Not quite Mazatlán
09/27/2009 at 23:45 from (31.420834, -110.845833)
After a hard day of hiking, we enjoyed a long, elegant sleep in Laura's well-appointed room. We woke up late, took warm, relaxing showers in the filtered morning sunlight, and casually dressed. Brett and Laura roused themselves just as we started re-packing our bags, and after several minutes, we joined them downstairs for an informal breakfast of cereal and football.
We discussed our plans (a short discussion, seeing as how we had no plans) and charted a course for the day. After dropping off a few gifts from Jennifer, we loaded up the car and took off for the Saguaro Forest on the outskirts of Tucson.
As soon as we stepped out of the car, Marijana and I were both overwhelmed by the intense, unrelenting midday heat. We gazed in awe at the acres and acres of huge, shrugging cacti and, as we were snapping photos, I spotted what appeared to be a tiny cave. I took off up the treacherous, glass-strewn stone trail, Marijana hot on my heels. Along the way, we took some inappropriate photos (cacti are too phallic for me to just pass them by) and one or two family-friendly photos. Once we arrived at the "cave", I was disappointed to discover it was just a hot, man-sized depression in the rock wall, barely worth scrambling around.
We headed back up the trail, my hands blistered from climbing rocks in the appalling heat, our shoes poorly suited to the sharp gravel and jagged stone. Once safely back at the lookout point, we took a few group photos, then piled back into the car to bask in the glory of air conditioning and catch up on each others' lives. Brett took us to a mall in the richest part of Tucson and we had a quick lunch of pizza and refreshingly cold water. Pressed for time, we hurried back to the bus station and unloaded our things. We said our goodbyes, exchanged hugs, and lugged our bags out of the sun.
Inside the terminal, we checked in and received a long chain of tickets from Tucson, through Nogales, Hermosillo, Ciudad Obregón, Los Mochis, Culiacán, and finally on to Mazatlán. As we tagged our bags, we were approached by two border patrol agents and struck up a conversation about our trip. They seemed confused about our motives and sanity, but smiled all the same.
"Buses all the way?", one said, "Well, it's gonna be an adventure, at least!"
Minutes later, our gate was called and we lined up to board the bus... along with one other person. She was an elderly woman and I helped her down the ramp and up the stairs with her bags. As we climbed the stairs, we realized that there was only one other person -- another old woman -- on the bus.
Right about then, the driver -- an older hispanic man with large glasses and a quick, incisive wit -- disappeared, ostensibly to look for more passengers. After 35 minutes, it became abundantly clear that we were the only people bound for Mexico. He hurriedly boarded the bus, amiably flirting with the old ladies in Spanish as we pulled out of the station.
Along the way, Marijana and I stared out the window with growing anxiety. We had officially left behind our second-to-last safety net (staying with family), and were speeding toward abandoning the last (English). We flashed past smaller and smaller towns with fewer and fewer signs in English. Almost too soon, we found ourselves winding through the narrow, European streets of Nogales, Arizona, mere steps from the border.
Here, the old ladies disembarked, and the driver devoted a lot of time and attention to ensuring that each had her luggage and a ride home before joining us back in the bus. We asked him if he would mind helping us navigate the border when we got there and he solemnly insisted that it would be his pleasure. He introduced himself as Rogelio Pier and we were soon deep in conversation.
Within minutes, we arrived at the border. We were, by now, far too late for our connecting bus, but we didn't care. Rogelio set our minds at ease by explaining that, in Mexico, schedules meant something entirely different than in the United States.
"It's not a problem," he said. "You will be just fine. I'll show you what to do."
On the US side of the border, two agents boarded the bus, surprised that there were only two passengers. One of the agents studied Marijana's passport for a good long while, then glanced at mine before hopping off and waving us on, somberly wishing us luck.
We crossed unceremoniously to the Mexican side, where the border agent's counterpart merely waved us on with a smile. Rogelio pulled the bus over at an office labeled "Migracion" and explained that we needed to run inside to get a tourist card for each of us, since our stay would be for (much!) longer than 7 days.
We made our way through the confusing array of gates and halls adorned with peeling white paint to a tiny office with a waiting room and two agents behind the counter. After a few seconds of fumbling in bad Spanish (me) and bad English (the awkward, grinning, mustachioed officer behind the counter), we began filling out our cards. But just as Marijana was finishing up her application, the woman who seemed to be running the office drifted over and apologetically shook her head.
