at this point his desire had diminished even further. I think he heard bad things about it from chums back home. Even Dan, who we’d just stayed with, had never ventured over the border. I wondered why – there was a whole other country down there and just a short train tram ride away! Some may have thought I was mad to go, I thought I would be mad not to go.  

I was up at 7.30 for my solo mission, leaving Tim still snoozing as I snuck out for 8. Our noisy neighbours hadn’t disturbed our sleep, but it sounded like they hadn’t even been to bed, given the amount of excited chatter from behind the wall at such an early hour.

The girl on reception back in the Parthenon hostel in Chicago had said I would be an easy target for the locals, given that foppish, blonde, English boys tend to stand out like sore elbows. She may have been exaggerating slightly, but I still left my “beard” attached to my face to look, I dunno, more intimidating I suppose, in a totally non-intimidating way. And I wisely left my multi-tool in the hotel room, my only form of self-protection being good manners.

I’d heard different things about the kind of tourists who visit Tijuana – on the one hand you have the under 21s who go to Mexico because they can legally drink. That would be a bad plan for me. The local transit guy I bought my 3 day pass from said the last tram back to San Diego leaves at 12.59 a.m. and the driver doesn’t wait around for a second. He went on to say that Tijuana is not the place you want to be stranded in the early hours of the morning, but I could work that out for myself. The other kind of tourist I knew of was the one who goes to buy cheap drugs...the legal pharmaceutical kind. If the expiration date for a drug is one year in the States, it will be at least twice as long in Mexico, and who wants to waste money on expensive prescription drugs? Oh yes, there was also the third kind of tourist – the curious pleb like me.

After a 30 minute bus journey downtown, I made my tram connection and it was another 45 minutes before I got off at the end of the USA. I couldn’t see any signs telling me where to go, so I just followed the crowd of sombre-looking Hispanics up the footbridge over the freeway.

Suddenly I walked through a big turnstile and that was it – bam – I was in Mek-ee-ko.

Immediately I was pounced upon by 1,000 requests for a taxi, and then for all kinds of other stuff, e.g. “You want the pharmaceuticals, amigo? I know where they are...” The guy in the tourist information office advised I head for “the arch” because that’s where the main shops were, and during all my time in this town I never let it out of my sight. However, to get to said arch I had to navigate another freeway and that meant climbing the raised sidewalk. Halfway up was an entrance to “family restaurant” and a chap called Camito leapt out in front of me, demanding I come and eat and drink a full meal there (it was 10 in the morning!) I said I’d think about it and he gave me his business card / tatty piece of paper, offering X free shots of tequila with every drink, etc.

When I got to the bridge over the freeway, I was met with an interesting sight. Next to the road was a large flood plain and a border control truck went screaming down the centre of it. Far off in the distance I could make out the tiny black shapes of people running back across the plain en masse, I assume having tried to rush the border. As a couple of other border control vehicles powered in to assist their colleague, the would-be border-jumpers scattered and disappeared back into the maze of Tijuana streets. I was only able to get the end of the spectacle on film, but I found it exciting and disturbing in equal measure.

Coming back down to the earth and the “main shops” that the tourist office described, I wasn’t particularly impressed, but then I never expected to be. It was a bit like a downmarket Spain, with the goods slightly naffer and the cars slightly rustier. The constant calls for me to stop and sample some souvenir or other were incessant. A few streets from the arch I was the only non-Hispanic person for as far as I could see, and in my whole visit I only saw maybe three other tourists. The atmosphere wasn’t exactly hostile, but there was a sense that it could become that way if I made the wrong move, so I kept my camera action to a minimum and gave out plenty of stay-away vibes. And I naturally kept my hands on my valuables at all times.

[Tijuana's finest mariachi band rests before welcoming Jimmy El Gringo to their country.]

I keep passing fierce-looking women waiting patiently outside small hotels that are closed. The hotels are closed, so what are they waiting for? Oh yes, of course – punters. They look me up and down with raised eyebrows, but they’re nowhere near as insistent as the street vendors who see me coming a mile off and shove plastic Jesus statues in my (bearded) face. Eventually I get tired of making excuses for my lack of custom in a mixture of English and Spanish and I simply say, “No dinero” (no money). They start saying, “We take Visa, amigo!” When I say I have no Visa, they offer me store credit! Que loco! Well, I suppose it’s all good practice for Asia.

After a couple of hours wandering, and into streets a little further from the arch than I’m used to, the ladies-who-lean become more desperate – “Please! Please!” is their cry. To say that to me they must be incredibly desperate! My time in Tijuana hasn’t been very long, but I realise I’d best head back to the relative safety of the US of A. There’s nothing really here for me, or maybe not for anyone unless they’re into underage drinking, loose women and expired Ibuprofen. Just so long as I have experienced Mexico, that’s enough for this English lad.

On my return journey, Camito spots me coming and blocks my path once again, thinking I’ve come to take him up on the offer to dine at his restaurant. He’s very disappointed when I tell him, “No dinero,” but I offer to return in a week with my brother. He tells me to keep his card.  

The way to the USA is clearly signposted and on my way over yet another bridge I am highly amused at the massive amount of traffic trying to leave Mexico, compared to the puny amount coming in. Then I see the size of the pedestrian queue and scream internally. It wraps so far around the surrounding streets that I cannot initially see the end of it. This was not going to be fun.

I take my place at the rear of the queue and ask the girl in front of me if this is normal. She says yes, and that it can sometimes take three hours to get across the border. It wouldn’t be so bad, but there is not much shade and I have to spend the time when I’m not under a street or a lamppost with my day bag on top of my head. Not surprisingly, I am the only person in the entire line adopting this look.

It takes me an hour and a half of solid queuing to get through homeland security, but it feels like longer. It’s a real buzz to switch countries again and obviously my conviction for jaywalking in New York hasn’t registered against my passport yet. It’s strange how queuing makes you tired and I drift off on the tram journey back to San Diego, regularly headbutting the window. Somehow, by a fluke of nature I didn’t need to go to the bathroom the entire time I was south of the border. This is especially meaningful as I never once saw a public facility and there were actually bars advertising restrooms as a speciality, rather than a compulsory feature!

Back at the Navajo Lodge, Tim was going to hit the beaches, but decided to have a lazy day getting things organised (can’t blame him for that). We spent late afternoon in the serenity of Balboa Park, where Rocky was born. It was a lush, green contrast to the mean streets of the morning, but, as pleasant as it was, it didn’t really stand out against other parks we’ve visited in other cities. This wouldn’t matter, but so far we haven’t really been able to find a true identity for San Diego. Think of places like New York and New Orleans and there’s an instantly-recognisable impression, but San Diego doesn’t stand out in that kind of way. It’s just a really nice place to live.

Our evening meal was spent in Jack In The Box – a fast food chain that they really should have in the UK. We both admit we’ve eaten a little too much junkfood while we’ve been here, but could it be argued that’s the American way? And it is convenient when you don’t have your own cooking facilities. However, that’s all changing next week...only one more destination left on the great American road trip...and I can't keep walking around looking like this...