Juarez El Paso International Bridge

If ever you find yourself in this part of the country, be brave and drive your car into Mexico - it'll only take you two minutes to get across the border. Then, if you survive the Mexican traffic (Juarez is not nearly as crime-ridden or corrupt as the sensationalist media would have you believe - it's certainly much safer than Philadelphia or New Orleans), take the Bridge of the Americas coming back. It may take you two hours to get completely across, but you will experience a border crossing unlike any other in the world. But, cross into Mexico at your own risk - even though this might sound as if the crossing is a tourist attraction, I don't mean it to. Actually, unless you're filming a documentary, I would say once is probably enough to give you a lifetime's worth of empathy for what the local crossers go through several times a month or several times a year - some of us, every single day. Perhaps, like going bungee jumping, you can try it simply to acquire bragging rights.

If you're lucky, the end of the line, when you get there, will be no more than half a mile away from the U. S. Customs checkpoint. However, don't be too surprised if you start your journey across a great deal further away than that. I usually hit the tail end, due entirely to my chronic and unshakeable bad fortune, at a mile or more from the crossing. My annoyance begins at that point and lasts well past the time I am allowed back into the U.S., which is to say I remain annoyed for about an hour and a half, sometimes more, because the wait can easily last more than two hours, especially on weekends. Bring a companion or two if you can - they will prove useful company. Until you get to the checkpoints, on either side of you, you'll have non-descript parks filled with wimpy looking trees to stare at.

If you live in San Francisco, you take your super expensive real estate and little rumbly earthquakes in stride. In Los Angeles, you take your overcrowded freeways and your brush fires for granted. In Washington D.C., you take crime for granted. It's like, it's not even there. In New York, you take high rents for granted. In Minneapolis, the freezing, biting cold. In Chicago, the wind. In Miami, the amazing (but sexy) humidity. In Phoenix, the horrendous heat. Here, we have our unbearable bridge crossing. We're used to it. We put up with it. We're insensitive to it. We have no choice. Though it is man-made, we can't do anything about it.

Any time of the day will do, though my favorite is after eight in the evening. That's when the brunt of the misery that's on the other side of your windshield will best hit you in the face - the poverty of the vendors and beggars in this unlikely open-air market created by the slow-moving traffic. As many times as I've done it, I can't disavow the sadness that it creates in me - the questions that creep into my head each and every time. Thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of crossers, may say that they are impervious to it by now, but I doubt they really are. This is humanity, too. This is your son, or your daughter, or your father, or mother, or brother, or sister, or even your grandparents, just on the other side of your windshield. If you'll have nothing to do with it, simply look straight ahead. Only by the Grace of God, it is not you. I don't know if God put them there or if all-powerful coincidence put them there - I don't have a clue how they came to be there, but there they are. Perhaps it's not as bad as what you still encounter in islands of dire poverty in India amidst all the 21st Century prosperity, but it raises identical questions - all the whys of how this came to be this way. Why are you where you are and they where they are?

Those who can, will offer to clean your windshield or dust your whole car. There have been times when I've voluntarily had my car gone over two or three times in a single crossing just to give myself an opportunity to help more of these car dusters and windshield washers. It eases my conscience, especially if they're disabled, missing a limb or two. Three dollars for three dustings. After I've had it thoroughly dusted once, the second of the three dusters - usually ten to fifteen minutes up the line - has never pointed out to me that my car doesn't need dusting. Nor has the third. Most people pay a single quarter or a dime for the service. Some pay nothing. Makes me sad. Sometimes I think I'm paying too much. What is a car dusting on the bridge really worth? Do the laws of supply and demand apply here? This is charity. This is what I say to myself. They do not apply. I often wonder what it feels like to be here doing this fourteen hours a day - running after cars in the scorching heat, in the freezing cold, in the dark. What does he think of us? What goes through his mind when he encounters car, after car, after car that waves him away? Does he think we're uncaring, or mean, or selfish, or indifferent, or just luckier in life than he has been? (I'm sure he thinks in terms of cars - after all, he must be jaded, too, or he simply wouldn't be able to go on.) He has learned not to take rejection personally. I do some math while I inch the car along. If the duster can do one car every ten minutes at an average of fifty cents per car, that nets him three dollars per hour times fourteen hours equals forty two dollars per day times six days equals $252.00 per week, about five times what he would make working in a factory in a nearby industrial park. Even if he does half as much, he still makes a very comfortable wage for his side of the border. I tell myself he is not doing all that well - he does not even look well-fed. I sometimes wish one of those amazing writers working for Esquire would try it for a couple of days - in full disguise - then write a brilliant essay about the experience. It will never happen.

