Visiting Juarez, Mexico

June 20, 2007, 10:00 am; posted by
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There are rules to visiting Juarez. Don’t drink the water. Don’t eat the food. Don’t put anything in your mouth unless you want a staph infection. Don’t make the Border Patrol mad, even if you are whiter than a bleached albino. And don’t be nice to the street vendors.

The street vendors are like piranhas. Stick one toe in the water and they’re biting up to your neck, showing wares, suggesting prices, and enticing the tourist with anything that might catch their attention. The worst thing a tourist can do (besides listening to every single vendor) is tell a vendor that he’ll come back. When the tourist does come back around that way, the vendor will remember him and say, “You said when you came back you would buy my hammock. Now you are back. You must come in and buy one!”

It’s very annoying.

Generally when I go to Mexico, the best policy is to say, “No, thank you,” in the coldest voice I can muster, paying mind to look straight ahead.

After being in Mexico for several hours in 100-degree weather on Saturday, Steve and I decided to rest outside a shop while my mother and godparents looked around. A man sat down beside us and said, “I have been told by a cab driver that you are looking for prescriptions. I have many medicines that are not available anywhere else in Juarez.” He handed me his card and continued to speak about all the prescriptions he could offer us.

We had no idea what he was talking about. I had a feeling that, “No, thank you,” wasn’t going to cut it. I needed something a little more potent. “Je ne parle pas anglais.” My French accent never rang so true.

“Oh, yes!” he exclaimed, and for a moment of terror I though he was fluent in French. I’ve only taken up to French II, after all, and while my accent is deceivingly natural, my vocabulary borders on abysmal. But then I noted the confusion knitted in his brow and realized he had no idea what had just happened. Nevertheless, he continued on pitching his sale like a good soldier.

So I said, “Je parle francais. Je regret. Tu parles francais?” I handed his card to Steve. Steve does not know much French, so he examined both sides of the card, sniffed it, shook his head and handed it back to me. I gave it back to the man, who was at this point resorting to “Percocet!! I have Percocet! You know Percocet? You get it from me!” — all the while waving his hands around in mock sign language.

I said, “Il fait chaud. Eu, hot?” Some frustrated waving of the hands. “Eu, rest? Tired. Je regret, non.”

“I was told there were four of you, and you want medicine. I have Percocet! No one else has Percocet!”

“Non. No, eh, sorry.” At that that moment my godparents and mother emerged from the store. “Ah, bon!” I exclaimed, rising. “Ma famille!” and we walked away, leaving the bewildered salesman sitting on the steps with his business card in hand.

Which, by the way, advertised his acupuncture business. Yikes.


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