TheTraveler

 
Out to Service

By Karen L. Lenar

I squinted at the Chinese restaurant menu, listening to the strong Mexican banjo lullaby vibrating through the air. The Spaniard behind the counter smiled brightly and offered me packaged hot chili sauce with my fried rice. I glanced at the posted sign on the cash register while reaching into my wallet. "10 X 1." This cultural clash of a restaurant was one of many at the last stop before la bordera.

So Cali was dust, baby. My college friends and I dreamt of languid beach days under the hot, steamy sun as we rolled along in the mad dog race south of the border. I prayed my $40 drive-through Mexican insurance really was legit as we nervously searched for other California plates. We were heading towards Rosarito, recommended by friends who had spent spring break there.
Entering Mexico, as we drove next to noisy, gas-emitting vehicles, we were strangely quiet. Our widened eyes could barely register the stark destitution we saw along the highway- and mine could barely follow the faded yellow lines. Barefoot mothers in colorful wraps stood alongside the road clutching gypsy-eyed babies in their arms. Dilapidated mud-covered shacks pressed tightly in the hillsides, blending in with the land. Simple, cotton shirts dangling on clotheslines blew in the sea breeze. And every few miles, a starch white tourist hotel gleamed like a diamond in the sky. It's erect sign screamed to the gringos: Come stay here.
And so we did. It had an underground garage full of California plates. We parked next to a gleaming metallic Pathfinder, hoping in the moment of truth it would be the more desired. And man-oh-man it was expensive. Somehow the pesos-to-American-dollar translation and gazillion tax had amounted to an eyebrow-raising amount. But not like we could complain. It was either that or- nothing.

We walked along the street, a constant stream of "no's" flowing out of our mouths to the dirty, pestering children and to the ubiquitous perspiring vendors. The nicer Mexican restaurants and shops wanted our money, advertising "Spanglish" lingo. We were drawn to these establishments, but still we cautiously ordered bottled waters and drank coke with no ice.
When I said "gracias" to waiters, they uttered, "okay." When I said "audios" they replied, "bye." After numerous attempts to engage a particular Mexican waiter in Espanol, I finally asked in exasperation "Why won't you talk to me in Spanish?" He smiled amusedly, exposing wire braces, and sat down to chat. He explained that this town was a tourist town. They were happy to play their roles- server to the white folk- and receive their salvation- the American dirt-stained dollar. Everything else was secondary. Business is business, comprendes? And I realized that I was the customer.
One night I sat around a beach bonfire with my buddies, shooting back Tequila shots and salty lime margaritas. I was quite a bit frustrated, having had a hell of a time trying to make a call to the states. My cell phone was rendered useless, and although I had gringos money to spend, a calling card and credit card would not get me an outside phone line. I warmed my hands by the fire's glow and pulled on my jacket, which I had worn for the past two days straight. Damn, Mexico could get cold.

I watched the flames sear into the night as liquor burned down my throat. It seemed to me that a haze lingered in the Mexican air. I pondered that maybe the culprit was the cigar smoke of the Senor Frogs waiter Renaldo as he kicked up dirt chugging along in his noisy, maroon station wagon- or perhaps the haze was created by his car fumes. Possibly it was from the iridescent 4 a.m. glow of the nightclub signs cast onto a deserted and strangely silent town- or from the black hair, brown-eyed child who repeatedly tugged on my white shirt with her short, grubby fingers. Maybe it was due to the tourist, beach horses grinding their manure into the brown sand.

Perhaps simply the American dirt-stained dollar had made one too many rounds- and was disintegrating with the ephemeral flames into the pitch black night.

Mis amigos made amigos, and our group huddled together, loners in a gigantic Spring-break type bar. But it wasn't Spring break. It really was quite desolate this time of year. Still, the techno music boomed, the disco lights flashed, and the servers waited in the shadows for a nod or glance. As I made my way to the bathroom, I noticed a sign on one of the stalls: out to service. When we paid the bill, the bar shut down for the night.

We left Mexico a shade dirtier and wiser. Spring-break anticipations had hardened to cultural realizations. I breathed a sigh of relief when I was waved through immigration inspection. As we drove away, I still felt the dark eyes of the officer boring into my back. How was it, everyone wanted to know. Well, it was fun. You know- tequila, music, street markets... And then my college buddies and I glanced at each other and smiled uncertainly. And... there's not much else to tell. It was... fun.