Runnin' For The Border

RUNNIN' FOR THE BORDER

Summer 2001

Rose is a Rose is a Rose
I stopped the car in front of a shabby and delapidated building in the middle of Nowhere, Arizona. A cloud of fine red dust followed the car to a halt and rolled in through the open window, covering the seats, the dashboard and me. The heat outside was intense and as soon as I stepped into the bright sunlight I cursed the fact I didn't own a cell phone. It was 9:55 a.m and I had a conference call five minutes hence. Damn and blast the new economy, its 24/7 work ethic and all the wondrous technology that made escape from the Rat Race next to impossible.
Not long ago I could have made a business trip to Nogales on the Mexican border without interruption. These occasions had been a welcome respite from the daily marathon of stress back at work in Phoenix. I welcomed the exchange of pandering to ungrateful customers, all of whom shared a solitary and deficient community brain cell, and a never ending variety of tiresome bosses for three hours of solitude in the car. Work, once I arrived was negligible. It was a lazy afternoon in a lazy border town.
For the most part the trips were still a respite, but today one must be available round the clock regardless of location. My one protestation against the New Economic Order was my refusal to purchase a cell phone. Now I was paying the price. I coughed and spat out a mouthful of dust and dialed into the conference using an old fashioned pay phone.
As usual, the call was not of any great importance; just the electronic transference of information through the medium of live telephonic speech from a distant, centralized corporate office to all field managerial service employees in remote branch locations regarding fiscal responsibility and certain changes to authorized expenditure levels. What the hell ever happened to the good old fax memo of the past? Two simple declarative sentences would have done it: "Policy change. You can't spend as much as you used to." Nah! Gotta spend money on long distance phone calls to ensure there are no cost over-runs at field locations! A company wide email would have been cheaper and easier. On second thought, everyone would have deleted it without reading. I kicked idly at a scorpion crawling around in the dust. It raised its tail to strike, but changed its mind and scuttled off instead. Me too. I hung up and decided to buy a Coke. I needed something to wash the bad taste out of my mouth.
The shabby and delapidated building appeared to be a combination General Store cum rural Steak House. It was graced by the largest set of fake steer horns I had ever seen. They stretched at least sixty feet atop the structure and still showed the vestiges of a long past whitewash. These steer horns had drawn me here. They were visible from the highway half a mile distant and somewhat less than subtly advertised the presence of a public facility of one sort or another and thus, presumably, a public payphone.
It was now ten minutes past ten. A cobwebbed red and white plastic sign hung askew in the doorway. It announced that the public was welcome to enter as of ten minutes ago. I rattled the old brass handle. The door was locked. I stepped away from the building to take another look. Maybe the place was abandoned. It was hard to tell.
Suddenly I heard the metallic snap of a lock opening. I waited. Nothing. The door didn't open. I waited a bit more. Still nothing. Hmmm. I stepped forward and tried the handle again. This time the door opened and I spied a woman shuffling off behind a counter and then disappearing into a back office of sorts. Obviously it was she who had unlocked the door. Had she heard me rattle the knob? Probably. Why hadn't she opened the door then? Old fashioned managerial service I suppose. She looked already well past the recovery stage of cost over-runs.
I'm delighted to say the shabby and delapidated exterior appearance of the building bestowed a false impression. The interior was even more shabby and delapidated. Chipped formica tables stretched as far as the eye could see, which wasn't very far. Two small grime-covered windows admitted only the barest of illumination from outside and a pervasive gloom hung throughout as a result. Wood chips lay scattered purposefully about the floor in an attempt to give the place a rustic charm - not that it needed help - and a few ancient lamps protruded at right angles from the walls. There was one over each table, presumably for romantic engagements and first dates on Saturday evenings. I wondered where the people came from. A trapped blue bottle buzzed noisily against one of the windows, vainly seeking escape. No doubt it would soon join its dead and dying brethren gathered in clumps on the sill below.
The woman emerged from her hideaway at the back of the store and bade me take a seat
"Thank you anyway. I just wanted a Coke to go. I'm in a hurry."
"What size Hon?"
"I don't know. A can I guess."
"Ya want a can?"
"Yes. A can is fine."
" 'kay, grab some pine. Be right with ya."
Grab some pine? 'Grab some Pine Sol instead', I thought, eyeing a rickety old wooden chair covered in.... geez, how thick was that dust anyway?
