BOW #20: Mexico

Tijuana, Mexico

March 1, 1974

12:48 p.m. Pacific Standard Time

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

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

The approximate thirty foot high, half block long bridge passing from ‘America’ into ‘Mexico’ crossed above a wide, dry gully giving Marsha and Mitchell their first impression of Mexico.

Situated within the gully, for as far as the eye could see in either direction were…

Standing, looking….

Seeing it took a few seconds to fully comprehend what they were seeing.

“My God, Mitchie, are those what I think they are?”

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

For as far as the tourists could see in either direction there was a tent scattered, primarily cardboard city.

As far as they could see in either direction of the miles long dry-weed gully were primarily cardboard houses…

Houses made of primarily large cardboard toilet paper boxes nailed or stapled onto a wooden frame, of sorts, with either a canvas tarpaulin roof covering or — somehow supported, by 4X8 rusted corrugated steel sheets.

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 as 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 alongside asked, “Could people actually live down there, in those boxes?”

Shrugging his shoulders. “I Have no Idea.” Mitchell answered .

Where do they get water…” Marsha asked “...or go to the toilet?”

For the first time in his life being witness to unimaginable poverty. Shaking his head negatively, Mitchell had no answer for either the stranger or his wife.

For Marsha the sight and thought that living breathing human beings actually lived like this was…?

‘Surreal’.

Shaking her head as though to clear it from this scene from a ‘third world’ improvised nation movie…

Not in the neighboring country to her country.

Not just a mere half mile from my country.

“Mitchie, come on, this is ‘really’ depressing.”

Though standing staring into the Tijuana gully for no more than sixty seconds. “Yeah, baby.” Blinking his eyes in an effort to clear the panoramic view of the unbelievably squalid scene he sees a mere thirty feet distant.

Turning from the oppressive sight—still thirty feet above ground level, three things immediately came to sight and mind…

First and foremost in the minds of Marsha and Mitchell — which considering their ‘horrific’ first impression of Mexico, were two easily noticed ludicrous signs stretching from one side of the extremely wide boulevard to the other that read:

‘Welcome To Mexico’

‘Welcome To Tijuana’

“They’re being factitious, right?”

Tightening the hold on her husband’s hand, Marsha did not reply.

Walking down the slightly downward angled sidewalk, below, to the left there was a long, one story white stuccoed structure— seen with painted traffic markings, were three southbound ‘ingress’ ports and seven northbound ‘egress’ ports each containing a kiosk.

The third impression was that there was a staggered, one lane dribble of cars entering Mexico that were being whisked through one of the three southbound inspection ports by a hand waving Mexican Border Officer, or possibly just a local police officer.

Whereas…

A solid stream of side to side cars crawled at a snails pace within all seven north bound lanes snaking their way to the U.S. border control kiosks where a Border Patrol Officer would inspect drivers licenses, passports or any officially issued identification.

Hustling between these lanes of slowly crawling traffic were dozens of men, women and children, all wearing sombreros dressed in like loose fitting skirts, pants and shirts carrying trays of souvenir trinkets and larger merchandise — such as straw sombreros that they attempted to sell to those temporarily entrapped in the traffic bound cars.

Marsha and Mitchell’s fourth impression — possibly due to a large extent by the use of ‘diesel fuel’ as opposed to gasoline, the air in Tijuana smelled oil tinged and felt heavier.

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

“Strange, isn’t it?” Marsha said sadly. “We just came Catalina Island, a place that possibly is one of the most beautiful places I can remember ever being to … 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— all open to the narrow 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 how they ‘loved’ the ‘Gringos’ and the ‘Gringo’s’ dollars that most often allowed the Gringos to feel they ‘got the best’ of a Mexican shopkeeper or assistant in ‘arguing a price down’.

But ‘really’ rarely did.

Walking…

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 with 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.

Holding a beautiful, floral print blouse forward. “Hey, Mister...” an old Mexican woman called in barely understandable English “...you want to buy the pretty lady...”

Remembering…

Chicago, Illinois

Remembering….

December, 1949

‘Maxwell Street’: Reminiscent of New York City’s lower east side and European and mid-eastern bazaars.

On any weekend, weather permitting, throngs of people from throughout the city would flock to Maxwell Street looking for a bargain, a deal, a ‘steal’.

Anything of dubious, doubtful quality, new or used, could be bought on Maxwell Street. Hubcaps for any automobile, tires of any size, car radios and home radios; shoes, boots, socks and underwear for men, women and children; watches and jewelry made of ‘gold’ and real gold; bookends, lamps, carpets, rugs—‘Persian’ and ‘Oriental’, and real Persian and Oriental.

One might buy a record by anyone from Bing Crosby to Enrico Caruso… And when you got home and heard that that Bing’s voice had a click throughout, what the hell were you going to do? Travel all the way back to Maxwell Street to get your ten cents back?

There was luggage, gloves, hats and all type of clothing, new and used… and etceteras and etceteras of all kinds and by any description, in any of the multitude of languages spoken up and down Maxwell Street…

Junk! Lots and lots of junk.

Peddlers sold from pushcarts that lined both sides of the narrow, cluttered street. But also, some of the more ambitious and/or affluent had been able to work their way off the curbs, into one or two of the small stores that were found on either side of the street, giving that person a full, seven-day-a-week business, rather than just a weekend business when the street was closed to cars and open to pedestrians and pushcarts only.

An old record of Dick Powell singing, “I’m a rambling wreck from Georgia Tech and a hell of an engineer,” wafted over the cold, windblown street.

