Osprey
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3694
Registered: 5-23-2004
Location: Baja Ca. Sur
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Tough Times in Baja
Tough Times or Mexico
Out of the blue my little brother Ray calls me from Apple Valley and says he’s coming my way, wants to stop by to say hello. Translation: He needs
something. He needs it bad and he thinks I have it, can get it, can help him out of a jam of some kind with it.
“Haven’t seen you in a while and it might be a chance for us to spend a little time together and you could make a little money too. I’m taking a
truckload of scrap metal to Ensenada to sell it and if you want to ride along, help me unload it, I’ll split it with you. Should be about 5k of metal
all told. They gave the price per kilo on the phone and if I got it figured right it’s a little over 5k.”
“Ray, now you’ve just got to tell me the part about it not being stolen property. I’m waitin’ for that part.”
“Herb, the guy Herb I was working for here, went belly up, gave me and another guy our pay in wire and stuff from his yard. It’s all legit. I can get
a better price for it in Ensenada and there’s no tax or nothin’. I think they ship it out of there to Japan or China or someplace.”
Much as foreboding about his visit filled me up for two days and nights I will admit it was good to see him, see that goofy smile, that patented bandy
rooster strut he does. I was ready to party, to get drunk as hell and get caught up after almost two years but he begged off, said we’d be better off
celebrating after. He said we had to have the truck at the Otay crossing at 6:15 sharp in the morning.
“Bobby, I can crash in the truck but you’ll have to get me up.”
“No Ray, no, take the couch, I’ll get a cooler ready tonight, set the alarm for about 3:30. That should give us at least a half hour leeway.”
We actually called it pretty close so we stopped for coffee near the gate at 5:50. Ray drove the old, rusty ¾ ton stake truck like it was a Patton
tank to get in the lane for the 3 gate and we were right there at 6:10. A skinny customs guy looked at our plates, looked in the back and glanced at
our licenses and passports, waived us on through like we were VIPs.
“How’d you pull that off little brother?”
“My Mexican junk guys have some juice down this way, that’s all.”
Ray didn’t seem to notice the border country’s pungent calling card as we moved through the canyons and cities; morning smells, onions, strawberries,
chorizo, burning refuse and tires, smog and fog and smut – all the smells of things people eat, how they move about and, of course, what’s left over
when they’ve used it all up, got where they were going. Seems like every American region has its own smells as you travel through by car or bike or
bus. You can almost name the places with your eyes closed, just by the smells, tell Bakersfield from Baton Rouge, Monterey from Detroit
We worked our way across early morning traffic through and beyond Ensenada. Ray gave me a hand-made map.
“Bobby, see if you can spot a well-traveled dirt left just after kilometer 154.”
I didn’t see it in time and we had to backtrack a few clicks and made a right out through the mesquite and acacia and on into the desert. The place
was huge – don’t know how many acres but I can safely say they were doin’ some business. I could see lots of heavy equipment, warehouses, new and old,
cars and trucks of every year and description, flatbed trailers and mountains of rusty metal. The gate was open so we drove in and parked near the
front of the office portion of a large metal warehouse. Three Mexicans came out, all smiles, shook our hands, checked out the cargo and ushered us
inside into a cluttered office full of old desks and chairs and file cabinets.
“My name is Bulo. What is you name?”
We told them.
“You live in San Diego?”
“I live in Oceanside, Ray lives in Apple Valley.”
“Where you buy metal?”
Ray said “Didn’t buy it. My company went belly up so my boss paid me in this metal. It’s all legal stuff, no stolen stuff. Clean. Sabe clean?”
“No factura, papeles, papers?”
“No, it’s from the yard, he just paid me with warehoused stock. His company is closed. No more. Out of business. No more company. Sabe?”
We heard some vehicles pull onto the gravel parking area, the door opened and four uniformed cops came in wearing serious faces, lots of leather.
“Who owns the truck? One of the cops said in perfect English.