Be careful with the speed bumps - Juarez has some of the most vicious speed bumps in the world. Four of them can be found waiting for you about a hundred feet before you start your ascent up the bridge. Go over them at walking speed, even less than that to be on the safe side. If you get cocky, they will destroy your suspension or flatten your tires. This, however, should not be a real concern because the torpid traffic will keep you from getting cocky.

There are the amputees. Plastic cup in hand, most of them will just beg, shaking the cup as they look at you with hopeless eyes. You ask yourself: is this another scam? Are they as bad off as they look? One tries not to look back or stare at the exposed stumps. They must know that an exposed stump will elicit more sympathy and therefore, more revenue, but I can't be certain that's the case. Some might try their hand at dusting. Others may try to sell something. They may be missing an arm or a leg or both legs. Some will be in wheelchairs, attended by no one, and you will need to be careful maneuvering your car around them.

There are the children. You see their unwashed faces. They probably can't remember a time when they didn't come to this bridge. Most are selling chewing gum from small boxes. Anything else would be too heavy for them to carry. None are car dusters - they are too small to reach the windshields. You wonder where they live. You wonder if they go to school at all. They are up very late for their age. Some are by themselves, without parents. Some have parents working the bridge market, somewhere up or down the long lines, each lane five cars wide. (About fifty yards before hitting the booths, the five will become twelve lanes.) Some stand by their parents, or grandparents, especially if they're very young. Maybe their father is playing a phrase from a popular tune on the clarinet, repeating it over and over and over and over (he is an authentic minimalist), and the kids will be going among the cars trying to collect some coins while he plays. Most cars have their windows up and can't even hear him, unless, assuming they're not playing some CD of their own in the car, they drive right next to him. How did they come to this? Not too long ago, a small child was run over by a car and died from its injuries on the Mexican side of the bridge. The driver of the car was not held liable. You can't help but think of your own kids or grandkids.

Then, there are the ubiquitous vendors selling all sorts of merchandise - photos of Pancho Villa, photos of American movie icons, pottery, large and small gesso pedestals, clay pots, fresh flowers, plastic flowers, radios, electronic gadgets, card games, lamps, calculators, flashlight batteries, fans, small accordions, picture frames, original art, toys, CDs, cigarettes, herbs - and small affordable trinkets, dusty foodstuffs, and drinks. I always wonder how fresh any of these things can be, especially the candy and the chips and the sweet bread and the fruit. You're grateful for the cold sodas that you can buy, especially in summer, but sometimes, you wish they sold beer. You could drink one in the comfort of your car and easily sober up by the time you get to the inspection booth. It would be a big seller. I know the soft asadero cheese is always fresh and clean. I've purchased it often. I've never gotten sick. The ice cream, too. Unlike the other food, these items are always covered in sealed plastic and always kept cold or frozen. The ice cream I must eat in the car, before it melts. The cheese I eat at home. It is yummy - unlike anything you can buy in El Paso.

There are the women. Young and old. You would be surprised how young and how old, how rugged and how frail. None are pretty, though. No opportunities for girl-watching here. Some of the young are carrying babies who are usually asleep, regardless of the time of day. Are they scammers, too? You wonder how they got here. You wonder how much longer they can carry the sleeping baby. If they need to rest, where do they go?

There are the Indians from the Chihuahua hills. They wear layer upon layer of heavy clothing, even in summer. They don't do much except beg. If they're carrying a baby, one tends to be more sympathetic. You give them a few coins. They are not ungrateful but they are extremely shy and say nothing. All the other beggars say "God bless you" or "may God repay you" if you give them something, but not the Indians.

