Friday, February 20, 1998
Under Tijuana’s fun exterior lies world of scary experiences
COLUMN: Mexico trip turns into nights of beer, frightening
encounters
The world in general is a pretty scary place when you’re 19
years old, five feet tall and have the face of a child. Tijuana,
Mexico? It’s hell on earth as far as I’m concerned.
For the most part, my lifetime memories of Mexico (if you can
call 10 miles south of the border "Mexico") have been rather
pleasant. Those visions of lounging on the white sand beaches of
Rosarito, binging on 50-cent tacos and sipping virgin pina coladas
invoke nostalgic fantasies while slaving away over lame biology and
astronomy textbooks.
Not until I turned 18, legal in Mexico’s terms, and had
discovered the magic of alcohol did I realize it was time to make
that leap into adulthood. Did I dare quench that rebellious nature
that I knew had been hiding inside of me?
Pack up dad’s minivan, girls. It’s the summer after high school
graduation and we have a date with booze, babes and bumpin’ beats
(Ahhh, you like that, huh?).
Little did I know of the dangers that I would have to face the
second I arrived in TJ, Baja California.
Our first mission was to find the right club to boogie at all
night long. We didn’t even consider finding a hotel room in this
"city of scum." We weren’t that brave. Since we also weren’t too
keen on the idea of sleeping in the car, we challenged ourselves to
party away every minute of our three days and two nights. No
problem right?
Well, let me tell you, I did not start this trip off as the
party type. I grew up the good little Catholic school girl, devoted
to her studies and sheltered from the evils of "those rowdy
teenagers." I definitely was not prepared for those inane rituals
that "naughty" kids find frequent enjoyment in. Right off, it was
obvious we had a long night ahead of us when one of our more
"experienced" friends ditched us (ride-less) as she and an unknown
local drove away into the night.
At the first club (for future reference, I can’t remember a
single name of any clubs or people I encountered while there), we
found had a huge sign in front that screamed "Foam Fest ’97." My
friends and I soon learned that bubbles have many uses. Some a
little too risque for this column, others we had the pleasure of
experiencing first hand. Basically it was a dance party where
bubbles, foam and suds are blown at the dance floor through
monstrous machines. Although the scene was getting a little
frightening and the club’s theme a little kinky for my tastes, I
soon adapted to my environment, jumped right in, and had a blast
dancing and drinking with suds up to my chin.
Everything was cool until people started realizing they were
getting wet. Shirts, pants and other unmentionables flew off nimble
bodies grooving to old school and deep house. Beer and water were
tossed around and soon everyone was soaking from head to toe in
some type of liquid. Just my luck, I happened to be wearing a white
blouse. I started to get nervous and finally rounded up my group to
head off to the next club.
Unfortunately there would be no more clubs that night. Not a
single cab in TJ would take us anywhere in our drenched condition.
Cold, hungry and reeking of beer, the four of us wandered aimlessly
through the dark alleys and gutter streets of downtown TJ.
Ever watch the news and find yourself getting frustrated with
those stupid kids that get themselves mixed up in bad situations?
Yup. That would be us. Four naive little girls without a clue in a
foreign country with little more than 50 bucks and a pack of gum
between us. We finally found a McDonald’s that had a walk-up window
open 24 hours. The guy inside had the right idea. He was relaxing
warmly, surrounded by food and hidden behind three inches of
bulletproof glass.
Drunk as hell, I crashed on the slimy sidewalk while my friend
attacked two British guys with questions like "Do you know where
Robert Smith lives? Who’s Robert Smith? From The Cure, damnit! You
call yourselves English?"
The next thing I remember it was night two of our adventure.
My friends and I were at a new club discovering the miracles of
two-for-one drinks and Long Island Iced Teas. Do you know what are
in those things? Every kind of liquor imaginable! It was heaven.
That is until we got kicked out for throwing spit balls and playing
with their plastic monkeys.
We hopped into another cab and told the driver we didn’t care
where we went as long as it was loud and rockin’. How the subject
came up I can’t remember, but we started talking to the driver
about how weed is a federal offense in Mexico and that they would
take you to a Guadalajara jail if you’re caught with any on you.
That freaked us out, but what was even scarier was the driver
moaning "You like marijuana? You want marijuana? I take you to
marijuana?"
I’ve seen enough "Cops" to know that this is not a cool deal. We
got out at the next corner and waited for a safer cab to come by.
It was at this moment I experienced Tijuana in all its frightening
glory. Stray dogs roamed the streets among piles of dirty diapers
and headless dolls. The shoddy houses against a background of dying
street lamps looked like remains of a bombed village in World War
II. A one-armed man, in effort to beat out the competition, was
already selling churros. He came towards us shrieking "Quieres
churros? Si!" over and over. Limping closer and closer until
…
Sorry to disappoint, but I can’t recall any more than that. It’s
a mad blur of suppressed memories. Why I let myself become involved
in the worst of after-school specials is still a mystery to me.
Let’s say peer pressure.
I did come away with some valuable cultural education however.
Although I am Mexican-American, my parents decided I did not need
to learn Spanish growing up. Not that you need much in TJ, but I
did learn some valuable words. There are the staples "cerveza" and
"tequila," and a brand new vocabulary word, "chupacabra!" (Another
very scary element of Mexico. It’s a weird cross between a bat, a
monster and a vampire. The literal translation would be "goat
sucker." It is also a very tasty drink.) Consider yourself
educated.
There it is. I am pleased to say that I lived through such a
traumatic experience and can now grace the public with my vast
knowledge on the subject. In fact, there is a moral to the story.
Tijuana, Mexico: scary shit.
Zubiate is a first-year undeclared student.