Ray held up his hand. They marched all five of us to the back wall and we all took the position, hands high on the wall, feet spread wide, head down
while they patted us down. It was a setup. They weren’t any good at it – weren’t really trying. Ray was closest to the Mexicans and could hear their
faint s******ing, could sense the comic posturing.
He whispered “Sorry Bobby. Try to get clear. There’s a piece in the driver’s door.”
They emptied our pockets and put everything on top of the big desk in the center of the room. I couldn’t see if they did the same to the civilian
Mexicans. Then two cops ushered me out through the big warehouse to another office while the other two took Ray outside. I heard the truck start up
just as they shut the door behind me.
“Are we under arrest? You can’t hold us here unless we’re under arrest. What’s the charge? You’ve got to tell us the charge. You speak English. I
heard you. You know what I’m talking about. You can’t hold us. I want a phone, I want a phone and my papers back. Now.”
They pretended not to understand, moved me into a metal storage room full of empty boxes, locked me in, went back out toward the office.
There was no light except from the dirty windows about 12 feet up the back wall so all I could see was parts of a dirty, dusty storage space. I tried
the steel door and could tell by the heft of it I wasn’t gonna’ be able to bust through it. There were some wood pallets in the corner. Maybe if I
took em’ apart, piece by piece, stacked them up, I would be able to reach the window. So I got after them, began ripping and prying, using one piece
as a lever, jumping down on it to get the next one started. Once the lever broke I just grabbed another and pretty soon it looked like I was making
quite a stack.
I don’t know how long I was at it – I could hear the faint sounds of heavy equipment, maybe forklifts unloading the truck. I sat with my back against
the door to rest. My left hand fell on the door hinge. The door hinge? The hinge is on the inside? No. Can’t be. I can’t be that lucky. The big metal
door hinges were on the inside of the door. If I could punch out the pins I could move that big door. Maybe quicker, safer than trying to go out a
window that high and I don’t have any idea what’s on the other side of that window. Then another break – my hand brushed the light switch and a single
bulb, hanging from the tall ceiling, came on.
Quiet in my holding cell but very noisy outside. The wind had come up and was buffeting about some loose metal roofing somewhere – sand was blasting
the windows and that metal wall. More equipment sounds and lots of metal on metal. Vehicles backfiring now – I could hear four or five pops somewhere
in the howling wind, the blowing sand. I got to work on the pins and had the top one out in no time. The others would not budge so I began to pry the
door locking device up and away from the jam, the bolt hole. In time that got me enough space to begin to work the door back and forth to weaken or
remove the screws on the second hinge. A sharp piece of metal I made from the one chair in the room finally slipped the bolt away from the hole and I
was free.
No time to lose. Gotta find Ray and get the hell gone. Now I seemed to be alone with the wind. The front office was empty, the outer door was locked
but from the outside, not my side. I drank from the tap in the filthy bathroom, rested, drank a little more. Our licenses and passports were in the
top drawer of the big desk. I got those and just grabbed a pocketful of business cards and papers hoping one or more would have the name, address and
phone number of the business.
Nothing stirred out front except the windblown sand. Our truck had been moved about 100 yards south by the edge of a huge arroyo where they dumped
things they could later cover over like a landfill. I kept low and ran in a circle furthest from the buildings, closer to the desert. The front gate
was still open but I could hear no equipment, nothing but the wind. At the truck, which was now empty, I ripped off the door panel, grabbed the little
piece and the box of shells, checked the chamber and began my search for my brother.
Fifteen feet. That’s as far as I had to go. There he was. At the bottom of the arroyo. His face was a gory mask of blood and tissue. It was obvious
they had shot him several times either in the face or the back of the head. The pop, pops I had heard. Before I could think whether to go down there
right now or take some other action I heard the dog coming. An old male Doberman was running his heart out to get to me, knock me off the arroyo,
scamper down to finish me off. I turned and fired a shot while he was still 30 yards away – he slowed but did not stop and in another second or two my
choices all dwindled down to one. I missed the first two and the third caught him in the chest, took him down.