"Uh, Ma'am. I just wanted a Coke to go. Okay?" I had to shout. The woman had gone to ground again.
"I hear ya. Gotta find the menus."
Maybe she had heard, but obviously she wasn't listening and so I sat down in the least dusty chair available. Lovely. It was a rocker. You know. One of those annoying chairs with one leg shorter than the others. No matter how you sit, the thing tips backwards and forwards unexpectedly. I grabbed a handful of used beer coasters from a neighbouring table and wedged them under one of the legs for balance.
The woman returned with a menu, but no Coke. She stood poised with pencil on pad waiting for my order.
Okaaaay! "I'll have a Coke. Cold. One can. No glass. To go."
"That it?"
"Yes Ma'am. Thank you."
"Name's Rose."
"Eh?"
"Rose by name, not by disposition." She sort of smiled. Someone must have said that to her once.
I sort of smiled back. "Well Rose. If it isn't too much trouble, I'd like a cold can of Coke. No glass. During your absence I'll peruse the menu you have so kindly provided and make a decision on what, if anything, is edible and having made that determination consider staying and placing an order."
"Be right back, Hon. A can, right? Coke, right?"
"That will suffice."
I opened the menu and began reading. This was most definitely a Steak House. It was possible to order any of a bewildering array of cuts burned to your liking in weird and wonderful ways. Chicken fried steak, grilled sirloin, poached Porterhouse, even steak Tartar. I half expected the platitudes for this last mouth watering delight to read 'We trot your cow round the grill once and kill it.' Alas! The menu was devoid of adjectives.
My Coke arrived at last, cold, sans glass. Again Rose stood expectantly with pad and pencil. I sighed and gave in. What was the point in arguing? Against better judgement, I ordered a 'breakfastburger' - fried egg, ham and, curiously, pineapple, wedged between two pieces of rye bread. I tried to return the menu to Rose who ignored it and disappeared once again. Okey doke! I flipped the menu over and discovered a wine list. Alrighty! What have we here? What an excellent selection! None of that old musty stuff that costs a bomb in places like L'Arrogance in Manhatten or Le Chic Filet in San Francisco. Nope! Everything listed here was new, fresh and, best of all - Local! Names like La Vinaigrette and L'Infidel de Arizona leaped from the page. Had this not been a business trip, had I not been driving, I would have unscrewed a bottle at once and gargled the dust away. However, the Coke was doing just fine.
Surprisingly the first few bites of the 'burger' were quite good, although it arrived with a minimum of service and a lot of noise. Evidently Rose had some form of indentured servant manacled to a stove somewhere in the nether regions of the building. This person had a disposition decidedly less cheerful than that of Rose's. I didn't quite catch all of the shouting between the two, but I swear I heard something mentioned about mould, rye bread and having to open a new tin of pineapple slices without benefit of a can opener. About this time, the bluebottle succumbed to its inevitable fate, stopped buzzing and lay on its back on the window sill. I left the remnants of the sandwich on the plate along with $10 and vanished.

Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here
A short time later I was again speeding south toward Nogales. Although as equally modern as Phoenix and elsewhere, in many ways Nogales has not lost its old world colonial charm. The town literally straddles the Mexican border and the people on both sides of the so called 'Line' are polite in an old-fashioned sense. More often than not, on being introduced to a stranger the conversation continues well past the cursory nod and hello one expects in El Norte. Men still hold doors open for women, if only to look at their behinds as they enter first. And nothing is ever hurried; certainly there is no sense of urgency in anything anyone ever does there.
In hindsight, I suppose Rose's cafe was an indication that I was becoming further removed not only geographically, but also in a manner of lifestyle from the lunacy of Phoenix. However irritating I found Rose's lack of service, I envied her seeming inability to care about it. In many ways, this laid-back attitude manifests itself in the general population of border towns from Tijuana to Nuevo Laredo. The living embodiment of this can be found in the person of one Marvin Santos, owner of Speedy Fix, one of our better vendors in Nogales.
Marvin is one of those well travelled individuals you sometimes stumble across during life's short path. A silver-haired gentleman about sixty years of age and possessing a gammy leg, there isn't much Marvin hasn't seen or done.
He's owned and operated a bush-pilot air service in Alaska; drilled for oil in Nigeria; fished off the coast of Maine and lumberjacked in Washington state. He now owns a profitable truck and trailer repair shop and lets life run its course.
