Wednesday, November 12, 2003
Border Crossing-Land of Free to Ciudad Juarez
The easiest way for me to describe what the customs inspection building is to draw up images of The Road Warrior. As dusk falls, the dust swirls around and the paved road turns to gravel and shale. Beaming headlights trail across the horizon. Slowly an off white building appears with heavily armed sentries roaming around with curious eyes. The lack of clear signage has me circling around looking for some semblance of what might be an organized office, but instead I find myself in a chaotic parking lot of sorts. Cars are parked willy-nilly with either hoods up and bodies hanging out or people sleeping inside with heads in hand.
I swing my bike around to what appears to be an entrance and attempt the always precarious center standing of bike. BAM! Over she goes. I am trapped for a minute under neither the bike and pinned against a car. A very surprised/scared man jumps to attention from the sleeping position inside the car and quickly realizes he is unable to open his door as I am sandwiched up against it…smiling nervously. Rubbing his eyes he slides out the passenger side door and starts to help lift the bike. People start to come from all over grabbing anything they think will afford enough leverage to right the beast. 1…2…3…ArRRgh!! SNAP! I hear something metal crack and cling-clang around the bike’s lower mechanism and disappear in the dust forever…Screw it, I will find out later, I am sure of it.
Walking up to the door I see a Canadian couple come out. They are visibly angry and not talking to each other. Walking a couple paces apart I split the difference and ask how it went. She drops her head and crosses eyes and he starts waving papers around demanding I understand…”4 hours…4 God damn hours in there!”
It is pitch black now in the Mexican desert. Even if I can expedite the process to just a couple of hours using my limited knowledge of Spanish I will still be stuck in the wasteland with no light to guide my way to a bed for the night.
From the wasteland outside I enter into a familiar sight…an American DMV at around lunch time. People are yelling throw little holes in the walls at some despondent clerk. Tall desks support standing people as they fill in the boxes on any one of the myriad of forms they have piled next to them. A line here, another there, another and yet another. Lines to get to lines!
I guess the biggest difference between the Mexican Customs office and our DMV are the children. There are screaming kids everywhere. I get it! The men outside sleeping in the cars and fiddling under the hoods are the designated drivers while their wives are send in to deal with the lines and paperwork. Indeed a higher degree of patience and understanding is required to deal with Mexican bearocracy. As can be expected, the children are sent in as well so that dad can relax. The old adage, lines and kids don’t mix is an international understanding…but here they are, yelling and rubbing Doritos cheese in eyes and demanding things, etc.
I manage to make quick with the first couple of lines as I throw cash at one and avoid another all together as I thought to make the necessary photocopies in triplicate of all my documents back in El Paso.
Asking random people, ‘what now’ I find myself in the mother of Mexican lines. 6 rows of folding chairs 30 chairs long are tied together with twine by their legs. There is a ticket counter, but apparently that technology was never implemented as people just move from one chair to the next as the line moves along. I find this a less than effective method to process the crowd of people, but it is what it is and I am where I am. I try to swell my spirits with a false sense of patience and amusement with the whole thing but it is hard. I am hungry, tired and a little nervous that I will be turned away when it is my turn at the window (singular…1 window) because I don’t have the original title to my bike. I begin practicing my excuses in Spanish so that I can at least get my plea heard before being sent away.
I am so tired from 4 days of hard riding and haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, I wonder if I will freak out and start screaming at people if I get rejected. Have got to stay positive, no matter what. If I offend someone they might refer me to another line just to trip me up for another 2 hours.
“Hello, I am Paloma, I love motorcycles too.”
A young beauty tells me that she is the designated waiting person for her family and that she will put a good word in for me when she gets to the window. Seeing that I am thumbing through my Lonely Planet guide, she starts telling me about secret waterfalls and canyons in the Chihuahua region.
