I surf. And when I surf I travel  south to the best surfing spots in Mexico. It was in Puerto Escondid, in the South of Mexico where the Pacific Ocean breaks just right that I spent a lazy summer surfing those Pacific waves. The trip home, however, will forever be the most gonzo adventure I have ever had – my trip down the rabbit hole to the Nuevo Laredo border crossing.

After surfing some of the best, and biggest, waves of my life for eight months in the super consistent summer time south swells that make Puerto Escondido famous, I finally took a winter siesta. I headed down to Playa del Carmen, hoping to score a Dive Master’s job for the winter and get some badly needed cash. Two weeks later things just weren’t panning out, so I packed up my backpack, my guitar, and my little brown dog, Michi, and walked out to the highway. I had 20 or 30 pesos in my pocket, and figured I  really had no option but to hitchhike back to the ol’ US of A.

            I walked to the nearest Pemex  station and started talking to the traileros and was soon on my way to Mexico City with an older truck driver who they call “La Bomba.”  La Bomba said he gave me a ride cause he wanted to talk to a “gringo”, which comes from the days, he said, when Mexico and America were at war. The American soldiers wore green uniforms. The mantra for the Mexican guerreros became “Green Go!” as in, get out of our country, and later became “gringo.” I have heard a different history of the derivation of “gringo,” but took this as a piece of popular folklore, and politely did not disagree with my host.

            La Bomba was an older fellow, down to earth and very kind.  He fed Michi and I all the way to Mexico City.  We arrived in the Distrito Federal (D.F.) in the afternoon.  La Bomba pulled into an industrial part of the city and left his trailer to be unloaded.  Then we drove the cab of his truck over to an office were Bomba and 8 or 10 other traileros were assigned their next jobs. Bomba told his compadres I was heading for the border and they all agreed that the next one to drive to Nuevo Laredo, on the Texas border, would take me along.

            I waited 4 days for a ride.  During the day I’d hang out with the traileros – smoking cigarettes, drinking cokes and expanding my vocabulary.  I learned many colorful phrases like a la Chingada; Chinga tu madre, puto; and voy a mi arbolito, chicitero. At night La Bomba and I would drive to his house. The Bomba family estate was located in what could be called a suburb of Mexico City. These were the barrios of the lower working class of this city of over 20 million people: bare concrete floors, walls, and ceilings with sheets hung in the doorways. In the case of Bomba’s digs, there were dirt floors, walls made of wood palettes set on end with cardboard nailed on, and a corrugated tin roof. To keep the cardboard in place the Mexicans have come up with the rather ingenious idea of placing a bottle cap under each nail so the cardboard can’t pull thru the nail heads. Each night I’d eat with Bomba and his family and then Michi and I would sleep on the bed in the cab of Bomba’s truck. I was well looked after.

            Finally Bomba told me that one of the drivers was heading for the border. I hadn’t met him yet, but as soon as I did I could tell it was going to be an interesting journey.  The drivers name was Juan, but the traileros called him “Loco.”  Juan Loco was justly named for his amphetamine use. Loco did runs from Mexico City to Nuevo Laredo in 4 days and 4 nights – a  trip that took most traileros a week. Loco cut the time in half with the aid of “pastilles,” or “vitaminas,” otherwise known as “speed.” Juan Loco didn’t sleep those 4 days and nights.

            At 9 p.m. I thank La Bomba for all his kindness, bid “Nos vemos!” to the rest of the traileros.  Minutes later, Juan Loco, Michi, and I hit the road. Juan, like La Bomba, owned the tractor of his rig, and by the look of it, he was doing alright for himself.  His ride was tricked out with lots of chrome on the outside. Inside were rope lights, a tasseled dashboard cover, and a crankin’ sound system. We took off down the road with Christina Aguilera, Britney Spears, and every other cheap American pop “artist” blasting in our ears, as Juan Loco drove like the speed freak he was.

            For a while we rode in silence, Michi asleep at my feet, and Juan bouncing around behind the wheel like a wind-up toy gone AWOL. Suddenly, he leaned over, punched me in the arm, and fired off a stream of Spanish faster than his driving.  I don’t know what he said, but then we went back to riding in silence. Silence, that is, except for Britney and Christina crooning loudly in my ear.  Soon enough, however, Juan punches me again and this time I catch what he says.  “Yo tengo tres hermanos, mismo trabajo, traileros, traileros, MEXICAN BOYS!!!” he practically shouts the last two words as he blows his air horn and stomps on the gas. 

