Quien miedo? Mexicano o gringo? My trip to Mexico, Part One
Last weekend I went to Mexico, specifically Rosarito, Ensenada, and Puerto Nueve.
Once across the border, I was surprised to see people walking along the freeway. I was told by one of those who traveled with us, whom I will call La Raza, that these people were addicted to heroin. I didn't know any better, so I nodded in acknowledgement of La Raza's words as I sipped my cerveza (yes, I was in a moving vehicle and we were drinking Pacifico. I wasn't driving however).
Of the 20 or more people we passed (that I noticed), none seemed to have the trademark heroin addict pose, that kind of hunched over zombie look. No, these people were upright and talking loud and fast amongst each other; drunk maybe, but loaded on smack? No.
On the first night we went to the Rosarito Beach Hotel (in Rosarito, of course), our base of operations for the whole weekend. As we unloaded the vehicle I was filled with thoughts about walking out to the shanty town ghettos that I saw lit eerily in the moonlight along the highway to Rosarito. Some areas looked so run down I was amazed and truly impressed.
The Rosarito Beach Hotel is a haven for tourists; white tourists who gawk suspiciously at any Mexicans who walk close to them. I'm not Mexican, but I believe I received a few of those suspicious, investigative glares that measured me and judged me as guilty or innocent. I guess I just look Mexican.
Asian and white = Mexican. If you think about the history of the Mexican people, a mixture of people from Asia (who crossed the Bering Strait 50,000 years ago) and white people (the Spaniards), I guess the formula is proven true.
I was later warned by La Raza that if Stephanie and I went out alone someone would either mug me or kidnap her. While my contact with the Mexican people were limited to business transactions and careful observations, I didn't feel like anyone threatened me. Of course, I was in a tourist town and not walking among the shanties that I saw earlier.
But even as we drove through these neighborhoods, I saw that these were just regular folks; mothers with children, a man walking a dog, little kids playing on dusty streets. Some waved at us as we drove by. I came to disregard some of the advice given to me as paranoid and delusional.
How many times have I heard the words 'baisa' and 'wetback' from someone who would otherwise be called the same thing by a racist of some other race. I decided that the best thing to do was be cautious, but not judgmental.
People smoke and drank religiously in Mexico, which brought my mind to another issue. Freedom. I sensed that in Mexico, there is a freedom that we simply don't have in America. This is something that I thought about incessantly. Freedom. What is it? In America, we say we're free all the time, but is it just wordplay.
While it is true that regulations, to a certain extent, have helped our quality of life in the U.S.; a regulation is not the equivalent of freedom. In fact, regulation and law is the antithesis to freedom.
True, in Mexico the police are corrupt and the water probably isn't good for you, but you can walk around the streets with a beer in your hand and sell things of poor quality indiscriminately. And these are just petty things that we cannot do legally in the U.S. (or at least California). We may choose to live in an orderly society of rules, but again; rules do not mean freedom. They just mean comfort, but comfort is not freedom, either.
Anyways, that night we went out to look for a club. I was met by a constant throng of people trying to sell me things, many of which were the same things over and over; sombreros with 'Mexico' or 'Rosarito' stitched into them, flowers, jewelry, hats, more somberos with 'Mexico' or 'Rosarito' stitched into them, "coco-nauts", taxi rides, jewelry, hats, and more jewelry.
One lady sold braids. She literally offered to braid people's hair. And sure enough, there were a few girls out there running around with braided hair and at least one guy.
A man name Joe sold us tickets to Club Iggy's for $15 bucks. Club Iggy's is a club on the beach, and we walked in immediately impressed. An outdoor club with movie projector screens portraying pictures of people dancing and having fun. With that $15 purchase, came another added plus: Free alcohol.
Steph and I danced the night away, and we all watched in amazement as nude pictures of women and their flapping asses were plastered across three or four movie screens. All I can say is, "Free alcohol."
At the end of the night, the entire party stumbled back to the hotel in a drunken haze. $15 to drink all that you can. I believe I drank $40 worth of mixed drinks that night, and Steph about $30. I'm not sure, but I think her favorite was the Fuzzy Navel, and mine was the extra strong Long Island Ice Tea.
To be honest, I wasn't as redfaced wasted as the rest of the crew (and I usually get very redfaced), and I was the only one of Asian descent as well. Not saying that has anything to do with it, but it just goes to show that being Mexican has nothing to do with it, either.
