Crossing Over (A Snapshot of the Mexico/US Border Crossing)
Before Mexico’s drug war broke out, when law enforcement and politicians were still turning a blind eye to the powerful drug cartels, and daylight shootouts with automatic weapons and hand grenades weren’t everyday occurrences, my wife and I would fly out of Tijuana to visit her family in Guadalajara. We would drive two and a half hours south from Los Angeles, cross into Mexico in Otay Mesa, and five minutes later we’d be parking our car at General Abelardo L. Rodríguez International Airport.
Anyone who has ever driven into Mexico knows just how hassle-free it is. Traffic moves swiftly through the Mexican version of a checkpoint: a fat yellow stoplight with two large incandescent bulbs. Red for alto, green for pase, or ‘welcome to our country’. Federal officers lean lazily on cars and trucks with POLICIA written in bold white letters across their hoods. They hold automatic weapons pointed towards the ground and watch cars go by as if they were fans entering a high school football game, not travelers crossing an international border.
The ease of going southbound could not be more starkly opposed to the frustrations one encounters when coming back home. The average wait time for a driver crossing from Mexico to the US is somewhere between 1 hour and eternity. In Otay Mesa, near the airport, cars are funneled onto Boulevard Avenue Norte, a six lane stretch of road that leads straight to the United States.
Being a frequent traveler to Mexico I’ve often waited in this line. I remember one time in particular, my wife and I were coming back from a weekend trip in May. The heat was suffocating. On the Avenue Norte the collective mass of metal, rubber, and binational sweat inched forward at the pace of an infant’s crawl. The exhaust from the hundreds of cars made the air thick, and it left a chemical taste in the back of my throat. With my windows down I could hear various car radios. Competing melodies from Mexican Ranchera music and American Indy Rock blended together into an indistinguishable distant clamor. An endless parade of vendors roamed between the creeping cars selling snacks, drinks, and last minute souvenirs for returning tourists. A short, stocky man passed in front of me pushing a cart loaded with chips and Mexican candy. His bright blue Dodgers baseball cap wasn’t enough to shield him from the sun. His naturally brown face was burnt a dark maroon.
As I drove, I tried to keep my eyes forward as not to project interest in the blankets, toys, food, wooden furniture, last supper paintings, luchador masks, and Sponge Bob piggy banks being offered to me. An old woman with a wrinkled face approached my car. Her head was covered with a purple scarf. Wisps of white hair fell around her temples. She was carrying a crying child in one hand and an empty McDonalds soft drink cup in the other. “Por favor, Señor” she pleaded. She walked alongside my car until I gave her a dollar.
As I neared the actual border the vendors gave way to armed immigration officials. Excited German Shepherds tugged at their leashes and sniffed the cars as they passed. Thin concrete pylons guided the cars into a dozen single file lines that led up to the revision stations. To my left a skinny boy wearing a ratty white t-shirt, short shorts, and no shoes climbed onto one of the pylons and stood atop it on one foot. As he balanced, another child threw him five yellow balls. The young performer effortlessly juggled the balls while looking towards the sky with bored eyes. When we finally crossed into the United states the roads seemed too big, and everything too clean.
Since things became so dangerous in northern Mexico we’ve been flying out of LAX when we go to visit. Despite the long waits, the pestering vendors, and the intimidating border patrol agents, somehow I miss this crazy place.
