Entering the “Most Dangerous City In the World”

Juarez, Mexico, Friday, July 22, 2011 

When I mentioned to people in the border town of El Paso, Texas that I was traveling through Juarez, they said:

“You’re crazy, it’s not safe.”

“Be careful, I would’t do that.”

“Don’t stop and talk with anyone.”

“Don’t get into any conflicts with the police.”

“Good luck (nervous laughter) and may God protect you.”


These people live across the border from Juarez. They all seemed scared, and no longer venture into Mexico.What do they know, that I don’t?

Yes, I almost turned back, but where’s the adventure in that? I’m not brave. If confronted with violence or accosted, I’m giving up all my possessions for my life. It’s a small price to pay to continue to live, learn, and love.

Thus, I started my odyssey south of the border. Apprehension, fear, anxiety, and butterflies in my stomach understates my frame of mind. I boarded the Americanos bus and am comforted by a 300 pound, thirty-ish, dark brown hair, Latino Arnold Schwarzenegger look alike -- except pear shaped, not muscular -- bus driver. His sober, worried look either was because of the dangerous journey ahead, or because the bus is running late, and it’s well into the lunch period. 

It turned out that once the bus was through the greater Juarez area, he sat a large orange igloo picnic bucket in the aisle. He ate with a passion, nonstop for the next two hours -- numerous sandwiches, several Mexican pastries, 3 or 4 diet cokes, and ended by peeling and eating sunflower seeds. Somehow seeing the gusto expressed by “Arnold” while consuming food had a calming affect on me. Things can’t be that bad, since he is most at risk and it does not affected his appetite. I had a bag of trail mix, but couldn’t eat, too nervous.

First, we stopped at the Mexican border for immigration and customs inspection. Being the only non-Mexican on the bus, I was told to “get off” and go into the office for “examination”. A six-foot tall soldier in black fatigues, black flak jacket, and coordinated black mask, with a shiny automatic weapon stopped me at the door. His dark, mad eyes penetrated my very being. Is it too late to turn back?

I offered my passport, which he did not inspect. He motioned me with his weapon towards the door. Why am I sweating so much? I’m stammering as I say “Buenas tardes” (good afternoon), no response. I have nothing to hide. I’ve committed no crimes, yet I feel guilty as hell.

Entering the office, three more heavily armed, black dressed soldiers surround me. One grabs my passport, puts it up to my face and asks my name. “Maaaaaaanuel Griiiiiiiiijalva, sir!” I answer. He asks my reason for wanting to enter Mexico. This is not the time to tell of our adventure through the Americas. “I’m a tourist, sir!” I respond. He tells me to go to window number one, and that they’re watching me. I start to tremble. These are supposed to be the good guys, right? What will I do when comforted by the bad guys? Good thing I brought several change of drawers.

The immigration official is serious, gives me a tourist card form to complete. He asks for another ID. I slip into my messenger bag and pull out my California driver’s license from the enclosed money belt and hand it to him. He keeps it. He points to a tall workstation table to stand and complete the form. It’s all in Spanish, which I understand. I complete the form and return to stand in line at window number one. Other Mexican travelers enter the office and stand behind me in line. The official stamps the tourist card and passport. I’m told that before I leave Mexico, I need to go to any bank and pay a 280 peso (about $28 dollars) fee to complete the process, or I won’t be allowed to leave the country. He hands back my license. I buckle up my bag, as I turn to leave he says, with a serious tone “Welcome to Mexico.” I need the bathroom.

I boarded the bus with dark sweat marks under my arms and loose bowels. The bus continued through Juarez. Heavily armed federal police are everywhere. All dressed in matching black, with masks, and flak jackets. Black Humvees full of soldiers constantly raced by the bus. Except for all the armed men at every junction, and sober, sad looking people, we could be in the United States. We go by Costco’s, Home Depot, Denny’s, Holiday Inn Express, and a Ford dealership. The government buildings we pass are armed fortresses, with heavy guns and lot’s of soldiers -- doesn’t anyone take off their black flak jackets, or masks in public? How do people live in this intimidating environment? I saw no overt acts of violence, but could taste a bitter, pale of brutality, impending gloom, and random death. It tasted like I bitten into a bitter aspirin tablet.

So what’s all the fuss about travel through Juarez? . . . . Oh, please ignore the stain in my shorts. There was another casualty. When I arrived in Chihuahua, Mexico, I discovered my camera was missing? Next time, we’ll fly to Mexico.

(My apology for not posting any photos. I’ll get another camera for the next adventure. See you in Copper Canyon.)

Update: bought another camera. Below is the first photo -- a test shot.

After traveling through the "most dangerous city in the world"

and discovering missing camera (& stain in my shorts)