So far in Juarez things have been pretty great. No problems at the border and I had the whole day to explore. My morning started with a delicious breakfast of four cow tongue tacos and a coke from a glass bottle at a road side stand. All for the low low price of 30 pesos, roughly three dollars American. Not a bad deal. After downing my tacos de lengua, I continued to explore Juarez with the casual fearlessness that only an ignorant gringo would have.
Mostly, I like the way things are south of the border; laid back, easy going, and a definite sense of lawless chaos. Dogs wander around unchained, sinkholes that could easily destroy any of the 1970's era cars sporadically pop up in the street. And every once in a while, you can find the corpse of a decaying canine under a blanket. I puked. I think of it and I still puke. But all in all Juarez has been a region of good food and kind people.
That is, until I tried to find a bar for a cerveza.
Less than a week ago at the time of this writing, 15 people had been slaughtered, for seemingly no reason, in a Juarezian drinking establishment. As a man who is equal parts adventurous, foolish, and fearless, this seemed an endeavor worthy to write a story about.
So after leaving the autobus station with the distinct feeling that I had been cheated out of a few pesos by the shoe shine guy; I took a sharp left away from the main road and into the barrio. Two blocks in, a man and his woman begin walking towards me. I keep my distance as he says something in spanish. "No habla espanol.", I reply, but I already know what was said. His tattoos, that draped from his neck to his face, spoke louder than words ever could. This was his territory and if I wanted through, I was going to have to pay a toll.
"English, eh?", he says to me, with the smile of a great white shark, "It's a quarter to pass." We both know it's a set up. Regardless of what I pay him now, I'll be lucky to leave with my life, much less my wallet. I've made myself an easy target in his eyes. He edges closer. My hand is on my knife.
"Then I will go another way.", I say as I grasp the switchblade tighter in my palm, my thumb on the trigger. With a distinct diagonal walk that doesn't expose my back, I move to the road I came from. He follows.
"You really don't speak spanish?", he asks, matching me step for step. "Poquito. Little", I reply. I don't meet his gaze. That would be a challenge. Like staring into the eyes of a pitbull that is waiting for an excuse to tear out my throat. Instead I watch his hands, his feet, anything that would betray his intentions.
"So where are you going then?" Another test. His fists are clenched. My blade rests on a hair trigger. I don't even notice the dull pain of the clip digging into my hand. With a sidestep that would make any military strategist pround; I do an immediate backwards walk into a taqueria with one word to mark my trail. "Acqui."
It's the right move. Once inside I order a Modelo and look out the window. The bandido and his mujer watch from outside. But as the minutes tick on and my cerveza gets lighter, they get the idea that I know this game and move on to easier prey. For the next few hours, I believe I'll stay at the bus station; where the biggest threat is a short changing shoe shiner. Live dangerously.
