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Tijuana Shakedown

By Alex Anderson

August 7, 2006

San Diego--You ever been racially profiled? I have, by the Tijuana police. It cost me $150 in cash and an iPod. I’ll never go to Mexico ever again.

I’m white, have blonde hair and blue eyes. And let’s get this out of the way: I went down to Tijuana to get cheap antibiotics without a prescription. The admission may quash any sympathy you, the reader, may have for me, but frankly, I don’t care. I’m not out for sympathy. I just want to tell the goddamn truth. I’ve had the story bottled up in me for the past three weeks.

The day was beautiful and I put off going into a Third World country as long as I could. I had the day off, so I went to Windnsea with a friend and laid out for several hours. The sun didn’t do much good for me or my sinuses. I came down with a worse headache than the one I already had.

To kill the pain, I drove to Long’s, bought a bottle of ibuprofen, and threw back a couple of tablets. The ibuprofen bottle would factor prominently in my interaction with the police that evening.

I waited out the headache with my friend at a bistro in La Jolla. While my friend drank draft beers, I drank water. It should be noted that I indeed had to go to TJ that day—that is, if I wanted cheap meds. The next day, I was flying back east for a couple of weeks, and there are no third world countries near Boston.

At 8:00 p.m., I left the bistro, got into my car, and drove for the border. The headache had mostly disappeared, but I still felt a little dizzy. The plan was to take the last U.S. exit, park in San Ysidro, and walk across the border. I’d done it a half dozen times before.

I’d never done it at night, though. Maybe it was because of the darkness, or maybe it was the headache, but for whatever reason, I drove right past the last U.S. exit and straight into Mexico.

The minute I missed that exit I knew I was in trouble. I remember saying to myself, “This is gonna cost you.”

Prophetic words.

Once in TJ, I was fucked. I didn’t know the place, certainly not the streets. It was dark, the lighting was poor, and the signs were ambiguous.

I took a series of right turns to get to Avenida Revolucion, and eventually got funneled onto Rt. 1, a dusty expressway that runs parallel to the border and spits you out into the western suburbs of the city.

At this point, a friend from Japan called my cell phone. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“I can’t talk right now. I’m in Tijuana. It’s dark. I’m lost. I just wanna get the fuck out of here.”

“Tijuana? Why are you driving in Tijuana!” she exclaimed.

“Look, can I call you later? I’m a little preoccupied….”

Through a side street I caught sight of the arch that marks Avenida Revolucion. I now knew where I was, and had a decision to make. Did I drive back across the border, park, and walk into Tijuana to get my meds? Or did I park, get meds, then drive across the border?

I could see the arch. It was right there, so I made the split-second decision to park and get my antibiotics at a pharmacy near Revolucion.

I pulled onto a sleepy, dimly-lit street about four blocks from Revolucion and parallel parked about ten feet from an intersection. I felt more comfortable parking on a dark street over a well-lit one, as I didn’t want to attract attention to myself or my car.

I felt apprehensive about leaving my car. I looked around. There were a couple of guys strolling toward Revolucion. An elderly woman passed me and disappeared around a corner. There were no sights or sounds to indicate danger.

I walked the ten feet to the intersection and crossed the street.

That’s when all hell broke loose.

I remember the police cruiser bolting right for me, lights flashing, then doors swinging open, and two officers approaching me from opposite sides, hands on their sidearms.

Two strangers with guns stood on each side of me. One of them—let’s call him Officer Alvarez—was 5’9” with a sturdy build and black hair, and the other, Officer Benitez, was about 5’10”, burly, and bald.

“Where are you going?” Officer Alvarez asked.

“To Avenida Revolucion,” I replied calmly.

“But what are you doing here?” he demanded.

Now, that was a good question. What was I doing there? I was there to buy drugs—prescription drugs, but drugs nonetheless.

“I…It’s a mistake. I got lost,” I mumbled, gesturing toward the border.

“Keep your hands up,” Officer Benitez barked. “Don’t move.”

I did as instructed. (continued)

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