            We’ve been driving for an hour or so when I start to think about how to breech the subject of Juan’s amphetamines. As if he had read my mind Juan asks, “Tienes frio?”  It’s now late January in the high country of central Mexico and it is a little chilly so I respond with, “Un poco.”  Juan holds out his fist to give me something and growls, “Tomar tres, no frio.”  He drops three green and white pills into my hand. I drop the pills down my throat, and away we go, into the Mexican night…

            I’ll spare you the details of the next 48 hours.  Imagine  a couple of speed freaks rolling down the road, singing with Britney, cursing in Spanish, and punching each other. Funny, everything is interesting when you’re cranked. We were cranked for four days.

We arrived in Nuevo Laredo a little after sunset and Juan Loco, not wanting to drive in traffic with his rig, dropped me off several miles from the border. Then Loco kicks down 40 pesos. I thank him profusely and jump down from the cab to check out the scene. Not much is happening on this stretch of road as Juan drives away. The only point of interest is a young guy working under the hood of his car. I head over and find he’s having trouble with the housing of his cooling fan. After much twisting and pulling, and bending, we succeed in making the thing serviceable. The kid I’ve just met is a local and his name is…guess what…that’s right, his name is Juan. So during our mechanical adventures I’ve related to Juan most of the tale of how I came to be in Nuevo Laredo.  He’s pretty stoked on the whole thing and he offers to drive me to the border and buy me some food and cocaine…and this fucking rabbit hole gets deeper.

            We head down to the barrio. And when I say barrio I mean baaaaaarrio.  It’s dirty, sketchy, prostitute and drug ridden, as only a border town can be. The border  barrios are places you don’t want to visit: the kind of places where your mother should be worried about you. We leave Michi in the car to sleep and head for the strip, which is  three blocks of dirt road lined with brothels and bars. Juan approaches a fat man on the sidewalk and tells him, “Dame uno.”  El Gordo produces an aluminum Altoids box, flips it open, and pulls out a square of folded construction paper. Juan hands over 200 pesos and without so much as a thank you, we continue to one of the bars. 

Inside we find a bartender, a half conscious man in the corner, and two hookers.  I’ve only put down half of my first can of Modelo when the crash hits. The alcohol has overcome the amphetamine in my blood and I’m barely able to maintain consciousness.  The hooker sitting next to me is whispering Spanglish in my ear as my body slumps on the barstool and my vision blurs repeatedly.

            Like Robin coming just in time to save the Batman, Juan #2 catches my eye, smiles, and jerks his head toward the bathroom, which, as you may know, is the international signal for “let’s go in the there and do some drugs.”  The bathroom that Juan has in mind is a small concrete block room with a tiled trough to piss in. The sit-down toilets are around the corner. The smell in this little gem of a restroom is so strong that, had there been any food in my stomach, I’m sure I would have puked…but that comes later.

            Juan pulls out the gram, and it’s FAT. Juan has purchased a fine little mountain of Mexican chang:  blow, charlie, snow, powder, coke, white tennis shoes. It’s the white bitch in the plastic skirt. Juan whips out a credit card and faster than you can say, “Damn, that’s a fat gram,” sniffs up 4 heaping bumps, reducing the pile to a fraction it’s former stature. Juan’s rate of consumption far exceeds anything I’ve witnessed.  Remember Al Pacino in Scarface? It’s like that. Oh well, when in Nuevo Laredo…  I follow suit, but only manage 3 monster bumps before returning the unused portion. It turns out Juan is the giving  type. He wads up the remainder, and stuffs it through a crack in the tiled wall.  “Por las chicas trabajando,” he informs me. For the working girls.

            Back out in the bar I’m now awake.  Alcohol beats amphetamine; cocaine beats alchohol; and the scene in this bar beats any dive I’ve ever been in.  Where’s my Spanglish hooker?

            A smallish Mexican enters the bar with a Goofy puppet on his hand. Not a goofy puppet, but a Goofy puppet, the oh, so loveable, Disney dog.  And by the look of the plastic boner and balls that poke out of little Goofy’s open fly, he is definitely feeling loveable.  “What’s up dog!” the little man repeats over and over.

