Photo by Sandy Huffaker, Jr.

He is saying, "son of a bitch" over and over again as he works the puzzle of Abraham Lincoln’s face.

It is the world’s busiest border crossing; I have just weaved through the gauntlet of Indian trinket vendors on the right and a phalanx of cab drivers on the left. For the hundredth time I wonder why the cab drivers on the south end of the gauntlet keep at the tourists who wave away the first dozen cab drivers. It seems to me that after the first 15 yards, it is pretty well established whether or not someone needs a taxi. Maybe the drivers are counting on wearing down the pedestrians or a change of mind. It is, I find out later, a bit of both.

I am sitting at a taco stand, my back to the noon sun. I have a bottle of Teem lemon-lime soda and three carne asada tacos. The tacos are chewy with gristle; grease stains the brown paper wrappers chewy with gristle; grease stains the brown paper wrappers t.’ ” The news commentator continued, “Ralph still lives to tell about it, but others...weren’t so lucky....Two [American] men headed south on a fishing trip in November. A month later their bodies were found near San Quintín in Baja, their skulls crushed.and puddles on my paper plate. My stomach lurches a little, but the Teem calms it down.

I have tried to speak with several drivers for an interview. I have told them what I want; they have all either nodded or stared at me with suspicion or confusion. Every one of them has cut me off, saying, “Where do you want to go?” When I explain I don’t necessarily want to go anywhere, they point me down the line to one of their competitors. I must rethink my approach.

A few days earlier on TV, I saw a piece that went like this: “You might have seen it on the Today show this morning, a disturbing report about two Mexicos in a tug-of-war. One of Mexico’s stunning beaches, a tourist mecca. The other, a Mexico caught in the grip of an unprecedented crime wave. Which Mexico should you believe in?” The story went on about an American couple, south of Tijuana, who woke up in their trailer one morning to face three men wielding machetes and knives who robbed them of money and jewelry. Another testimonial came from two other Americans, veteran tourists of Tijuana, Rosarito, and Ensenada: “We had a cab ride,” said Ralph Sanders, “and the taxi driver doubled his fee, and we said we didn’t want to pay it. And then his friend came over with a gun and said, ‘Yeah, you’re gonna pay iut a dripping cow skull in a cloud of hot vapor.

Eyes dangle from the sockets. Cooked flesh falls away from the cheeks and snout. The vendor pries open the jaws with his hands, and steam escapes like wintry breath from the animal head. Teeth fall into the In all, 18 Americans have died in Mexico in the last six months. And for the first time ever the U.S. State Department warns: ‘Crime has reached critical levels in Mexico City and serious levels throughout the rest of the country.’

“Here in Tijuana the tourism department says despite the apparent rise in crime the area is safe.” A sound bite follows, a spokesman for the Tijuana tourist department: “We had over 28 million border crossings of foreigners to Tijuana. Out of those 28 million last year, this department received only 126 complaints.”

During a recent holiday weekend, more news stories surfaced about Mexican taxi scams, the most common being, you get in a cab at the border, say you want to go to Tijuana Tillie’s on Revolución. The driver stops too pick up another fare. The other fare whips out a knife and robs you and the driver — only the driver gets his wallet back later from his brother-in-law with the knife. Meanwhile, you’re trying to call Mom and Dad collect from a pay phone.

The number you can call at the Department of State will provide you with tourist advisories that for the most part concern Mexico City, but not exclusively. Much of the message cautions against Mexican taxi robberies citing the robbery and death of an American on December 15, 1997. A State Department public announcement dated March 26, 1998, urges Americans “... to only use taxis summoned by telephone.” The warning goes on to discourage Americans from getting in taxis in front of “nightclubs, restaurants, and hotels or cruising throughout the city. In particular, Volkswagen bug taxis are to be avoided.” The taped message does not explain this last bit of advice; possibly it is that these vehicles tend to limit your karate moves in a tight situation.

“Although the December 15 incident was the first taxi robbery we know of leading to the death of a U.S. citizen,” the recording will tell you, “taxicab robberies are becoming more frequent and violent.”

