Arizona

Arizona sure has helped the nation. We've woken up and smelled the coffee! Iowan Pat Bertroche, a Republican running for a congressional seat, would like to put microchips in undocumented folks before deporting them. "I can microchip my dog so I can find it" he is quoted as saying, "Why can't I microchip an illegal?". Well cochino, an "illegal" is a human being, not a canine. GOP gubernatorial candidate Tim James would like to offer his state's driver's license exam in English only. "This is Alabama; we speak English" his commercial states. Some of us from other states might differ that the language spoken in Alabama is actually English. The Maverick John McCain has further displayed that he misplaced his backbone and supported SB 1070 in an attempt to beat a Tea Partier out of his Senate seat. Representative Duncan Hunter, you guessed it, a Republican from California, would like to deport U.S. born children along with their parents, though they are American citizens and not citizens of any other country. The Department of Education in Arizona is blocking people with "heavy accents" from teaching English as a Second Language. I have a feeling they are not talking about people from Alabama, Brooklyn, or the Scottish. On April 18th, an Ecuadorian man bled to death on a platform in Queens while multiple people passed, without calling an ambulance. Some took pictures with their cell phones. The passage of SB 1070 in Arizona has accomplished exactly what I feared it would accomplish: it has opened the floodgates of hate.

I had a warning. Things seemed to go relatively smooth when Obama was first elected. Things got nasty when he actually tried to govern. After the health care vote, black Representatives were met with racial slurs and spit on while they attempted to enter the Capital. The opponents weren't screaming "I hate your health care bill". They were screaming racial slurs. My representative in Atlanta is John Lewis. You may have seen him in old sixties videos, strolling beside Martin Luther King in places like Alabama. They called him a nigger. I can only imagine what he must have been thinking. Did he ever imagine that the election of the first black president of the United States would lead to being spit on as he entered the Capital in 2010? It was brewing, the racism, stewing and building and waiting for Obama to act, for Obama to do something they didn't agree with. And then the bile spilled forward.

After watching a series of videos recorded during earthquakes, our principal told us what to do if there is another earthquake, before gliding into another slide on his Power Point that dealt with myths about earthquakes. Number three: "Don't panic, the United States will help us". As soon as the slide came up, multiple people in the room said "Arizona". "That's right: Arizona." our principal said. "The U.S. doesn't want us and we can't rely on them for help". I felt awkward and people were looking at me. It wasn't the first time Arizona has come up since the passage of SB 1070. I understand that it is not a bad thing if Mexico doesn't rely on the U.S. should a natural disaster occur; they need to be prepared. But I don't like it that the legislative moves of one racist state has made visa carrying, Mexican citizens feel unwelcome in our country. They are one of our closest neighbors. We share a border and a history. We are sitting on their land. They welcomed me to their country. And aside from all of that, they cross the border daily, on legitimate visas that they pay for, to go shopping in American stores, eat in American restaurants and visit American theme parks. I couldn't even get across the border during Christmas because the line at San Ysidro was hours long, they had shopping to do. And now, they do not feel welcome. Actually, they are afraid they will be completely harassed. So they'll shop here, not in Chula Vista, not in Nogales and not in El Paso. Congratulations, Arizona.

Alec and I spent the weekend in Puerto Peñasco, in Sonora. The beach is pretty and is a popular destination for southern Arizonians. Mexico is not forgetting about SB 1070. Various articles and editorials about the law are still a daily feature in local newspapers. As we got closer to the beach, we began seeing a lot of cars with Arizona tags. Current tags, not the expired tags of Mexicans that bought cars in Arizona. I really couldn't believe it. They own homes and condos and continue visiting the hotels and idiot gringo bars that take up little pockets of the town. My mind wandered....seventy percent of Arizonians supported the law. Maybe the percentage of supporters was lower among people who actually visit Mexico regularly? Or maybe not. That takes balls. I'll harass you if you come to my country, but I will wander around yours like I own the place. Actually, I do own parts of it! When interacting with locals, I found myself thinking, "Please don't let them think we are from Arizona". For once, I was glad to have Georgia tags in Mexico.

It wasn't the first time I have felt uncomfortable with my nationality while traveling. Indonesia, late in the year 2000, was a little awkward. Turkey, March 2002 was an experience. Vietnam brought obvious difficulties. But I am American. It is who I am.

There is something wrong with our country. The country of immigrants. The melting pot. Sometimes, I think we should just give up on the experiment. Send everyone back to where they came from and leave the place uninhabited, except a few Native American reservations. Seal it shut with an impermeable, Simpson's dome. It can't be saved.

