Personal Security Assistance
03:00 GMT-8. I was coming over the border with Ned and Tom.
We walked from the cab we had picked up outside the festivities in Downtown Tijuana.
I had been noticing strange occurrences from the start.
Around 11:30 PM I had injured my leg jumping over a fence to get in to Mexico, it really hurt. I had a three-inch long lump on my shin. As a result I had a few extra Hornitos Green label shots, because of the pain and because they were so damn cheap. I chased them down with Tecate' because it's the best-canned beer in the world.
With every shot I'd get a smile from the girls at the table next to ours. I turned around and another woman gave me the peace sign. Yes, I am a white boy American.
After a half an hour of this I needed to use the facilities. So I walked back to where they should be. The door didn't say Damas, it said something else so I thought I was OK. Once I started using the plumbing I realized I was in the wrong room. I decided to hurry as best I could when two women walked in. I was afraid they would create a fuss so I finished up and sheepishly walked by them. They either didn't notice me or didn't care.
It was then when I walked back into the room that I realized none of the women were civilians. They were all professionals.
When I got back to the table I suggested we move on to the next bar. Every bar was the same. A Dance floor, patrons dancing with professionals and the occasional stripper.
At about 2:30 after watching the circus outside and not being brave enough to buy the food cooking in the carts, we called it quits and hailed a cab.
We paid the cab driver and started the long walk over the border.
Finally we crossed through the last turnstiles to show the border guard our documents.
Ned showed his Irish passport, Tom showed his driver's license and they were both allowed to pass.
When I showed him my California drivers' license, he asked me where I was from. "California"
He looked me straight in the eye, with an angry look and asked; "Well, if your from California, why do you have an English accent?"
"I don't have an English accent."
"Oh you don't do you?" He quipped. One of the other guards stepped forward.
"That just proves he can drive, it doesn't prove he's a citizen."
The first guard leaned forward, inches from my face, "Once again, why do you have an English accent?"
One of the two long hairs behind me leaned forward. "Hey! Don't mess with them. Can we go through?" He let them through.
I got the feeling the guard was not a California native. Which is a pet peeve of mine. People who aren't from California acting like they are and I'm in their state and I'm the foreigner.
"Look, are you from California?" Asking this, I didn't realize that I had no rights.
"GO INTO THAT ROOM AND SIT DOWN!" His finger pointed me through a turnstile and a bulletproof door.
I sat down in a bench chair and waited. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a six foot five inch tall mustached man in a uniform walking toward me. As he crossed in front of me I noticed that he wore latex gloves. He turned and looked at me. He spoke through a large shit-eating grin. "How's it going?"
"Fine, fine." Please go away, and never come back. He kept walking.
After about fifteen minutes the first guard came in to question me. He asked where I was born, where I went to kindergarten and every school after that and what city they were in. He then proceeded to ask me about local politician names. Finally after fifteen minutes of this he asked, "Have you had a lot to drink?"
This question broke me, I spread out my arms and looked right into him, "What's a lot?"
"GET OUT OF HERE!" he ushered me through the doors and turnstiles.
Outside my friends were laughing at me with two other border guards. Tom was bouncing up and down, "Hey, have a good time in there buddy? Woo woo!"
Luckily Ned had the thirty-five dollars for the cab back to San Diego.