I'm on a Mexican, woah-oh, Radio!
Written: May 16 '01 (Updated May 16 '01)
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Pros: When you get away from the horrible Americans and their disgusting behavior, it is Mexico
Cons: Frat boys, bimbos, jarheads, and other American excrement polluting the town.
The Bottom Line: It is pronounced Tee-hwana, NOT Tee-a-wanna
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| Fez_Monkey's Full Review: Tijuana |
It was 7:30 in the morning and we were already running late. If we wanted to crack the border by 10 we would need to take our motion up to 11, pronto.
It was all Duende's idea. One night while munching on a tostada from Tito's Tacos in Culver City, he suddenly reached way up his rectum and pulled out a truly wild hair. He just felt that Tijuana would be appropriate, and that we were due for a trip.
Now, I personally look at Tijuana in two ways. In the first and most obvious it is little more than a cesspool built for (and largely by) stupid, obnoxious, and xenophobic Americans to give them an excuse to behave like vile as*holes and belittle non-Americans in a safe setting. Make no mistake, the sleazy and despicable side of Tijuana that reminds people of a backed-up toilet filled with rancid diarrhea is the inevitable result of letting the innate hedonism and bad taste of Americans run wild.
However, there is also another side to Tijuana. This is the side trying to remain within the shadows of the ugly monstrosity built exclusively for the jarheads of Pendleton, the frat boys and vapid bimbos of SDSU, and the idiot local rats from the greater San Diego area. This side is the real Tijuana. A small town trapped in a revolting Las Vegas lounge act gone horrible wrong. A place where families live, have jobs, raise their children, and don't try to peddle Horse Sh*t Cigarettes or swindle tourists out of $3 for a pirated Bart Simpson tee-shirt. A place with refined cafes, culture, class, and dignity … something sorely lacking in areas frequented by the gringos who keep crawling out of the sewer to run wild.
But if you think I am going to let any of you know where this Tijuana is, you have a screw loose.
But I digress. Duende felt the hot wind on his shoulder, and he dialed it in from south of the border*. He wanted to go to Tijuana, and one way or the other, Eggs and I would be heading there with him. We finally fixed on a Saturday that would be safe for Duende. See, his significant other is a bit controlling, and she wouldn't want him heading to a place as rife with sin and indulgence as Tijuana without her. Luckily, she was heading away for a weekend, so we decided we'd slip out the back door while she was gone. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her, right? Anyway, our plan was to cross the border by about 10am and stay there till at least midnight. We figured the first half of the day could be spent wandering about the older part of town, away from the putrid gringos, before finally joining our countrymen for an evening of debauchery, and not a little drinking.
Unfortunately, as seems to be our custom, we were running late before we even began. Duende had agreed to drive, as his car was the biggest and most plush. After slamming two cups of coffee and chowing down a huge bowl of Captain Crunch, I gathered together everything I would need for the trip: A wallet empty of all but my drivers license, $200 in cash, a business card of an attorney in Tijuana whom I met on one of my earlier trips to the Baja (another story), and a pre-paid phone card that still had about 73 minutes on it.
It was 8:15 by the time we were on the San Diego Freeway (that's Interstate 405 for you non-SoCals out there) and if there was no traffic, we could make the border by 10:30. But there is never no traffic in LA. By the time we reached the Howard Hughes off-ramp the cars started to back up. "Have you noticed the build-up in traffic?" asked Eggs. As the one in the suicide seat it was my duty to smack the side of his ripe melon to get him to keep quiet, so I did. The slowdown lasted to just past the Imperial Highway off-ramp, and we were able to cruise along in the Diamond lane for a good while.
The entire trip to the border ended up taking about 31/2 hours, what with traffic, Eggs' insistence on getting some orange juice at a 7-11, and my needing to make a desperate pit stop outside of Irvine (damn that coffee!). Still, we entered Mexico by about 11:45, and had the afternoon ahead of us.