Puente

All the leaves are brown..."ALL THE LEAVES ARE BROWNNNNNN!!!" I howled with the radio. And the sky is gray..."AND THE SKY IS GRAY!!!" I continued, alternating between backup vocals and occasionally, singing lead and letting the Mamas back me up. Sometimes, I managed to do both. A border patrol check point popped up out of nowhere. "Are you an American citizen?", "Yes", "Do you have anything illegal in the car?" "No", I answered. I went for a walk..."AND THE PINCHE STOPPED MEEEEE!!"

Five days off. I probably would have signed my contract if I had ever been spontaneously given three days off, starting on a Monday, at my U.S. school. Here, I was actually a little irritated when they told us we didn't have to go back to work until Thursday. I like to plan for long weekends, go somewhere. The other exchange teachers knew they had the break and tried to make travel plans near Mexico City. I unequivocally told everyone I DID NOT have the break. Friday afternoon, my school decided they would give us the days off. I think it's disrespectful. People have lives. Let them know if they have to work or not.

What could I do at the last minute? Alec didn't have the break, I was on my own and had no plane tickets. I attended a pro-immigration rally in San Diego on Saturday. I'm not big on protests. I know they are important but am uncomfortable with the format. Numbers matter, so I went, even if I didn't carry a sign.

"Where are you headed in the U.S.?" the border patrol agent asked me as I attempted to pass through Tecate Monday afternoon. "Joshua Tree National Park" I answered. "Pull into the Secondary Inspection Area" she responded. Second time in less than a week.

After a thorough car thumping, I again felt relieved as a drove through Southern California. I glanced into my rear view mirror and saw a Border Patrol truck behind me. For some reason, that made me nervous all over again. Why? Why?! I asked myself. The border wall looked weird from the American side, different. Iggy Pop came out of nowhere on my radio.

Margaret was on my mind. My old best friend. This was the kind of trip she used to do, after she moved out west. She would take her old Honda to Mount St. Helens, Monument Valley, Glacier National Park, where ever and often alone. I always think of her when I go out west. Not in Mexico, that's my thing, but the American West. That was her thing.

God definitely controls the radio in the borderlands. Occasionally, NPR would break in, only to be interrupted by Mexican radio, and then a little more Christ. I found myself singing to occasional sweaty, sixties hits that would break through the fuzz that took over most stations. I share a distinct American cultural trait that loves having a car and being able to take off in it without really knowing where you are going. In the late, golden part of the afternoon, I entered the Joshua Tree park. As I tore up the deserted road that climbed a rock covered mountain, the opening cords of "American Woman" sailed out of my radio, crystal clear, and I really felt completely right with the world.

The kids had gotten pretty rowdy when they learned they were about to have five days off. Actually, things got kind of rowdy before they found out about the break. I was doing a question and answer activity with my really boisterous electronics group earlier in the week. I strangely have come to look forward to teaching them. We have a good time. "Who do you want to question?" I asked each student before they read their question out loud. I started leaving off "to question" for expediency. Unfortunately, "who do you want" also translates to "who do you love" in Spanish. This particular group is made up of about thirty-odd boys and five girls. "Wooooooo!" the boys shrieked, after boys would select boys to question. It became a pattern, "Who do you want?", wooooo!, and then a question in English. Some boys winked and blew kisses when selected.

Other groups engaged in more sinister activities. There was a group that I taught last semester that was removed from my schedule for the current semester, in order to cut back my hours. I miss them. They gave me so much hell when I arrived and then I was disappointed when they were gone. When we pass each other throughout the school, they scream "We miss you profe!!!" and put their hands over their hearts. I, in turn, put my hand over my heart. They wave at me from their third floor balcony when I enter the school. Five of them were caught robbing other students' back packs while we were in an assembly. The school threatened to call the police if they didn't hand over the stuff; they produced a multitude of cell phones and MP3 players. I was honestly shocked. "Kick them out" multiple teachers said when we heard what happened. I agreed, until I found out who did it. All of a sudden, I felt differently. What the hell got in their heads?

As I drove out of the gate for my return to school, a caravan of federales drove past. Three trucks with men dressed in black, complete with combat boots, bullet proof vests and ski masks that show only their eyes. They rode through town with their machine guns raised and poised for action. A small army, around twenty-five men. I don't know why they are so much more intimidating than the military. Is it because they were black ski masks, instead of the viewer friendly beige? Their reputation?

