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THE MIDNIGHT SKULKER 21

Tijuana, Mexico  

March 1, 1974

12:28 p.m.  Pacific Standard Time

As suggested by Jason, Mitchell parked the Buick in a chain link enclosed, patrolled parking lot on the American side of the border.

After fumbling around the dashboard for a minute, finding the button to raise the top, they double checked to be sure each had their wallets with their driver’s licenses. Then, locking the car, they began to walk.

The, approximate, twenty foot high, half block long bridge crossing from America into Mexico passed above a wide, dry gully. Situated within the gully, for as far as the eye could see in either direction were…

Standing, looking, it took a few seconds to fully comprehend, “My God, Mitchie, are those what I think they are?” 

Other tourists crossing the bridge for the first time stopped also to stare unbelievably at what they saw approximately twenty feet below.

For as far as the tourists could see was a cardboard city. As far as they could see in either direction of the miles long dry-weed gully were cardboard houses… Houses made of, primarily, cardboard toilet paper boxes. Also there were the people: men, women, children, all scurrying about giving the impression, to those looking from the bridge above, that this was a far-flung, poverty stricken civilization, or a tableau of an unknown culture as might viewed from behind a glass wall at a museum or cultural center; certainly not a civilization that existed no more than one hundred yards from the border of the United States of America.

A man standing next to Mitchell asked, “Could people actually live down there, in those boxes?”

For the first time in his life being witness to unimaginable poverty, shaking his head negatively, Mitchell had no answer for the man.

For Marsha the sight and thought that living breathing human beings actually lived like this was…? surreal. “Mitchie, come on, this is really depressing.”

Turning from the oppressive sight, three things immediately came to sight and mind: First and foremost in the minds of Marsha and Mitchell, which, considering their first impression of Mexico, was a ludicrous sign stretching from one side of the extremely wide boulevard to the other that read: “Welcome To Mexico!” 

The second was the fact that cars entering Mexico from the U.S. were whisked through by the Mexican immigration officers whereas cars entering the U.S.  sat waiting seven or eight abreast to pass through Mexico into the U.S..

Also, possibly due to a large extent the use of ‘diesel fuel’ as opposed to gasoline, the air in Tijuana smelled different and felt heavier.

“Marcie,” walking beyond the sight of the gully and those living… surviving there, “we just bought a house for one hundred, ten thousand dollars and those poor people are living in toilet-paper boxes.”

“Yes, strange, isn’t it? We just came from a place that, quite possibly, was one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been, to here… to here, where it’s quite possibly the ugliest place I’ve ever been, all within… what? Forty-five minutes.”

Crossing the international border from the U.S. into Mexico, U.S. 5 becomes MEX 1D and is no longer a freeway but a wide boulevard that, following Jason’s directions, walking three blocks brought Mitchell and Marsha to 'Via Ote' which could very definitely be considered a ‘tourist trap’, but it was a Mexican ‘tourist trap’ with shops of all sizes and descriptions, with Mexican merchandise of all sizes and descriptions on both sides of 'Via Ote', where ‘arguing a price down’ was not only expected but a way of life for the local shopkeepers and assistants, and they loved the ‘Gringos’ and the ‘Gringo’s’ dollars so most often allowed them to feel they ‘got the best’ of a Mexican shopkeeper or assistant in ‘arguing a price down’.  

Walking now, peering into Mexican clothing and pottery and jewelry shops and entering a few where they immediately encountered people speaking in broken English attempting to interest them in the wears of the shop.

Thoughts of the ‘cardboard city’ and the people living there placed on the back burner of their minds because, after all, they were now in a foreign country and the ‘cardboard city’ had, obviously, been there for years, maybe decades and, after all…

“There’s nothing we can do about it.” Mitchell told Marsha.

“Yes,” she replied, “so we may as well enjoy ourselves.”

Smaller streets, actually little more than wide alleys, came off of 'Via Ote' that teemed with greasy  smelling, unappetizing appearing restaurants and small shops along either side of the narrow streets, and pushcarts loaded with ‘touristy’ type merchandise with younger and older men and women attending the pushcarts attempting to catch the attention of the ‘Gringos’ passing by and, above all, the incomprehensible babble of the Spanish and English speaking voices .

The ‘hustle’ and the fervor of this place bringing a faint memory to mind, “Hey, Mister,” an old Mexican woman called in barely understandable English, “you want to buy…” remembering… remembering….   

©October 16, 2011 / Mark M. Lichterman