Mexicali, Mexico
As I start writing, it's 11 p.m. in Mexicali, which means it's just past midnight in La Jolla, where I woke up this morning at 7 a.m. When I look back at the last 17 hours, I get extremely tired. Here's my attempt to capture some of what happened today.
At 7, I woke up at my friend Megg's house in La Jolla, California. I showered, we ate breakfast, and we headed to the bus stop. I took a bus to Old Town San Diego, then a trolley from San Diego to the border at San Ysidro. I then proceeded to walk across the border.
Walking across a border feels vastly different from flying over one or even driving across one. Walking across the U.S. border into Mexico is literally walking through a turnstile under a big sign that says Mexico. No one looked at my passport, let alone stamped it. No one cared enough to look inside my duffel bag. I saw a total of two customs officers at the busiest border crossing in the world.
Walking through that turnstile took me to Tijuana, a city which I understand to be a gringo's playground and not anywhere I wanted to spend an extended period of time. I wanted to take a taxi as quickly as possible to a bus station, and be on my way to Mexicali, where my Couchsurfing host, Claudia, was waiting for me. I paid 150 pesos, probably too much, for a cab to the bus station, but the cab driver took me to a spot where I could only see one bus company's station. He probably had some sort of deal worked out with the company, but in the end, it didn't matter much to me. I bought my ticket for Mexicali for another 150 pesos, the equivalent of about $11 U.S. It was unclear exactly what time the bus was leaving; the printed ticket said the bus left at 11:30, but the ticket salesman had crossed that out and written 12:20. To further the confusion, he told me that it was leaving at 12:30. No matter what, I had plenty of time to grab some food.
I circled a two-block area once before choosing a small restaurant with an open front, three tables and no customers. I was drawn to it by the sign, which said in Spanish, "Come and meet us." I couldn't not come and meet them. After I ordered my torta with steak and an orange juice, I talked with the two owners, who seemed to be in their late 40s or early 50s, and their son, who was probably in his mid-20s. They had started the restaurant only three months ago, they said, although this was their second business; they also owned a pharmacy in another part of town. I asked whether it was hard to start a business, since I had grown used to Moldovans telling me how impossible it was to get a loan. The husband said it was very simple for them; they just needed to find a good location, pay a little for some permits, and then buy some used furniture to make the place look nice. They hadn't even needed a loan. We continued to talk about the economies in Mexico and the U.S., and then I headed back to the bus station, since it was noon and my bus would be leaving soon.
Scratch that. I thought it would be leaving soon. At 12:20, there were still three or four men using a grinder to fix something in the cargo area of the bus. At 12:30, more passengers started to show up. At 12:40, they started checking bags, and I boarded the bus. I had already drifted in and out of sleep before the bus finally left the station at 1:20. Finally, we were on our way to Mexicali.
Scratch that. The bus traveled only a few miles before stopping at another of the company's bus stations, and more passengers loaded in. I napped a little more, and at 2:40, the bus finally left Tijuana and was on its way.
The bus right was uneventful, except for the massive, beautiful, and highly dangerous mountains. There were several areas where the posted speed limit was 30 km/h, and I saw one spot on the road where there was still charred evidence of two cars having run off the cliff.
Arriving in Mexicali, I got off the bus, but didn't really know where I was. I had Claudia's phone number, but no idea how to dial it or how to get credit for a phone. As I started to make my way from the bus station to a store where I thought I could buy a phone card, a man selling chocolates called out to me in English, asking if I needed a taxi. I responded in Spanish, saying that I needed to call a friend. His teeth were yellowed, and some of them were missing, and he only had one good hand, but he continued speaking to me in excellent English.
"If you need to make a call, you can use my cell phone," he said. I thanked him and used his phone to call Claudia. I spoke with her mother, who told me she knew where I would be and that Claudia was on her way to pick me up.
Once off the phone, I thanked the man and said in Spanish, "Everyone here knows a little bit of English."
"Well, I used to live up there," he said. It suddenly occurred to me that there were a lot of people with similar stories in the area. It turns out that Juan, as he introduced himself to me, had lived in San Fernando for 25 years, working mostly construction jobs. He had been deported fairly recently, and when I was quick to blame the government for kicking out people who had worked so long in the country, he said, "No, I can't blame the government. It was my own fault; I was drinking and driving, and I knew I shouldn't do it." He continued, "A lot of people here blame the government for being sent back, but we do it to ourselves."
Juan then told me that now he works selling chocolate in the store across the street. "That's pretty different from construction," I said. "Yeah," he said, "but there's no construction here. There's nothing." He ran across the street for a few moments to sell some chocolate, and while he was gone, another man walked by and said cheerfully in English, "My name's Eddie. I've got two sons over there in Los Angeles, but I can't go there."
Juan came back a few minutes later, just as Claudia and her brother, José, came in his car. Since I've been writing for more than 45 minutes and it's nearly midnight, I'll save the details of my first evening in Mexico for another day. I will say, though, that my Spanish is much better than my Romanian was on my first day of Peace Corps service. I'm making grammatical mistakes with verb tenses and my vocabulary needs massive improvement, but even this first day leaves me very optimistic about what level my Spanish will be in in just a few months.
