The Algodones Incident

I spent the lion's share of the day in beautiful Yuma-- the winter haven of choice for many snowbirds from the northern regions of this country and beyond.  I enjoyed some observational moments in both classrooms of the Yuma SDA School.  I enjoyed playing some basketball with the 3^rd through 6^th graders.  I also got to know the lower grade students as well.

In the middle of the day I took a break for lunch.  I asked the teaching principal how far Mexico was.  She responded, "About 15 minutes to Algodones."  That was good enough for me!  In spite of the warning from my administrative source of the possibility of getting stuck behind a long line to cross back from Mexico I decided to go.  I crossed with no problem at all and saw only a short line crossing back from the southern side of the international line.

I was relieved to see the short line since I had told myself I would turn back and eat locally in Yuma if the line seemed long since I wanted to get back for my afternoon observations.  I crossed over and was immediately impressed by the amount of doctors, dentists, and pharmacies so close to one another and located side by side with small roadside trinket shops marketing their traditional wares to the tourists.  But I was on the hunt for some Mexican food (in Mexico—imagine that!).  I asked around and I was direct to a small stand that was all too happy to serve me up a helping of homemade Mexican delicacies.  I did not even consider the potential for gastronomical consequences.  I ate sufficient to satisfy my recently shrunken appetite and soon found myself headed back to the border crossing.

I came around the corner of 2^nd Avenue (I assume 1^st Avenue was located immediately next to the border).  I saw a short line on the opposite side of the street.  I was encouraged.  That is, I was encouraged until I got closer to the corner where the line suddenly disappeared.  I made the turn and suddenly I was confronted with what I believed to be the entire retiree population of the US and Canada waiting in line to get across the border into California.

This picture was additionally confusing since it did not appear the town of Algodones, Baja California was large enough to accommodate the number of retirees populating of the US and Canada!  I consoled myself by thinking I had enough time until the evening school board meeting.  I even thought to myself, "It can't possibly be that long," as I began my trek to the back of the line which I could not see from my vantage point.  I walked and walked.  I believe I could have walked back to Yuma by time I glanced at what I believed to be the end of the line-- either that or the edge of the world spoken of by the ancients.  I quickly surmised I could not afford to wait.  That was a recipe for disaster.

Luckily I was wearing my Ray Ban Aviators and as a result gave off certain amount of presence if not pretense as I quickly turned around in mid-step and began my determined walk to the front of the line.

I was determined not to be deterred from my mission.  I ran into a minor snag at the metal revolving door which usually provides a higher level of human congestion than the otherwise slowly meandering line of people with glazed-over eyes following the others in front of them in line like so much cattle headed to the branding station.  It beats the slaughter house, but not by much.  In any case, I made it through the revolving door with hardly a second glance from the hundreds of people I passed in line.  I pressed on although I sensed more than a few of the people wondered who this striking fellow was who dared press through moving past them in line.  As I began to approach the front of the line a frightening thought finally struck me-- "Now what do I do?" I couldn't just come up to a group of people at the front of the line and pretend they were long lost friends!  I may be nearing retirement age, but I was not as old as the slice of Americana now surrounding me. 

But stop I did.  I had to.  Any further forward and I would have found myself at the absolute front of the line.  I stopped as inconspicuously as possible next to man connected to an oxygen tank and felt the warm stare from the gentleman which whom I now stood in solidarity behind a couple who I soon discovered were snowbirds from Alberta, Canada.  I made small talk with both those ahead of me who probably wondered where I came from but did nothing perhaps thinking I was with the man next to me, who in turn considered the possibility that I was with the couple ahead with whom I was talking.  At this point it did not matter any longer.

In my mind I was prepared for the eventual unmasking of my deed from the crowd behind me in line who I was convinced would shout the well-deserved accusations against me upon my arrival before the customs officer.  Alas the fact that I am confessing this event must mean I survived my desperate act to salvage my duty as curricular supervisor.  I was prepared for the worst, but I was the recipient of corporate grace, albeit perhaps unwilling and unwitting, from the entire line of people I overtook in push to the front.

I escaped and was able to return and spend the afternoon with the small “yumans” at the Yuma school instead of sitting behind bars in a Customs Holding Cell for International Line Jumpers not to be confused with International Border Jumpers, which is a totally different story altogether. (226.8)