Of Tweeting and English Lessons

As I mentioned in my inaugural tweet (see the hideously ugly new box in the sidebar), I had the opportunity to teach some English the other day. To explain how it came about, I should first talk about the ever increasing security measures around the border. As the situation here continues to deteriorate (or at least stubbornly refuses to get even a little bit better) security as you come into Mexico continues to increase. It has now become commonplace for me to be stopped by U.S. Customs and Border Patrol (CBP) as I leave the U.S. Something about a single white guy driving a car with way way way out of state plates must scream suspicious. I have been asked if I have large amounts of cash, guns, ammunition, and once, “a big ol’ bag of knives or something.” Then one guy searches the car while the other guy makes small talk. Good times are had by all (except for possibly the car, which doesn’t even get a cup of coffee bought for it before being violated in every way imaginable), and after about ten minutes I’m on my way.
With one notable exception. If the Notorious D.O.G. is with me, I never ever ever get searched. It’s like a puppy Jedi mind trick. I role down the window, a CBP guy starts asking me questions, looks at D.O.G., gets a goofy little grin on his face and then waves me on through. It’s probably not surprising that CBP officers, many of whom work with drug sniffing dogs all the time, are big old softies when it comes to my pup, but the degree of difference in their attitudes is both amusing and mildly alarming. I mean what if the drug dealers watch the Jim Beam rent a puppy commercial?
Anywho. After clearing that first hurdle and driving across the bridge there’s the normal customs stop upon arriving in Mexico. That’s always been there, and is a complete nonentity. Occasionally a red light goes off and a siren rings and some guy asks to see the registration for the car. Now though, after the customs check point, there’s a military check point. The right lane of the two lane road is now cordoned off by cones with one army guy out front waving a big, orange, traffic directing flag. Of course usually he’s just waving it back and forth which means a driver has no idea whether he’s being waved in to be searched or waved on by to make his merry way into Mexico.
At least that’s what I thought until last week when the soldier, who incidentally, like most soldiers in Mexico, looks at most nineteen years old, pointed his flag at me, locked eyes, and pointed me over. So that’s what that looks like. I pulled past Mr. Flag, stopped by three additional soldiers and rolled down my window. The boss motioned me out of the car. So naturally I asked, “get out?” He nodded. Then the following conversation ensued.
Him: “How say?”
Me: “In Inglés?”
Him: “Si.”
Me: “Get…out”
Him: “Geeeet aut”
Me: “Si.”
At this point he says something in Spanish, so I put on my confused you’re talking in Spanish face. Being the intrepid guy that he is, the soldier I’m talking to points at the machine gun slung casually around his buddy’s neck, and then points at the car. I assume he’s asking if I have any guns in the car, and say no. So then he points at the gun again and asks me how to say it in English.
Me: “Gun.”
Him: “Gooo”
Me: “Gunnnnnnn”
Him: “Gooon”
Me: “Si.”
Then they did a cursory search of the car and sent me on my way. I suppose anybody willing to give English lessons at not quite gunpoint at the side of the road isn’t likely to be carrying contraband?
And on that note, follow me on twitter. It’s a well known fact that I’m perfectly willing to talk to myself. And I’ll do it in cyberspace too if you make me. But I still love an audience.