A Tijuana fire truck sat at the entrance to the school. The firemen wore "San Diego County" fire jackets. As I didn't see smoke, I dragged my mongo box of dictionaries into the school and started my day. "We're going to use them?" the students asked, marveling at their newness.

I heard the message ding ding of my phone..."Can you see the fires?" Alec's message asked cryptically.

"Yes, yes you are..." I answered as they smelled the new books.

California Dreaming

I really needed to get across that border and to the UPS store. I used some of my Fulbright money to buy a class set of Spanish-English dictionaries and the boxes had been waiting for me for two days in California.

Getting up before 8AM seems like waking up in the middle of the night for me now. I made it up around seven and sat bleary eyed, drinking my coffee and plotting how I could get those boxes. Half an hour drive to the border. About a half an hour to get through the checkpoint. Fifteen more minutes on the trolley. How big were these boxes going to be? Haul boxes back to trolley. Ride it fifteen more minutes back. Drag large boxes over big footbridge to Mexico and drive back home. "Screw it," I thought "I'm gonna drive".

I decided to go through Otay, the lines are supposed to be shorter than San Ysidro's. I felt weirdly independent as I drove through town. Kind of like when you put a dog in the car and it gets all excited and looks like it's smiling. I passed a taxi with "El Cholo" proudly displayed across its windshield. I got lost trying to find the border crossing. Finally I saw big lines of cars and pulled down one of the lanes. It was mysteriously short. I knew I was doing something wrong and couldn't figure out how to reverse the situation. "Oh well," I thought "they'll just tell me to turn around or something". I approached the gate.

The agent looked at me with a little apprehension. "Hi," I said. "I have no idea what I am doing, I haven't crossed in a car before and this line seems way too short". "Yeahh..." he said "You're in the Sentri line, the line for trusted travelers that have undergone criminal background checks". He was surprisingly cool, not yelling, it was actually like a normal conversation. "It's confusing around here. I am going to let you through with a warning" he said, placing an orange card and my passport under my windshield wiper. "Just pull up there and stop" he said, pointing toward a garage-ish area. "That, um, parking lot?" I clarified, pretending that I didn't know what it was. "Yeah" he said. I thanked him. I knew I really didn't want to go in that area. I've seen it before from the bridge at San Ysidro and on Weeds. But, I figured I deserved it. I cut in the line, I could at least sit a while in the Secondary Inspection Area.

Border Patrol agents drank coffee and milled around. Several cars waited in various lanes to be checked. Dismantled cars sat pulled off to the side. The agents were strangely pleasant and normal, it actually seemed like any office, except for the weird gigantic tools laying around, drug sniffing dogs and guns. They didn't exactly seem to be going in order of arrival, some folks were getting checked that had come in after me. Again, I figured I deserved it. Maybe they were going to let me sit there the amount of time I should have sat in line. Agents thumped on the panels of the cars and climbed under them with mirrors. They opened hoods and trunks. A couple of agents approached me at various times and did a few little things. I felt very wide eyed and cautious about my movements. Agents have opened fire two times in San Ysidro since I arrived in Tijuana, I really didn't want to do anything stupid to startle them. A red sports car with chrome tail pipes and a California tag pulled up next to me. The agents thumped on the interior panels of his car and went to work thumping on the exterior panels. One agent called another agent over. She listened carefully as the other agent thumped around near the gas tank. She started to nod her head slowly. Two agents removed the man from the car and handcuffed him. A sly, knowing smile spread across his face as he was lead away.

They were asking other drivers for proof of car registration and insurance cards. My car is insured and registered in the United States, but being the sharp one that I am, I carry little proof of either. It was dawning on me that I might not be able to explain my way out of this, that I might actually be in trouble. My track record with the migra hasn't been so hot. The SUV next to me was finally cleared and when the driver went to start his car, the battery had died. He looked thrilled. He had been watching me for a while, possibly because I appeared to be the only non-Latino in the Secondary Inspection Area. The agents approached my car, asked me to give them my car keys and started thumping it. After repeated attempts to get the hood open, they finally let me get out and open it myself. The ran my sketchy paperwork through their system. I imagined red flashing lights going off in their computer: Got in argument with Pig Faced Man at San Ysidro. Photo: There she is walking through the Sonoran desert with four gallons of water. Police report: She did something really dumb when she was twenty-three. Document check: Has that crusty old Mazda been properly imported and exported from Mexico? I watched as the agents siphoned the gas from the red sports car. "Please be careful next time." one of the agents instructed me. "The fine for what you did is between $500.00 and $5000.00". FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS? Dude, I'm a teacher! I thanked them and actually meant it and drove through the last checkpoint. An agent circled my car again. "Georgia!" he howled, "You lost?!" "Yes, I am" I said, laughing with a big sense of relief. He directed me toward the mini malls in Chula Vista and I sped off into California with banda music on my radio.

