9. MEXICO

9.

Crossing the Mexican Border:

I backpack across the long bridge into Tijuana after an early morning rain—on the heels of two brown girls.

They merrily hop mud puddles in their modish platform-soled sandals.

The sun is bright, the earth is fresh and I am happy to be out of America.

I am up against the Spanish language, but some friendly humans direct me to the local bus depot. The ticket-man accepts American money and I’m on my way south!

The name painted on the side of my bus is “Gabo Kenedy” which seems appropriate enough for the “lift-off" of my journey. Every hour or so the bus halts at a police checkpoint. Sometimes the local people are asked to unwrap and show the contents of their parcels, but I am not asked. At this time I have long hair, am clean-shaven and am wearing jeans and a neat shirt.

About one hundred miles into Mexico a customs officer comes aboard the bus and asks to see my visa. Since the customs police were sleeping when I crossed the border I didn’t bother to get one. The officer writes out a 30-day tourist visa for me with no hassle.

Soon the bus driver moves me into a front seat beside a pretty girl. She speaks no English, but my brain starts providing data from somewhere and I find, much to my surprise, that I can make some meaningful noises.

Look ma! I’m speaking Spanish!

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