Crossing the Border
Getting back into the USA was hard when you were a dirty hippie.
from Lightbulb Coffee:
It was early morning when the bus rolled into Nogales. I claimed my pack from the bus’s luggage hold, and walked a few blocks north to the international border. I didn’t relish dealing with the border guards, even with my U.S. passport in my pocket. I hadn’t bathed in a couple of weeks, and my clothes were tattered and stained.
I realized that the Customs agent might simply say, “No hippie in the States,” and refuse to let me pass—or worse, arrest me for something, like a smidgen of pot he could plant in my pack. At this point I didn’t trust anyone in uniform for anything.
I could have waited until dark, hiked around the Port of Entry, and crossed the line out in the desert, but I only had a quart canteen, and dying of thirst had no appeal. I hoisted my rucksack and walked toward the chain-link fence.
It was 1969, and I’d spent the last three months vagabonding through the deserts, jungles, and mountains of Mexico. The heat of the Yucatan in June had turned me around.
My hitchhiking outfit
The customs agent took one look at me and my crumpled passport, and pointed me into a windowless room with a long stainless steel table.
“Unpack your bag and spread everything out on the table.” said the officer. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
As soon as I’d stepped inside the room, he closed the door behind me, and I heard the click of a lock, shutting me in. I noticed a big mirror mounted on one wall. There was no other furniture. Hoisting my dusty rucksack to the table, I unbuckled the top flap, then untied the drawstring.
Soon I had all my paltry possessions spread out on the shiny table: a dirty serape, a blackened billy, a tiny white gas stove, my notebook, and a canteen. After more than a few minutes had passed, I sat on the concrete floor and leaned against the cinder-block wall. I wondered if someone might be watching me through the one-way mirror.
My scrawny butt was getting sore before the agent returned, an hour later. He started pawing through my stuff, with expressions of disgust.
“How can you people live like this?” he asked.
“Skill and daring,” I answered. He snorted, perhaps in disgust, perhaps in amusement.
He thought he’d found something when he came across a pop-top pill bottle half-full of a white powder. A rubber band held my toothbrush along the side.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Baking soda,” I said. “I use it to brush my teeth.”
Giving me a dubious look he pulled off the top, licked the end of his pinkie, touched it to the baking soda, and to his tongue again.
“Okay,” he said. “You can go.”
After I’d stuffed my my gear back into my rucksack, he stamped my passport, and I walked back into the states. I had five dollars in my pocket, and no place to call home.
To find out what happened next, read Lightbulb Coffee, available from Poet’s Corner Bookshop
