Once again my visit to Tijuana started at the northern terminus of the San Diego Trolley, Old Town Station, studying the high clouds while waiting for a friend. The day was comfortable, partially sunny, without much breeze. For early Fall, it was shaping up to be a good walking day. Soon Jim arrived, and round-trip tickets in hand we boarded the last car and pulled out of the station on schedule at 10:02. The light rail system is cheap, clean, safe, and a popular way to reach the border some 23 miles to the south for a fare of $1.75 each way. At the Chula Vista station, our friend whose name is also Joel, got on the last car completing our group. We looked forward to the day's adventure.

Once at the San Ysidro border station, we made our way across the overpass, down the ramps, and through the turnstile that led into Mexico. It was always an exciting feeling to find ourselves in a foreign country. A short walk away was the commuter bus terminal. We had decided to explore Rodriguez Dam which was about 20 miles southeast from downtown Tijuana, and the largest reservoir for this border city of over one million people. Since there were no direct connections, we took a bus to the commercial district to transfer to one of the red communal taxis that plied fixed routes and stopped along the way for riders until all seats were taken. As our bus was about to turn onto Avenida Constitution in the downtown district which bordered on the Zona Norte, I could see enticingly dressed women standing on street corners or in the doorways of small hotels. This was the red light district of the city, and this zone of toleration was the only part of town where the streetwalkers were permitted to ply their profession. For all the seeming chaos and laissez-faire, the city had its rules and moral order. For the ladies, it was economic reality and a long work day. While many were attractive, most were on the heavy side. Mexicans seemed to appreciate Rubenesque women.

At last we exited the bus, walked a few blocks and located an empty jitney headed in the direction of the Dam. The weekday morning traffic was light, and we made good time, stopping occasionally to take on or disgorge riders. We whizzed past the old bullring, the upscale Tijuana Grand Hotel, mini-malls, office complexes, the racetrack, fresh fruit vendors and taco stands -- familiar sights from past excursions. Finally, we were the last passengers to exit, having arrived at Rodriguez Dam itself.

The view was a juxtaposition of pastoral meadows and wetlands, sluice gates, concrete, and barbed wire. Early last year two or three bombs were discovered at the facility. Details were sketchy, and reportedly one explosion actually occurred. The Mexican Federal Judicial Police moved in to protect the project, and now have a permanent presence on the site. It was speculated that the Tijuana drug cartel was trying to communicate through the bombs, a hands-off message regarding its activities. No one really knows for sure. But such acts of violence often carry an editorial message. We could see cows grazing near the water's edge, some crosses by the roadside in memory of accident victims, and the remains of a rusted truck, overturned and half submerged at the shoreline. The narrow roadway crossed over the dam itself, while speed bumps and the serpentine path slowed traffic to a crawl. Crossing over the dam, we could also see a railroad trestle and tunnel in the distance, off to one side, and beyond them some brown hills.

We hiked back to the small town, that was the only habitation in the area, and walked past a school, a small market, a roadside open grill and some shops. One of these was a Chinese restaurant, a good place we thought to take our lunch. Our other choices were few to none. Inside we found two tables, seats for six, a very decorative rickshaw, a wall scroll of Chinese characters, a small sewing machine, a pay telephone, and a very friendly Asian man who spoke poor Spanish, and was obviously the proprietor. We settled in and ordered, which gave Jim a chance to exercise his mastery of the Mandarin dialect with the owner. The man appeared to be delighted for the chance to speak his own language. I wondered how often Americans who spoke Chinese dropped in for lunch here. In the back we could hear food cooking and sizzling. Soon we were served fried rice, vegetables with tiny shrimps, a single spring roll, and a soft drink - all for about three dollars. The food was tasty and filling, and each of us were provided with chopsticks. At the end, only the fortune cookie was missing, but nobody minded.

