Fiesta, Fiesta! or, Three Hours In Tijuana

At the first of the year, I took a little crazy adventure to the south of California and tripped over the border to Tijuana. When relating this story to people, most are surprised or confused, so I'm cementing this tale in writing for anyone wanting to know how bizarre and terrifying Mexico's streets are during the hours of darkness.

It began at night, in the terrifying parking lot of a shady motel on the outskirts of San Ysidro, San Diego. I was crouching down below the seat while Luke went inside to buy us a room. They charged more for two, so I hid, more from bizarre ideas in my head than anything else. I believed people were coming out from the shadows for me, gonna kick me down and put their boot above my head. Fears like this gripped me the entire night.

I texted my friend and said, you know what to do if I die, right?

Going up to the room shocked me as I realized I'd never bought a motel room for myself before. Somehow, this room being completely ours gave me a surge of power. The feeling quickly subsided as I opt to watch Mexican "Funniest Home Videos" television, one of the more bizarre things I've seen, instead of nearly burning down the Travelodge.

We stretch into Denny's, and order some toast to-go.

"We haven't done anything normal on this trip," Luke says. "I feel like California was this bubble and we existed in it, but didn't disturb anything."

"Thousands of people all around us, going through their daily routines, and we were just the background," I say.

"Ripples in a pond. Or purgatory."

"Where are we going now?"

"Hell."

We headed to a huge sidewalk stretched over the highway. We walked above the freeway and I felt like I was floating, Last Crusade-style, over a huge chasm. All the cars below, everyone heading to the border. Looking over the road, was a hillside brimming with lights. A million homes like candles in a Catholic church. It was so hard to imagine less than a mile away was an entirely different world.

THROUGH THE GATE

Just imagine this at night. source: Wikipedia

We parked a block from the border and as soon as we hit the sidewalk we were surrounded by people, herded in this mass exodus to the border. There was a train station and terminal. Everyone carrying their luggage, walking quickly, hailing cabs. But this wasn't like the airport, where everyone stands around quietly stifling yawns. Here, everybody was a refugee of some sort, eyes darting around in paranoia, bags clutched close to their sides.

I could just envision a huge bombing going off and everyone fleeing for their lives, their sole belongings on their back. I was stuck in a scene from Children of Men mashed with the cantina in A New Hope. It's wrong to forget we're all refugees at some point.

We were instantly lost in this mess, until some disgruntled border guards pointed us to a sign that said TO PARKING GARAGE AND MEXICO. To get to Mexico, a country that has a population of 111 million and a G.D.P. of $1.563 trillion dollars, you have to walk through a parking lot. A goddamned parking lot. It's as humiliating as it is bizarre.

We head up three stories of ramps, then cross through long, dark concrete hallways over the road. You could look through windows down on the miles of traffic snaking into the country. Then, it's down three more ramps to a walkway. We go through a giant, fenced in turnstile. Once you're through, there is no going back, except as Swiss cheese. This really did feel like a long corridor of Hell.

Everyone trudging in front of us is Mexican. Most are carrying shopping bags, going home after a long day cruising American business. There is a beautiful artsy mural on the wall where a couple of armed guards are standing. The guards are masked and not looking at anyone, tightly holding M16's. Up ahead is another turnstile, but this one is small, like for a carnival or a movie.

Then, we were through. It was just that easy.

AVENIDA REVOLUCIóN

As we walk down the sidewalk, there was already a huge crowd of people, mostly Mexican men in business suits handing out fliers. If you've ever been to Vegas, the same thing happens, except people there generally stand in a line and slap their palms with booklets of prostitute ads. Here, they come right up to you and don't even care if you already have a dozen of these stupid ads.

Loud music was playing, flooding the air and I immediately felt like I was invited to the world's biggest party. I looked down at one of the cards, which was for a stripclub called Amnesia. I don't know about you, but after a night in Tijuana, I really don't want to black out at a seedy strip joint.

We come to a cab stand, a parking lot filled with yellow cars. A fast-talking man in a suit immediately ushers us over to a cab and said, "Where do you want to go?"

We have no idea where we're headed. We didn't think we needed a cab to get there, either, so we turned and tried to escape. Men appeared out of nowhere and surrounded us, arguing with us that we wanted to take a cab. There was no way out, so we jumped in.

It was five dollars to Avenida Revolución, the main "party" strip in the city, which is six or seven miles from the border. There was no way in hell we could walk there and stay alive. We didn't have weapons or cell phone service or even know martial arts. We were at the mercy of this cab driver. There was no meter and he didn't speak much English. He had the radio tuned to a station that was American friendly.

A shitty drunk picture of Amnesia.

"This whole place feels like Pleasure Island," I said to Luke. "We are going to wake up feeling like jackasses."

