Abducted in Mexico

On an otherwise uneventful Wednesday evening, a series of events unfolded in Tijuana, Mexico that would change my life forever. In the interest of helping others avoid my fate (and worse) I share my story from the perspective of how I should have done things differently to prevent it.

In my late teens, partying in Tijuana, Mexico (aka T.J.) with a large group of friends was standard operating procedure. The legal drinking age was 18, and even then most dance clubs did not require I.D. for admittance. Usually, a short skirt and a flirty smile would get you just about anything you wanted. Fortunately for me, I was good at displaying both.

For a few years, there was no other destination for my circle of friends than an hour's drive from north San Diego County down to the last US parking lot this side of the border. Then it was a quick trip down to Revolution Street, either by taxi ($5.00 for whoever we could fit in one car) or a 15 minute walk if the weather was nice (which it usually was) and as a bonus we would have an extra $5 for another bucket of 6 Dos Equis and limes.

This activity was not limited to weekends, and regularly included Wednesday night trips for "College Night," as it was referred to. The typical party would involve many friends, guys and girls, and I was almost always the designated driver. This was primarily because I was the most level headed and street-wise of our group (which you are most certainly about to disagree with) and to a lesser extent because I was the only one of us with a dependable car.

One Wednesday evening when I was 19, my girlfriend Juliee and I decided to make the journey despite no one else joining us. Mistake number one: She and I alone in our Daisy Duke short-shorts with a few dollars each in our pockets. No need to worry, we knew where to go and where not to go. Mistake number two: we were no longer as wary of the dangers we once feared. We were seasoned pros by this time.

The night progressed in a decidedly slow fashion. The large party crowds were nowhere to be found on this particular excursion, so we chose to hang out at Mr. Crown's and BS for a few of hours over drinks. As the night wound down, we decided we had better get going home. With only the two of us, it seemed rather dull to walk back across the border so we opted for the taxi.

There are dozens of available taxis up and down Revolution Street, and finding one is never a problem. The one we found first had, as usual, a male driver. He did, however, have a little friend with him. A young boy, 10 years of age, named Frederico. This is one of the things I remember in detail. Frederico sold flowers, individually wrapped, for $1.

Mistake number three: Juliee and I climbed into the front seat of the taxi, while little Frederico climbed into the back alone. Juliee sat next to the door, and I sat in the middle of the large bench seat next to the driver. To this day, I still cannot explain why we sat in the front. It seems such an illogical choice. Perhaps the driver held open the front passenger door for us while the young boy casually blocked the back? During the drive, Juliee and I chatted away with each other, and little Frederico. Mistake number four: we were not noticing much of anything. We were so familiar with this process that we were not paying attention to our surroundings. After driving for a while, I finally did notice that we were passing things that did not look familiar to me. I even said something like "Hey, where are you taking us? This isn't the way back to the border. Ha, ha, ha." The driver did not answer.

Within moments, we did see the glaring border lights up ahead, but we did not stop in the usual taxi drop off circle. No matter, we could see a little ways off in the distance where we needed to go. Juliee opened the passenger door and stood in the door opening digging for the taxi fare from her shorts pocket. Mistake number five: I was still sitting in the car waiting for her to pay the driver. The next thing I knew, the driver slammed on the gas. From the force of the sudden acceleration, the door swung shut and I heard Juliee's voice fading into the distance screaming "Sheeelllyyy!"

At the same time the driver took off, he also pulled my head down toward the seat. I was now in a horizontal position across the front seat of the taxi. I instinctively started kicking the door and fighting against the arm that was holding the upper half of my body down. I'm not sure how long we drove around before he attempted to stop the first time but I don't think it could have been more than a few minutes.

Each time the driver would stop to accomplish whatever filth he had planned, I did not make it easy for him. I kicked and screamed and otherwise resisted. I had no idea if there were any people around outside to hear me. He would then drive off again, presumably to find a more desolate location and thereby avoid alerting any passersby. Whenever I could wrestle myself free from his grip, I threw my body as far against the passenger door as possible, all the while trying desperately to open it. I pulled and pulled on that silver handle, but nothing happened. In the old, beat-up, American sedan that became my prison there were two small, silver buttons near the door handle. There were no markings left on them, but one should undoubtedly unlock the door, and the other controlled the window. I frantically pushed both of them each way while pulling the door handle. Nothing.

