A Frog in the Grass
To Belize and Back on Expired Tourist Visas

The bathroom on the bus from Cancun to Chetumal was hot. Like, surface of Mars hot, but hotter. However, on a six hour bus ride with two five-year-olds, trips to the toilet were unavoidable.

I held on to Marina, careful to hover her bottom inches above the seat, which had burned me like a metal slide in summertime. The sink water was molten lava, and the liquid soap almost burned a hole right through my hand. By the time we left the bathroom my clothes were soaked with sweat. The bathroom on the bus, however, was a minor inconvenience compared to what lay ahead.

We were headed to the Mexico-Belize border. It had come to our attention that our children’s tourist visas had expired two months earlier, and they had not been included in our working papers. We asked our school administrator, a retired lawyer, what could be done to extend the kids’ visas. “If I were you,” she quipped, “I would try to sneak across the border from Belize where the customs officials are more lax than at the airports.”

Which takes me back to the Chetumal bus ride. We switched buses to cross the border from Mexico into Belize, disembarked and waited in a long line at customs. I was sweating and feeling faint, and it wasn’t even that hot. We instructed Benji and Marina, “Don’t say anything,” but Benji chatted blithely in Spanish to a young Mexican couple, “I live here,” he asserted. “I go to school at CES.”

But at the front of the line, the agent only gave our passports a cursory glance and stamped us out of the country. I breathed a huge sigh. “That was easy.” Steve chuckled, “Lon, the hard part is getting back in!”

Back on the bus we went, and on to Belize customs, which we passed through quickly. We walked the kids along the fence that separated the ingoing and outgoing Belize traffic, and we turned and headed back into Belize. “Why are we going back?” asked Marina. “Didn’t we just get here?” Benji chimed. It was 6 pm, and we had been on buses and in lines since 7:30 that morning. Desperately we promised them ice cream in return for continued good behavior. “When?” asked my son, the future lawyer, already sensing the improbability of our making good on the deal.

So, we walked back into Belize customs to exit the country. The agent smiled at us like a cat with a canary in his mouth. “Well, these children’s passports are expired. What you have done is big trouble for you.” My heart sank. I looked at my exhausted children and wondered how I would explain to them that Mommy and Daddy were going to jail. “Of course,” the official added smugly, “you could give me a gift and I could stamp your passport.”

I wasn’t all that surprised. We had experienced the “bribe culture” with the Mexican traffic cops already. “Uh-huh. How much of a gift?” The price was settled at $200, which hurt, considering our miniscule Mexican salaries, but we figured it could have been worse.

We walked in the dark back to the Mexican border. There, again, we warned the kids to say nothing. Marina ran to Benji just as Steve reached the security window and said, “Now, remember, Benji. Dad said not to say anything.” The Mexican customs official glared at us, took our passports, and beckoned us inside. The kids and I, energy dwindling, sat on the floor under the fluorescent lights while the agent shouted at Steve in Spanish, which he pretended not to understand. He noticed the kids’ expired passports, and called the Mexican entrance official to confirm that we had been allowed in today, or to find out if we had snuck past the fences. When he realized we had passed the initial border, he made us sweat it out for half and hour. Finally, he had word from his boss to let us go. We grabbed the kids and raced out the door.

That evening, in our noisy hotel room back in Chetumal, Mexico, we resolved to enjoy the remainder of our ¨vacation¨. The next day, we visited the lovely freshwater sinkhole, Cenote Azul, in Bacalar. The kids surprised me by suggesting that they take themselves to the bathroom to change into swimsuits. They grow up so fast, I thought, as I headed in after them. ¨We went pee, and now we´re changing,¨ they shouted from inside the stall they shared. ¨Good job,¨ I yelled encouragingly.

Then I heard a splash. ¨Oh-My-Gosh, Mom.¨ Marina opened the stall door. ¨Benji´s shoe fell in the toilet.¨ Gingerly, I fished out the offending shoe, and dried it out in the sun.

