Run for the Border

I've always wanted to take my kids to another country. Not when they're too young, because I don't believe that they would appreciate it. The ideal time would be when my oldest son is seventeen or eighteen years old. That would put the youngest one at eight, and all of them, at one level or another, at an age were they could recognize the worth of being in a foreign country.

My original plan was to take them to Spain. I quickly learned that I wasn't rich enough to do that. I will admit that it was my only plan. Soon afterward, the idea of taking them to another country just fizzled out . . . unless I somehow won the lottery.

Now, my son is seventeen, and we are going to Southern California. We decide to spend a day near San Diego, so I determine that it may be wise to take the whole family as close to the border as we can get. (We would go completely into Tijuana, but I don't want to buy passports for each of the kids for just one day.)

We don't have a lot of time on our hands. We're traveling from Anaheim and we have already spent a few hours at the beach in Oceanside.

Our first stop is at El Ranchero taco shop on Main Street in Chula Vista. We are only six miles from the border, and according to my research, this is the best taco shop around. I want my kids to feel like they have entered that zone where American and Mexican cultures cross. What better way to do that than through their tummy's.

El Ranchero is a small building. In fact, we accidentally drive past it the first time. A portable taco bus is parked behind it and beneath a white tarp a man grills beef over a flame. Inside there is not a lot of space. There are just a few tables and behind a partition are the cooks. Most of the names on the menu appear familiar from other places I have eaten. I order a barbacoa burrito. The meat is well flavored, although not as flavored as the carne asada.

Miguel, the man behind the counter, gives me a selection of hot sauces to use. Really, I don't know his name, but Miguel seems like it should fit. He speaks in a very strong Mexican accent, and sometimes I can't distinguish which language he is speaking in. He invites me to try the habanero sauce, which proves to be a good choice. I've never tried this kind of sauce before and I find it very flavorful with a huge kick.

My youngest daughter, Savanah, asks me, “Dad, why does everybody here speak Spanish?”

“That's because we're only five miles from Mexico,” I respond, hoping that she is beginning to understand what I am trying to do.

We return to I-5 and drive south a few miles south to the exit for Dairy Mart Road. Not far from the exit, the road crosses the Tijuana River. We stop for a moment to explore the river. Above us a model plane buzzes in loops and swoops through the air. In the distance we see a man with a large controller in his hands.

I see a lot of green vegetation, but it is so dense that I can't see the river. I walk over toward the bridge, then I follow a dirt path that leads under the bridge. Who knows what has taken place beneath this beneath this bridge over the years. I don't know if I will find a bum, or an illegal alien. I find neither. But I don't find a river, either. I see a pool of stagnant water and plenty of thick riparian vegetation, but no river. I don't know if it is because of the drought year, of if Mexico commonly saps all the water out. Neither surprised nor disappointed, we move on.

I must say that at this point, the view into Mexico is very close. A busy highway just over the border runs parallel with the fence. A patchwork of houses fill the hillside. A large white church with red trim, Gothic windows, and twin bell towers sits amidst the houses.

We pull onto a dirt road that will take us right to the fence. I found this road on Google Maps and became excited and wary - at the same time - to travel on it. If we were to park at a certain place and walk to the top of the hill, we could have an up-close view of Tijuana. On the other hand . . . we could get shot.

Immediately, I realize that walking up to the view point is out of the question. The path to get there is chained off with signs reading No Trespassing. Instead, we park by the fence and observe. The fence is concrete with slots, and there is another sign warning us not to cross. I don't dare touch the fence. I fear electrocution, or getting dropped by a hidden sniper. We can't see into Mexico as well, although we can hear the rumble of cars and have an up-close look at a billboard on the other side. The sign shows pictures of colorfully dressed ladies and advertizes an event called Las Lavanderas.

Looking to the east, we still have a good vantage point into Mexico.  There is a stark contrast between the crowded buildings of Tijuana on the south of the fence, and the barren California desert on the north.  

As we turn around on the dirt road, we notice a white truck up on the hill in the off-limits area. I'm sure that they were watching us through binoculars the entire time.

We return to the paved road and drive west toward the beach. The ride is pleasant. Small ranches are scattered throughout. A cowboy on a horse spits up dust in the distance. Corrals, avocado trees, and plenty of No Trespassing signs.

A gate blocks off the road, accompanied by a small parking lot. We are at the Border Field State Park and due to budget restrictions, the road to the beach is closed off. Pedestrian traffic is alright, but we don't have the time to make the three mile round-trip hike. Perhaps on another day.

We turn around and return the way we came.