When I first met Marvin, though, I had a suspicion that he wasn't exactly truthful about his past exploits. It seemed to me that if a mundane event snuck up on Marvin from behind, he'd somehow succeed in making it blossom into an adventure of epic proportion. Thus far I had escaped any such contretemps during my visits with him and had essentially filed his nostalgic memoirs into the category of Tall Tales. Now there is nothing wrong with an exaggerated anecdote, but the sheer number of Marvin's adventures seemed almost unimaginable.
He's been unofficially and forcibly deported from Nigeria for chatting up a woman in a nightclub. The woman turned out to be the favourite of one of the ruling generals. He bought a plane in Mexico to use in his business in Alaska. As soon as it touched own, it was inspected by customs and seized as stolen property, the previous, previous owner having filed a lost property report with the FAA some time before. He had a tree fall on him while logging in Washington, hence his limp. None of this has slowed him down at all. As he says, life just deals you a hand and if it isn't a Royal Flush, you just bluff your way through.
At any rate, Marvin was in fine form today. As I pulled up he was shouting at someone in Spanish and gave them a boot in the backside as they turned to run back into the garage. "Friggin' mechanics" said Marvin peering through his bi-focals as I approached. "Who we got here now? Well, shit. If it ain't the friggin' immigrant Canuck. It ain't enough that we get 'em from the south that we get 'em from the north now too. What're you doin' here?"
"Need a break from the Rat Race, Marv. If only for a day."
"Yeah? I gave that up years ago all for the love of a doe-eyed Mexican woman. Not sure where she is now. She went out for some tortillas one day and never come back."
"I thought you said last time I was here that your wife was at home cooking tortillas. You even offered me some if I followed you over there."
"Not that one, you stupid bastard. The other one." He looked wistful suddenly. "The first one had prettier eyes."
"I thought this one had pretty eyes. That's what you said last time."
"Not as pretty as the first one, but she makes better tortillas. Speaking of which, I'm buyin' lunch."
We hopped into Marvin's Ford F150 pick-up and headed downtown. Instead of turning right into the restaurant district, Marvin went straight ahead instead. A sign flashed by: Armas y Amuniciones son Prohibidas en Mexico. "Uh, where are we going?"
"You want out of the Rat Race? We're outta the Rat Race in one minute. We're goin' to Mexico."
"Uh, yeah but I didn't bring my FN card. Without that, I can't work in Mexico."
"We ain't workin' there. We're eatin' there."
"I also didn't bring my passport. I'm a friggin' Canuck, remember? What if we get stopped coming back and U.S. Immigration wants to see my work permit?"
"Don't sweat the small stuff. See, you're all caught up in legalities and legalities are part of the Rat Race. They cause stress. You want to avoid that. Right?"
"What I want to avoid Marv, is doing the wetback thing and crawling through a sewer to get back to the U.S."
"You can't do that."
"Why not?"
"All the manhole covers this side of the Line are welded shut."
It was too late now anyway. We were past the U.S. checkpoint and lined up in thick traffic heading south. A grubby green sign blinked 'Pase' every so often, allowing vehicles to pass into Mexico without the benefit of a customs inspection. Once or twice I saw the sign blink 'Alto' in red and an unfortunate vehicle pulled over to be sniffed at by dogs and ransacked by guards.
"Shit!" Marvin exclaimed suddenly. He fumbled about frantically in his trouser pocket.
"What?"
"Can't take ammo into Mexico."
"Yeah. So?"
"So ya go to jail forever for that, man. Mexican jails ain't nice. You read in the paper about that guy from Phoenix who got caught with just one .22 shell in his trunk? Man he was in jail for three months just waitin' to get a trial date 'til his wife got enough bribe money to get him out. She was down here every week bringing him food. They don't feed ya in jail here."
"And?????" This wasn't looking good.
"There they are. Think I got 'em all." Marvin tossed several bullets out of the window. They landed 30 feet from an inattentive Mexican customs agent.
"Are you completely and utterly insane? You are a friggin' madman! What if we got the old 'Alto' light and they decided to give you the old 'Let's see the inside of your pockets if you'd be so kind' routine?"
"We'd have been up shit creek."
"Geez Marv! Don't sweat the small stuff! Just legalities right?"
"Yeah, well legalities down here are different from back there."
"You don't say!"
"Ain't nothin' to worry about. See. The sign says Pase."
"And you threw out all your bullets."