Then I was the target. One of the Mexicans we met earlier was driving a black sedan very fast, right at me while firing out the driver’s side window.
I ran toward the passenger side to take away his good angle and as I did he finally pulled to a stop trying two more shots with his left hand, aiming
through the open window. I ran back the other way and put one in his chest, one in his right cheek. The car was still running and I jumped in, blazed
through the gate and was gone. Before the Ensenada limits I wiped the wheel, ditched the car and the gun in different places and walked, hitchhiked my
way back to the border. I began to breath regular again when they waived me through the walk across and I finally got a ride to Chula Vista.
I was one sorry assed rag tag piece of meat by the time I got to the Chula Vista Police Station. At first they weren’t going to let give a report, use
the phone but in the end they took a cursory report and let me call collect to my uncle Rudy in Lakeside. He’s a principal at a high school there so I
had to call him at work. He said he would go get pop and they would come get me as soon as humanly possible. I had the cop give him directions then
they gave me some water and a chair in a place I could wait.
I really couldn’t find it in me to hate the system – after they explained the business of jurisdiction, the law, the border, I could see how thousands
of people, people like me, lost, confused, busted out, wander in to be served by cops who work for the community of Chula Vista, not Mexico or L.A. or
Kansas City. The more time they spend with us, the more salary they steal from the people of their little town.
I made my dad, Ray senior, and his brother Rudy Carnes stop at the first little convenience store. I was starving. I drank and ate in silence for
almost the first 60 miles back north. Then I dozed off a little and it wasn’t until we were at my place in Oceanside, after a shower and a change of
clothes that I could study how it went, lay it out for them.
Uncle Rudy asked “From what he said, do you think there is, was this boss, this guy Herb he talked about? Do you think this guy could have given Ray
the metal in lieu of pay? We could start there. Have an agency check around Apple Valley to see if maybe Ray was really working for an electrician, a
plumbing contractor.”
My dad had the answer. “He was my own flesh and blood but he had a real knack for making the truth happen right before your eyes. I just can’t see Ray
working for more than just a few days, just long enough for beer money, to be owed that kind of money – he wouldn’t wait that long, just not in him.”
“Well, if there’s no Herb, if Ray stole the metal, it makes little difference now except the owners might be looking for the truck, their goods, for
Ray. As for investigating the whole thing in Baja California we would need to document as much as we can, make formal reports with the Border people
on our side, their border people, both consulates and the Ensenada Police Department.” Rudy said.
My dad said. “Two people are dead. Probably over a stolen property sale thing gone bad. With the police probably running the game, I don’t think we
should put Bobby at risk, put ourselves at risk by association. I guess I could live with the guilt of not recovering Ray’s body, giving him a proper
burial by just weighing his crime with how and why he died. Maybe it’s best just to drop the whole thing. What do you think, Bobby?”
“Dammit pop, my gut hurts I feel so bad. Bobby going like this, like this. It ain’t right. I’ll go back, face the music, whatever I have to do if you
want to pop, Rudy, but I don’t think it would do much good. You don’t know that place. Hell, I don’t know that place. I really don’t know the life,
the culture, just what I hear, what I see on T.V., what’s on the news. That’s a war zone down there and they play by wartime rules sometimes. Part of
this thing is my fault. I shoulda seen it coming. I didn’t even quiz him about the trip all that much. Why didn’t he just sell the stuff local? He
said Mexico was paying way more than local metal dealers because of some deal they had with Japan. How come we didn’t get inspected at the border,
just passed right on through? He said the buyers were juiced. I bought into all of it like a gomer. I could have stopped him, right here at the house,
stopped the whole thing.”
Dad said “He did it to all of us, time and time again. He was a charmer. Don’t beat yourself up. Nobody could get close enough to Ray to stop him when
he was after something, legal or not. He didn’t get caught stealing the stuff up here. Maybe that would have been better. He’d still be alive today.
No, Bobby, these are tough times. If we really needed to blame somebody or some thing, we could blame the tough times or Mexico. Blame it on Baja but
don’t carry it around with you. It will eat you up. Maybe we learned something here. Lets stay in touch, be a real family for each other. Let’s go
Rudy.”
