Las Cruces, NM
Today the Lord looked out for me for the umpteenth time during this madcap adventure. He’s a hell of a guy, the Lord. This time it was a simple matter of thirty cents that saved my ass. For a man who rarely has any change and never has quarters it was a miracle I found thirty-five cents in my pocket. Just enough to escape Mexico.
I’ve been travelling near the border ever since I got back from the East. In Del Rio I drove over to the bridge to look over towards Mexico. For several miles on the road I could see the line. I held off. When I got to El Paso I’d cross over to Juarez. Hell, you could walk there. There was even a tourist trolley that hit the major sites. Where’s the downside?
That I found out when I looked up information on the trolley in El Paso. A Marine Reservist killed while getting his truck fixed. Two Americans shot and badly wounded while partying in a cantina. An eleven year old boy killed by an AK-47 round when his family tried to run a highwayman/pirate roadblock outside of town. Juarez is, at this moment, something like as safe as Baghdad. Somewhat on the order of four people a day are killed there this year. Loverly.
So what’s an adventurous man like myself to do? The hell with it. I’m going anyway. I just won’t stay long.
So I paid my thirty-five cents and walked into Mexico across the concrete ditch containing the Rio Grande along with all the Mexicans returning home with their morning shopping. Once in, I looked around, realized I didn’t have any pesos to buy a beer or lunch and decided, “Well, I’ve been here. Time to go back.”
But of course, you can’t just get back on the same bridge and go back the way you came. The kind soldados with the automatic weapons tried to point that out to me in spanish as I lamely pointed and asked, “Estados Unidos?” No sirree-bob. Not that way. I gathered there was another bridge about a block over which a kind street vendor explained in good english. Gracias, my good man, gracias. Of course, when you get there it’s another thirty cents to get back out again. Hence the miracle. And when you get back Los Estados Unidos you have to produce a passport which nobody at any point in the adventure had advised you needed. Nor had the Mexican side showed any indication of caring whether or not you were in their country. No customs. No border control. I guess nobody is stupid enough to want to come to Mexico voluntarily.
In the end everything was cool because I’d done my homework. And I can officially mark down that I’ve been in four foreign countries on this journey. And the next time I’ll have money ahead of time so I can get a beer and prove I’ve been there. But for now – Christ, it’s good to be home.