Run for the Border

After the O’Brien trial, where my friend Dennis was the only white witness, and a drunken, off-duty San Francisco policeman was acquitted for the manslaughter of a black truck driver, Dennis and I both decided to drop out of college and hitchhike to Guatemala.

In 1969, with the Vietnam war raging, we two long-haired hippies thought life might be better south of the border. We were both careful to buy 90-day tourist cards, and our US passports were up to date. It turned out to be harder than we thought to get into Mexico. In San Ysidro, we hit a major roadblock.

From Lightbulb Coffee:

On the Mexican side, a Mexican federal officer was welcoming everyone that approached, saying “Bienvenidos a Mexico” to each group of people. As we approached, he stepped from the shade of his gatehouse and stood square in front of us, legs spread and arms folded above his substantial belly.

“Alto,” he said in a loud voice, holding up the palm of one hand. “No hippie in Mexico.”

We both pulled out our U.S. passports and our 90-day visas issued the week before by the Mexican consulate in San Francisco. He refused to even look at them.

“No hippie in Mexico,” he repeated, pointing us back toward San Ysidro.

“Vamos.”

Back in the USA, Dennis and I conferred.

“Let’s hitch to Arizona to cross the border,” said Dennis. “maybe the Federales will look at our visas there.”

Dennis and I waited, thumbs out, at an on-ramp to Interstate 8. We stood next to a sign that read “Yuma 170 mi”. A full-sized pickup with an extended camper shell lurched over to the shoulder. It had Colorado plates.

The driver leaned across the cab to the open passenger side window. “Where you fellows headed?” he asked.

“Mexico,” I said.

He opened his door, came around the back of the camper, and opened a rear door. “Throw your gear back here, and you can ride in front,” he said. In a moment we were sitting three across in the cab, headed east on the freeway.

The driver, Glenn, regaled us with tales of his adventures for the next few hours. It was long after dark when he stopped on a gravel road between two low adobe buildings.

“Donde vas?” asked a Federale beside the driver’s window.

“San Luis,” replied Glenn, “para las cantinas!”

The officer smiled and pointed down the dirt road.

The rig rolled along the dark desert road until we saw colored lights and scraps of neon on the corners of a few adobe buildings ahead. Glenn steered the rig off the rough road and came to a stop in an even rougher vacant lot.

“It’s party time, boys.” he said happily. “The chicas await!”

To find out what happened next, and how Glenn smuggled guns and televisions into Mexico, I hope you’ll read my book, Lightbulb Coffee.

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