One of the most disturbing parts of the whole disaster was that the 10 year old flower-peddling boy in the backseat reached his arms over several times to grope me anywhere and everywhere he could. A 10 year old boy! I wonder what that boy is doing right now, several years later. Was this a typical night out for him and his grown-up friend? Did he continue these violent and disgusting behaviors as he grew up? Could he have somehow miraculously escaped the poverty and depression that he had been born into? Although only minutes from one the world's most beautiful and wealthiest cities, Tijuana, Mexico without a doubt, belongs to a third-world country.

For a while longer, we continued in our struggle. Him pulling over and grabbing onto me and my clothes (with Frederico joining in) and me screaming and fighting back and trying to get the door open. Remember those Daisy Duke short-shorts I mentioned? As it turns out, they can be a girl's best friend in times such as this. Neither my abductor nor the boy could get them off, or even get a hand under them. I find it quite ironic that dressing like a tramp would indirectly protect me from being violated. It's funny how life works out that way sometimes.

At some point, I realized that I had inadvertently opened the passenger window a little more than half-way. The next opportunity I had, I headed for it. I did not try to mess with the buttons to open it further for fear of closing it up. Everything was so frantic; I saw my way out and I took it. Not the most dignified way to make an escape, but reason went out the window, so to speak. When my attacker saw what I was doing, he stopped the taxi again and began to grab my legs, trying to pull me back in. It was no use; I was already wriggling my way free. He then decided to floor it. I guess he was thinking that I wouldn't jump if he was flying down the road, driving erratically.

It happened so fast that thankfully I don't recall the actual landing, but I do remember rolling for a few seconds. I found myself on a muddied road in the middle of who-knows-where, Mexico. I saw the taxi slow to a stop up ahead of me, and I watched it back up. I got up and ran to the side of the wide road to put some distance between us. He came along side me and sat in the taxi staring at me for a short time and then slowly drove off. He passed me a few more times after that, but never stopped again.

I looked around to find that I was still in a town. There were roads lined with the occasional old car and a few ram-shackle businesses. None were open, however. No lights, no people, no sounds whatsoever. Just me in the dark, alone. I remember thinking how fortunate I was that I was still alive, and I wanted to keep it that way. It is well known that the police in Mexico are not your friend. I hoped that no one would find me to "help" me.

I had no idea which way to go to find America again. I wandered around for a while and reasoned with myself that a "bigger" road would be my best chance to either find the border or perhaps to find Revolution Street again, from where I could probably find my way to the border. I eventually found what appeared to be a main road, although no cars were driving on it. It was a 50/50 bet as to which direction was better to head in, and I'm not sure how I decided. I just started walking. After walking a good distance, I finally saw an old man pushing a small cart down one of the side roads. I called out to him "Ayudeme! Por favor." in my broken Spanish that I somehow recalled from high school. I thought it meant something like "Help me please!" I did my best to communicate that I was trying to get to the U.S. He eventually understood and pointed in the opposite direction that I had been walking. That figures. But at least then I knew which way to walk.

I changed direction and followed that road until I saw some very bright lights in the distance. Yes, I was headed to the border. When I arrived border patrol agents quickly approached me with suspicious eyes. It turns out that due to recent rains I had mud smeared over most of my body and clothes from my jump and subsequent tumble. I also had some minor bleeding from a few areas along with a great deal of road rash down my right leg. Then I saw Juliee running up to me, crying hysterically. She told me she thought I was dead. Through my first tears of the night, I explained to her and the officers what had happened. They told me the best thing to do was to report it to the U.S. Consulate. Did I have the taxi ID number? No. Did I have the name of the driver? No. Could I describe him? No. They probably could not do anything about it, but at least they could document it. Great, another statistic that I never wanted to be. But it could have been so much worse and I knew it.

After Juliee had first reached the border herself and spoken with the officers for a while, she had called her boyfriend to explain what happened. He was already on his way, and arrived at the border just a few minutes after I did. Because of this, I estimate that my misfortune lasted about an hour and a half to two hours at the most. We drove home in two cars, and I'm sure I cried the whole way. Not for sadness, but for thankfulness. Before I even knew Him, God had His hand of protection over me.

There were several small, but important choices I could have made differently that night. I knew immediately that it was due to my own stupidity that this happened. Don't misunderstand; I'm not saying I deserved this to happen to me. Whether it was premeditated or a crime of opportunity, I know that it was my fault that I was chosen; I put myself in the position to become the victim that night. Don't let your guard down and be another one in this country or any other.