Luke smiled and said, "Why do you say that?"

The cabbie dropped us off at Amnesia, where a bouncer opened the cab door for us, trying to usher us inside. Again, we wanted to wake up in the morning without stitches, so we politely declined and walked on. They wouldn't take no for an answer. A second bouncer flanked us from our right, begging us to go inside.

"We got the best girls. C'mon, they'll do anything, you'll have fun." One bouncer said. We dodged to the left and a man in white business attire ran down the steps at us, clapping his hands and saying, "Fellas, fellas, what's wrong?" Now his hands were out, flat, begging.

The only way we could get away was by jaywalking across the street, dodging into a dollar store and regrouping.

"It's going to be like this all night," Luke said. "I've heard that the cabbies have it in with the clubs and they basically demand you go inside. Do you want to go through this all night?"

"I'm having the time of my life." No going back now.

We peeked out the door and quickly headed down the street. No idea if we were heading south or north or any direction. Passed an Italian restaurant, which was a laughably bad idea. The sidewalks were wide and crowded, trash piled near the street and Mexican teenagers leaning against graffiti-coated walls taking drags on cigarettes. Occasionally, large statues of Mayan or Aztec gods blocked the street.

Every couple of feet we passed an old men peddling clove cigarettes (which are now illegal for sale in the U.S.). His eyes followed us, peering out from his trench coat. There were loads of people selling like this and it seemed like they could all offer something else.

Every storefront we trickled by had handwritten signs selling Viagra and Vicodin.

We passed dozens of clubs, the music pumping so loud it hurt my ears from the street. The city was alive in so many ways that it makes a normal American town seem dead. I half expected the streets to be filled with a parade instead of countless cop cars and cabs.

A man approached us and asked us if we wanted some prostitutes. $40. He asked us if we wanted drugs, or something called a "sucky, sucky". I kid you not, he used the term sucky sucky, not even realizing he was a parody of himself. Then, no kidding, he offered us a donkey show. Was this place for real? It seemed we were in a bad Will Ferrell comedy.

We told this old man no, but he kept pressuring us, shoving ads into our hands. So we ducked around the corner and into a karaoke bar called the Black Bull. It was small, but modern and clean. No one was singing. A few people were crowded around the bar, speaking to the bartender, who decked out in a tuxedo.

An incredibly short woman approached us, asking something in Spanish. My mind blanked. Selfishly, I must admit, I thought that everyone in this country knew or would prefer to speak in English. I thought they would attempt to accommodate us and become like us as much as possible. That makes no fucking sense and I'm embarrassed to ever have thought that. It's an idea that's nationalistic, egotistic, even a bit racist.

So I try to speak back to this woman in English.

She gives me a confused look. "Do you speak Spanish?"

Like an idiot, I admit, no. Then, there was a creeping paranoia that I would now get ripped off. I kept my wallet close and my passport closer.

"What would you like?"

We order two Dos Equis for $2 each (cheap!), played a round of pool and tried to act normal. Luke pointed over to the center of the bar. There was a lonely stripper pole.

I miserably lost both games while quickly smoking a cigarette, nervous as hell. Luke wanted to leave and didn't even want to finish his beer. So we went further down the street, avoiding the old bastards on the corner. Outside a seedy massage parlor, a man asked us if we needed a backrub. $40 and he hinted at a happy ending. No thanks. In that case, better just go for the whole package. It's the same price.

We passed club after club, each one teeming with life, each with a man at the door trying to drag us in. One of the straight forward names of these places was Peanuts and Beer. What a joke.

We reached the end of the street which was filled with closed shops. A Whataburger. A G.A.P. These gaping storefronts seemed like a parasitic intrusion into the integrity of this city. The place does have integrity. Yeah, maybe Tijuana isn't safe. In 2008, there were 843 murders in the city or 56.8 murders per 100,000 people. All these drug cartels rule the streets and there's definitely an air of chaos. But building American shops shadows over the good things about this place.

"There is nothing good about this place," Luke says. "Let's either go into a club or get the fuck out of here."

CARLOS MENCIA

We dodge into the biggest and most yellow club we can find. It has a basketball hoop on the front and sad, deflated balloons on the rails. According to Luke, two girls were leaning over the balcony and winked at us. What a fitting choice.

The music could have burned holes in even a siren's eardrums. It was this bizarre, endless remix of cacophonous American pop songs that were popular a year ago. Every song was covered by Spanish-speaking musicians mixed in with random Mexican styles and a rattling techno undertow. Everything sounded vaguely familiar, like a hyperactive muddled meth-infused memory.

The bar is built on the second story and decorated in obscure American memorabilia. One sign has Smacky the Frog, another says, Lover's Lane. There are postcards of Marilyn Monroe and cacti and many other weird, misguided American relics. Somehow, this was like being in the wrong factory in Taiwan, filled with sentiments that have nothing to do with each other each one far, far outdated.