I missed my dentist appointment, but only by like twenty minutes. Maybe I did it on purpose. Maybe I subconsciously preferred the Secondary Inspection Area to the dentist's office. I got to work, feeling like I had already had a full day. Profe Julio unpacked a syringe and some sort of vial he had bought at the pharmacy and handed them to the nurse Profe. They walked to the other side of the teacher's workroom and she put a shot in his butt. The academic coordinator and another teacher stood up on chairs, pointed, laughed and took photos with their cell phones. The bell rang, Profe Julio pulled up his pants and we all left to teach our classes.

I am wondering if that MacGyver Profe can fix my cracked molar.

Fifteen days

It rained one day last week and the temperature immediately dropped, transforming a late April day into a pinche mid-January one. There was a bit of ambiguity about whether or not classes were being canceled and few students remained at the school. For some reason, the entire software group of students was out in force. I stood around with some other teachers, not teaching because I didn't have students, and watched a group of the software boys as they ran through the rain and jumped in puddles in order to splash each other. They were shrieking and laughing. They are all around seventeen years old. I was surprised that adult tendencies hadn't set in on them yet. I was bored and my only attempt to entertain myself was to lean against a wall and listen to other people talk. At parties, I usually sit around and drink and talk. It never occurs to me to run through the rain and jump in puddles or to climb a hill and throw pebbles at the people below. I saw the prefecto pass by the students and say something to them. One of the kids ran up to me. "The prefecto told us we were acting infantile!" he gasped, still short breathed and wild faced from his puddle activities. "Whatever" I said, smiling, watching a boy kick up some more water on another student. For some reason my mind wandered to a memory from a pizza place I used to work at. "Only children and women wear shorts" my Moroccan boss told me, eyeballing all of the American guys walking around in shorts while the Moroccan men sweated out the day in black jeans.

I got some Ramen noodle soup from the snack shop. They have different flavors of it here in Mexico. The school serves a chili and lime flavored one. After adding the hot water, the snack shop guy dumps an additional blob of hot sauce in it and gives me a real lime, to enhance the "natural" flavors of Ramen. It's weirdly delicious. "Do you know how long Ramen soup stays in your system?" one of the teachers asked me as I ate it. "How long?" I responded. "Fifteen days". I don't know why eating plastic can be so appealing at times, especially when served with lime and hot sauce.

In accordance with my ecology themed unit, I made my students bring in scraps of things the found in the street to celebrate Earth Day. Aluminum, wood, paper and plastic - some of the vocabulary words they learned. As I walked the aisles of the classroom asking each student to rattle off the items they found in English, six students pulled out six empty Tecate cans and set them next to their notebooks. I have an image of them saying "Let's do our English homework" and walking into OXXO to buy a six pack. I also wondered about the people passing by our doorway and seeing kids with beer cans on their desks while they worked.

Ecology Week ended up forcing a lot of class suspensions. Three of my classes were suspended so that the students could present projects that they made for the Ecology competition. About halfway through the second class, it became apparent that all forty kids from each group really didn't need to sit around with one project, waiting to present it. "Tell the other kids to go back to class" a teacher instructed us. I looked at Profe Hector. "How are we going to get them back in the classroom?" I asked him. "It's impossible. Don't worry, this is Tijuana, we can do whatever we want" he answered, and we leaned against a wall a talked for about forty more minutes.

Alec has become addicted to Saturday night fights on TV. We watch brutal boxing matches between various Mexican competitors and occasionally, big name fights. Our favorite part is when "Brought to you by HBO pay per view" appears on our cable-less, public TV station. We are hoping for the Mayweather fight, after already watching Pacquiao wallop someone and Holyfield lumber around with some out of shape guy. I imagine weird wires crossing the border and connecting with some house in California that bought pay per view, bringing prize fights for free to Mexico.

I love the blue and white bus. It's Alec's principle ride to work and he often comes home with stories that begin with "You won't believe what the blue and white did today..". I watched the blue and white cut through the McDonald's drive through, going the wrong way, and sail back into traffic just the other day. When traffic gets backed up, the blue and white simply drives into the oncoming lane, swoops into the maquiladora parking lot when oncoming cars come, and swoops back out into oncoming traffic after exiting the parking lot. Or it just drives through the dirt on the side of the road. You got somewhere to be? Take the blue and white.

