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.