"No good," she said, in lightly-accented English. "I'm very sorry, but we can't let you in without a visa."
Marijana protested, insisting that we had spoken with the consulate in Seattle before leaving, but the woman was firm. We needed to get a visa administered by the Mexican consulate... back in Nogales, AZ. By now, it was at least 7:30pm. On a Sunday. And even if, by some miracle, the consulate was open, the line to cross back in to the US stretched for a quarter of a mile past the room we were standing in.
Exasperated, we stared for a bit, wondering what to do. Seeing that we were now paralyzed with indecision and frustration, Rogelio stepped forward with a plan: I would get my tourist card as we had originally planned. But before that, we would get a room in a hotel near the border. Early the next morning, when the line for the border is typically very short, we would file out, make our way to the consulate, secure Marijana's visa, then cross back into Mexico via taxi. Then, finally, we would get Marijana's tourist card, catch a cab to the bus terminal, and exchange our now-useless tickets for the next bus to Mazatlán.
It sounded sane and reasonable, so we sprang into action. I walked across the secure area to a bank teller window on the Mexican side of the border. I slid my tourist card application under the safety glass, along with the fee (MX$265 or USD$19.50) and my passport. After several minutes of typing on the computer, stamping papers, making copies, and stamping the copies, the teller smiled and handed back my almost-complete application, instructing me to return it to the immigration office for a final stamp.
Instead of heading right back across the square to finish my tourist card application, though, Rogelio grabbed us and explained that we should get the hotel first. He was on a schedule (indeed, he was already over an hour behind it) and we would need to get a hotel fast to avoid Nogales' "night life". He led us briskly down a few blocks, then around the corner. At the far end of the street, we saw a large neon blue sign proclaiming "San Carlos Hotel".
"Every time my family comes up from Tepic, they stay here," he explained.
He led us into the lobby and told the young, chubby man behind the counter that we needed a room for two. The clerk then handed across a form to me and asked for my information. As I struggled to see in the fading light (I was still wearing my prescription sunglasses), the manager -- an older man with greying hair and a hawk nose -- strode smartly over and lightly smacked the clerk on the shoulder, pointing to a switch above my head. The young man sheepishly flicked on the light above the counter and I quickly finished jotting down my name and address.
After I handed the card to the clerk, he pored methodically over it, then began slowly writing down the room charges by hand. The manager crept back, peering over the clerk's shoulder, then smacked him again. Moments later, the clerk quietly handed me the bill to sign. At the top, conspicuously crossed out, was a bogus MX$100 charge, in addition to the MX$400 for the room. The manager shook his head and clucked his disapproval, pulled a key and a TV remote from among the dozens that were stashed in cubbies on the rear wall, and brusquely instructed the clerk to show us to our room.
We were led across the courtyard and up a flight of stairs to what looked like a low-key office door. The clerk unlocked the room and gestured inside, offering us the key and the remote. As he turned to leave, we threw our bags down, noted how nice the room appeared (considering what $30 will buy you in the US) and tore back outside to meet up with Rogelio. We rushed back to the immigration office, where I plunked down my application, now damp with sweat. The awkward man carefully stamped and signed where necessary, then handed me back my completed tourist card. Amid a flurry of apologies from the awkward man and his boss -- a short, affable woman who seemed to take a liking to us -- we returned to our new quarters, happy to have a story for the day and an adventure for the next day.
Back in our rooms, we laughed about how our travels had just taken a twist that was so stereotypically Mexican. It was, as Marijana so eloquently put it, "like a bigger Bosnia". Perhaps most ironically, we were technically illegal immigrants... in Mexico!
We removed our sweaty clothes and sweatier money belts and prepared to wash our clothes in the sink. First, though, we agreed that I should call my mother and update her on our change of plans. But just as I began chatting with mom, the phone in the bathroom began ringing. Marijana looked at me quizzically, then picked up the receiver.
"Hello?" she said.
"Who is this?" said a woman's voice on the other line, in almost perfect English.
"This is Marijana. Who is this?"
"This is Cinthia. May I please speak with Brian?"
"Brian, the phone is for you!" Marijana said, confused and relieved.
"Hello?" I said.