So I made a dentist appointment. I found this guy's name on some surfing website. This is when my dormant xenophobia really kicks in. While eating a couple of weeks ago, I managed to chomp down on a rock, yes a rock, that was in my food and crack one of my molars. It doesn't hurt, but I am a little nervous about waiting for it to hurt. I am not to keen on going to any dentist and my fear of dentistry is compounded by going to a dentist in another country. I did it once in Madrid. It was okay, except that when the cleaning started to hurt, the dentist addressed the situation by holding my head down with his forearm until the sweat on my forehead made it start sliding off.

I think everything will be fine.

Supermen

*Art by Lalo Alcaraz

"¿Cómo estás?" I asked Profe Julio as I entered the teacher's workroom on Monday afternoon. "Bien guapo" he answered, sailing by me with a sly smile on his face.

Last Saturday, Alec and I decided to join a California group that normally advocates for immigrants' rights while they distributed aid near the epicenter of the earthquake, south of Mexicali. We drove east through the Rumorosa and promptly got lost upon entering Mexicali. Finally, we saw the caravan of vehicles with handmade white flags hanging from their cars in the Mega parking lot. We inserted my Mazda in the line of overstuffed trucks and headed south.

It started looking pretty rural as we drove the dusty dirt roads south of Mexicali. As we arrived at our first stop, we saw people gathered in a small plaza and clusters of Mexican army vehicles. It was a little awkward, we had a lot of stuff but Mexico clearly had the situation in control. Large military tents with roll down screens and cots formed a square that included a food commissary and medical post. It was clean and orderly. Soldiers quickly unloaded eighteen wheelers full of food aid. "There are about eighty families living here," our leader told us, after speaking with the soldiers, "but they say there are more people about three blocks away that don't want to stay here because they need to stay by their damaged houses and protect them from looters".

We moved the trucks three blocks away. People began gathering immediately. I wondered what would happen, how would we distribute the stuff, would it get out of control? The waiting people asked us what we wanted them to do, form a line? Yeah, yeah, sounds good. We started unloading the trucks and were promptly assisted by members of the damaged community. They formed a chain and started off loading the trucks so efficiently that I felt like I was getting in the way and moved. I have volunteered with various groups that work with Mexicans in need and have noticed a common thread. The people that I have assisted are not hapless and don't like being treated like babies. In the desert, the first instinct for many of us when encountering ill people is to try to wait on them hand and foot. They don't like it. They are in the middle of a bad situation, yes, but they are not children. They want to cook their own food, load water in trucks, basically, help. At the migrant house in Tijuana, we are constantly visited in the kitchen by recently deported migrants that want to help cook, clean up, do something. Again, they are not children and we are not saviors.

We moved on to the next site. As we drove, I had the weird sensation that I have experienced many times in the desert. Weird stuff happens in the afternoon when you think your job is done. I remembered the helicopter evacuation, the three men that hadn't eaten in five days, the two men laying by the road with their ID cards spread out in front of them...It was obvious which roads had always been bad and which were simply ripped apart by the earthquake. People saw our trucks and began motioning and calling "Over there, over there". We came upon another plaza. A collapsed elementary school sat across from it. Distribution areas were marked, "Hot food" and "Potable water", but there did not appear to be much of either. People started gathering. A leader from the ejido approached and introduced herself. "Put the stuff here and organize it: food, toiletries, water and clothes. Save the camping stuff, I have a list of who really needs it. I'm going to tell them to line up, old people first". I was relieved to see her. A group of ten year-old kids showed up, all wearing identical Superman T-shirts. They helped unload the trucks and sort the stuff. I was in charge of toilet paper and soap and whatever else I could get my hands on. And then they started coming, quickly, and every time I looked the line looked longer than before. I had people on all sides of me; it felt like the restaurant rush. But instead of feeling bitchy, I actually felt completely in my element. Things were moving quickly and the Supermen helped us. "What can I give you, what do you need?" I asked one Señora. "Anything you are willing..." she answered quietly. Don't worry, I loaded her down with stuff. The endless thank you's were awkward. I know it is a social convention and that the recipients of our aid wanted to be polite, but I never know how to respond, in the desert or in Mexicali. "You're welcome"? For what, giving a thirsty person water? Awfully big of you. I settled on "Suerte": Good luck. Good luck with your collapsed town. Not the best, but all I could come up with.