As many as there are, all these people respect each other's territory. By what rules they work I know not, but there must be some code they adhere to, because without it, you know chaos would easily ensue. The numbers of customers that they have access to is simply phenomenal. (It will never happen, but Donald Trump should challenge the participants on his Apprentice show to do something at this market.) Might they possibly be unionized? The thought is preposterous but you think it anyway. As things stand, on this bridge, everything seems to hang by a thread - you just know it. The last thing they need is chaos. You think of your own situation - how secure are you? You think about your job. You think about your health. How came you to be where you are, sitting comfortably behind the wheel of your late model car?

Once you get to the top of the bridge, there will be fewer vendors following you since you'll be on U.S. soil now, or above U.S. soil, up in the air, but you'll be able to see the inspection stations. You'll feel you're almost there, but don't kid yourself - you have at least another twenty minutes to go. Put your car in neutral and coast down the steep incline. At about this point, you'll begin to think about how it might be possible to expedite the journey across; after all, most of the cars are innocuous and benign. Spare yourself the trouble - if there were a better way to do this, someone would have implemented it by now.

As for your fellow the drivers, almost all of them will be rude. Even American drivers, calm and courteous on the American side of the border, on the bridge, drive with just something short of ill will and a sense of impunity. Cutting in is par for the course. Don't lag more than one foot behind the car in front of you lest someone cut in, especially if your lane is moving faster than theirs. There are no traffic cops here. Border Patrol agents rule the lanes and they care nothing for the orderliness of the traffic. It's not their job. If your car breaks down, you are on your own. I hope you carry a cell phone. I hope your cell provider's antennas are close enough for you to get a signal. If you're not yet at the top of the arching bridge when your car breaks down, on the American side that is, the vendors will push you to the top for a couple of dollars. From there, you can coast until someone takes pity on you and lets you through to some point where you can get out of your car and push it to the side, out of the way of all those mad, honking drivers. You don't know what stress is until your car stalls in this sea of cars. About thirty thousand cars will go over this bridge today. Good luck.

Finally, there are the agents, almost all of them suspicious of you - you can't help but think they're all marginally paranoid. You can tell they are even more irritated than you, though they are very well-paid for what they do. Don't push their buttons is what I'm saying. They're just doing their job and they carry guns. Don't take the questions personally. They're not only sniffing for drugs (and other contraband), they're looking for terrorists. They can read your body language and overall demeanor better than any psychiatrist or city detective. If you're planning to smuggle anything, and I hope you're not, make absolutely certain you can be cold blooded about it. If you twitch or fumble for answers or fumble for keys or have eyes that give you away, no amount of luck will get you through. Be ready to explain the purpose of your visit to Mexico and please don't be sarcastic about it if you can help it. If you're pulled to the side, you'd better be and you'd better look patient. A small swarm of six or seven agents will be with you in a minute or two, accompanied by one or two dogs, but they will take as long as necessary to inspect every inch of your car. Don't hover over them while they search. Don't worry about your belongings; they won't steal anything. The dozens of cameras are not only watching you, they're also watching them. Don't make small talk and above all, don't joke with them. Try to sit still without looking scared stiff, follow their instructions, and answer all questions honestly. Try not to be nervous or look guilty. Don't look in your wallet - they'll think you're looking for your lawyer's phone number. Try not to look upset. I know it's hard to do but try anyway. At this juncture, you're guilty until proven innocent. Take my word for that. On average, two smugglers are caught every single day, though only the bigger fish make the news. The small fish all go to jail without a lot of fanfare. As for terrorists, I've never heard of any getting caught. Perhaps I'm not supposed to know.

Once safely across, you'll breathe a sigh of relief like we all do. You might feel like you've just been let go from the grip of some large, mechanical, malleable vise, from the jaws of some benign animal, but one much bigger than you are - out of potential danger. And you'll not want to do it again any time soon.

To my knowledge, no one has ever conducted a study to determine how much pollution is generated by five acres worth of tailpipes - perhaps 2,400 cars in all - the approximate number waiting their turn at any one time - all with their motors running for a solid ten hours (my own estimates). I'm guessing it would be considerable. However, since we have no major heavy industry to speak of, we can claim it's our only serious contributor to the offense of global warming. A dubious honor to be sure, but still, by international standards, it can't be all that much. As for the other two bridges - one of which is currently undergoing an expensive expansion - the terrain one travels is quite different, but the feeling is the same.