"And I threw out all my bullets. You're gettin' the hang if it. Viva Mexico. Where ya wanna go?"

Ay, Amigo! Joo My Fren!
Back to the land of welded manhole covers was my first thought. But, we had escaped the prying eyes of the Mexican customs agents and now that Marvin's pockets were devoid of ammunition, it would have been a shame to turn around without sampling some of the local cuisine. Marvin tried to make a personal note to himself to leave his bullets on the table at home when cleaning his gun in future, but the mini tape recorder he spoke into wasn't functioning. It was a gift from his wife, he explained, to help his memory along. He had forgotten to buy batteries. And how could he remember to buy batteries if his note taker was dead? I wondered if Marvin had ever been friends with Joseph Heller.
I leaned back in the seat and peered out of the window as we sped through the tourist district. The first few blocks were filled with bars, brothels, pharmacies, textile shops and nick nack emporiums, all of which were festooned with garish advertisements and lights. Marvin said that at night it looked like a New York slum draped in neon.
Never a people to under-estimate the tastes of the American public, Mexicans cater to the most popular desires of the cross-border shopper. They make it easy for Gringos to spend their money without ever having to over-extend themselves by going too far into town.
You want a velvet painting of Tom Selleck smoking a cigar? No problem. $3. Your doctor won't prescribe any more valium because you are an addict? Fear not. Stress relief is no further away than your closest Mexican Farmacia. You've always wanted a sombrero? Take your pick from literally thousands, all in different colours. You can wear it while having a polaroid taken on a street corner standing next to a real live donkey - painted black and white to resemble a zebra of course.
I have never ceased to be amazed at the worthless crap on which tourists spend their hard-earned money. Maybe the knowledge they've escaped the stress of their every day existence causes them to throw common sense to the care of the four winds. Nothing like a senseless purchase to help someone escape into a child-like dreamscape of their own making where trashy toys take precedence over the careful attitudes of scrimping and saving that allowed the vacation in the first place.
I know and understand that feeling very well. It's one of the reasons I enjoy my visits to Nogales. I like looking at the junk for sale, but I never seem to buy any. Perhaps it's in my Scots nature not to spend money frivolously. So far on my holidays I have refrained from buying nothing more than a tartan tam o'shanter with fake red hair sticking out under the brim and a plastic haggis guaranteed to delight and frighten my friends at the same time. You can't count the Loch Ness Monster on the mantle. That's real wood and metal and one day might very well be worth something.
I digress.
After a few minutes Marvin and I emerged into the commercial district where vegetable stalls, fast food stands and flower shops littered the view. People bustled about carrying shopping bags filled to bursting with their daily purchases and children ran to and fro shouting at stray dogs. Music blared from loudspeakers at every street corner while taco stands belched charcoal smoke in quantities sufficient to have alarmed even the most recalcitrant of London factory owners during the age of the Industrial Revolution. One whiff and you knew at once you were in the Third World. It's unmistakeable. It's the smell of exhaust fumes and smoke from outdoor grills and burning garbage mixed inextricably with the sweat of the toiling masses.
I think the cavalier attitudes toward pollution and the subsequent knowledge that no one cares or tries to enact legislation - or enforce it if it does exist - are the first and most visible signs of what Gringos perceive to be the lackadaiscal Mexican attitude toward life. Few people in the North realize that life for most of the Mexican population is a fight for survival. Fewer still venture past the brothels in border towns or beyond the beach at exotic resorts that are nothing more than an extension of California Dreamin' anyway. Would Mexicans rather have cleaner air and fewer stray dogs? Of course. But its cheaper to burn charcoal than propane and who gives a damn about a dog when every peso saved means your family can eat beans again today?
While we hadn't planned on stopping here, I wouldn't have minded getting out and walking around for a while and I told Marvin so. The change in atmosphere from Phoenix was refreshing, though not in a literal sense. Marvin, however, would have none of this. He pointed out that in the first place my stomach probably wasn't used to the exigencies of processing Mexican street food. This was undoubtedly true. Secondly, he had a better place in mind and, finally, he added that if I enjoyed standing still with my hands in the air while someone rifled through my pockets, we might be able to find time to stop on the way back.