I love her voice, it settles me. She is a sweet girl with an odd manner- whenever she starts a sentence she is speaking in a normal tone, but by the last word she is sort of whispering, drawing me in closer to her mouth. I could easily spend the next couple of hours listening to her say the word “Chihuahua.” Try it at home folks—“Chi-woh-wahhhhh” Ahhh, the simple pleasures I take in Mexican women. “Chi-wow-wahhhhhh”.
I start to bait her to say other sexy words in common conversation… “Tell me, how do you say butterfly in Spanish…or sweater…?
“Mariposa…marrr-i-posssa”. What a weirdo I can be!
The line is moving slowly, even slower since people are cutting right to the window seemingly without any argument from the people who have waited their turn.
This happens a couple of times, but the people just grumble and chatter amongst themselves about it.
THIS WOULD NOT FLY IN BOSTON OR NYC…the attempt to cut in line at a DMV could bring upon swift street justice. In Mexico however people are more polite, trusting, I guess.
I am but a few more chairs away from my turn. I start to get giddy and chat it up with the people around me. They all want to know what I am doing, where I am going and what type of bike I have. They offer water and cookies and assistance if I run into any language troubles at the window.
11pm and my turn is up. Peering through the little hole I see a very young, neat man with greased hair and a pressed white shirt. Surely he has been there all day processing the vehicle entrance certificates and listening to people scream at him, but he looks cool and unaffected. I pass the wad of paperwork through the hole along with a bunch of other documents that were not requested. Maybe I can muddle him with certificates and licenses and photocopies enough that he will just stamp everything and bid me a pleasant stay in Mexico. Nope. This guy is a pro. He quickly forms a few piles and hands me back the fodder.
Should I crack some stupid joke? ”Wow, what shiny hair you have.” Nah… Best I just keep it clean and hope for the best. Paloma assured me my registration should be enough to get by.
She was right, STAMP, POUND, STAMP…”Please, you will have this paper on window of moto…”
Um…Sure!
I throw out a big wave and bow to the crowds still waiting and I get a collective “Adios!”
And a few Buenos suertes. These people are still pleasant after hours of screaming kids, lines and line-cutters.
I decide to back track to the last motel I saw in the distance off the main highway.
I need a beer.
Say it- Cervezahhhhhhh.
posted by Xavier - RoadWarrior on 7:47 PM
I swing my bike around to what appears to be an entrance and attempt the always precarious center standing of bike. BAM! Over she goes. I am trapped for a minute under neither the bike and pinned against a car. A very surprised/scared man jumps to attention from the sleeping position inside the car and quickly realizes he is unable to open his door as I am sandwiched up against it…smiling nervously. Rubbing his eyes he slides out the passenger side door and starts to help lift the bike. People start to come from all over grabbing anything they think will afford enough leverage to right the beast. 1…2…3…ArRRgh!! SNAP! I hear something metal crack and cling-clang around the bike’s lower mechanism and disappear in the dust forever…Screw it, I will find out later, I am sure of it.
Walking up to the door I see a Canadian couple come out. They are visibly angry and not talking to each other. Walking a couple paces apart I split the difference and ask how it went. She drops her head and crosses eyes and he starts waving papers around demanding I understand…”4 hours…4 God damn hours in there!”
It is pitch black now in the Mexican desert. Even if I can expedite the process to just a couple of hours using my limited knowledge of Spanish I will still be stuck in the wasteland with no light to guide my way to a bed for the night.
From the wasteland outside I enter into a familiar sight…an American DMV at around lunch time. People are yelling throw little holes in the walls at some despondent clerk. Tall desks support standing people as they fill in the boxes on any one of the myriad of forms they have piled next to them. A line here, another there, another and yet another. Lines to get to lines!