¨Let´s get back home to Cancun,¨ said Steve. ¨Where the beaches are big and the bikinis are small.¨

Worn out, and eager to return home, we settle into the six hour bus ride. We relaxed in the air conditioning and cushy seats. After completing seven or eight Soduko puzzles, there was only about and hour or two left until we would be in our cozy Cancun apartment.

That´s about when the bus broke down. We unloaded onto the side of the highway, but when the smell of urine and the swirling dust from the passing trucks became too much, I took the kids back onto the now-humid bus. Darkness had descended, and about 45 minutes had passed when a van pulled to the side of the highway. A group waiting outside rushed the van like eager fans at a Stones concert, and by the time we had gathered our belongings, the full van had departed.

Another hour passed before a local bus, packed with people, slowed to a stop to rescue us. Someone gave up a seat so I could sit with both children on my lap. As my legs grew numb, standing passengers bumped and banged their bags up against me. We sweated profusely and stopped every few minutes to squeeze a passenger on or off.

Benji and Marina fought for pole position on my lap. I gave them gum to quiet them. Moments later, Benji said, ¨Uh-oh, Mom. My gum just fell out of my mouth.¨ There was no way to look for it on the cramped, hot, dark bus, but an hour later, my hand found it, smeared and melted on his lap, ground into his shorts, and all over my hand and t-shirt, too. So little gum, so much damage.

Three hours past schedule, bedraggled, fatigued and covered in gum, we finally arrived home. But on that last, interminable bus ride, I had this epiphany:

I thought of the long, dirty walk between the Belize and Mexican borders. On that garbage-strewn road with trucks whizzing by, we held the kids´ hands as we trudged along in the noisy, polluted twilight. Suddenly, we saw movement in the grass. A frog was hopping into the darkness. ¨Look, a frog,¨ the kids shouted gleefully! Laughing, they hopped and hopped with excitement.

And in that moment I realized that the kids won´t remember the 14 hours of bus rides, the stressful exhaustion, the angry customs agents or being stranded on the highway. All they will remember is a frog in the grass in the dark.

DRAMATICALLY INCORRECT
A comedy skit about English literary terms

A doctor´s office. The doctor is a cheerful straight-man. Young Minnie Momopolopis is disheveled and concerned.

MI:
Sorry, I´m seeking someone to search out my symptoms of this salacious disease. It seems serious.

DR:
Well, you´ve come to the right place. I´m Dr. Albright. Can you tell me what the problem is?

MI:
A perfectly paralyzing problem. Please, I´ll pay preposterous prices for a piddly placebo.

DR:
Hmmmmm: I think I´ve seen cases like this before. I´ll have to get a little background first. How long has this illness been affecting you?

MI:
Bah, it began beguiling me before breakfast.

DR:
Interesting. Say ahhhhhh. Okay. Bend over and touch your toes. Good. Good. Now, recite pi to 21 decimals. Just kidding. Do you have any other symptoms?

MI:
No, not normally.

DR:
Is the disease affecting your work?

MI:
Occasionally. Or, often.

DR:
Is the illness affecting your sleep patterns.

MI:
Jumping Jellybeans, Jimminy Jehosaphat! Doctor, I´m drastically desperate. Do desist your didactic diddling and dawdling. See that this silly sickness ceases instantaneously.

DR:
Okay, just calm down. Let´s see. You are repeating the same sounds at the beginning of words or in stressed syllables, as in ¨ scrolls of silver snowy sentences” It seems to be predominantly consonantal. Young lady, I think you have a textbook case of Alliteration.

MI:
Alliteration! Leaping Lizards. Que lastima! Alas, what´s an unlucky lady to do?

DR:
My advice would be to go home, write some poetry and submit it to a high school literary anthology. Other than that, there is no known cure.

MI:
Oh Woe is me. I will wait, wallowing always in my wordy wasteland. Farewell forever fiendish friends. This thuckth.


Enter Mr. and Mrs. SaltnPepper. She is harried.

