Saturday I made a trip to the San Diego area, specifically I went to Tijuana. Every few months I head there to get insulin. Right now, in the United States, land of the free, I need a prescription for the insulin and the cost would be around $80 for a vial that might last me a month, depending how I’m managing my sugar intake. In Mexico I can get the same medication, without a prescription, for $21. So making a trip and getting close to a four month supply for the cost of one month in the states is incentive enough for me to make the trip.

This started off like any other trip. I arrived in San Diego around 11:30am and got into downtown San Diego by noon. I had lunch at a usual spot for me, the Grand Central Café, and by 1pm I was on the trolley heading to the border. By 2pm I had crossed the border and was at the pharmacy where I purchased my insulin. I had another hour before my room would be ready at the hotel I stay at for these trips. I decided to head to the tourist area of Tijuana on Revolution. There were two options I had; I could take a taxi to there for $5 or I could walk across the infamous Tijuana Bridge and be there in five minutes.

The bridge is not for the faint of heart, at least that what many people would want you to think.. When people talk about the scary side of Tijuana, this bridge is one of the areas they are thinking about. Of course, stories told about the bridge are mixes of truth and exaggerations. I could tell you about gun violence in America but the reality is only a few people, relative to the population, are effected by gun violence. It’s easy to talk about having an irrational fear about being shot by a crazy person in a mall, school or movie theater unless you happen to be the unlucky person in those locations. I’ve heard horror stories about the Tijuana Bridge but I have crossed it many times in the past. I stopped going across the bridge years ago because the taxi ride was more convenient, but during the summer I gave someone a quick tour of Tijuana and we crossed the bridge and I liked saving the money and the walk was good for me so I started using it again.

The bridge is over the Tijuana River and calling it a river is a joke. It is a concrete river, mostly dried up unless it’s raining, and the very poor live under and around the bridge. Put this image in your head about what it is like crossing over the bridge. You come to the walkway to get to the bridge. There are lots of makeshift stalls set up with people selling all sorts of goods. If you’ve seen or read Neil Gainman’s Neverwhere and know about the floating market, this is it. People in tattered and worn clothing, children hiding and peeking out from hidden areas, all are trying to sell you something as you walk by. When you get close to the bridge there is a bar. There are men persuading you to come inside and have a quick drink, as if to warn you to have some liquid courage before crossing the bridge. Just under the sound of the beer barkers trying to lure you in for a drink, you can hear something off in the distance. You hear voices crying out asking for help. A weary person, who may have taken the men up on their offer and had a few drinks in the bar, might think of those sounds as cries from the dead.

Of course, once you get to the bridge and start walking across, it is obvious those sounds aren’t of the dead, but the call of men camped out under the bridge begging for people to throw coins down to them. If you look to one side or another you will see a dozen or so men shouting up to the people walking across the bridge to toss money at them. Some can be a little aggressive in their requests. Sometimes there are beggars on the bridge asking for money. Like the people in the stalls, they might be selling gum or trinkets, but a majority of the time they are looking for a handout. The bridge is full of activity and you will see people and families walking across the bridge. If you let your imagination wander it can be frightening but during the day, with locals walking across the bridge, things can be perfectly safe.

So on Saturday I decided to cross the bridge. I walked past the sellers, walked past the bar and made my way to the bridge. I noticed there was no sound of the men in the wash asking for money and as I started walking on bridge I saw a couple of people on the bridge about 20 yards away looking off to my left. As I got closer to them, more people moved over to their area and looked to the left. I started hearing something, a low guttural sound. I got close enough that I could look over to the left and I saw three men beating up another man. This wasn’t a bunch of drunks wildly swinging at each other. It was an old school, brutal beat down. The man being beaten up was getting kicked and punched across his body. Even from the distance I was at, I saw the man’s face and body were messed up. Blood was on his hands, feet and face.

The three men took the beaten man and dragged him closer to the bridge. If there was any doubt about the blood, the smeared trail that formed as they dragged him left no doubt the guy was messed up. I can only assume the words he was saying was a plea for them to stop. He was answered with more blows to his body. I saw they were dragging the man over to an access drain, which was right in front of the crowd on the bridge. I should have walked away but I didn’t because I had a gut feeling what was about to happen. Near the access drain were a bunch of rocks, cinder block sized. In my mind I had a feeling they were going to use the rocks on the man, but I couldn’t move. I looked around and saw local parents with kids watching what was unfolding. I couldn’t understand why the parents didn’t move along or at least block the view from the kids. I remember the view of one kid, he must have been around eight years old, and who sat down with his feet dangling from the bridge watching the scene intently.

They dropped the man off at the access drain and they kicked and punched him some more. They would hold his head up and take turn hitting his head. They would kick him in the gut, in the legs and arms. The man was shaking like he was going into shock. I don’t recall when it happened, but one of the men picked up one of those rocks and threw it on the man’s legs. He screamed out in pain and another man kicked him in the face again. That was the last sound I heard from the man. They continued to punch him and picked up the cinder block sized rocks to smash on him. The people on the bridge, including myself, watched those three men kill that man.

Yeah, there was no doubt the man was killed. I don’t know how long they kept punching and throwing those big cinder block sized rocks at him but they did it for a good long time. The man didn’t twitch as they continued to beat him. He made no sound. Finally the men were finished with him and left him face down in a small pool of water. The water turned red with his blood. He was face first in it and he wasn’t breathing. Those three men were satisfied with their work and walked away. The people on the bridge, with the show over, walked away. I kept staring at the body. I kept thinking I was going to see some sign of life but I saw nothing. The sound of sirens snapped me out of staring at the body. I walked off the bridge.

That night I had dreams about the incident on the bridge. I kept replaying the images in my head. I don’t know if I could have done anything to help the man. Hell, I was in a foreign country and if I had done something I might have been attacked. I thought I would have felt something about watching someone kill a man. It wasn't something on TV, it wasn't some movie I watched. I was up close and personal watching a killing, a murder occur and I felt nothing. Maybe because I was on a bridge with other people I had some collective denial on things. Maybe if someone had shouted out and reacted I may have done something. Maybe I have become as insensitive to violence and media would like us to believe. Seeing someone killed before my eyes was disturbing, which is an understatement. I find it more disturbing that I’m not as disturbed as I think I should be. The dreams I’m having aren’t scary. I don’t feel a lot of regret about watching it like the other people. I guess I feel I should have more emotions about the incident but I don’t. That scares me more than anything.