NAFTA JAM
By the time I got to Mexico City.....it had turned into New York City. The first thing I did was call Miguel- an ex-student of El Prof. He was gracious and invited me along with his girlfriend and a friend of their's to see a Korean movie. Like Mel Chin in Houston a Korean movie in Mexico City seemed appropriate. They all spoke english and I was warmly welcomed. They were all young, urbane and smart as whips. The movie sucked. Their friend (Ray Pettibone's girlfriend) chattered nonstop in a charming speedfreak way and by the time I got back to the hotel I was about to have a nervous breakdown. Gringo viejo es loco?
Mexican roads run from the superhighway to the speed bump infested cow path in the blink of an eye. I looked at the map and saw what lay ahead down into El Salvador and how far I would have to drive back and El Norte was looking better and better. Maybe it was the ice cubes in my whiskey or my poquito cojones but I flinched and the car headed for Guadalajara.
Another spanish lesson- Libre- free. Cuota? It took me a while before I figured out this one. Cuota means toll. And Mexicans take this word very seriously. The tolls can run as much as $10 for a 50 mile run. Your other choice is to go free over the mountain behind that donkey cart and 18 wheeler with the driver about to fall asleep. $150 pesos? OK (pron. "O ca".
Heading north on the west coast you get to experience NAFTA in action. Thousands of trucks line up in the left hand lane of a two lane road waiting to be inspected. Two opposing thoughts run through my head. I hope the Mexican government is checking every truck thoroughly to protect America from terror and why don't they let everyone through so I don't die of old age here in Hermosilla? The line of trucks was 5 miles long. If one had stalled I'd still be there.
On I went towards Nogales. I had tunnel vison at this point. I hid my last spleeve cleverly and pulled into the US frontier before a stern old Immigration officer. I explained that all I had was a jug of Tequilla in the trunk as he franticly ran my plate number and asked questions. He frowned. Then he stuck my passport under my windshield wiper and directed me to four smiling border patrol agents. Note: You don't want to see your passport under your wiper or La Migra's smiles. They politely asked me to get out of the car. Then the fun (for them) began.
Those conflicting thoughts started up again. I'm glad these guys are doing their job and please don't find anything that will land me in jail. The mirrors went under the chasis. Everything came out of the trunk. Rubber gloved hands went through my dirty laundry. I asked if I could video them. The female officer wagged her finger disapprovingly at me. The lead guy was a jokester concerning my tattoos and guitar and holy water. They kept passing a little slip of paper between them that the first guy had stuck in my passport. I asked what it said? Finger wag again. I waited and sweated on a metal table. They really thought they were gonna find something but finally gave up in disgust. Then the passport was returned and they bade me farewell. Phew! Let those NAFTA trucks roll through.
Mexican roads run from the superhighway to the speed bump infested cow path in the blink of an eye. I looked at the map and saw what lay ahead down into El Salvador and how far I would have to drive back and El Norte was looking better and better. Maybe it was the ice cubes in my whiskey or my poquito cojones but I flinched and the car headed for Guadalajara.
Another spanish lesson- Libre- free. Cuota? It took me a while before I figured out this one. Cuota means toll. And Mexicans take this word very seriously. The tolls can run as much as $10 for a 50 mile run. Your other choice is to go free over the mountain behind that donkey cart and 18 wheeler with the driver about to fall asleep. $150 pesos? OK (pron. "O ca".
Heading north on the west coast you get to experience NAFTA in action. Thousands of trucks line up in the left hand lane of a two lane road waiting to be inspected. Two opposing thoughts run through my head. I hope the Mexican government is checking every truck thoroughly to protect America from terror and why don't they let everyone through so I don't die of old age here in Hermosilla? The line of trucks was 5 miles long. If one had stalled I'd still be there.
On I went towards Nogales. I had tunnel vison at this point. I hid my last spleeve cleverly and pulled into the US frontier before a stern old Immigration officer. I explained that all I had was a jug of Tequilla in the trunk as he franticly ran my plate number and asked questions. He frowned. Then he stuck my passport under my windshield wiper and directed me to four smiling border patrol agents. Note: You don't want to see your passport under your wiper or La Migra's smiles. They politely asked me to get out of the car. Then the fun (for them) began.
Those conflicting thoughts started up again. I'm glad these guys are doing their job and please don't find anything that will land me in jail. The mirrors went under the chasis. Everything came out of the trunk. Rubber gloved hands went through my dirty laundry. I asked if I could video them. The female officer wagged her finger disapprovingly at me. The lead guy was a jokester concerning my tattoos and guitar and holy water. They kept passing a little slip of paper between them that the first guy had stuck in my passport. I asked what it said? Finger wag again. I waited and sweated on a metal table. They really thought they were gonna find something but finally gave up in disgust. Then the passport was returned and they bade me farewell. Phew! Let those NAFTA trucks roll through.
posted by mike osterhout at 10:03 AM
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