I had to cross to San Ysidro again the other day. As I returned, an American agent approached a Hispanic woman in front of the turnstile to Mexico. "Can I see in your purse?" he asked, more as a statement than a question. She looked baffled. "I'm going to Mexico" she responded, confused. "Are you saying I can't look in your purse?" the agent barked. One little phrase would be very useful to these agents and they may want to learn it in Spanish, as they seem to only stop Hispanics at the turnstile. "This is a routine check. We are assisting the Mexican government to stop the flow of fire arms from the U.S. to Mexico. Can I look in your purse?". I passed through the turnstile, unmolested. Again, in the no man's land between the two fences, I saw a Border Patrol truck. Two agents stood talking and laughing, while a man crouched on the ground between them, his hands secured behind his back.

I think I am a little agitated the last couple of days. I know someone of questionable legal status that is returning to Mexico to see a possibly dying relative. Okay, it's their mother. I have offered what little assistance I can offer that is within the law, as I have no desire to spend time in some tent jail in Arizona. It is not needed. He knows what he is doing and is going to do it. I'm agitated by this new law in Arizona. A police officer will be able to stop anyone that they suspect is in the country illegally and ask them to prove their legal status in the U.S. Supporters of the bill claim it is not going to lead to racial profiling, yet cannot explain how one arrives at this suspicion of illegality. Special clothes? Weird shoes? Or let me guess...having brown skin? If a cop approached me and asked me to prove that I am legally in the U.S., I wouldn't necessarily be able to do it. I thought "Show me your papers" only happened in World War II movies. But you know what? No one is going to stop me. I'm white. An unmistakable euro-mutt. I am not sure how many of you have spent time in the American Southwest, but the ethnic makeup is decidedly Latino. Hell, it was Mexican land. It sounds like if you're brown, be sure to carry identification and be prepared to show it regularly or spend who knows how long in jail because some cop doesn't like the look of you, whether you are a citizen or not. "But this is the USA!" you say. No, not in Arizona.

Our military is also largely Latino now. I'm intrigued to see the outcome when the first cop asks some recently returned Latino vet to prove his or her legal status. Oh, but I lose myself sometimes. It's okay to send Latinos into U.S. wars, or U.S. construction sites, or U.S. kitchens. But the rest of the time they are supposed to remember that they don't have rights.

I guess you could say that I am agitated.

Bueno Barato y Bonito

Coming back to work was hard. I'm not sure why.

"There is something in my beer" Alec stated. "Something I did not put there". I ran over, expecting to see a severed finger or bug in his Bohemia bottle. A perfectly petrified lime floated in the half empty beer. An old one. One that he did not put there. Before you all stop drinking Bohemia, I would personally like to vouch for it's quality. I have drunk about ten million since I arrived in Tijuana and this was the first that did not meet quality control standards.

A fart rattled through the other side of the teacher's workroom. "¡No seas puerco!" one of the teachers howled. "You're not showing the value of the month: Loyalty" Profe Julio remarked, wandering through the workroom with his shoes in his hand. "It's going to stink in here!" they yelled at him. "So how was your vacation, Hilary? Listen to me, I sound like those American movies when the Latino speaks English" Profe Julio continued, plunking himself in the chair beside me. "Good, good" I responded as Julio wrapped his scarf around his neck and over his nose.

"Hilary! Please tell your American friends to visit Baja California. They see Tijuana and turn around and go right back home. Tell them it's beautiful in the south!" Profe Berenice instructed me. "I think they already know, Profe," I responded, "there were a lot of them down there". "You should tell the exchange people to send you to Cancún next year!" she responded. Sometimes I have no idea what is going through this woman's head.

The teachers debated the ethics of something they were planning. "¡Lo no está prohibido está permitido!" they chanted in unison. I love this about Mexico. You do something you probably shouldn't do in the U.S., whether it's posted in writing or not, cops swarm you and throw you on the ground. "I was going to put the cigarette out, I swear!" you find yourself gasping, swatting the foot on your throat away. Here, things are kind of flexible. Go the wrong way and end up on the toll road to Ensenada? "I really don't want to do this," I told the toll booth agent "can I turn around?". "Sure, sure" he responded, moving cones and instructing the cars behind me to back up. I'm quite fond of the three Bs as well. "Bueno, barato y bonito, that's what we look for in a car" the teachers instructed me and were surprised when I told them that I would settle for bueno y barato.