MRS:
Doctor, you´ve got to help us. My husband is a total Oxymoron.

MR:
That is justly unfair. I´m miserably comfortable.

MRS:
He´s been like this all week. It all started when he started reading about military intelligence in the Dallas Morning Sunset. Since then, all he talks about is jumbo shrimp, bitter-sweet, and Microsoft Works.

DR:
There seems to be a lot of this going around. Let’s just relax and try to get to the bottom of this. Now, are any of your relatives complete and utter Oxymorons?

MR:
Oh, this is obviously and opaquely ridiculous. I don´t need your medicinal poisons. I´m perfectly imperfect.

DR:
I´m sorry Ma´am, but if your husband doesn´t want to be cured there is nothing I can do for him.

MR:
Did you hear that Alice? There is every chance that nothing can be done. It not just my lucid insanity, but my macho femininity and abrasive tenderness that the doctor cannot cure. Good morning doctor, sleep tight. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

The Saltnpeppers leave. Enter Betty Plop.

BE:
Wow, Doc, I´m sizzlin´ happy to see ya.

DR:
How can help you?

BE:
It all started this morning like BAM when my alarm went off Brrrriiing. It hit me POW and all I could do was like LALALALLA Kadabing kaprow!

DR:
Uhhhhhhhhh, Okiedokie. Why don´t you have a seat.

BE:
Plop. Ugh. I´m soooooooo sleeeeeeepy.

DR:
In my professional opinion, what you are suffering from sounds like Onomotapaeia to me.

BE:
Yowzah, that sounds Baa-ad. What a SLAP to the system. Pop, snap clap.

DR:
Well, good luck with that. Watch out for the door on the way out. It closes quickly.

BE: leaving
Ouch! SLAM. Watchit!

Enter Simon.

SI:
Doctor, you´ve got to help me. I´m afraid I have a bad case of Simile. It´s like……

BLACKOUT

http//www.Pepethetiger.com

Pepethetiger.com
Sleeps, mostly
Catching winks of Rousseau’s jungle mirage
In his habitat with the humid breeze.
Pepe who lives by the sea.

Pepethetiger.com
Who paces in his
Attraction
By the sounding Caribbean Seas,
Kept in his confine
Dreaming of keys
While the waves
Come and go
Come and go
As they please.

La Migra and Me

Mexico had chewed me up and spit me out like a spicy habanera pepper.

I had been summoned to the principal’s office. Even a teacher knows that can’t be good. I sat in the chair across from her looking at my feet, while she closed the door discreetly behind me. It was an achingly long time until she had seated herself and began to talk.

“You’re being expelled from the country.”

Okay, was this a joke? I had been teaching in Mexico for several months, and had not yet received my working papers. “No joke,” she added.

There was nothing left to do but pack my meager belongings, and plan to sneak back into Mexico. I tried to think about what I might need: Some warm clothes for my required 48 hours in the States. I had none. I would have to layer. How many t-shirts do you have to layer to equal fleece-lined Gortex? Then there would be the essentials: Toiletries – I couldn’t be without my whitening toothpaste. Snack foods – who knew how long I’d be on the run. I stocked up at the Cancun Costco on Power Bars and Gatorade before I left. Bribe money – pesos wouldn’t do if I ran into La Migra. I’d have to be prepared with God’s currency: the almighty American dollar.

It had always been my dream to make it into Mexico. Ever since I was a wee child watching Spanish language history docudramas on PBS, I had always wanted to live in the land of tortillas and sombreros. I needed to get back into Mexico, where the whisper of white sand beaches and a really, really low-paying job beckoned me.

A month before our jobs began, Steve and the twins had already snuck across the border into Tijuana, concealed in the back of a laundry truck with a bunch of hippy tourists from Berkley. Benji and Marina fit in easily after camouflaging themselves in Birckenstocks and dreadlocks.
In order to sneak my way into Mexico and cross the border, it was important to hire the right Coyote. I put an ad on Craig’s List, and immediately got 1,427 hits. Most of them, unfortunately, thought I wanted a pet coyote. I phone interviewed one gentleman who said he had done the run several times, disguised as a Chihuahua hiding in the purses of Paris Hilton look-alikes. A Coyote disguised as a Chihuahua. I had my man. His name was Willy. Willy Coyote.