The gauntlet of panhandlers and trinket & curio tables that inhabits the area near the border is impressive, if not revolting. Nothing of actual value is sold there, although the ignorant always think they are ripping the locals off blind: "Hey, hon, didja see how I conned that Mexican good? I got me this here bullwhip for only $25! No wonder these people are so poor." Yeah, laugh it up, Bob. That cool bullwhip was made from the scraps of leather that would otherwise be turned into those things that hang off zippers, and the whole thing probably cost the vendor about $3.50.
As we strode past endless tables and booths selling cheap, gaudy, and useless trinkets we also passed scores of genetic practical jokes you could otherwise only see in a Freak show travelling through Mississippi, or maybe Calcutta. Squatting along the road were people with no legs, with only one arm, with three eyes, with several large and malformed humps on their backs, with no thumbs, with only half a face, with an extra nose growing out of the side of their heads, and worse. These people were hard to look at, but even harder to watch than this parade of human mistakes was the way the throngs of gringo's dealt with them. One red-faced lady whose ample thighs had obviously not seen the light of day in many years actually had the stones to give a quarter to wretched geek with only three fingers on his only hand, then bend down to have her picture taken with him.
We eventually reached Avenida Revolución, and proceeded to visit the secret spots for some lunch, and for some relaxation. We ate incredible food, sipped fantastic beers and cocktails, enjoyed premium coffee. The time slipped by with a disturbing speed, and before we knew it, it was nearly 6pm. Although we were enjoying our visit to Tijuana thus far, we knew that this was not the reason Duende wanted to come here. As we hailed a cab to take us back into the open sore of the Tijuana frequented by Americans, Eggs gave me a nervous look, which I know I returned.
With Duende in the lead we eventually ended up in a typical gringo bar. There was a lot of noise, crowds of frat boys, bimbos, tourists and jarheads (every one of them already dangerously drunk and sunburned). We managed to get a small table near a group of five plump college girls who were having the time of their lives. One of them was having simulated sex with a Mexican waiter, while the other hooted her on. A brooding marine private was trying to chat one of the girls up, while at another table nearby a middle-aged fellow was getting an upside-down margarita from a busty waitress.
(side note: For those of you not in the know, an upside-down margarita has been a Tijuana classic for more than 20 years. It consists of one very stupid American and one or more very sadistic Mexicans. The way it works is that the waiter will grab the head from behind and pull it back as far as it will tilt, often leaning the chair back in the process. Then another waiter will pour tequila and margarita mix into the stupid American's mouth. The original waiter will then clamp a musty towel down over the stupid American's mouth, and then violently shake their head to mix the alcohol and mixer. At this point the stupid American is supposed to swallow the liquid in their mouth, and continue having a great time. What normally happens is that the stupid American either gags or vomits into the towel, and the waiter will let go, resulting in the stupid American falling to the ground. Oh what fun!)
We stayed here for a little while, sipping $5 Pacificos, until Duende decided it was time to finally do whatever it was he wanted to do here. We hopped into a cab, and Duende told the driver where to go. The driver laughed, and we sped off.
Where we ended up was a very seedy and out-of-the-way building with only a small neon sign above the door and a rather large, muscular doorman. We paid the driver and Duende walked up to the doorman, did a bit of talking, and soon we were being ushered in. Duende had found a local strip club.
The importance of the fact that this was a local club is huge. The strip clubs that Americans find, even when they tip their cabbies really well, are all safe places filled with a lot of white people and dancers who are both attractive and protected from the crowd. They are no different than the sort of places that you would find in San Francisco, LA, New York, or Las Vegas, other than there is a much higher percentage of Latina dancers. The club we were now in was nothing like that. There was no neon, no multicolored spotlights, no waitresses, no shiny chrome poles, and no other white people. This was a square room, with four small "stages" and a bar along the side of one wall. There were about 12 other men in the room, and they all looked at us when we entered. I gulped loudly, Eggs began to twitch uncontrollably and Duende smiled a big, long smile.
