Towards the end of our cross-country trip in our Porsche Turbo, Kara and I found ourselves in El Paso, ready to cross the border for some antibiotics, just as we had done in Tijuana and Cabo.
Our first mission was to find a cab, and soon, an older man approached us, offering to take us across. Expecting a marked cab, we were surprised when he led us to his unmarked station wagon. Despite the unconventional ride, Kara and I both felt a strange sense of trust in the man.
He promised to take us to his uncle's pharmacy, where we could get good prices. After crossing the border, the drive seemed endless, with countless twists and turns. I whispered to Kara that if he left us in the middle of the street, I wouldn't have a clue how to find our way back to the border.
At last, we arrived at his uncle's shop and, true to his word, had a pleasant experience. On our return trip to the border, the man suddenly informed us that he couldn't drive us across; we'd have to walk. As we stepped onto the bridge, the shouts of federales echoed in the air, their words seeming sharp and hostile. We kept our heads down, hearts pounding, until we finally reached the safety of our car.
Looking back, I doubt we would make it out of Juarez alive today!