Day 2

I was ten minutes over the Mexican-American border. I knew from my research that I would need to buy an immigration sticker for my car. I tried to read the signs to find the kiosk, but nothing made sense. I pulled over at an official-looking government building and asked the guy trying to sell me bracelets and straw hats for Immigration Services. He started speaking very rapidly through his toothless grin. I understood nothing. I used my best Spanish to ask him to speak slower, but it didn’t help. But he was pointing, so I locked my car and went in the direction his finger indicated.

I looked back over my shoulder as I walked away. My whole life was in that truck. There was no way to really lock the surfboards strapped to the top. Feeling like a sitting duck, I walked into the building, my car out of sight. After half an hour of hassle, I figured out where to buy the immigration sticker and paid a hefty deposit on my credit card, promising I would take the car out of Mexico within 180 days. Though it was much longer than the 100 days I planned to stay, somehow I knew I would not be getting my deposit back.

Within a few miles of being back on the road, I encountered the first toll booth. I saw the fee listed in pesos, did a quick conversion in my head and handed the attendant three US dollars. She shook her head and handed the money back to me.

“You don’t take dollars?” I was surprised because in all my travels in Baja Mexico, you could always pay the tolls in either currency. She responded something about pesos. I tried to argue, but she didn’t speak any English. In Baja, I hadn’t had a problem getting by on the few Spanish words I knew; most people I encountered spoke some English.

You stupid idiot, The Voice mocked, This isn’t Baja, you don’t know SHIT! Look what you got yourself into!

Luckily, I had a few pesos from my last trip to Baja, so I handed over all the Mexican money I had. She handed me back the equivalent of about 1 US dollar. I was going to need to find a currency exchange, and fast.  Within a few miles, I located a store with signage that seemed to indicate they would exchange money. I locked the car and once again worried about the surfboards on top as I made my way inside. A girl of about fourteen was working the counter. I told her I wanted to exchange money. She had no idea what I said. I realized I had no idea how ask her in Spanish. I also realized my translator app would not work without wifi connection. After about twenty minutes of sign language and pure frustration, I walked away with enough pesos to get me through the day. I knew I paid way too much for them.

As I got back in my car, a realization came over me: I was in way over my head. Somehow, I had thought my year of eighth grade Spanish Language and my limited trips to Baja to surf prepared and qualified me for an international move to the developing world. I was ignorant, not brave, and in that moment I became aware of it. I took three deep breaths and made up my mind to become brave. I blasted my music and spun out as I pulled away.

I drove until dusk that night with an iron grip on the wheel. I found a decent hotel in a medium-sized city and made sure to send WhatsApp messages to my Mom and Sean, assuring them I had made it safely behind a locked door before dark. Sean requested that I send him a pin, showing exactly where I was. I did. I slept great and woke early, ready for my second, and last, day of solo driving in Mexico.

Day 3

The day started with an ice cold beet juice in a plastic bag with a straw, which I bought from child selling juices at a speed bump in the road. It was so good, so fresh, so cold! Later I stopped at a roadside stand for tacos. I noticed a group of men eating a fish with the head and tail still on. I had never before seen a fish served whole. I pulled out my phone to take a video. The guys thought I was really quite a sight, the only white person for miles in any direction. They laughed and indicated I should try the fish. I didn’t grow up with seafood and had always hated the taste. If you could feel something worse than hatred for a flavor, then that is what I felt for fish. But I wanted to expand my comfort zone. I knew I was going to have a lot of experiences that stretched me, and I might as well get used to it. I constantly taught my yoga students to do something that made them feel discomfort in a safe environment, on their mats, so that when discomfort struck in the real world, they would know how gracefully to sit with it. Time to practice what I preached.  I reached my dirty hand right into the body of the whole fish like I saw the men doing. I plucked out a piece of the flesh. It was crispy and greasy and salty…and delicious!

My plan was to make it that evening before dark to Guadalajara, where I would get a hotel room and wait to meet Sean when his flight arrived the next day. I looked at the mileage and time I was averaging, and calculated that I would be cutting it close to arrive and find accommodations before dark. I stepped on the gas pedal a little harder. As I glanced down at the speedometer,  my heart dropped into my belly and my breath caught in my throat. The check-engine light had come on. OH SHIT! I was in the middle of nowhere. I hadn’t seen a service station or a town in the last hour and my phone had no coverage. My AAA membership was not going to work here!