I pointed out that fortunately I had never had a problem in Latin American countries and so far my encounters with Mexicans had been little more than attempts at conversation with an eye to improving my Spanish. (This usually ends up in mutual laughter and me walking into the Damas and not the Hombres, but all in a day's fun.) Those that I had spoken to enjoyed trying to improve their English in turn. In any case, I asked Marvin, wasn't the idea that crime rates were high south of the border just paranoia on the part of people unfamiliar with the territory? Many Canadians, for example, believe that crime in the U.S. is sufficiently advanced that the chances of being robbed on a daily basis are odds on. It simply isn't true. You just need to be careful.
At this point a fight broke out amongst the flower stands and several people tackled a man flailing at the crowd with a bunch of long stemmed roses. With everyone's attention now well and truly distracted, three other men grabbed armfuls of flowers and legged it.
"I think they're familiar with the territory" said Marvin. I slouched down in the seat.
We stopped at a red light and waited a moment to let cross traffic pass in front of us. Just then a ratty looking Mexican in a straw hat carrying a tray laden with blue wax candles in the shape of the Virgin rapped sharply at the passenger window of the truck. He had materialized from the ether. Certainly I hadn't seen him approach.
"Ay, amigo! Que pasa?" He smiled a toothless smile and gestured that I should roll down the window. Not on your life.
"Roll down the window, " said Marvin. "It's cool. It's just Alonso." I rolled down the window.
A rapid fire conversation in Spanish ensued and Marvin handed over a couple of dollars. Alonso accepted them gratefully with a withered hand and offered a candle in exchange. This was refused. The cross traffic stopped and we turned right down the Calle Heroica. I glanced back and heard Alonso call out "Ay, amigo! Joo my fren'!"
Marvin mumbled something about the poor and downtrodden and having known Alonso since the days of the seized airplane, but he concentrated mostly on stuffing his cash back into his trouser pocket. For some reason he was having trouble. After a little swerving into oncoming traffic, he succeeded. "Knew I had another one in there," he said holding up another bullet. "That makes six." He tossed it out the window. "Want some candles to take back to Phoenix? Gotta box of them back at the shop."

Provecho
The Casa de Antojitos turned out to be a bright, airy little restaurant with vines covering a well kept frame of white latticework around the doorway. This was a huge contrast to Rose's House of the Fake Steer Horns and Dead Flies back in Arizona. It was a huge contrast to the taco stands two blocks away.
Once inside we were greeted effusively and ushered to a linen-covered table where iced water was produced at once. By all appearances this was a professionally maintained establishment. No smoke, no stray dogs and no fights here.
Hector, the proprietor, was an old friend of Marvin's and once introductions had been made it seemed I was admitted to the inner sanctum of the social circle. "Any fren' of Marveen's is a fren' of mine. Joo wan' anyting, anytime, joo jus' ask. Hokay?"
"Hokay."
Hector bowed, rather obsequiously I thought, and disappeared into the kitchen. He was replaced at once by a nattily dressed waiter with a white jacket and black trousers. At once I named him Manuel in honour of Fawlty Towers, but this gentleman accorded us none of the immediate buffoonery that has delighted so many television viewers. He took our orders in Spanish and quietly excused himself, following Hector into the kitchen.
I had ordered Tacos de Lengua and a side of guacamole. I hadn't had beef tongue since I was a child and wondered if I would still like the taste. I remembered liking it at age five.
As a child I was subjected to culinary treats like pork brains, bone marrow and haggis. This was perfectly normal to me then, but the passing of the years and the absence of marrow spoons in my flatware collection has caused me to alter my diet in favour of burgers and fries. Tacos de Lengua would be a nostalgic trip into the past, albeit with a Latin touch, and I looked forward to it.
Manuel reappeared fifteen minutes later with our orders. Rather, he reappeared with Marvin's order. Mine appeared to be a plate of chicken, rice and beans.
Marvin complained before I did, his Spanish being more up to the task. Manuel apologized and said there was no beef tongue today. The butcher's van hadn't shown up. Why then had I not been given a choice of something else? Well, the answer was I had been given a choice of something else. I had been given a plate of chicken, rice and beans.
Hector flapped out of the kitchen like a mother hen. With Basil-like gestures he admonished Manuel, which made me feel uncomfortable, and asked me to choose from a freshly produced menu. I jabbed at the fourth item on the page without really reading what it was. Hector barked at Manuel to inform the kitchen of my new wishes and to get a move on. With a puzzled look, Manuel pointed enquiringly at the plate on the table and started to say something. Hector interrupted. Evidently he wasn't one to suffer insolence from his subordinates so, rather peremptorily, he handed Manuel the plate to dispose of. Manuel took it, shrugged and disappeared.