In the middle of my second taco, I spot a kid with a taxi license around his neck. He is a driver, but he looks maybe 12 and about as dangerous as a bag of churros. He is wearing a knock-off Lacoste shirt and khaki pants. He is clean cut and smiling. I notice his English, when he approaches tourists, is passable — about as good as my Spanish. I think about talking to him. I’m debating this with myself (an older driver would be better, but a young guy might be less guarded) as I stare past the grilled and salted scallions to the posted menu and read, “tacos de cabeza.” I always thought head tacos were from goat’s head; I’d had a few and they weren’t bad. I don’t see any goats’ heads around. The question is settled, along with the question of finishing my lunch, when the vendor opens a steam table directly in front of me and pulls out a dripping cow skull in a cloud of hot vapor

Eye dangle from the sockets. Cooked flesh falls away from the cheeks and snout. The vendor pries open the jaws with his hands, and steam escapes like wintry breath fom the animal head. Teeth fall into the steaming water and thick, white 16-inch tongue lolls to either side as the vendor shakes flaps of meat from the bone a foot from my face. I drop my taco and stare at the sockets. I can only think of one thing: Rosie O’Donnell on a very special episode of Tales from the Crypt.

The kid’s name, it turns out, is Pee Wee. Alberto “Pee Wee” Rodríguez Rivas, 19, is five foot two and has been driving for a year. He wears his hair just long enough to comb neatly and alternates smiles with looks of earnest concentration. “My car is that one over on the corner,” he points to a yellow taxi in the back of the line. He is behind maybe two dozen 10- to 20-year-old cabs. He has been in line for three hours waiting his turn on this slow first Wednesday after a long holiday weekend. “It is number 2295,” he says.

“Do you own your taxi?” I ask.

“No, I pay the rent for it. I pay, like, a thousand dollar a week for the rent.”

“You must mean a hundred.”

“What did I say? A thousand? No, you’re right. A hundred a week. I work 12 hours a day — all the taxi drivers work 12 hours a day. Usually I work six to six. We need to find persons who go to downtown and some other parts [of Tijuana]. We just charge $5. That’s a cheap price. We got to pay the rent, the gas, the parts for the car. So that’s not an expensive price.”

“How much can you make a week after rental on the taxi?”

“I can make, like, $200.”

Pee Wee explains that while he works for Tijuana Yellow Taxi and is a member of the union Gremio de Taxis Amarillos, most drivers, himself included, rent from individual owners. “I rent from a guy who is working right now,” he indicates one of a dozen or more men in either guayabera or Hawaiian shirts smoking cigarettes and leaning against yellow Caprice Classics, Monte Carlos, Lincolns, or Buicks (Pee Wee’s car is an ’82 Impala). “He owns another car and every week I pay him. Nobody owns more than five because it’s expensive. Maybe $10,000 for a taxi. That’s why I cannot bought it. I wish I had one.”

I ask Pee Wee his take on the Mexican cab scare among Americans, and I describe the second fare scam. “That’s an old story, yeah. That used to happen a lot more. Many persons think that Tijuana is a bad place, but I wanna tell you something. Right here in Tijuana we are all persons. We have feelings like U.S. persons. This is a new Tijuana. Right now there is not a lot of crime like there used to be.”

“So,” I ask him. “You don’t know any drivers who steal from people, tourists, drunks?”

“No.”

He says “No,” the way my son does when I ask him if he’s getting laid: almost indignant, as if the question is insulting.

“Maybe some other places. Not here. Not with the Yellow Taxis. With the Yellow Taxis it is just ‘say the price’ and that’s it. It is $5 to downtown, to Revolución; $20 to Rosarito. We try to help the persons. We always try to be like friendship. We help you with a place to eat, a place to dance. We know good places to go with your family. We try to say good places where you are safe.”

Pee Wee doesn’t sound like he has memorized a spiel. He is licensed in Tijuana, he tells me, and points to the I.D. card around his neck, and he is in good standing with the gremio, or guild. Pee Wee works with a partner who will take over at 6:00 after the car is refueled. With two drivers working the car 20-some hours a day, the owner might expect $800 a month without repair or gasoline expenses. That is close to $10,000 a year, the average price for a reasonably roomy used car of an unfashionable make and vintage.

