Dispatch Number 8 -Joe

Joe was an American I met a few hours south of Mexicali in Baja California, Mexico. On this Halloween night the waterfront promenade was filled with parents and children in costume. The beach was lined with dozens of fiberglass skiffs called pangas. The Malecon, as the waterfront is known, is an active, colorful and lively part of town, filled with working fisherman, bars, restaurants, nightclubs and tourist trinket shops.
I felt lucky to find a copy of the San Diego Tribune, the only English newspaper I had come across since leaving the U.S. The Tribune is an awful newspaper that makes the San Francisco Chronicle read like a first rate paper. Yes, that bad. To those unfamiliar with the Chronicle it is a pulpy daily thin on news and analysis. To find a newspaper worse than my hometown paper was a surprise. Back to Joe.

A lifetime in the construction business and long days in the sun made Joe look older than his 50-something. He was missing large tracts of teeth, but that didn't keep him from smiling. He had a chain smokers body -lean and sallow. Joe was not a good listener in the way most people are when they think they know more about a place than you, however, I managed to squeeze in questions about life in this town between his breaths or when he lit a new cigarette.

Until recently San Felipe was a backwater fishing village. Today, it is a small city of 25,000 people that manages to retain much of its original charm despite the flux of Americans moving there. I learned of the current real estate boom-bust cycle from Joe and witnessed the desperation of real estate hawkers hustling property on the north end of town (didn't they know I recently sold and gave away my possessions?) Joe was on to some investment scheme for a golf course development led by an unnamed Hollywood mogul and explained without much conviction that he was gonna get a slice of the pie for $5,000 through a connection of a connection.

Joe liked to talk. What he spoke about the most were the Back Street Bars, it made him anxious, excited and obsessive. These bars, San Felipe's Red Light District, were tucked off the main drag away from the Halloween celebrants. He told me all about it with a whisper in my ear. A place of instant companionship, cheap drinking and sexual delights described as 40 to 100 dollar pleasures. With a wink from his weathered face he told me that if I would come with him I would be taken care of. A frequent victim of my curiosity, I could not resist the prospect of seeing the Back Street Bars.

Joe settled the dinner tab with urgency. He was anxious to leave the restaurant and spoke of Back Street with increasing frequency that came across as both excited and agitated. He kept inviting me with persistence that bordered on desperation. He described fun and pleasure and for good measure threw in an offer to buy me a beer. I said I would like to see Back Street, but was uncertain I would enter any of the establishments. On the walk over the streets darkened and my imagination ran ahead to women swinging and cajoling us 'Johns' from balconies and doorways.

I have always enjoyed the dark seedy underbelly of society. Vice is colorful. Vice is one of the best ways to observe desperation, loneliness, false bravado and sweaty men with bloated faces. No matter how cheery the voices are in places like this the fact remains -most bars smell of urine and disappointment. It was dark as we turned down a one-way street that felt like an alley -dark and uncertain. Cars lined both sides. Without lights bodies were reduced to shadows in doorways. It definitely enhanced the experience, yes, I thought, this is what a Red Light District is supposed to be like, just like the movies! Suddenly, Joe stopped walking when we approached a bar with closed doors. He pleaded with me to come in for a beer, No. You go in, I said. The bar door opened and sucked him backwards into the drowning sound of men, rough looking women and loud music. Joe looked like he fell backwards into a swimming pool as the doors shut behind him and anonymous arms reached out. That was the last time I saw Joe's black & white grin.

The street was filled with women in skimpy outfits, others leaned disinterestedly against buildings. I'll be generous and say the women of Back Street were not attractive in size or shape. And as usual, whether in Japan, Germany, United States or Mexico it was the cross dressing men that looked more attractive by way of fashion and feature than the straight women did with their ghoulish and sad features.

Without Joe I would have missed this glimpse of San Felipe's seedy underbelly. I walked back to camp wondering what else the dirt roads would offer.