Wrestling

Last Saturday night we crossed the U.S.-Mexico border at Tijuana on our way south to Rosarito. Since we had nothing to declare on the way in to Mexico, we breezed right on through, barely slowing down at all. It was dark, so we couldn’t see much beyond the lights of the city before us. What told us most clearly that we were now in another country was the rough pavement under our tires. Our return trip north yesterday, however, was more revealing . . . in a number of ways.

Tijuana has been much in the news lately, mostly for reasons the Tourist Bureau wishes would go away: infighting among drug dealers and gangs, primarily. While we didn’t see any of that first-hand, we did observe police checkpoints on the highway, automatic rifles very much in evidence. Word is that tourism in northern Baja is down as much as 70%, and while the governors on both sides of the border ascribe that in part to the long waits to cross the border, it surely must be due also to worries over the sagging economy and crime.

A sidenote: we observed dozens of gated, high-end resort communities and condo towers all along the 60-mile coastline from the border down to Ensenada, some completed but most in various stages of construction. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that whereas little more than a year ago the real estate market was booming here, most of that has come to a screeching halt.

What I could see clearly yesterday was a place where there is little money to spare for infrastructure improvements or upkeep. All week we noted how free of litter the towns and roadways were, but aside from layers of graffiti on exposed surfaces, most structures haven’t seen paint in a very long while. As we descended a long, steep hill on the road parallelling the border, we could look down on the high gray wall of the “fence” and the ramshackle homes on this side of it.

Soon we slowed to a crawl; and over the next hour and 45 minutes it took us to travel the final mile or so to the border itself, we observed close up how some of Tijuana’s citizens earn all or at least a portion of their daily bread. At first there were just a few peddlers passing between the rows of cars, offering serapes and blankets, three-foot-tall crucifixes and pottery turtles and frogs. The closer we got to the crossing, the more elaborate and denser became the carts and offerings. If one so desired (and we did not!), one could purchase freshly-squeezed fruit or vegetable juices, churros, burritos, tacos and all manner of snacks and candy. Closest to the guard stations were permanent stands presenting more paintings; wind chimes; Lucha Libre wrestling masks; clay pots, pigs, donkeys and replicas of Incan/Mayan (??) masks; t-shirts and knit caps; San Diego Chargers memorabilia and who-knows-what-all else!

What I kept pondering was how much effort and time these people must expend to sell this stuff that certainly most people passing through here do not need and would not consider buying. It is surely a hard-scrabble existence, so much in contrast with that of those of us returning in our nice cars from our pleasant holiday week in a beautiful resort.

At last we pulled up to the checkpoint where our passports were checked by a very courteous guard, we answered the few questions about what we were transporting back into the United States, and we were then waved on our way with a wish for a good new year. Immediately, the pavement became smooth, roadside landscaping was once more lush and neatly tended, and the homes and buildings presented well-kept facades. The differences were stark, and while I was thankful to be back in my lovely, prosperous country, I know I will not soon forget how life is lived by those just on the other side of that line.

Patty Vanikiotis, proofreader