Lora and I have been to Mexico a number of times now, so we are rather seasoned border crossers now. As with most things in my life, my feelings toward Mexico are ambivalent. I am neither a Mexiphile nor Mexiphobe. Ambivalence could be a positive good for one who sets out to be an observer, just an observer with an objective eye, but the attitude seems suspicious in a culture where, more and more, one is expected to cultivate the commitments of a partisan for or against -- where neither/nor is just conceals, whether with conscious cynicism or with subconscious naïvete, a more real either/or.
At any rate, one notices first off that the border between our two countries is permeable, but it is much more permeable in one direction than another. Getting into Mexico is easy. Although one travels through a maze of chain link fencing, at least at the border crossing at Los Algedones, the only marker that one has crossed over is a turnstile gate that rotates only in one direction. The maze continues a bit past a public restroom, then deposits one in the center of town. I had expected someone to check an ID, or something, but only the turnstile gate, and it's relatively clear that the official policy of our two nations is asymmetrical. There are a few signs posted clearly warning that the transport of firearms into Mexico is illegal (for those who want to indulge a Pancho and Lefty fantasy) but no one checks. Getting back into the US, however, is not so easy. One must have a US passport, or a visa, and one must pass through a bureaucratic choke point where documents are checked and one must declare one's imports. It's very official, and the officials are the epitome of aloof. They never smile, and do not return pleasantries, and go through their motions with mechanical menace. Although Lora and I would pass a strip and cavity search, and we have little interest in the sorts of things that might interest the border patrol (particularly narcotics) there's still a sense of palpable relief when one has passed through. I have the same sense passing a state patrolman on the highway. I slow down and check my rearview mirror, and I can't help but feel relieved when he doesn't pull out, lights flashing.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. The first time Lora and I crossed the border, we walked past an elderly lady struggling with a recalcitrant walker. Perhaps it's my oblivious focus on other things or Lora's attentive kindness. I didn't really notice her, but Lora did and offered to help. As it turned out, she was crossing to finish some of the dental work she had begun earlier. In the natural course of conversation, we discovered several things about her, to include her desire to immigrate to Mexico where she could live more cheaply, that she was an author of books, that she had an estranged daughter, that she had had some dental work done previously and it had not gone well, and that she was very satisfied with her current dentist. Items of descending importance to her, but ascending importance to us. We had hoped that the gossip about Mexican dentist was true. It was said that many were ex-pat Americans practicing in Mexico because of the high cost of malpractice insurance and regulatory obfuscations. Without those obstacles, they were, ostensibly, cheaper. The purpose of our trip to Mexico that day, beyond simple curiosity, had been to "check things out" so far as dentists were concerned. It seemed fortuitous that we had happened upon someone with experience who was giving her current dentist high marks. For their returning customers, the dental offices provide a cab service to their offices. She offered, and we accepted a ride to her dentist.
The first thing one notices about the dental offices of Los Algedones (or at least her dental office) is the contrast to the surrounding shabbiness. One is beginning to see some of the same shabbiness in the US, particularly in the more impoverished rural areas, a sort of "make-do" shabbiness. Everything seems faded, worn, claptrap, and genuinely so, not in the freshly painted shabby chic imitation of the faded and worn. People who cannot afford the new are "making do" piecing together what they have at hand. Though there could be a certain sort of dignity and pride associated with "making do" (the imagination and skills to make a life out of less) one quickly gets a whiff of resentment, like background scents of cooking grease and sewage. One senses it particularly in the barkers stationed at the doorway to every pharmacia promising the "best prices" and the street merchants lining almost every sidewalk selling most cheap junk for "almost free." Their resentment of the gringos is just barely concealed beneath an almost menacing obsequiousness. The driver pulled up in front of the dental office, just outside a gate separating a small quiet courtyard from the obstreperous activity of street. There was barely room only for the one car. One thing I have noticed outside the US, at least below the longitude of our southern border, is the lack of parking. The narrow streets are clogged with cars, and as we weaved our way along I remember thinking it would have been a quicker walk, but there are no expansive parking lots, at least not the delineated asphalt expanse that you'd see surrounding every shabby strip mall in the US. Although one could easily imagine the desert surrounding Los Algedones being broad and empty, they had not spread out over it. If everything in Los Algedones seemed faded, worn, claptrap, it also seemed crowded, with every nook and cranny occupied by someone, usually someone selling something "cheap."
To step inside the dental office, however, was to enter another world. It was clean, well lit, comfortably furnished and fresh. The receptionist was pretty, efficient, and friendly in the aloof way of receptionists everywhere, somewhere between a studied avoidance of undue familiarity and a more genuine boredom. The old woman who had given us a lift was quickly processed ushered into a back room. After some dithering back and forth, we decided to go ahead and get our teeth cleaned, along with an exam. Lora was led back first, and so I spent some time in the reception area, flipping through magazines (oddly, mostly American women's magazines) and trying to follow the language on the television mounted on the wall. A ubiquitous feature of Mexican TV seems to be the "game show." Fox News must have taken some cue from them, because there is inevitably a clownish male host with bevy of buxom babes whose role, it seems, is to make the host appear at once enviable and ridiculous. Lora suggested once that they exploit their women -- true enough, the buxom babes are just barely this side of being strippers -- and given the current climate in the US, with the #metoo movement exposing the ubiquity of sexual harassment, we might have some occasion to preen our moral superiority. I wonder though. Although the men who exploit positions of power are contemptible, and I'm making no excuses, watching some I can't help thinking they protest just a wee bit too much. As Lora points asks, "why didn't they protest at the time?" Too much of it seems exploitation with benefits, and too many it seems have their celebrity topped off with the moral indignation of a victim.
