My ugly reddish-brown car was a lemon ready to let go of it's juice. I had to stop and let the engine cool down every so often. I had recently changed the thermostat, but I could not afford any major repairs. If the clunker were to lay down, I decided that I would merely abandon it and try catching a bus back, or, if need be, use my thumb as it was intended to be used. I drove across the border without even a nod from the mustachioed Mexican border agent who appeared to be yawning as he motioned me through with a flick of his wrist. So, I was now in old Mexico, the land of Santa Anna and Pancho Villa, the two famous Mexican Generals who are often vilified in some racist American schools. As I drove south and could see the rolling hills in front of me I could not help thinking of Gold Hat and his bandits who might come riding out of the hills on their ponies and surround my overheating lemon. I would roll down the window and ask them " If you are Federales let me see your badges?"
"Ha Ha pelo rojo boy in the clunker car!" Gold Hat would say. "Badges? We ain't got no badges. We don't need no badges. I don't have to show you any stinkin badges!"
I made it to Ensenada in decent time and found a parking lot near the beach that seemed to be a good place to make a base camp. I had brought along a duffel bag, and a change of clothes and my sleeping bag which I thought that I might need. I planned on sleeping on the beach, or in the car as a hotel did not fit in with my meager budget. I had also brought along a few cans of tuna fish and some bread, but I decided to find a place to eat and walked along the beach road until I found a small cafe where I sat down to a plate of "arroz con pollo" and a steaming cup of coffee which I eagerly relished and subsequently made short work of. I spent the rest of the evening walking around town, and along the beach where I took a swim in the surf. That night it was cool, and I was glad that I had my sleeping bag. I slept soundly in my car, in my parking lot at the marina. No one bothered me, not even the police, who, in the States (California at least) would rudely shine a flashlight in your face and ask you why you were sleeping in your car near the beach. when you inform them that you are tired and very sleepy they make you walk a straight line, and perform acrobatic feats that the Flying Wallendas would be proud of before telling you to move along.
In the morning I washed up at what I perceived to be a public washroom, and then attempted to find something to eat. It was Sunday, however, and everything was closed. On my way back to the car I stopped in at a church where a short, stubby old priest was giving Mass. I took a seat in the back and listened to the priest give his homily in Spanish. I understood very little, my Spanish being limited to fragments of sentences and certain words. When it was time to take the Eucharist I stood in line with the rest and received the wafer on my tongue. it was at least a little nourishment, although I confess that it would have tasted a lot better with a piece of chicken wedged between two of them. I was forced to make myself a tuna sandwich when I got back to my car.
I returned to the border and was prepared to cross as I had done the previous day. This time, however, I was crossing into the United States. You might have thought I was attempting to pass through the Berlin Wall, when I found much to my chagrin, a swarm of border agents surrounding my puttering little Mazda. They told me to get out and stand off to the side. Two of these agents began rummaging through my duffel bag and checking under the floor mats and such. One soulless looking creature stood glaring at me as if I were some monstrous disease that was attempting to infiltrate the "oh so" innocent American populace. He began interrogating me. "What were you doing in Mexico?" "Where did you go?" as if it were any of his business. I told him that I was a Marine but that had about as much effect as if I were to have told him that I was the Pope on a holiday. Finally, one of them, an insipid looking fellow with a marsupial stomach exclaimed excitedly "We've got something!" I turned to see him holding up one of my cans of tuna fish. Another of these superficial creatures appeared out of nowhere wearing surgical gloves holding a bag in which the can of tuna unceremoniously disappeared. My remaining can soon turned up and joined it's mate in the bag.
"Are you guys hungry or something" I thought of asking, but decided against it for fear of what the gestapo response might have been. Marsupial boy approached me and pointed toward my sleeping bag. "Am I going to find anything in there? The creature asked with a nasally sardonic twang. They finally told me to return to my vehicle and proceed onward. I was glad to be rid of these conservative apes who would return to their moronic soulless lives soon forgetting that such a creature as myself even existed. There was a long wait until I arrived at the border which I could see about twenty cars in front of me in the guise of what appeared to be toll booths. "Would I have to give them money to get in?" I thought with horror, and a cynic mind, believing that some money grubber had found a way to profit through border crossings. Hungry women and little barefoot children hovered around the cars begging. One of them appeared to be more pathetic than the others. She was an emaciated elderly woman. she appeared at my window like a ghost holding a small child which cradled her arms around her sun-scorched leathery neck. This poor creature was missing most of her teeth and held up a box of Chiclet Gum for me to scrutinize.
"Por favor...tengo hambre senor"
I stared at her in disbelief and horror. I would have given her my two remaining cans of tuna fish if they had still been in my possession, but instead I gave her a $5 American bank note which she accepted with many "gracias' " before ambling her way to the next vehicle in line. For some absurd reason I accepted the Chiclets gum which had now replaced the two cans of "Chicken of the Sea" as being the only edibles inside of my recently manhandled and disgruntled Mazda who was coughing her way to the border. What would be the irony if I got to the last check point and another marsupial boy would relieve me of my $5 Chiclets! But alas, this fellow, when I arrived, merely made a pretense of analyzing my I.D. before returning it to me with a suspicious glare. The Chiclets, my new passenger and companion crossed into southern California unmolested.
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