You stupid idiot! Why did you buy such a cheap car? Why did you buy a car less than a week before your trip? You are so arrogant! I can’t believe your ego! Now you have a lemon on your hands and you are going to be stranded here and at the mercy of the Mexican Cartel! Everyone was right, this was a bad idea! What were you thinking?!

On and on, The Voice belittled.

I pulled the car over and checked the oil. It was fine. I checked the coolant. That was okay, too. I didn’t know what else to check. I got back on the road and continued in the same direction, praying for a town to appear soon. I listened to the engine, and it did seem a little funny. It felt like I had less power as I went up hill or tried to accelerate quickly…or was I just making that up? I stopped at the first business I saw, a small shop of the type common in Mexico, filled with beer, beverages, cookies and chips. I asked for a mechanic. They said the name of a town. I asked, “Que lejos?” They said one hour, inland, out of my way.

It was actually over ninety minutes before I found the town, and another three stops, with frustrating attempts at communication and a prayer each time that the engine would start back up. Eventually, I arrived at a mechanic shop. For some reason, I said a prayer: Dear God, please give me a female mechanic. I was so nervous, and somehow I felt a woman might understand more than a man what I was going through. But I wasn’t sure if they even had female mechanics in Mexico.

As I walked in the the shop, I was greeted by a woman in bright red lipstick, high heeled wedge shoes, skin tight skinny jeans, a greasy navy button down and a wrench in her front jeans pocket. I took a deep breath. I was going to be okay.

After an hour under the beating sun, struggling to communicate through a mixture of sign language and Google Translate, I would understand that it was an oxygen sensor setting off the check-engine light. Mexican gasoline was notorious for blowing out O2 sensors, and although I would experience decreased power and fuel economy, I was safe to continue on my way.

The setback cost me four valuable hours, and I knew I wasn’t going to make it to my destination before dark. I had built in an extra day of leeway, just in case something like this happened. I enacted my contingency plan, pulling over in the resort town of Mazatlan, where I splurged and stayed at a high rise hotel for the night. I was given a room on the eighth floor, but when I tried to get my longboard in the elevator, it would not fit. A generous bellhop carried my nine foot board up eight flights of stairs to my room. As I drew back the curtains, I took in the view of the pacific Ocean. Wait a sec! There was a wave breaking right out front! It was tiny, almost unsurfable, but surfable. I couldn’t get a fin in my longboard or wax it fast enough. I had maybe forty-five minutes before dark. The guests looked at me like I was crazy as I dashed down eight flights of stairs in a bikini, lugging a giant blue surfboard. The first splash of warm salt water felt like heaven. I giggled and laughed as I rode ankle high waves. Finally, I had reached the sea!

Day 4

The next morning, I carried my board back back down eight flights of stairs. I loaded up my boards, back onto the roof racks. But when I went to tie them down, the entire mount shifted. I checked the bolts. Someone had attempted to loosen them overnight, but was stopped by the locking mechanism. The sickening feeling of violation soured my stomach.

I told the security guard in the parking lot what had happened. He appeared as if he didn’t understand. I dug in my toolbox, which I had carefully packed, finding an allen wrench to secure the racks back in place. Good heads-up thinking on packing the tools. Proud of you, chica! Must have been The Voice was in a good mood that morning.

By the time I reached Guadalajara, I was drenched in sweat, despite icy cold AC blasting in the car. My head throbbed and my throat felt like needles. I told myself I was just tired. But when I finally checked into a hotel, I couldn’t seem to get to the bathroom fast enough. A thought crossed my mind…how was that beet juice yesterday so cold? The bags of juice were out in the broiling sun. The only explanation was ice. Ice from the side of the road, and tacos from carts and whole fish with the head still on…I hadn’t been careful at all. I had been ignorant and arrogant, again. The buzz from the adventure started to wane as I sweated out my arrogance in a dumpy Mexican hotel room.

Change only happens when the pain of the status quo outweighs the fear of the unknown. I considered myself lucky for being too stupid to be afraid. Had I known what I was in for, I would have needed to hit an even darker, deeper bottom before I overcame the fear of packing my bags. As the fever dragged on, I once again questioned why I had ever left.

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*some names have been changed to protect privacy

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