Cocaine, Axes, And Pointless Border Crossings: A Day In The Life
“This original version of Coca-Cola contained a small amount of coca extract and therefore a trace of cocaine. (It was eliminated early in the twentieth century, though other extracts derived from coca leaves remain part of the drink to this day.) Its creation was not the accidental concoction of an amateur experimenting in his garden, but the deliberate and painstaking culmination of months of work by an experienced maker of quack remedies.”
- Tom Standage, A History of the World in 6 Glasses
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Today I saw a man sell cocaine in tiny bags from a bicycle.
He has been around the block you might say. I've seen him with the other street
level cartel dealers, the same ones who occasionally keep me awake by blasting
their music from the shit car they sit in on cold nights. Not nearly as nice as the vehicles that deliver them their products and collect the cartels cut of the money, no sir, not at all that nice. Its a shit car, with a
great sound system, and if they were blasting something other than
Spanish-language dubstep I might not mind so much.
I'm not so old yet that I can't appreciate good music
blasting from a car stereo. One of my favorite things about Greta, my now
almost middle-aged in car years, VW Passat is her rather fantastic sound
system. Its stock for the car as far as I know, but it can kick ass when called
upon.
In truth there are a lot of dealers around here, which I
don't mind. They mostly keep to themselves, and their presence, and thus the
cartels presence, keeps the street and property crime is this neighborhood to
an almost non-existent level. They don't like the added police attention such
things bring, so they deal with things themselves, make their presence known in
subtle-yet-not-so-subtle-ways, and everyone goes on with their lives.
Its not a bad thing all things considered, to be living on
the cartels turf. Since I don't sell drugs and don't rob tourists or burn the
locals they leave me be. Oh sure, they sized me up when I moved into the area.
An Americano moving into an area that is 99% Mexican when you are looking at
who stays longer than a night or two, is a thing that does not go unnoticed.
However it seems that word quickly spread that I was just some weirdo who moved
to a rather non-traditional part of Mexico for foreigners to live, and
no doubt the furniture incident played some role in them giving me a slightly
wider berth as well.
Shortly after I moved here I found an old Coca-Cola branded
steel topped wooden table, a relic of the 1970's was my guess, and some plastic lawn chairs beside what I thought was a
hobo shack behind my "house". It turns out the hobo shack is where
the local dealers send gringos and some locals to get high after they purchase
their drug of choice. The furniture was unrelated to the not-a-hobo shack and
belonged to one of the local taco vendors.
It was as far as I can see it an
honest mistake, there is a ton of junk, straight up garbage, and old clothing back there, in various states of
disrepair. The table and chairs were not pristine by any measure, so I assumed
they were detritus like the rest of the lots colorful decor. What a fictional
supervillain fashonista would call "Derelicte".
[[You should see the inside, its... well, its certainly something.]]
So I brought them into my humble home, cleaned them up, and
was preparing to begin arranging them when suddenly there came a tapping, as of
someone not-so-gently rapping, rapping at my squats front door. I opened the
door to find the taco vendor to whom they belonged and one of his nephews, who
spoke some English, angerily accusing me of stealing from them. I explained
that I thought they were junk as they were in and around a serious pile of
junk, a pile of junk that would have given Sanford & Son pause. I
apologized profusely, and returned them all nice and clean. I assumed at that
point the matter was settled.
About a half hour later I was getting ready for bed, and
wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer-briefs. One of my exes encouraged me
to wear that style of underpants because "it shows off your package really
nicely", so I have stuck with them. Again, there was a banging on my
squats front door, and it was not, sadly, my long lost Lenore. Being annoyed
and not expecting company I went to the door as-is. It was the taco vendor, his
English speaking nephew, and another, much larger, Spanish-only model of
nephew, brought along no doubt for intimidation. Or worse.
Being that I was unaware of who was at the door and it was bedtime, I was
nearly naked, having no proper peep hole, and was annoyed I opened the door
with my 'Patrick Bateman' model of felling axe slung over my shoulder. All
three of them shifted visibly from whatever their angry plan to teach me some lesson or forcibly extract some compensation they imagined I owed had been to a much more "this
guy is nuts, nearly-naked, and clearly armed, lets get the fuck out of here" frame of mind.
Since this incident I have had exactly zero issues with the locals thinking I could be intimidated in some way. I am left in peace, largely. Which is good. I deeply value my privacy and security of wherever I call home. Being seen as a man willing to answer intimidation and a highly probable beating by potentially forcing an old man to fish parts of his nephews out of the Rio Grande for weeks to come seems to have guaranteed those things for me for the time being. I'm alright with that. In other news the man makes great tacos.
Despite these incidents and annoyances life here is pretty quiet in the evening. Weeknights anyways. On the weekends its a bit different, as in any major or minor tourist destination. Despite a few of my stories the "vibe" if you will here is largely mellow.
In the past I have had issues with the Mexican border patrol not wanting to let me back across the border with my car, which was highly annoying. Tonight, in order to secure funds for my new apartment I had to cross the border on foot. There are no ATM's in Nuevo Progresso, but there is one on the Texas side of the border, right on the bridge.
I parked my car by the bridge, after my first local contact 'M' accompanied me to translate with my new landlady who speaks zero English and agreed to stay with me until the transaction was complete. After recent frustrations at the border I didn't want car issues, so I crossed to the US and back again on foot. About 30ft from the US inspection point I realized I had forgotten my passport. Thankfully the officer was sympathetic to my need for an ATM and let me through with only my PA drivers license. That was a spot of good luck, right? Right!
The ATM was out of order. The next closest one was 9 miles away in Texas, and Greta was still in Mexico. As was my passport. So I said fuck it, walked back across, anticipating issues on the Mexican side of things. That anticipation grew to dread as I noticed at least two officers who had given me shit about my car before. They waved me through, didn't even ask to see my passport or ID.
'M' was still with the car, and suggested we drive to Rio Bravo as that is the closest ATM in Mexico. Its only a ten minute drive but it was night, I was hurting from a day on my feet barking for the club, and was entirely, stark-raving sober. So we explained the situation to my new landlord, who already had half of my deposit and first months rent, and hopefully another stroll between the borders of nations tomorrow will sort things out. Assuming the ATM is fixed.
Lone Star bank, you pigfuckers, sort your shit out.
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This
post and its original content copyright James Radcliff, and has been
brought to you by Mexico, tequila, and generally poor decision making.
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