I guess the biggest difference between the Mexican Customs office and our DMV are the children. There are screaming kids everywhere. I get it! The men outside sleeping in the cars and fiddling under the hoods are the designated drivers while their wives are send in to deal with the lines and paperwork. Indeed a higher degree of patience and understanding is required to deal with Mexican bearocracy. As can be expected, the children are sent in as well so that dad can relax. The old adage, lines and kids don’t mix is an international understanding…but here they are, yelling and rubbing Doritos cheese in eyes and demanding things, etc.
I manage to make quick with the first couple of lines as I throw cash at one and avoid another all together as I thought to make the necessary photocopies in triplicate of all my documents back in El Paso.
Asking random people, ‘what now’ I find myself in the mother of Mexican lines. 6 rows of folding chairs 30 chairs long are tied together with twine by their legs. There is a ticket counter, but apparently that technology was never implemented as people just move from one chair to the next as the line moves along. I find this a less than effective method to process the crowd of people, but it is what it is and I am where I am. I try to swell my spirits with a false sense of patience and amusement with the whole thing but it is hard. I am hungry, tired and a little nervous that I will be turned away when it is my turn at the window (singular…1 window) because I don’t have the original title to my bike. I begin practicing my excuses in Spanish so that I can at least get my plea heard before being sent away.
I am so tired from 4 days of hard riding and haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, I wonder if I will freak out and start screaming at people if I get rejected. Have got to stay positive, no matter what. If I offend someone they might refer me to another line just to trip me up for another 2 hours.
“Hello, I am Paloma, I love motorcycles too.”
A young beauty tells me that she is the designated waiting person for her family and that she will put a good word in for me when she gets to the window. Seeing that I am thumbing through my Lonely Planet guide, she starts telling me about secret waterfalls and canyons in the Chihuahua region.
I love her voice, it settles me. She is a sweet girl with an odd manner- whenever she starts a sentence she is speaking in a normal tone, but by the last word she is sort of whispering, drawing me in closer to her mouth. I could easily spend the next couple of hours listening to her say the word “Chihuahua.” Try it at home folks—“Chi-woh-wahhhhh” Ahhh, the simple pleasures I take in Mexican women. “Chi-wow-wahhhhhh”.
I start to bait her to say other sexy words in common conversation… “Tell me, how do you say butterfly in Spanish…or sweater…?
“Mariposa…marrr-i-posssa”. What a weirdo I can be!
The line is moving slowly, even slower since people are cutting right to the window seemingly without any argument from the people who have waited their turn.
This happens a couple of times, but the people just grumble and chatter amongst themselves about it.
THIS WOULD NOT FLY IN BOSTON OR NYC…the attempt to cut in line at a DMV could bring upon swift street justice. In Mexico however people are more polite, trusting, I guess.
I am but a few more chairs away from my turn. I start to get giddy and chat it up with the people around me. They all want to know what I am doing, where I am going and what type of bike I have. They offer water and cookies and assistance if I run into any language troubles at the window.
11pm and my turn is up. Peering through the little hole I see a very young, neat man with greased hair and a pressed white shirt. Surely he has been there all day processing the vehicle entrance certificates and listening to people scream at him, but he looks cool and unaffected. I pass the wad of paperwork through the hole along with a bunch of other documents that were not requested. Maybe I can muddle him with certificates and licenses and photocopies enough that he will just stamp everything and bid me a pleasant stay in Mexico. Nope. This guy is a pro. He quickly forms a few piles and hands me back the fodder.
Should I crack some stupid joke? ”Wow, what shiny hair you have.” Nah… Best I just keep it clean and hope for the best. Paloma assured me my registration should be enough to get by.
She was right, STAMP, POUND, STAMP…”Please, you will have this paper on window of moto…”
Um…Sure!
I throw out a big wave and bow to the crowds still waiting and I get a collective “Adios!”
And a few Buenos suertes. These people are still pleasant after hours of screaming kids, lines and line-cutters.
I decide to back track to the last motel I saw in the distance off the main highway.
I need a beer.
Say it- Cervezahhhhhhh.
posted by Xavier - RoadWarrior on 7:47 PM