Once across the border, I was surprised to see people walking along the freeway. I was told by one of those who traveled with us, whom I will call La Raza, that these people were addicted to heroin. I didn't know any better, so I nodded in acknowledgement of La Raza's words as I sipped my cerveza (yes, I was in a moving vehicle and we were drinking Pacifico. I wasn't driving however).
Of the 20 or more people we passed (that I noticed), none seemed to have the trademark heroin addict pose, that kind of hunched over zombie look. No, these people were upright and talking loud and fast amongst each other; drunk maybe, but loaded on smack? No.
On the first night we went to the Rosarito Beach Hotel (in Rosarito, of course), our base of operations for the whole weekend. As we unloaded the vehicle I was filled with thoughts about walking out to the shanty town ghettos that I saw lit eerily in the moonlight along the highway to Rosarito. Some areas looked so run down I was amazed and truly impressed.
The Rosarito Beach Hotel is a haven for tourists; white tourists who gawk suspiciously at any Mexicans who walk close to them. I'm not Mexican, but I believe I received a few of those suspicious, investigative glares that measured me and judged me as guilty or innocent. I guess I just look Mexican.
Asian and white = Mexican. If you think about the history of the Mexican people, a mixture of people from Asia (who crossed the Bering Strait 50,000 years ago) and white people (the Spaniards), I guess the formula is proven true.
I was later warned by La Raza that if Stephanie and I went out alone someone would either mug me or kidnap her. While my contact with the Mexican people were limited to business transactions and careful observations, I didn't feel like anyone threatened me. Of course, I was in a tourist town and not walking among the shanties that I saw earlier.
But even as we drove through these neighborhoods, I saw that these were just regular folks; mothers with children, a man walking a dog, little kids playing on dusty streets. Some waved at us as we drove by. I came to disregard some of the advice given to me as paranoid and delusional.
How many times have I heard the words 'baisa' and 'wetback' from someone who would otherwise be called the same thing by a racist of some other race. I decided that the best thing to do was be cautious, but not judgmental.
People smoke and drank religiously in Mexico, which brought my mind to another issue. Freedom. I sensed that in Mexico, there is a freedom that we simply don't have in America. This is something that I thought about incessantly. Freedom. What is it? In America, we say we're free all the time, but is it just wordplay.
While it is true that regulations, to a certain extent, have helped our quality of life in the U.S.; a regulation is not the equivalent of freedom. In fact, regulation and law is the antithesis to freedom.
True, in Mexico the police are corrupt and the water probably isn't good for you, but you can walk around the streets with a beer in your hand and sell things of poor quality indiscriminately. And these are just petty things that we cannot do legally in the U.S. (or at least California). We may choose to live in an orderly society of rules, but again; rules do not mean freedom. They just mean comfort, but comfort is not freedom, either.
Anyways, that night we went out to look for a club. I was met by a constant throng of people trying to sell me things, many of which were the same things over and over; sombreros with 'Mexico' or 'Rosarito' stitched into them, flowers, jewelry, hats, more somberos with 'Mexico' or 'Rosarito' stitched into them, "coco-nauts", taxi rides, jewelry, hats, and more jewelry.
One lady sold braids. She literally offered to braid people's hair. And sure enough, there were a few girls out there running around with braided hair and at least one guy.
A man name Joe sold us tickets to Club Iggy's for $15 bucks. Club Iggy's is a club on the beach, and we walked in immediately impressed. An outdoor club with movie projector screens portraying pictures of people dancing and having fun. With that $15 purchase, came another added plus: Free alcohol.
Steph and I danced the night away, and we all watched in amazement as nude pictures of women and their flapping asses were plastered across three or four movie screens. All I can say is, "Free alcohol."
At the end of the night, the entire party stumbled back to the hotel in a drunken haze. $15 to drink all that you can. I believe I drank $40 worth of mixed drinks that night, and Steph about $30. I'm not sure, but I think her favorite was the Fuzzy Navel, and mine was the extra strong Long Island Ice Tea.
To be honest, I wasn't as redfaced wasted as the rest of the crew (and I usually get very redfaced), and I was the only one of Asian descent as well. Not saying that has anything to do with it, but it just goes to show that being Mexican has nothing to do with it, either.