After lunch, it was time to explore. Perhaps it was because Halloween was only a little more than a week away, followed one day later on November 1st by the Mexican Day of the Dead holiday, or maybe it was the subliminal effect of the roadside crosses, but we decided to visit a cemetery. We had passed one on the way to the Dam, and now we decided to hike back towards it. At first we walked along the road, then took a path off to the right that led across a drainage ditch, through a yard filled with cars and trucks in various stages of repair, and into some open fields. Soon we were walking atop a long rock filled levee that had been carefully covered by wire meshing to prevent erosion, and gave the structure some support. Eventually, this yielded to a dirt road which sloped up a long hill with fields on both sides. Passing a small chapel, we could see the entrance to Mount of Olives Cemetery. True to the name, olive trees lined the sides of the main driveway.

The cemetery had many wonderful features. It was beautifully landscaped and maintained, more like a park than a burial site. Unlike many of the open lots that we had passed in various parts of Tijuana, there was no litter or debris of any sort here. Nor were there uncovered holes in the ground, often encountered on the streets of this border city. There were various burial areas: a section with markers laid flush with the ground; another with vertical gravestones in the form of small cabinet memorials in which mementos of the deceased were placed; and yet another area that had small bricked off plots with family names inscribed in each one, like well-kept, small backyards. Then there were the monuments themselves. Some had photos of the occupants, stories about their lives, quotations of faith. We even came upon one gravestone in English, and mused about how this gentleman found his way to rest here. We wandered about respectfully, somewhat lost in our own thoughts, and finally decided to return to the land of the living.

To leave the cemetery, we took a more adventuresome tact, and descended a steep hillside leading down to a barbed wire fence, along which we walked until exiting onto a busy roadway. It was now late afternoon and we had covered some distance. We headed towards a neighborhood that we had spotted on our map as a green open space, first passing open lots, commercial buildings, garages and mini-malls. At one of these we stopped into a juice bar for refreshments. I ordered a Jamaica (pronounced HA-MAY-KA) juice made from hibiscus flowers. It was delicious, and I ordered another. In the parking lot outside a man was selling pineapple pies, which he offered to us, speaking in English. We declined, and turned onto a side street which went up a long hill. Turning off this road to the left, we entered another small neighborhood with a video store on the corner, a market and some other shops. It felt like a very safe and friendly place. Further along this road we came to a large baseball stadium, which seemed to be the greenbelt on our map.

From here, we explored winding streets lined with middle class homes, some of which were very attractive. One of these streets ended in a cul-de-sac high above the main roadway below. We decided to descend a rather steep hill, on which a narrow concrete drainage sluiceway had been built, and carefully managed to traverse this structure until we reached the street below. For me, these short-cuts were all part of the adventure, and reminded me of explorations I had made a long time ago, in my salad days.

On the street we soon were able to hail a passing mini bus which took us to the Rio Tijuana district, perhaps some ten miles away. Our destination was the Centro Cultural, a complex containing museums, an I-Max wide screen cinema, restaurants and gift shops. But first we stopped at a used music store in the Plaza Fiesta Shopping Center, and browsed for CDs. Afterwards, walking to the nearby cultural center, I fulfilled a long-standing urge and stopped into a MacDonald's for "El Cono", a soft ice cream cone costing the equivalent of about thirty US cents. What a deal!

The cultural center had some interesting exhibits, including editorial cartoon on US-Mexican relations, and a great photo exhibit, sarcastically biting, about the layers of meaning for the border separating our two countries. We all seemed to enjoy these images.

After hanging out here for a time, we decided to have dinner at a nearby seafood restaurant called El Faro De Mazatlan. My order, which consisted of a great margarita, a blackened whitefish which was large enough to serve three people, rice, a small cup of soup, a beer, rolls and corn tortillas, crackers with some small appetizers, and a free dessert drink made with Kaluha, cinnamon, and cream came to $13.00 with tip. The others had a "Popeye" fillet in a spinach cream sauce, and a tuna salad. Dinner was pleasant, and the service was excellent. In the background, the Florida Marlins (the baseball team, not the fish) beat the Cleveland Indians by a score of 14-11 in the third game of the World Series, a fitting way to cap off the evening.

The walk back to the border took about thirty minutes. We cleared US Customs immediately, and had time to catch the waiting 21:32 trolley back to San Diego. Yet another excellent adventure and cultural experience was behind, leaving us tired but happy.

For another view of Tijuana, and beyond, see John & Linda Lipman's excellent perspective of a more traditional tourist visit.