Pee Wee has been standing around for some hours now at the edge of a rectangular yellow sea of parked metal. Every 15 minutes or so, cabs will creep forward one space as the cars at the head of the block enlist clients. Pee Wee explains how it works.

“We write our taxi number right here,” he steps into a wooden lean-to booth with a green chalk board. The board is divided into a rough rectilinear pattern with yellow chalk. Inside each rectangle is a two-, three-, or four-digit number. “Here’s mine, 2295. These four guys in the front,” he gestures north to the head of the line. “One is the queen and the others are working for the queen. The queen is the first person, the next person who will take a person [fare]. The three have to work for the queen.” Pee Wee means that the three front drivers will solicit people coming across the border. If the potential customers indicate they want a taxi — or can be talked into it — one of the three will escort them, not to their own cab, but to the queen’s. Pee Wee draws a diagram with chalk on his palm. He is illustrating how the cars rotate into position with the dispatch of each queen. The result, on his hand, looks like a football play.

At the rate things are moving on this slow Wednesday, Pee Wee won’t be going anywhere for a while. I ask him if, say, some young girls come walking across the border and they think Pee Wee is cute and want him for a driver, can he bypass the queen? “Yes,” he grins. “I will take them.”

The interview is concluded as an older ratero-looking case with a mustache and cigarette holder walks up and starts chewing out Pee Wee with machine gun Spanish I can’t catch except for the words periodista cabrón. “He says I can’t talk to you,” Pee Wee apologizes.

“That’s all right. Thanks.”

Walking a block south, past the Yellow Taxi area, independent cabs of various colors line up, their drivers leaning patiently against dusty quarter panels and trunks. One such cab is painted a faded blue and grey. The driver is a strong-looking, handsome man in his 60s. Though he shades his head with a dapper straw hat, his skin betrays much exposure to the sun over the years. Rubén Montejo has been a driver in Tijuana for 28 years. He is a member of a different union than the Yellows; he is a member of the Confederación de Trabajadores de Mexico, a labor group that encompasses many occupations.

“I am in competition with the Yellows,” says Montejo. “Sure, but we get a lot of customers.” He indicates the other maverick drivers behind his car. “And I am my own queen.”

“If I own a car in Tijuana,” I ask him, “can I start my own taxi service?”

“Yes,” Montejo says without hesitating. I notice he has a kind of Gilbert Roland thing going on with his pencil mustache, smile, and squint. “Sure. You need a D qualification for public service in taxis. It doesn’t cost much. A little over $100 a year.”

“You have to take a test?”

“No. You just have a mechanical inspection every three months.”

“Can I park my taxi in here with you guys?”

“No. Every driver has his own space. Those guys,” he points to the Yellows, “can’t park here. I can’t park there. Those guys downtown can’t park here, and I can’t park there. Everybody owns their own space.”

“In the 28 years you’ve been driving in this town, what changes have you seen?”

“Not much. A little bit. Mostly there are more taxis. There are almost 8000 taxis in Tijuana now.”

I tell Montejo about the State Department advisory and the crime scare. He shrugs. “It happens sometimes, not to me. Not for a long time. I know some friends. They have had some problems.”

“You must have had some experiences, some stories. All this time....”

“Yes. You got to be careful with some people. With some people you can tell right away. The way they look, the way they talk, what they want... You can tell. If they want something else besides transportation, you can tell just like that — sometimes. Once, a guy, a drunk guy took my taxi from downtown. He wanted to go to this particular colonia, this neighborhood. It was raining, I remember. When I got there, I charged him the rate. He said, ‘I already paid.’ We started to argue and he had a gun. I said, ‘All right, forget it,’ and he put the gun away. I surprised him then and took the gun away. That was it. The only time. He was a Mexican guy. That was 20 years ago maybe.”

Montejo works from 8:00 in the morning until about 4:00 in the afternoon. “I used to work 12 hours, but that’s too much work. I get tired.”