"Good evening, Brian. This is Cinthia, from the immigration office. I would like to apologize to you for what we have put you through. I am terribly sorry. I just called the consulate and your wife was right. If you would like to pick up the tourist card now, we will wait for you here."
"Hold on!" I said, "We'll be there in 10 minutes!"
I breathlessly explained the situation to Marijana as we threw our clothes back on. We raced back out of the room, down the stairs, across the courtyard, into the street, around the corner, down the block, and into the immigration office. The grinning man with the mustache and another officer in casual clothes were leaning against the counter, chatting. Cinthia stood in front, wringing her hands and apologizing profusely. All Marijana would need to do, she explained between apologies, was pay the fee as I had just done and we would be set to go. We took the application and walked back out of the building and across the secure area, through the line of Mexicans waiting patiently to enter the US.
The teller recognized us immediately and smiled, taking Marijana's passport, application, and fee. We waited as he went through the familiar process of typing, signing, making copies, and signing copies.
But then he stopped.
"I'm sorry," he said with a pitying frown. "The system is down. I cannot process this right now. You'll have to come back at 8:00 tomorrow morning."
Bewildered, we gathered up our money and papers and made our way back to the office. With bowed heads, we explained what had happened to Cinthia and the two men.
"No problem!" Cinthia said. Our heads snapped back up. "She can pay in Mazatlán!"
We almost dared to hope, in spite of recent experience. This apparent change in fortune gave us courage, so I took a stab at capitalizing on Cinthia's apology and recouping the cost of the room.
"Because of all this, we missed our bus," I explained. "Would it be possible for you to reimburse us for the room?"
Cinthia looked like she was about to cry and said, "I'll see what I can do."
After a couple of phone calls lasting several minutes, she came back to the counter and shook her head. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do. My boss is in Phoenix for the next three weeks and only he can approve it. When will you be coming back this way?"
We explained our trip plans, emphasizing the part where we head continuously south, and she dropped her head.
"Listen," Cinthia said, "I feel awful about this. Is it OK if I drive you to the bus station to straighten your tickets out, at least?"
"Of course!" we shouted in unison. We dashed back out the door, down the block, around the corner, across the street, through the courtyard, up the stairs, and into the room. I snatched our tickets and we, once again, ran back the way we had just come. By now, our dashing back and forth had attracted increased attention from the various hawkers and cabbies gathered along the street.
When we arrived back in the office, breathless, Cinthia and Arturo (the man in plain clothes) led us out to the van parked at the curb and we all climbed in.
SIDEBAR:
When illegal immigrants to the US are deported, they're dumped at the border by American authorities and officially become Mexico's problem. In a more compassionate gesture, Mexican authorities pick these people up in vans (labeled "Repatriacion Humana") and transport them to places where they can eat, sleep, and wash up. In the winter, these vans ferry upwards of 6000 people per day south, into the heart of Nogales. It was in the back of one of these same vans that we -- a pair of middle-income American tourists -- now, ironically, found ourselves.
Cinthia was tense and apologetic at first, but after numerous assurances that we were, in fact, enjoying this diversion, she began to loosen up. As we sped south toward the bus station, she explained the layout of the city. We talked about her roots and ours. We discovered that her English was so remarkably good after only a year of school (second grade) in the United States. We learned that her brother has a heart condition, but is proudly celebrating his 28th birthday this month.
And then, almost too soon, we arrived at the bus station. Our tickets, she explained, were for Turista Norte de Sonora -- the worst bus company in Nogales. Speaking on our behalf with the bleary-eyed woman behind the counter, though, Cinthia arranged for us to have our tickets exchanged, for free, for tickets to Mazatlán on board Elite, Nogales' best bus company. All we had to do was show up at 10:30 the next morning with our useless tickets.
Our night about over, we headed back, stopping at a safe ATM to withdraw a few pesos. Cinthia gave us some kind advice about how much money to carry and how to keep it broken up in our pockets to avoid drawing attention to ourselves. And then, after she had parked the van and Arturo had wandered back inside, she motioned to us.
"Would you like to have breakfast with me tomorrow?" she asked. "I want to make it up to you for my mistake tonight."
We heartily agreed and she looked relieved. We made one final trip back to our rooms, washed our clothes, brushed our teeth, and reflected on a truly bizarre first day in Mexico. Exhausted, we fell into bed and fell fast asleep to chatter in the street and the tinny sound of mariachi on a distant radio.
