No masks allowed in public? Even lucha libre masks? On Halloween? What a stupid fucking law. So stupid, in fact, that everyone completely forgot to tell me about it before I wound up in jail. That’s right. I spent Halloween in not one but three Tijuana jails, wearing little more than a gold sequined cocktail dress, fake mustache and gold luchador mask.
Little did I know, Halloween in Mexico is thought of as an open invitation for vandals to slip into disguise and tear the place apart. Hence the "no masks allowed" mandate. (Never mind the rest of my tranny attire.)
Happily trotting down the main drag, I was en route to see buff men removing their clothes at El Taurino, a gay dive that’s smack dab in the epicenter of the city’s seediest bars, when my visions of bare beefcake were slaughtered by the sting of cold steel around my wrists. Thus began my five hours in the Tijuana penal system. Along for the ride were my two roommates, who did nothing but try to talk some sense into the cops.
Jail one was more or less a holding tank on the far side of the arch. We laughed, we sang, we took photos. We were told we had to wait for the judge to arrive, and I immediately thought of some Vicente Fernandez type pissily changing out of his velvet pajamas. I joked with the guard about seeing someone from the consulate and did what I could to bide my time until it was time to head back to the party. The judge never came.
Jail two was a different story. Larger, darker, more dismal and literally within pissing distance of the border fence, pastimes included smoking crack out of a broken light bulb. But did I quiver in my Jockey bikini briefs? No, not really. I shoved my phone in my shoe, kept a stiff lip and thought to myself, "Better to be thrown in jail on Halloween than Christmas, I suppose." Much to my luck, there was an actual tranny dressed as Gloria Trevi, and so my time in the spotlight was much less intense than it probably should have been. Here is where I was made to explain myself to a judge. In Spanish. Alone. Wearing little more than a gold sequined cocktail dress. You'd be surprised at how many officers -- female officers -- asked if I was a woman or just dressed up. Four.
"You speak pretty good Spanish," said the judge.
"Thanks," I replied.
"And you didn't know about the mask law?" (As if speaking decent Spanish means I should have known.)
"No." Because it's a fucking stupid law. That's what I wanted to say, and I'm sure I could have, but at this point it was 4:30 and I just wanted to go home.
Finally, at 5 a.m., after the evening's second spin in the back of a pickup truck, I arrived at jail three. My $20 bail had been paid. My pants had magically made their way back to me, thanks to my roommates who by this point had been released and were kind enough to run home to grab them. I was charged with "bothering people," signed some papers and was sent on my way.
My observations after spending the night in a Mexican jail were many, but the most telling was that not once over the course of the entire evening did I see a computer. Plenty of monkeys with pistols shuffling and stamping papers, shouting, surrounded by crumbing concrete and the occasional fan to keep down the smell, but not one computer. With all its societal dilemmas -- narco warfare, swine flu, corruption, etc. -- this is how the government carries out the most basic correctional business on the ground level?
"But it's Mexico," you say. "Of course there are no computers." Yeah, sure. It's Mexico. Not Zimbabwe. Internet cafes are on every corner. You'd think the cops could score a few PCs from the Chula Vista Goodwill.
Anyway, I'm told everyone here gets thrown in the slammer sooner or later for whatever ridiculous reason. Basically, going to jail is a Tijuana bar mitzvah. So I'm officially part of the gang.
Furthermore, I was the star of the evening. They called me Shakira and told me to dance.
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