At the bar at the Hotel Nelson, only two guys are drinking and speaking in Spanish. The place is dead. It’s early. The bartender is a guy I don’t know. My friend, ex-TJ municipal cop turned bartender Robert Rivera, is not working that day. He does, however, show up while I am nursing a Coke and wondering whom to talk to next. He is on his way to a doctor’s appointment.

“I thought I’d catch you behind the bar,” I say.

“No, I cut back to just Saturdays. I can’t take it anymore. I am of a higher moral level than these people in here.” I recognize classic bartender burnout. I knew a guy once who started waving Bibles and rosary bea at his happy-ur crowd. I ask Robert where the cabbies hang out to drink after their night shifts, and he mentions the Dragón Rojo Bar a half block away and across Mariachi Square.

I hadn’t been in the Dragón Rojo for almost ten years, but it hadn’t changed much. You don’t find Americans in there. You usually have to step over a sun-dried babbling drunk to get in. Once inside you are assailed with the smell of beer and liquor, body odor, piss, and smoke. The lighting is muted red and reflected in the back bar mirror mareople in here.” I recognize classic bartender burnout. I knew a guy once who started waving Bibles and rosary beads at his happy-hoàanca. I tell him I am looking for cab drivers.

“Everybody in here is a cab driver,” he says in English. “I am a cab driver.” He introduces himself, as do I. “Where do you want to go?”

“Nowhere.” I explain my story.

“You’re not taking my picture,” he say and points to my Chinese-made video camera bag, which I use to carry my tape recorder, batteries, notebook, pens, Swiss Army knife, paperback book, eyeglasses, prescription pills, and assorted junk.

“No. No pictures.” I tell him about the State Department advisory and all the nervous Americans afraid of Tijuana cab drivers.

“What? That is crazy. We are the ones who should be afraid of them. You see this?” He points to the shredded bill on the bar. “Some kid wants to go to la línea at 2:30 this morning from the disco. He makes me stop so he can get out and make a pee pee. He falls down. I still take him to the border, but he is cursing at everyone we pass. He curses at me too. When I drop him off, I say, ‘five dollars,’ and he does this.”

“If you take it to a bank I think they will give you a new one,” I suggest.

“Maybe in San Diego. Not here, I don’t think.” I buy the ruined half sawbuck from him and order him a tequila. I notice it cost less than my Coke. Cueva tells me he has been off work since 6:00 a.m. His taxi is right outside, and he will take me anywhere I want to go for a good price. Again I tell him I don’t really want to go anywhere. I just want to talk about driving cabs in TJ.

“I been driving for ten years.” Cueva tells me. “I work in hotells before that. In Ensenada and Rosarito and by the beach here. I couldn’t make enough money when my wife got sick. Cancerosa. I worked nights in the hotel and drive the cab, my wife’s brother’s car, in the day.”

Cueva didn’t like the tape recorder, but he liked the new bottle of Carta Blanca and the next tequila. His wife died a year ago, and he owed a lot of money. He switched to nights behind the wheel and didn’t work a hotel desk any longer. “There is more money late at night and on the weekends. Especially in the summer.”

Cueva laughs at the idea of TJ drivers robbing Americans. “Maybe it happens sometimes, but not by regular drivers. Some criminals maybe.” He then itemizes grievances against U.S. teenagers, servicemen, surfers, even middle-aged men acting like children (I got the image of OMBAC types), puking in his cab, hanging out the windows almost falling out, jeering at policemen, shouting obscenities at girls on the street, mooning passersby, and one guy who slit Cueva’s front passenger-seat upholstery with a cheap stiletto. Cueva exhibits little sympathy for Ed and Evelyn Mastercard, with the kids, huddled and nervous as Mom jots down his name in case Cueva rapes her, kills Ed, and sells the kids into slavery. “Then they will ask if the fare is five pesos or five dollars in ‘real money.’” Cueva laughs and drinks. “Let’s go for a ride,” he says. “I’ll take you to the border. No charge.”

“I don’t think so. You just drank a quart and a half of beer and two tequilas.”

“That’s okay, that’s no problem,” he says and stands uneasily. “It make me more relax. I drive even better.”

“I need the exercise,” I say, and mean it. I need some fresh air even more.