Tijuana

Last week, I went to Tijuana. After I made the decision to go and purchased the plane ticket, the newspapers reported a rash of killings in Tijuana. I saw my emotions stir up fear, as is human nature, and I sent in my brains to quell that nervousness with common sense. It’s a city of a million and 20 drug runners are gunned down in turf wars with the cops in the wee hours in bad neighborhoods. Let’s go.

Once in TJ, standing there on the curb, I noticed a clear military and police presence: machine-gunners in “Federale” uniforms tense atop speeding armored jeeps. I found that exciting and fun to photograph…and nothing for the tourist to worry about. As usual, the image from a distance was one of tension. With the bloody news and concerned loved ones, I wondered if my visit was wise. And also as usual, when I got there, I found no tension. Locals I quizzed discounted the bloodshed, saying, “The dead are just drug pushers — they’re killing each other, and that makes fewer of them we need to deal with.” (They’re actually killing police, too.)

I guess they’re planning on a long struggle, as I saw the next generation of drug warriors being trained. I met what looked like a Boy Scout troop in juvenile police DARE uniforms learning how to be policemen to fight a drug war stoked by the US appetite for recreational drugs (it is American consumers, after all, who make up a substantial part of the lucrative drug market). With that training, these kids will have an exciting job awaiting them when they turn 18.

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Looking at the loving teachers and the new DARE uniforms, I wondered about the cost and violence that comes with drugs. I pondered the countless American boys waiting until they’re old enough to “fight evil” funded by the illegality of drugs in poppy-rich Afghanistan. I envisioned that war heating up and the USA getting sucked deeper into a quagmire much like the one that helped bring down the USSR, when gung-ho Russians underestimated the task of fighting and winning a war in Afghanistan.

Then I recalled seeing the movie No Country for Old Men— the entire plot based on a very violent confrontation between police and drug runners. Bloody movies, shoot-’em-ups just south of the border, expensive wars in lands rich in poppies: It’s all got me thinking. Imagine if drugs were suddenly made legal (people who chose to use them were held criminally responsible for bad things they did) and the money and violence associated with drugs disappeared overnight. That would infuriate a lot of very bad people who make money because drugs are illegal. Just a thought I had in Tijuana.

(PS: I am what drug reform activists call an “incrimentalist”–I support decriminalization of marijuana but not harder drugs. The pot issue is clear to me. I’m still struggling with the more sweeping approach to taking the crime, money, and violence out of hard drug use and abuse. Except for one delightful mushroom dinner in Bali, I’ve never ventured beyond pot.)

A year ago I was excited about Tangier in Morocco and wrote on this blog, “It’s no longer the Tijuana of Africa.” I didn’t realize I’d touch a nerve with people who think TJ is notthe armpit of North America.

So I went to Tijuana this weekend to give it a second look. Okay, I admit, I’ve never been there … so I’d give it a first look. (I also wanted to be in a rough border town, where First World meets Developing World, as I continue to work on my upcoming book about the value of travel as a political act.)

I had a great time. While TJ is not a destination most would fly to in itself, as a side trip from San Diego or a stop while heading south, visiting it is a great experience. As an observer of the cultural and economic riptides created where two worlds collide, it’s a fascinating case study.

At what locals claim is the busiest international border in the world, 24 lanes are busy with traffic — 24/7. It’s easy to get out of the USA … tough to get back in. A handy trolley zips tourists from San Diego literally to the border for $3 (it also takes Mexican workers into San Diego on a daily commute that thousands make). Drivers can park within 100 yards of the border for $8 a day. Pedestrians step right in without showing a passport, power past the trinket stalls and aggressive cabbies, and head for the towering arch that marks the start of Revolution Avenue (and all the fun).

Getting out of Mexico is different. Pedestrians shuffle fairly quickly through an officious passport check. Cars are generally stacked up for a several-hour wait. As taxis are dirt cheap and there’s always a very long wait to drive north across the border, there’s no reason to drive in if you’re just visiting TJ.

Tijuana, barely a century old, thrives today with 1.5 million people. A local explained there’s a big funnel from Mexico to the USA and this is the little hole through which everything flows. While there’s the cross border business — legal and illegal — there’s also a thriving local industry stoked by 650 maquiladoras:assembly factories for First World manufacturers that locate here for the cheap labor. With plants for companies such as Samsung, Sony, and Hitachi, more TVs are assembled here than in any other city.

Throughout Mexico, Tijuana is considered a place of opportunity. With this thriving economy comes a thriving culture: music, arts, an impressive cultural center, and lots of people who love San Diego’s public television station. Everywhere I walked, I met locals who were regular viewers of my travel show on KPBS — something I expect when I cross the border to the north and visit Canadians in Vancouver but something I didn’t even consider in the south.

The city, while ramshackle architecturally, is impressively clean. The streets were free of litter. Locals thank their new government that “gets things done.”

Tijuana’s tiny old town, which radiates from the arch, feels like ramshackle 1950s. You can’t miss all the things people come to a border town for: plastic surgery, pharmaceuticals without prescriptions, dentistry, cheap hair cuts, Cuban cigars, and of course jumping beans. The kitsch is riveting: glow-in-the-dark tattoos, hucksters hollering “Hello, 100 percent off today!”, donkeys painted like zebras on each street corner, ready for you to don a sombrero and pose for a photo.

Bars that feel like saloons come with cheap prostitutes wearing down their stiletto heels at their doors. Checking out a few $20 hotels, I struggled by transvestites patiently waiting for something in the lobbies … while watching Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. Apparently, the siesta is alive and well, as these places also rent rooms by the hour. (While there is a hotel strip with big high-rise places, there are plenty of decent places — without company for hire in the lobbies — renting $40 rooms on or near Revolution Avenue.)

After the salesman promised me it came with a fine guided narration in English, I hopped onto a two-hour, $10 bus tour. It was a great tour — but with no guide. I chatted the best I could with the driver for the duration. He said the USA and Mexico are brothers, stuck together. If the US gets the flu, Mexico gets pneumonia. He explained the youth culture is crazy about Japan these days, explaining all the colorfully painted hair and people dressed up as different pop culture characters. Hopping off the open top tour bus at the cathedral, I joined a Mass.

Grabbing a pew in the cathedral, I sat there with hundreds of Mexicans, enjoying a vivid reminder that the gang the tourist sees along Revolution Avenue and in front of the saloons is photogenic but not representative. This was the real Tijuana. Surrounded by well-worn people, I pondered how all were at various stages on the same ride up and down the parabolas of their respective lives. These people, taking an hour out of their Sundays to worship, wearing crude t-shirts, hooded sweatshirts, and shoes without arch support picked up for $3 at a street market, were the Joe Six-Packs and Hockey Moms of their world.

And as I poured out of that church with all those people and bought a bag of fresh baked churros encrusted in sugar, it occurred to me how wrong I was to consider Tijuana the armpit of the Western Hemisphere.