"Where were you during the earthquake?" I asked one of my classes. This has become a popular question at school. One of Alec's students apparently was in the shower, felt the house rattling, and continued showering. All of my students pointed at one "kid", a student who says he is eighteen but everyone swears is thirty. "He was in el baño!" they shrieked. "Showering, right? Please say you were showering" I responded. "I was having intimacies, teachercita" one of my truly buck-wild bobcats said slyly. I am not sure what I did to give my students the green light to say things to me that they would never say to another teacher. I guess I haven't done a lot to discourage it either. I am curious about them, their real personalities, their slang. "Yeah, in your dreams," I responded "alone".

"Teacher!" one of my students called. "What's up?" I asked her, trudging through my first day back at work. "We made this for you" she stated, handing me a long necklace on a woven string. A plastic leaf hung in the middle, with my students names and group number on the back. It feels like a lucky, magic charm, a guard against anything bad that could come to me. I have been wearing it nonstop and have considered sleeping in it. I swear, these kids just break my heart sometimes.

Whatcha

"They are going to suspend classes on Friday, the day before Semana Santa. All you have to do is stop by on Friday and sign that you taught your classes" the union rep advised me. I went up to the school around three to sign for the classes that I didn't teach and the school was deserted. For once, I was the late one. The few people that remained were literally running for the parking lot to cars that were packed with wives and kids, ready for the long journey back to the precious pueblos they had left behind years before to head for the job filled metropolis of Tijuana.

En Mexicali ya había tenido oportunidad de echarle un ojo a esa gente. Gente sin vida, es lo que digo. Como cuerpos sin alma, quiero decir.

I was glad they were going home.

I asked Profe Josefina where she was going for vacation before everyone left. "We're staying here. My husband's family is coming up from San Luis Potosi. We didn't have enough room for all of them in the house, so my husband built an extra room off of the side".

Alec and I drove south, fighting over who had control over the stereo. We spent our first night in Ensenada. I love cable TV. For some reason I have ended up watching one boxing movie or another on more than one of my stays in Ensenada. This time, Raging Bull. "You didn't knock me down...you didn't knock me down..." Robert DeNiro hisses at Sugar Ray Robinson, his nose plastered across his face and eyes swelled nearly shut. It's really a sick scene, but I'm not big on being knocked down either.

On we went, toward the fantastic, Dr. Seuss desert that surrounds the small cluster of buildings that make up the town of Cataviña. Oddly shaped cacti and neon yellow desert flowers dotted the mountains. Men sold gas from jugs on the side of the road. My car thought it was a good time to start acting weird and glow some of its danger dashboard lights at me around dusk. It reminded me of the time my sister's car broke down on us in the Petrified Forest in Arizona. I decided to just turn it off and we stayed at a hot pink little hotel with a slouchy mattress and a curtain for a bathroom door. Isn't it funny how places that advertise themselves as "linda" never are?

Though I loved the desert scenery, I felt sorry for Baja California. Even dusty roadside taco stands had menus in Spanish and English, anticipating tourists that used to come and clearly weren't arriving this year. Gun toting soldiers stopped us in the military checkpoints that line the transpeninsular highway and politely waived us through.

The car felt better in the morning and stopped shining those lights at me. For a '97 Mazda, it really seemed to take to those dirt roads. We drove through massive salt fields that made Baja California look like the arctic to arrive at the Laguna Ojo de Liebre. I really wanted to see more whales. From our little boat, gray whales and their whale babies humped their way through the water, blowing a weird orangey smoke out of their, um, blowholes. I really wanted one of them to turn our boat over. I am not really sure why, I didn't want anyone to get hurt and I didn't want to get eaten by a whale, I just wanted to know what it would be like.

We were supposed to turn back there, head north, but we went crazy instead and kept heading south. Actually, southeast, through San Ignacio and on to Santa Rosalia - a French anomaly mining town that looks like the Marigny or Dominica, but in Mexico. And further south, to Mulegé. And then to the crystal clear beaches south of Mulegé with big white faced birds that looked like Dick Cheney.....Some gringolandia developments started popping up. And we saw some of their inhabitants in Mulegé. But they were the other kind. The mysterious kind. Older, with four wheel drive vehicles with plastic gas cans strapped on the back and skin like brown leather. People that knew the whole history of Mexico and referred to their homes in San Felipe. They reminded me of Australians. A little rougher than ordinary Americans, wilder, but people that share our humor and redneck qualities more than our English brethren. I can't say that I entirely approve of the Baja expatriates, whether they live in McMansions in San Felipe or rusted RV settlements in southern Baja, but will say they are a different sort of tourist and generally extraordinarily friendly and helpful.