But the bar is empty. For all the loud music and being 10 p.m. at night, no one is here. A waiter serves us drinks and we drink alone and stare over the balcony at the busy street. The girls from before reappear at the end of the balcony.

Then, Carlos Mencia appears. He's a guy with a NY baseball cap, a bottle of tequila in one hand and a whistle in the other. He blows this whistle in our ears and demands to pour the bottle down our throats. We decline, again and again, but he won't go away. I don't mind getting drunk, but barfing in the streets of a dangerous, strange country seems like a death warrant.

It was then my Spanish speaking skills start to take over. In desperation, I pick important vocabulary from my brain. Alto. Alto means stop. And if you yell it at a guy with a whistle, he'll shuffle off for a while.

Carlos goes over to the two girls and pours a drink down their throats, watching us the whole time, whistling in their ears. The girls are very Mexican, very pretty and very young.

Now Carlos Mencia comes up to us and demands that we pay for the drink we just watched him pour down the girl's open mouths. Luke negotiated angrily and made sure that we got some drinks ourselves. Without consulting me. Suddenly, my neck is tossed back and a vat of tequila is sloshing down my throat. I can't hear anything with all that whistling, I can't see anything and the world is spinning.

The tequila is greatly watered down, so I'm not worried anymore. But after I raise my hand and say alto again, Carlos Mencia picks me up on his shoulder and spins me around the bar. When I'm set down, I nearly walk into a wall. My legs are springs.

This whole charade with Carlos happens at least four more times during the night and each time, he demanded we pay him. He won't take no for an answer. As the bar got more crowded and the more I got spun, the more I, the stupid American, was laughed at by young, rich Mexicans.

Our waiter kept coming back to refill our drinks and we kept telling him, we're taken care of. Then he leaned down and asked us what we thought of the girls next to us. We were promised both for $40. Everything in this town is $40.

Some well-dressed Mexican kids came in, giving the impression that they had rich parents and were "slumming it" and started flirting with the girls. They danced, for a very long time, sometimes girl grinding on girl. The music got increasingly more annoying.

"He's paying for that, you know," Luke says. "He's paying $40 to dance with a girl."

I had to piddle, so I padded over to the urinal. A man sat at the sink, reading a newspaper and watching me piss out of the corner of his eye. He had a sign that said "Your tip is my salary" which immediately got me thinking he should get a real job. I paid him a dollar and didn't even have him wash my hands.

We drink a bit more, don't dance and try to avoid Carlos Mencia. I stare over the balcony at the street, smoking cigarette after cigarette and watching people. I watch an old white man talking to a young Mexican man for an hour. I want to know everyone's story, feeling at once connected and cut off to the whole world.

HASTY EXITS

We sneak out of the club quickly before we get tied down and force fed more watered down alcohol. This time, walking down the street we avoid the calls of shady businessmen by pretending to be bored and deaf. There were flashing strobe lights at the end of an alley. Ominous and terrifying. We're tempted to stroll down and check it out, but run into that same old man again.

He offers us the same things all over again, coke, weed, prostitutes, a sucky sucky. We ask about the donkey show. How cool would that be, to sear our corneas forever watching people fuck a fat, lethargic Eeyore? Of all the dirty, despicable experiences available in this city, this had to be the most left field.

"Just get into this cab," the old man says. And suddenly, it didn't seem like such a good idea anymore. Possibly, going to the outskirts of town to see this in the most seedy, creepy place on earth. We decided to leave this hellish place.

We get in a cab, but don't have change, so he drops us off at a currency exchange. I'm drunk as hell, going up the slot and had no idea what to ask for. The guy didn't speak English anyway. I came back with a fistful of Mexican money, not sure it was the correct amount or not. We were off.

The cab pulls up the sidewalk and a kid opens the door, his palm out. We don't tip the little bastard and scurry down the street past all the poor Mexican women selling purses and luchador masks laid out on blankets.

Then it's through one of those gate turnstiles and down a long corridor. There's no crossing over the street. There's a line. A guard takes your passport, asks if you have anything to declare and swipes the card. The end. As long as you have a piece of paper, you can enter into the glorious country of Amerika.

Tijuana was one of the best experiences of my life, for the three hours spent there. I don't think many people understand the place. It's dirty, terrifying and dangerous, but it still has value. It doesn't deserve to be wiped off the face of the earth on principle alone. I'm probably lucky to be alive, even though I didn't do anything particularly dangerous.

I had a fair share of culture shock and fear, but I wouldn't trade those feelings for anything. It made me realize how safe and boring Americans want their life to be, and the petty thoughts and judgments I have could fill a book.

Anyway, time to watch some more TV.