At 7, I woke up at my friend Megg's house in La Jolla, California. I showered, we ate breakfast, and we headed to the bus stop. I took a bus to Old Town San Diego, then a trolley from San Diego to the border at San Ysidro. I then proceeded to walk across the border.
Walking across a border feels vastly different from flying over one or even driving across one. Walking across the U.S. border into Mexico is literally walking through a turnstile under a big sign that says Mexico. No one looked at my passport, let alone stamped it. No one cared enough to look inside my duffel bag. I saw a total of two customs officers at the busiest border crossing in the world.
Walking through that turnstile took me to Tijuana, a city which I understand to be a gringo's playground and not anywhere I wanted to spend an extended period of time. I wanted to take a taxi as quickly as possible to a bus station, and be on my way to Mexicali, where my Couchsurfing host, Claudia, was waiting for me. I paid 150 pesos, probably too much, for a cab to the bus station, but the cab driver took me to a spot where I could only see one bus company's station. He probably had some sort of deal worked out with the company, but in the end, it didn't matter much to me. I bought my ticket for Mexicali for another 150 pesos, the equivalent of about $11 U.S. It was unclear exactly what time the bus was leaving; the printed ticket said the bus left at 11:30, but the ticket salesman had crossed that out and written 12:20. To further the confusion, he told me that it was leaving at 12:30. No matter what, I had plenty of time to grab some food.
I circled a two-block area once before choosing a small restaurant with an open front, three tables and no customers. I was drawn to it by the sign, which said in Spanish, "Come and meet us." I couldn't not come and meet them. After I ordered my torta with steak and an orange juice, I talked with the two owners, who seemed to be in their late 40s or early 50s, and their son, who was probably in his mid-20s. They had started the restaurant only three months ago, they said, although this was their second business; they also owned a pharmacy in another part of town. I asked whether it was hard to start a business, since I had grown used to Moldovans telling me how impossible it was to get a loan. The husband said it was very simple for them; they just needed to find a good location, pay a little for some permits, and then buy some used furniture to make the place look nice. They hadn't even needed a loan. We continued to talk about the economies in Mexico and the U.S., and then I headed back to the bus station, since it was noon and my bus would be leaving soon.
Scratch that. I thought it would be leaving soon. At 12:20, there were still three or four men using a grinder to fix something in the cargo area of the bus. At 12:30, more passengers started to show up. At 12:40, they started checking bags, and I boarded the bus. I had already drifted in and out of sleep before the bus finally left the station at 1:20. Finally, we were on our way to Mexicali.
Scratch that. The bus traveled only a few miles before stopping at another of the company's bus stations, and more passengers loaded in. I napped a little more, and at 2:40, the bus finally left Tijuana and was on its way.
The bus right was uneventful, except for the massive, beautiful, and highly dangerous mountains. There were several areas where the posted speed limit was 30 km/h, and I saw one spot on the road where there was still charred evidence of two cars having run off the cliff.
Arriving in Mexicali, I got off the bus, but didn't really know where I was. I had Claudia's phone number, but no idea how to dial it or how to get credit for a phone. As I started to make my way from the bus station to a store where I thought I could buy a phone card, a man selling chocolates called out to me in English, asking if I needed a taxi. I responded in Spanish, saying that I needed to call a friend. His teeth were yellowed, and some of them were missing, and he only had one good hand, but he continued speaking to me in excellent English.
"If you need to make a call, you can use my cell phone," he said. I thanked him and used his phone to call Claudia. I spoke with her mother, who told me she knew where I would be and that Claudia was on her way to pick me up.
Once off the phone, I thanked the man and said in Spanish, "Everyone here knows a little bit of English."
"Well, I used to live up there," he said. It suddenly occurred to me that there were a lot of people with similar stories in the area. It turns out that Juan, as he introduced himself to me, had lived in San Fernando for 25 years, working mostly construction jobs. He had been deported fairly recently, and when I was quick to blame the government for kicking out people who had worked so long in the country, he said, "No, I can't blame the government. It was my own fault; I was drinking and driving, and I knew I shouldn't do it." He continued, "A lot of people here blame the government for being sent back, but we do it to ourselves."
Juan then told me that now he works selling chocolate in the store across the street. "That's pretty different from construction," I said. "Yeah," he said, "but there's no construction here. There's nothing." He ran across the street for a few moments to sell some chocolate, and while he was gone, another man walked by and said cheerfully in English, "My name's Eddie. I've got two sons over there in Los Angeles, but I can't go there."
Juan came back a few minutes later, just as Claudia and her brother, José, came in his car. Since I've been writing for more than 45 minutes and it's nearly midnight, I'll save the details of my first evening in Mexico for another day. I will say, though, that my Spanish is much better than my Romanian was on my first day of Peace Corps service. I'm making grammatical mistakes with verb tenses and my vocabulary needs massive improvement, but even this first day leaves me very optimistic about what level my Spanish will be in in just a few months.
posted by Peter Myers at
12:03 AM
2 Comments:
Who knew you had such a gift of gab?
By
Echo, At
March 19, 2009 6:26 AM
I'm glad you're finding the language barrier easier than expected. It was the same for me during my month in Bolivia. You should try to make it there if you can. The city of Santa Cruz, Bolivia is beautiful. They have a wonderful town square that is great for meeting interesting people.
By
Taylor, At
March 19, 2009 8:44 AM
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