A bit of flying grit stinging his eye, rubbing it with the knuckle of one hand as...“Hey! Men’s clothing here!” ...clasped in the other hand was a pair of blue gabardine trousers that the boy waved above his head as if a proudly held flag.

“Hey! Men’s clothing here!” The fourteen year old boy yelled. “Top quality! Get your new and used top quality clothes at ‘Sollies’!”

Trying to be heard above the tumultuous din of the jam-packed, constantly-flowing street, the boy’s voice would meld with those of a thousand other voices and become lost a few paces beyond the pushcart that sat on the curb opposite ‘Joey Solomon’s’ father’s store.

The inscription, hand painted in heavy, black lettering on the plate glass window read…

‘’Solomon & Sons’ and beneath, in smaller words: ‘New & Used’.

If someone stopped to look at the jumble of second-hand slacks in the pushcart, or hesitated on his or her way past the pushcart, taking hold of his or her elbow, the boy had but one objective: to steer the man or woman through the ‘SOLOMON & SONS’ doorway that was adjacent the five-foot-wide sidewalk.

“Hey, Mister! Need a new suit?” Not waiting for an answer, “Have I got a deal for you! Look…” cupping his mouth with his hand, the boy whispered, conspiratorially, directly into the man’s hairy ear “...we’re overloaded with new suits. They came in a couple’a days ago from… well, I can’t say where they’re from, Mister. You know how it is, but I wan’a tell you they came in from: uh, someplace real good!” Giving the impression that, maybe, just maybe, the suits may be ‘hot’ and don’t you know everybody wants to buy good quality ‘hot’ merchandise at ‘hot’ merchandise prices.

“Look, Mister, I can’t say where we get our stuff.” Again speaking in a conspiratorial tone. “You know how it is, but…” glancing over his shoulder to be sure no one was listening “...I can tell you that if you bought one’a these suits at ‘Carson’s’ or ‘Field’s’ it’d cost you forty-five, fifty bucks.”

The man attempted to pull away.

“But here…” tightening his hold on the man’s elbow “... at Sollies...” cocking his head over his shoulder “..they’re only…” whispering the words “...twenty-five, thirty bucks!”

Moving back a step— still holding his elbow, taking the man with him. “An’ I swear to you Mister, you ain’t never seen such ho… uh, great suits. You don’t think I’d lie to you, do you, Mister?”

The man looked at the sincere sounding, good-looking boy and ‘obviously’ a newcomer to Maxwell Street. “No...” he said, shaking his head negatively “...I guess not.”

“No! Darn-tooten I wouldn’t lie to you! Come on!” Backing up another step… “Wait’ll you see ’em!”... pulling the man closer to the door, bumping it open with his shoulder. “Don’t be bashful! Come on! I promise, you’ll love ’em!”

With the man in tow, the two stepped over the threshold, into the overly warm, musty smelling store.

“Joey!” the boy called. “I got a gentleman here that wants to see one’a them new suits!”

“Thanks, Mitchie.”

Coming from behind a pipe rack bowed with the weight of fifty suits. “Mister...” fifteen year old Joey Solomon, the youngest of the ‘& sons’ said “...have I ever got a deal for you!”

Replacing Mitchell’s hand with his own. Appraising the man with his ‘already’ well-practiced eye. “What are you, a ‘thirty-eight regular’?” Joey asked, steering the man to another weight-bowed pipe rack.

Going back to his place outside.

“Hey! Sollies here!” The boy yelled, waving the two-legged flag.

“New and used top quality men’s clothing here! Get your best deal at Sollies!...”

“...Hey, Mister! Yeah, ‘you’! Hey, have I ever got a deal for you!”

San Diego, California

March 1, 1974

1:31 p.m. Pacific Standard Time

“Getting hungry, Marcie?”

“Yeah, I’m starving…” looking forward to ‘real’ Mexican food “...let’s find someplace to eat.”

“Okay…” looking at the unpronounceable name of the street they were on that was painted on the cornroring building wall “...but we’ve got to watch the streets so we can find our way back.”

“What’s the name of street we came in on?”

“Uh...” looking at the name he’d scrawled on the back of Jason’s route sheet “...we came in on, uh, ‘Empleados Federales’ and we turned right on ‘Via Ote’.”

Remembering Jason’s admonition: “When you get into Mexico do not… I repeat ‘do not’ drink the water. If you get thirsty, buy a ‘Coke’. If you do eat lunch there, do not, I repeat, ‘do not go native’! Eat at one of the larger restaurants that’ll have the word, ‘American’, somewhere on their signs.”

Afraid to get twisted around. Deciding to stay on ‘Via Ote’., Looking for a restaurant with the word ‘American’ someplace on a sign or the window.

Remaining on ‘Via Ote’. Passing streets with the names of: ‘Via Oriente’; ‘Via Poniente’ and ‘Avenida Miguel Negrete’,

“Jeeze, Marcie, these streets sound so, uh, foreign .”

Giggling. “Maybe that’s because we are in a foreign country.”

Midway across the next street...

Holding Marsha’s elbow, steering her across the street. “There’s one!”

On the corner was ‘The Alamo’ and beneath the neon sign was the word ‘American’.

Crossing the street. “ ‘The Alamo’ seems like a pretty weird name for a restaurant in Mexico.”

“Yeah...” Marsha said “...maybe it’s to make Americans feel at home.”

“Or to remind Mexicans that Texas used to be theirs.”

Pushing the screen door open. “That doesn’t sound like such a great idea to me.”

Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky entered ‘The Alamo’.

 Next BOW #21: Chili Con Carne