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vgabndo
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3461
Registered: 12-8-2003
Location: Mt. Shasta, CA
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Mood: Checking-off my bucket list.
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I use the term "wordsmith" mindfully. Two ears and the tail.
Undoubtedly, there are people who cannot afford to give the anchor of sanity even the slightest tug. Sam Harris
"The situation is far too dire for pessimism."
Bill Kauth
Carl Sagan said, "We are a way for the cosmos to know itself."
PEACE, LOVE AND FISH TACOS
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woody with a view
PITA Nomad
Posts: 15939
Registered: 11-8-2004
Location: Looking at the Coronado Islands
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Mood: Everchangin'
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as usual, great stuff.
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Skipjack Joe
Elite Nomad
Posts: 8088
Registered: 7-12-2004
Location: Bahia Asuncion
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I enjoyed reading this.
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shari
Select Nomad
Posts: 13049
Registered: 3-10-2006
Location: bahia asuncion, baja sur
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Mood: there is no reality except the one contained within us "Herman Hesse"
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wonderful tale...thanks for the reminder NOT to agree to participate in schemes with amigos and familia.....the best made plans.....
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Oggie
Nomad
Posts: 312
Registered: 6-16-2009
Location: Carlsbad, CA/BOLA
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Mood: Missing Baja
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Could be a movie. Maybe Dennis Quaid as the good brother and Micky O'Roarke as the scheming brother.
Exellent read!
Edit spelling
[Edited on 8-29-2009 by Oggie]
[Edited on 8-29-2009 by Oggie]
A man never stands as tall as when he kneels to help a child.
Knights of Pythagoras
Funny how falling feels like flying
for a little while - Bad Blake
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lizard lips
Super Nomad
Posts: 1469
Registered: 8-30-2002
Location: EARTH
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And David K. as Bulo.
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Pescador
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3587
Registered: 10-17-2002
Location: Baja California Sur
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only some authors have the ability to put you right there in the middle of things. I almost choked on this one--cause I forgot to breathe while I was
reading it.
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Udo
Elite Nomad
Posts: 6364
Registered: 4-26-2008
Location: Black Hills, SD/Ensenada/San Felipe
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Mood: TEQUILA!
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As usual, George, it is hard to tell fact from fiction!
Great piece!
Udo
Youth is wasted on the young!
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CaboRon
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3401
Registered: 3-24-2007
Location: The Valley of the Moon
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Mood: Peacefull
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A wonderfull story, Thanks
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GeoRock
Nomad
Posts: 329
Registered: 3-7-2003
Location: Mammoth Lakes, CA
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Mood: Always have one
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Interesting and fun read; thanks!
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bajalera
Super Nomad
Posts: 1875
Registered: 10-15-2003
Location: Santa Maria CA
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Another great story--thanks, Jorge.
\"Very few things happen at the right time, and the rest never happen at all. The conscientious historian will correct these defects.\" -
Mark Twain
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Martyman
Super Nomad
Posts: 1904
Registered: 9-10-2004
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When is the book coming out?
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Udo
Elite Nomad
Posts: 6364
Registered: 4-26-2008
Location: Black Hills, SD/Ensenada/San Felipe
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Mood: TEQUILA!
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George and I will colaborate on a book in 2012.
Udo
Youth is wasted on the young!
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Kell-Baja
Nomad
Posts: 360
Registered: 1-18-2003
Location: San Diego
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Very exciting!!
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jimboats
Newbie
Posts: 5
Registered: 6-24-2008
Location: bay of conception/asuncion
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being new, at first i thought it was real. great job
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frizkie
Nomad
Posts: 293
Registered: 9-29-2003
Location: Victoria, BC, Canada & El Chorro, Baja Sur
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Mood: tranquilo
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Thanks Osprey,
That was awesome reading...talk about suspense, you're a master.
I needed sommething like that to get my mind off of Jimena.
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