Down and out in Tijuana, Mexico

Murder rates have sky-rocketed in Tijuana of late with the drug trade showing no sign of abating. However, long before Narcos came along to tell the tale (I'm surprised they didn't interview me), this author played a crucial role in the struggle. Now, from deep inside the Witness Protection Scheme, it's time for him to tell his tale.

Tijuana: An exotic but edgy border town where tequila flows like water, on-leave sailors go loco, Mariachi bands churn out unsolicited up-tempo versions of Hotel California and the donkeys are painted to resemble zebras. Basically, it's like Glasgow on any given night.

Apparently, you could reach TJ by taking the trolley (San Diego's metro system) to the end of the line and then, after exchanging pleasantries with the always cheerful American border staff, literally walking into Mexico.

So, after a quick security check - well, the Lonely Planet described it as 'vibrant', back in 2001, me, The Brain, and a friendly Kiwi (I can't even remember the poor bastard's name) from our hostel dorm, headed south for a day of sightseeing and pointless drinking. Adios Amigos!

Things went surprisingly smoothly and, before we knew it, after nervously traipsing through a strange, almost abandoned shopping mall - think Glasgow centre on Sunday morning - we emerged on to the famous Avenida Revolución.

It was an attack on the senses. Sombrero stores, poncho stores, tequila stores and suspicious bars. Kids/street urchins aggressivle flogging us chewing gum. Taxi horns being used like machine guns. Touts of all shapes, sizes and sexes physically pulling us into their establishments. And the donkeys were indeed painted to resemble zebras.

After wandering around for a while - in terms of sights there isn't too much to see - we found a vaguely unthreatening restaurant and ordered an exotic local dish which I believe the locals call… chicken fajitas. Which we washed down with an exotic local beer called… Corona. Jokes aside, this was no El Paso fajitas my friends. More like uranium shavings. But once my tongue had reformed and the tears had dried up, sitting back and sipping bear while watching the chaos outside and listening to Creedence Clearwater Revival playing on the stereo – life was good.

But it was time to get to grips with the local culture. So, after buying some ponchos from a souvenir shop – yes this actually happened - we got dragged into a bar and, in time honoured fashion, got ripped off for a few pesos.

Time speeds up with cold beer in hand and soon daylight began to fade.

Better get back to the states, man, we said, channelling our best Easy Rider. But the question was… which way was it? In our slightly disorientated, alcohol-fuelled state, we weren’t sure. Why didn’t you just check google maps I hear you ask? Because it wasn’t even invented back then, hombre. Phones sill had green screens and were used, god forbid, to make calls.

Estimating our potential location on the tiny half-page Lonely Planet map, we headed in hopefully the right direction although the colourful stores and enthusiastic locals began to depreciate. By now it was dark, and we found ourselves, at the side of a major road, lost. As we debated the complexities of hailing a cab ‘to the border senor!’, a car pulled over and screeched to halt in front of us. Before we could say ‘cartel’ we were surrounded by gun-toting cops. If you believed the movies - Big trouble in little Tijuana.

Forcibly lined up against the wall, gangster films and crime books flashed through my mind. Were we going to get shot? Beaten? Kidnapped? Was this the moment I was meant to offer a bribe?

A police officer searched our bags and while rifling through the Kiwi’s rucksack, triumphantly offered a Mexican equivalent of ‘ah ha’ and held up a fragment of dust. ‘Marijuana’, he exclaimed.

Now, myself and my associate didn’t really know the Kiwi. But we did know that we didn’t partake in the green stuff and we hadn’t seen him smoke anything today. And carrying drugs across the US border would’ve been a suicidal undertaking. We all protested our innocence and, aided by the police officers’ lack of English and our pitiful Spanish, we reached what I’d like to call… a Mexican stand-off.

It’s hard to say precisely what happened at this point but my interpretation is that, our complete bafflement and bemused Englishness eventually forced the exasperated cops to give up their attempts to procure a bribe and they packed up and drove off. Quickly gathering ourselves, scared now, we headed to the border. Only for, and this is honestly true, a few minutes later, ANOTHER police car to screech in front of us and play out the whole, almost identical, charade again! Fortunately, with identical results.

I guess the moral of the story, other than to not take inaccurate cheap shots at the amazing city of Glasgow, is to carry a map and, if drinking, always try to know where you are. 'Course, it’s easy these days with mobile phones doing all the work. Hasta la vista!