I realized that Tijuana is perceived as the eyesore of Baja California. When hotel proprietors would ask us where we are from, we would tell them that we are from Atlanta but have been living in Tijuana. "Oh no..." they'd say "you'll like it much better here". Poor TJ. It just can't help itself.

We had to get heading north. We went crazy again and took a detour to Bahía de Los Angeles. I expected another pretty, crystal bay or feared San Felipe, but instead found a more savage place with deep blue water and wild waves. Alec and I started plotting how to get back there and headed north the next day.

Military checkpoint after military checkpoint. The car was searched every time. Thumping on side panels, flashlights in air vents, please open your trunk can I see inside your luggage? All cars going south get the waive through. All cars going north get searched. "Write down your name and the make of your car" the soldier instructed me. I am almost afraid to say it, knock on wood, but the soldiers are actually really polite. I watch them when they search my stuff but have never had anything but honestly, a pleasant experience with them.

We got back to TJ late Thursday night. After washing my clothes, Alec and I went to a park near our house on Friday. It has a little zoo. Tigers, pumas, lynxes. Some really big bears that can stand on their back legs beside a wall that is way too low where we stood and observed them. One time, Alec saw a tiger ride by, being towed from a truck in a little cage, in the middle of traffic in Tijuana. I saw a llama in an intersection in Ensenada, riding through a four way behind bars. "I saw this tiger in a cage" the husband of another exchange teacher told me. "It was right in the middle of traffic. The thing was, the bars just seemed too far apart, like the thing could just swipe at you if you came too close. You know, a kid or something!".

I love Mexico. The park is basically in the middle of a series of giant roads, pollution, madness all around. A lot of the people I work with don't seem content in Tijuana. They want to be home, where they came from. There is violence here, bad violence, drug wars, soldiers, men in ski masks patrolling the streets. The Mexicans chased their kids through the park, bought snacks and laughed. Their capacity for happiness amazes me. It's as if the pollution, noise and grime just vanishes away. I love how they can't eat a bag of chips unless someone pours a quart of hot sauce directly in the bag before serving it to them. That my male students carefully cut out pictures of soccer stars from magazines and glue them to the front of their notebooks. That five gallon jars of hair gel take up a whole aisle in the supermarket.

As I rode the trolley north to San Diego to catch my flight back into Mexico to get to Mazatlan to begin my second week of vacation, I was filled with love for my students. Their faces filled my mind as I sat by a big cholo guy that no one else would sit next to, listening to Tijuana's greatest hits on my ipod. The job thing is a little on my mind. I have options. In that moment, the thing that felt most comfortable, the most natural, was to stay in Tijuana.

I did a plane tour through the southwest United States, changing in Phoenix and on to Sinaloa. I knew we were in Mexican airspace when I started seeing messages to God written on the sides of mountains. "Whatcha!" my cab driver said to another man, before continuing his sentence. You Spanish speakers may be accustomed to "Mira" as a way of saying "Look". Here, and in Sinaloa, "whatcha" does just fine. My super asombrosa family met me in Mazatlan for the rest of my vacation, while Alec returned to work in TJ and the rest of the world avoided Mazatlan because of the state it is in.

More cable! I turned on the TV late in the afternoon and caught CNN español. Sismo? 7.2 in Baja California...epicenter Mexicali...phone in my hand, "Alec, was there a, um, earthquake?". "Yeahhhh," he answered cautiously. "I didn't want to worry you. The floor started shaking and I thought 'shit this is an earthquake' and I got in the doorway. Then I realized in ten more seconds I could be out of the house and I ran outside. The whole street was out there and the road was moving, people laughing hysterically and dogs barking like crazy."

We took the boat to La Paz traveled and west toward Los Cabos. Okay, the Americans did not get the memo down there. BAJA CALIFORNIA IS DANGEROUS. STAY HOME. There may be beautiful beaches there, but BAJA CALIFORNIA IS DANGEROUS AND ALL GRINGOLANDIA EXCEPT ME MUST STAY HOME. Oh well.

I flew back to TJ Friday night. I offered Alec 175 pesos to drive my car to the airport and pick me up and was super surprised when he did it and had to cover my eyes from the passenger's seat while he drove through Tijuana to get us back home. "Keep the bottom lock on the door unlocked" he instructed me. "When the house starts shaking you're gonna want to get out of here".

*Malasuerte en Tijuana, Hilario Peña, READ IT