Just gotta get through a bit of traffic, then you’re home. Photo: Shutterstock
Traveling north after a month-long surf trip in Baja, I had the standard gear for a solo surf traveler: an old diesel truck with a 1970s Six-Pac camper and my trusty mixed-breed dog, Pudge, as a copilot. The checkpoints were many and took more time than the November sun had in the sky. The soldiers seemed to always profile me as a dope smuggling surfer. They were polite but took a little extra time with me and sometimes asked a direct, “You a surfer? You smoke mota?” Maybe I did, but I surely was not burnt at the time and definitely did not have any mota.
As I wearily approached the border, the traffic got hectic and was backing up sooner than usual. Before I knew it, the main route had yellow tape across it and police were diverting traffic. In one instant, the tranquility of the Vizcaino and lingering stoke from a month of empty, peeling beach breaks were gone. Memories of bad situations near the border hit me like a skeg to the bunghole. The thought of a Tijuana detour triggered my armpits to start pouring sweat as I unconsciously applied a death grip to the wheel. There were way too many cars trying to merge onto an already crowded highway that led somewhere other than home. My stress over the growing snafu got my co-pilot panting heavily. I franticly tried my best to get across three lanes of hasty Tijuanans but I could not, so I made the snap decision to abort the detour and started looking for alternatives; just then I saw a sign for Tecate. Great, I thought, my buddy Homer crosses there. I’ll give that a try. “OK Pudge, we’re cool,” I said to my co-pilot as I lit a Black&Mild cigar.
Hola, Pudge.
I took a deep drag. Fuck, that was gnarly, I thought. Then came the siren; it was a motorcycle cop, CHIP’s Mexico. I tried to let him go by, but then I realized he was after me. I tried to pull over a few times but couldn’t find a safe spot. I finally saw an exit that brought me off the highway, and several blocks later I was able to pull over. I was greeted with, “What, you can’t fucking drive? Pinche gringo.” The cop was pissed.
I was nervous, but could hardly contain myself when I saw this cop appear beside my window. It appeared to be Ponch’s chubby cousin wearing a helmet three sizes too small. He started into me right away. Apparently my brake lights were not working (horseshit). I tried to be respectful and use my best Spanish. The usual questions came. “De donde viene?” He asked.
“Punta Abreojos, senor.”
“Donde va?” he questioned impatiently.
“San Diego.”
“Why you going this way?” He switched to English. I tried to explain in Spanish but he didn’t seem to believe me. “Why you speaking Spanish?” he asked. A strange question I thought.
“Somos en Mexico, no?” I replied. He backed off. My answer was good enough.
We finally got around to the ticket. He wanted $20 from me. I asked to pay at the station where I hoped to call his bluff and prove that my tail lights did work. “OK,” he said. “But the station is in downtown Tijuana, and it will take some time, and then you will be there in the dark.” He held the upper hand but I had a $50 bill in my shirt pocket just for this sort of occasion. I held it out the window for all the passersby to see. “Do you have change for a fifty?” I asked. It was funny to see his squished face get nervous. He quickly pushed my hand out of view.
“Cabron,” he scolded. I paused for a moment and considered my options. It was about half an hour before dark, and I was lost on a backstreet in Tijuana.
“OK, OK,” I said as I slipped him the fifty. “The rest is a tip for you.”
The cop was elated; probably his best shakedown yet. Before he turned to leave, I had an idea. I asked him for a favor since I had given him a little extra, hoping my mediocre Spanish made sense enough. “Si! No problemo, amigo. Follow me.” he exclaimed. To my utter surprise he turned on his sirens and led the way. We went along some backstreets, through some red lights, then on a highway, off an exit and back on another highway. The whole time he was vigilant in keeping me right behind him as if we were friends going to a party together. He brought me right to the border crossing, but we were still on the other side of three lanes going in the opposite direction. The cop enthusiastically pulled his bike across the middle of the road, got off, stopped traffic and waved me across. The impatiently waiting Americans were agape as I drove over the median and cut in front of them. “Adios amigo! Come back to Mexico soon! Bien viaje!” the cheerful cop shouted with sincerity. We waved goodbye as friends do.
Five minutes later I found myself back in the USA, sitting in secondary. Pudge and I looked at each other and thought, wow, that turned out pretty good! I lit another Black&Mild while the ill-mannered US border agents tore apart my camper. They were undoubtedly looking for mota.
