[QUOTE=Derleth]
Do tell, please.
[/QUOTE]
Well, since you asked…
It would have been the summer of 1969 or 1970 (not totally sure now) and 4 of us guys decided to take a drive from Florida out to Texas and vicinity. We planned to hunt reptiles in the desert, maybe score some peyote from the locals, and see what other kinds of excitement we could find. We were all 19 or 20 years old, and we drove my 1960 Ford Fairlane 500. Four door passenger sled, 390 engine, 4 barrel carb, I used to joke that the dial on the dash was calibrated in gallons per minute, not miles per hour. But hey, gas was $.249 in Florida, cheaper in Texas. Could fill the big old tank for four bucks and a bit.
At some point we decided to cross over and visit Juarez. Parked somewhere on some street, took a walk. Window shopped some of the bars, not ready to commit to one, it being only about 1 in the afternoon. We were there long enough for a string of local boys, all looking about 12 years old, to sequentially accost us, offering “My sister, she a virgin, I swear! Five dolla!”
We’d only been there maybe fifteen minutes total when we saw a group of older locals approaching us, but these were carrying broomsticks and similar wooden implements. We thought “how quaint” until they got up to us, and proceded to bash us into bloody insensibility with them. They pulled out our wallets, snatched the cash. We had no credit cards. (It was a simpler and gentler time, children.)
About the time they were finishing up with us, some of us saw, through whichever eye still opened, some of the local constabulary approaching. We yelled for help, and they came over, just in time for our assailants to run cleanly away. We were pointing and yelling, “There they go, get them, they robbed us!!” yadda, yadda.
So they shackled us with chains and cuffs, and hauled us off to jail. Told us we would be charged with attacking the locals. Of course, we would be formally charged by “the Magistrate” when he came to town in “a few weeks”. Meantime we’d cool our heels in jail.
Lemme tell you, jail in Juarez is no picnic. After a few days we began to understand the “hints” the jailors dropped, about maybe being able to “fix” something for us, if only we had some money. Of course, as we all knew, we had nothing, since we had been robbed. But it was “suggested” that we could perhaps call someone, and they might send us some money? Hint, wink, grin.
We’d been there about five days when I started to hint back, I might have something of value, but not cash. Took I think another couple of days to negotiate. Bottom line was, I signed over the title to my car, we got out of jail, the guards drove us in the back of a pickup truck to the border crossing, and we walked across, back to the good old US of A. Where we immediately begged for jobs doing menial crap for even less than the wetbacks would take, just to save enough money to make Greyhound money back to Florida. Some vacation!
So let’s just say Juarez does not bring back fond memories.