I start thinking too much when I get bored. When it was finally my turn, and I was led back to the exam room, I was struck by how clean it was in the way that high tech always seems clean. The tools of the dental trade were clearly "top of the line," with a glossy metallic sheen. I was already a data file in the computer, and the hygienist pulled up my name, tapped away for a second or two, then went about taking my x-rays, which, when done, had enlarged my file. She proceeded then to clean my teeth, stopping now and again to tap away at the computer. Not unlike the receptionist, she was pretty, efficient, and she spoke in clipped sentences to the other receptionists. To me she said only, "open wider" with an inimitable accent, and I spent most of the cleaning customarily uncomfortable as her gloved fingers poked and scraped around my teeth. Were it not for the occasional burst of Spanish, and the accent, I could have been in a dental office anywhere. I'm not sure what I was expecting -- something more primitive perhaps -- and perhaps I would have found it further south of the border, in a dentist that catered principally to Mexican teeth. This office, not unlike the score of other dental offices in Los Algedones, catered principally to American teeth.
Here's the thing, I know my teeth are not in the greatest of shape. They're not in the worst of shape either. One can tell from the number of crowns that I've spent thousands on them, and every dentist I have seen since my adolescence has suggested I spend thousands more. When this hygienist had finished her work, and the dentist had confirmed her preliminary exam, adding a few additional data points for the receptionist to tap into the computer, I wasn't surprised at the result of the exam. The dentist, not unlike the receptionist or the hygienist, was pretty, efficient, and she explained the work that needed to be done with the rushed seriousness endemic to professionals. Her diagnosis was similar to the one I had received a few years ago in Salt Lake. She wanted to replace my full set of teeth, not with false teeth. No, she wanted, to replace all my existing crowns and to crown the few teeth left over. In Salt Lake, I had insurance that would have covered part of the expense, here I had none, but the total "out of pocket" was about the same $10,000. She must have sensed that I wasn't biting (ha!) because her explanations of the work grew more perfunctory and finally petered out entirely. She advised me to talk it over with my wife, and seemed impatient, not unlike a waitress who hands over the check and says "take your time," when they really mean "pay up and move on."
We did, leaving with an over stout, over sized blue plastic bag of dental trinkets -- a cheap toothbrush, a yard of floss, and a tiny tube of toothpaste -- the same things my dentist in Salt Lake provided. As we left the dental office, Lora and I did discuss it, for about two minutes. At 64, I'm not putting $10K into my mouth, partly because I don't have the money, but partly because it seems, well, foolish. In the absence of an abscess and real pain, my current choppers will serve until they don't. I thought briefly of the woman who had recommended the dentist in the first place, because she had taken the bait once, been disappointed, and then had to have it done all over again. I wondered briefly what motivated her, and came to nothing conclusive.
We wandered among the street merchants for awhile -- I bought a belt that I didn't need -- until we began discussing where we wanted to eat. A tall skinny, and appropriately toothless man overheard us, and offered to (insisted on?) escorting us to a restaurant -- "the best." We wound around for a couple of blocks, until he deposited us in a café, then waited expectantly with his arms down and his hands clasped together. It took a second to realize that he was waiting for a tip. There must be some rule, written or unwritten, that prohibits a more aggressive tip seeking, because he just stood there, trying to look as pathetic as possible. I tipped him. He seemed to know the people working in the restaurant, but the relationship didn't seem overly cordial, suggesting what? family? I wondered briefly, but again came to nothing conclusive.
The restaurant was a stretch from "the best." There was a roof, but it was mostly open air, and open to the flies that gathered as well. The food was authentic, by definition. We were eating Mexican food in Mexico after all, but it wasn't great, and teetered on the border of being "not even good." As we ate, street vendors. We Americans tend to think of Mexico as homogenously Mexican, but if one is attentive, one can see the different ethnicities, and the class structure associated with it. The dentist and her crew were clearly mestizos, of predominantly white, European blood. I remember my son's first wife was Hispanic, and I remember her parents insisting that they were not "Mexican," but "Spanish," and I remember wondering "what the hell difference does it make?" It didn't so much in the US -- though clearly they thought it should -- perhaps because it apparently makes a difference in Mexico. The "shops" were also clearly owned by mestizos, while the "stalls" that lined sidewalks on the street side seemed mixed, partly mestizos, partly Amerindian, but those that approached us in the restaurant, with their trays of trinkets supported by a strap over the shoulder, were clearly indian. Most could be waved away, but one in particular, a short dark skinned little man with a stare straight out of a b-list horror movie sequel squatted about 10 feet away from our table, and just kept staring, fixated on us. Most likely he had nothing better to do. We were there early in the season, and there were few other Americans for him to fixate on. So far as the one or two other patrons of the restaurant and its staff were concerned, he was invisible. For us, however, he was definitely creepy, and between the bad food, and the atmosphere provided by the street vendor, we didn't linger, and made our way quickly back to the border.
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