Willly suggested that I get a state of the art L.L. Bean multi-layer waterproof tent, as well as binoculars, a water purifier, eco-canteen, Bunsen burner, self-inflating mattress, 35 packages of Lean Cuisine Chicken Alfredo and an ice pick. I shoved it all into several American Tourister Kevlar suitcases, and was ready to go. Also, he suggested that I pre-purchase several Starbucks and Krispy Kreme gifts cards to use to bribe local Mexican law enforcement.

People don’t realize how tough it is for us illegal aliens. It’s not like I hadn’t tried getting in the honest way. Letters, faxes, emails, long, sobbing phone calls to relatives in Mexico who claimed they never heard of me. Or, worse still, they put me on their “Do Not Call” list as soon as I claimed that I had money for them in a bank account in Africa if only they would give me their credit card and social security numbers.

For our border crossing, Willy was convincingly disguised as the Miss California contestant for the Cabo San Lucas Miss Universe pageant. It was perfect timing for a perfect disguise. I dressed as his male hairdresser, Eduardo.

We slithered under a fence, snagging Willy’s tiara on the barbed wire, and began tunneling under the Rio Grande. Here’s where Willy’s high heels came in really handy: the sharp heels were great for picking out tough-to-manage rocks. I have to say, his manicure held up really well. We were just able to make out the tequila hawkers and blanket vendors at the Tijuana border when trouble struck.

There was shouting and lights. Then we were all running and yelling in the darkness. I heard dogs barking violently, and then I tripped and fell, landing uncomfortably on my battery operated curling iron, which unfortunately, I had left on. I passed out. As I came to, I could feel my wrists cuffed behind my back, and Willy’s falsetto whisper, “Never give up. Never surrender.” That was the last I heard of Willy.

Next thing I knew, I was in the back of a livestock pickup with a bunch of gringos from Vegas who had overstayed their tourist visas. We were all being dragged back to the States. The Vegas newbies had tried to prove they were Mexican by showing off their authentic ethno-plunder embroidered blouses and turquoise jewelry. They slipped up when La Migra asked what they paid for the items, and they quoted prices that were outrageously high compared to what locals would pay. As if any self-respecting Mexican would buy that trash anyway.

Apparently, sneaking out of the States is a federal crime, and we were thrown immediately into the clinker. Let’s hope you never have to suffer through being an inmate in an American prison. The conditions are just horrible. They only get HBO and no Showtime, and they only have one Elliptical in the exercise room. I mentioned casually that my father was a lawyer, and within hours, the officer in charge had contacted my congressman. Shortly thereafter, I was granted a presidential pardon. Later that day, I was released, which really pissed me off, because I was about to get my “rehabilitation therapy” lava rock massage and spa treatment.

They dumped me off at a Marriot on 1-5 near El Paso, where I suffered through a continental breakfast of scones and lattes before heading into the wild. After walking half a block, I ducked into the nearest McDonalds and wished I was sitting in a McDonalds in Mexico, instead.

I decided to get some advice from Steve by calling our VOIP phone in Mexico. His plan was simple, yet brilliant. It was so crazy it might just work!

I disguised myself as a tourist in a Sponge Bob t-shirt, a pink cowboy hat, and of course, shorts. No one in Mexico wears shorts, except for the tourists. I bungee corded my buckwheat, jasmine-scented travel pillow to my carry-on, which I clutched with tight, pale knuckles. My passport shook as I handed it to the Mexican Immigration Control Officer at the Cancun airport. He looked at me and smiled. I smiled. He stamped it, ‘Tourist Visa’. “Have a nice stay,” he said.

Ah, safe at last. Well, at least for 180 days.