Before too long Juan has disappears and returns with another gram.  He gives me the signal, and we head for the bathroom.  En route I think to myself, “If I do this gram, I’m gonna puke.”  So we get in there and Juan repeats his performance and I mine and the rest goes to las chicas trabajando.

Speed makes you constipated, coke makes you shit, and just as I suspected, I also have to puke. The tiled trough in front of me is designed for neither.  So I run out into the bar and had for the real bathroom, all the while doing a crazy, ass-clenched knee-knocking waddle while holding my mouth and stomach. The pain is intense but I do have a clear enough head to decide upon puking as the first order of business. I’d rather shit into a puke-filled shitter than puke into a shit-filled shitter, wouldn’t you?

Well, I haven’t eaten in two days, and I just puked, so even after all the coke, I’m ready to EAT! True to form, Juan is ready and willing to oblige.  Out on the street he buys me some tacos – the worst and spiciest tacos I’ve ever had. Eyes watering, nose running, I force them down, blowing my nose in a fistfull of napkins between bites. I save some, or course, for Michi.  Little did I know it, but these tacos were soon to be my saviors…

I head out to the car to feed my little girl.  Juan goes into another bar. As Michi is wolfing down tortillas Juan appears and flashes me his open hand with another gram.  I’m thinking, “Fuck that!” when a flashlight pops up behind Juan.  “Policia, wey,”  I warn him.  “No te preocupes,” he says reassuringly. The cops quickly start searching us. My heart is slamming in my chest like someone who’s hopped up on a bunch of cocaine and scared shitless.

It turns out Juan tried the old “drop it and stand on it trick.” The cops know that one and soon they’ve moved Juan’s feet and found the stuff.  “Que es eso?” one of them asks accusingly.  “No es mio!”  counters Juan, trying to look innocent.  The cop grabs Juan by the face and forces his head back while shining his flashlight right up Juan’s nose.  Merry Christmas!!! There seems to have been a blizzard in Juanito’s nose. In fact, if he sneezed on a mirror, I could have made a fresh line. As Juan is being cuffed the cop turns to me and I close my eyes as he grabs my face. Then he lets me go and turns his attention back to Juan. I stand dumbstruck for a moment. Then the realization comes thru the drugs, the lack of sleep, and the adrenaline. Those shit-ass tacos that made me cry and drip snot also made me BLOW MY NOSE!  If not for those tacos, I’d be headed to jail with Juan. Well I am, sort of. We all pile into the back of a police truck but Juan’s in cuffs and I’m not. When we arrive at the jail, Juan goes into a cell and I’m told to wait outside with my dog. After a very anxious hour or so I’m told I can go. Juan is so fucking cool that he hands me 60 pesos through the bars of his cell.

Now Michi and I are back out on the street and the scene is not pretty. I figure we need a cab.  “How much to get to the border?” I ask the first taxi driver I come to. “100 pesos,”  he replies.  With the 40 that Juan Loco gave me, and the 60 that Juan #2 gave me, I have…DumDaDaDum!!!...100 pesos!…and not a centavo more. To the border we go.

As I walk towards the bridge, I marvel at the synchronicity of life. I see a sign and absent mindedly read the Spanish, and my reverie is broken! The sign says it costs two pesos to get on the bridge. Two pesos. Well, I figure it shouldn’t be hard to bum 2 pesos, but before I can open my mouth to ask, the guard at the turnstile sees my guitar, clocks the whole situation and says, “Una cancion.”  Play a song?  Hell yeah. I whip out my guit-fiddle and start into Green Day’s “Time of Your Life.”  Then I play an original, and then I just start getting into it and jamming.  A little crowd gathers and starts to plug up traffic so the guard tells me to get going.

I’m on the bridge.  Almost home.

I’m looking down at Michi, who is afraid of heights and slinking along the sidewalk and I’m thinking, “Two pesos…shit what if it costs like twenty five dollars to get back into the states?  I’ve never done this before!”  Just as I’m starting to get really worried, a big 6’4” Texas border patrol leans down into my face and growls,  “You American?”  I look up, startled, and stammer, “Y-yeah.”

And that’s it. I arrived with only a little wear and tear, and a tale to tell of my gonzo journey across Mexico with the traileros.