Hector was sorry for the confusion. It wasn't normally like this, he said. Marvin said it was. Hector said it wasn't. Marvin said it was and pointed out that the last time he had been here he had ordered Tequila Sauza. Instead he had been given Cuervo Gold. Hector countered that Marvin's taste in tequila was lacking and he had decided to supply him with a better brand of tequila. Marvin said he hadn't wanted a better brand of tequila, he wanted what he had ordered. Hector called Marvin a Philistine and Marvin replied that it took one to know one. Around this time Manuel showed up with another plate of chicken, rice and beans.
Item number four on the menu was chicken, rice and beans. Hector glared at Manuel who slunk away into the kitchen. Marvin and I didn't stop laughing for five minutes.

Breadcrumbs
After lunch Marvin suggested we take a look at some of the new maquiladoras being built around town. Maquilas, as they are commonly called, are modern day sweatshops where every conceivable type of consumerable item is made by thousands of workers paid a third-world wage. Most of the maquilas are owned by brand name companies known the world over. Interestingly enough, while these companies love to assault your senses with unceasing advertisements in print and on the idiot box, they don't seem too keen on identifying themselves on the outside of their factories. Some are identifiable only if you recognize the corporate logo, as the company name is usually omitted from the building. As one example, if you didn't recognize the logo of a popular lock company, well you'd be none the Weiser.
In their defence, the maquilas are modern structures and are built to American standards - not that that often means much - and they are clean and safe. The companies do provide a living for thousands that would otherwise engage in fisticuffs over the marigolds downtown, but the average wage is about $8.00 a day. Not enough to stop the wholesale fence-climbing, sewer-crawling, tunnel-building decathlon that continues around the clock all along the border. Nevertheless, my work does a booming business with the maquilas as they rely heavily on transport to truck their goods north and I could justify to myself the laziness of the afternoon by taking a peek at the newcomers to the slave trade.
We climbed up a steep hill on the outskirts of town, the gravel road spitting dust and rocks under the tires of the truck until we looked out over a wide valley. To the right could be seen the border highway leading north to the U.S. and south to Hermosillo and points beyond. To the right and in the center of the valley there was nothing but construction activity. Dozens of cranes dotted the landscape like so many erecto-sets and workers swarmed in never-ending lines like ants in search of a picnic.
We gazed upon the scene for a few minutes until the novelty wore off and Marvin put the truck into reverse. Instead of returning the way we came, he headed further down the gravel road. Marvin jabbed the windshield with his index finger. "We can get out that way. We'll take a spin up the highway. There's a cool looking prison you should see on the way back."
A prison? Why on earth would I wish to see a Mexican prison, even from the outside? I peered anxiously about the floor for discarded ammunition. I didn't see any and fought the temptation to look behind the seat for a forgotten hunting rifle or hand grenade.
I've never understood the American constitutional right to bear arms in defence of the nation. A hundred years ago, the possession of rifles and six-shooters by the general population may have deterred the intentions of a hostile nation whose armies were similarly equipped, but the modern day equivalent of the intent of the constitutional right to bear arms would necessitate private ownership of flame-throwing tanks and pocket thermonukes. It might be alright if the U.S. were to be invaded by Andaman Islanders or the Central African Republic, but I doubt Russia or China would be much deterred by gun-totin' rednecks like Charleton Heston. No. You'd need cheaply made and easily obtainable weapons of mass destruction for that.
As we headed toward the highway in the distance I noticed that the gravel road became narrower and somewhat rougher. Marvin didn't seem to notice and kept up a steady pace. We rounded a corner and were nearly hit by a gravel truck coming in the opposite direction. Now the road ran out. We had entered a gravel pit.
"Let's try this way" said Marvin spinning the truck around as though it were a go-cart on ice. "I kinda forget the way outta here."
That was an understatement. For the next half an hour we investigated every goat path and rabbit warren within the means of Marvin's truck and driving abilities. The highway seemed no closer than it had been when we started.
"Hey, Marv. Why don't we just follow the trail of breadcrumbs back to Grandma's house?"
"No no. S'okay. There's a way out here somewhere." Marvin didn't want to admit defeat. Well, he did know the territory after all. "There. There's the way out." He pointed toward a barren dirt clump flanked by two gorse bushes.