We found a table and Duende went to the bar. I looked around the room, partially to see what we had gotten ourselves into, and partially because I wanted to be sure I knew where the exits were. There were several completely naked women dancing -- if you call randomly moving about dancing -- at various tables. There was also at least one naked woman kneeling in front of one man performing fellatio on him. Duende eventually returned with a bottle of unlabeled tequila and three shot glasses. He poured, we drank, and all of a sudden a naked woman walked up to us and began to dance. She was around 40, and looked every year of it. Her face held a long history, complete with violence, loss, crushed dreams, abuse, and extended wear. Most of the other patrons had gone back to looking at the women, but some were still eyeing us. I was beginning to feel nervous, but Duende was enjoying himself to the fullest. Eggs, however, was not doing well. He had clamped his hands over his ears, and had placed his head between his knees, as if preparing for an emergency landing.
Out of nowhere a thin and sinister local, who looked like nothing else as much as he did a pimp, sidled up next to Eggs and started talking to him. At first Eggs didn't even seem to acknowledge his presence, when all of a sudden everything went wrong.
In a matter of seconds the pimp reached into his back pocket and brought out a knife, while in one fluid motion Eggs reached out with his right hand, swept it across the table, grabbed an ashtray, and cracked the pimp on the side of the head, sending him sprawling. The "dancer" showed an animal instinct and ducked under our table, while the bartender reached below the bar for a bat. But things remained calm, as a couple of bouncers came by and picked up the pimp. Evidently, he had been causing minor problems all night, and the owner was looking to be rid of him anyway. This was an incredibly lucky break for us as the alternatives would have been either a night in a Tijuana jail with 30 or so very unsavory types, or being stomped like grapes by the locals in the bar, until our kidneys were beaten to jelly. However, as it turned out, the remainder of our drinks were on the house, and only the "attractive" women danced for us for the rest of the night. As we left I asked Duende why he wanted to go to that particular bar. He shrugged and said that he heard that was where they had a Donkey show.
It was almost 11pm by the time we reached the border. All we had to do now was pass American customs, then head home. If we were driving I would have recommended going through the checkpoint at Otai Mesa, rather than San Ysidro, as Otai is usually a breeze. However, as we had walked, we had to go through San Ysidro. We found ourselves in a slowly moving line, too tired from the events of the day to really talk. I noticed that the guy in front of us looked a bit nervous. Closer inspection showed that he was obviously a Mexican who was trying to get into the US by moving right under the noses of the border patrol. This was a smart idea, as, for the most part, border patrol agents are a pack of gung-ho yayhoos with little more than tapioca and catchy slogans in their heads. The chance of this guy getting caught was going to be solely dependant on whether he screwed the pooch or not. It was finally his turn at bat. The customs agent looked him up and down and asked him "What is your country of residence?" The guy brightened and stood straight and tall. He knew he had made it. I felt great for that guy -- he beat the system by playing at it's own rules. The guy cleared his throat and in a clear voice proudly said "San Clemente!" I shook my head, the agent snapped into reality and guided the poor guy over to a small room in which an unpleasant looking man was sitting. The poor guy obviously didn't know he made a mistake, as he had a totally confused look on his face. When the agent got back and asked me the same question I replied "Well, I guess San Clemente isn't the right answer, so I'll say the U.S." As I was waved through, I heard the agent mutter "wiseass" under his breath.
I slept on the ride home.
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*taken from "Mexican Radio" by Wall of Voodoo
Recommended:
No
Best Suited For: Friends
Best Time to Travel Here: Anytime
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Fez_Monkey
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Member: Fez Monkey
Location: Somewhere west of Ellay, near a beach
Reviews written: 110
Trusted by: 138 members
About Me:
Me? I'm just a lawnmower, you can tell me by the way I walk.
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