"Uh, I don't think so, man. That looks like tow truck territory to me."
"That's the problem with you city slickers. You buy all these SUV 4 x 4's and you never take 'em off road. Hell, a two wheel pick up's just as good. Watch this."
I watched.
"So now what? You want to jack the truck up and me push it off high center or vice-versa."
"Now how the Sam hell did that happen? Geez I haven't done that in years. I remember in Alaska once we were out in damn cold weather you know and the truck got stuck in a drift just outside town and stalled. Boy, I'll tell you. It was cold. It wasn't that far into town, but the snow was coming down awful thick. I wondered if I should try my luck and walk or start burning tires..."
"Uh, yeah Marv. Sorry to interrupt, but... Take a look over there."
On the far side of the starboard gorse bush, about 200 yards away, a large crowd of Mexicans had gathered. They were peering at us closely like the residents of the quarry did upon coming across the hated Nazi doctor in The Evil That Men Do. All were wearing bandanas over their faces. Like the Charles Bronson movie, some were even carrying picks; the rest shovels. We were going to be robbed and then hacked to death.
"Shall I walk for help while you start burning tires or vice-versa?"
"Oh..." For once Marvin was speechless.
"Buenas tardes, senores" said the chief bandit. "Yo veo que estas estancado."
"Yes, we're estancado alright" I replied. I had rolled down the window. Apart from the bandana covering his face, for all intents and purposes he might have been Alonso. Its cool. "Can you give us a pusho or are you going to deprive us of our goods and possessions without our consent? I understand there's a fine prison nearby. We were on our way to take a look at it. Have you escaped? If you get us un-estancado, we would be happy to give you all a ride back for free."
"Que?"
I motioned with my hands for a push.
"Oh si, si. No problema." He motioned at his fellow escapees. "Vengan y empujen los gringos!"
Everyone pushed the gringos and we were suddenly un-estancado. Once free of the dirt clump we shot forward and saw a gravel truck at the bottom of a hill not far away. It seemed we had been assisted by workers filling the truck with shovels. Some picked the gravel, the rest shoveled. The bandanas were to keep the dust out of their mouths.
Marvin took a high speed run at the clump on the way back up the hill so we wouldn't get stuck again, but was stopped mid-way by the chief bandit.
"Now he wants money" said Marvin.
The bandit and his merry men then picked and shoveled the clump out of the way and waved us on.
I bade Marvin stop at the top of the hill and got I out. I offered the bandit $20, but he refused it. "No. Ees okay. We help. Joo stuck. We help. No problem."
I pressed the $20 into his hand and told him to buy some beer for the crowd. "Gracias senor. Muy amable. Buenas tardes."
And we drove off following the trail of breadcrumbs back to Grandma's house.

Runnin' For The Border
On the way back Marvin remained relatively quiet. From time to time he'd point at various things of interest, but his heart wasn't really in it. It was evident he was keen to return stateside. I think the bandits had shaken him somewhat.
I spent the fifteen drive back to the border thinking about the day's events. It was certainly a change from pandering to customers back in Phoenix and I had enjoyed myself, despite the moments of anxiety.
I was glad to be going back though. I had headed for the border to escape the stress and tedium of my daily grind and was pleased that I had done so. However, I suppose the grass is always greener on the other side of the barbed wire and border patrols and I was happy not to have to work in a maquila or fill up a gravel truck with a shovel. No way could I exist selling tacos and flowers amid the noise and confusion of the downtown crowd and I don't know the first thing about running a brothel. Rose's cafe now seemed less a blight on the landscape than it had been a few hours earlier. I'm sure with some linen table cloths and a waiter named Manuel it would have been a tolerable place to eat. I still wasn't fond of the 24/7 work ethic, but there were others who had it much worse than me and sometimes I forgot that. It was good to be reminded occasionally.
About 500 feet from the border, Marvin got a flat tire. He stopped and got out to take a look. Just then the Federales pulled up behind us, lights flashing. Marvin didn't hesitate. He walked back to the truck casually and casually got in. As the cop approached Marvin gunned the engine and we fled to the waiting and welcoming arms of Uncle Sam.
"Citizenships?"
"American"
"Canadian"
"I noticed you were running from the Federales. Why?"
"Flat tire" said Marvin ambiguously.
"Anything to declare?" A dope dog sniffed the truck and sat down to lick a paw.
"Nope."
"Welcome back. Now g'awn. Git."