cruising for drugs

I came to Cabo San Lucas for its drug culture.

Not the type you have dancing through your head like the sugar plum fairy.

I am not inclined to become a headline that usually involves some young Canadian or American trying to match machismo with a local drug dealer who runs down the tourist in the street and shoots him in a drug deal gone by. That is not my style.

Those stories are almost a cliché -- and inevitable where young (and some old) foreigners show up trying to prove the axiom that there are no rules in Mexico. Well, there are. And dabbling in illicit drugs is a good way to discover that the myth that Mexicans do not own guns is just plain wrong.

The type of drug culture I am talking about is the one we geriatrics inhabit.

On this trip north, the difference between the Mexican and the American drug markets hit me up the side of my head as if I had been raised by Huck Finn's father.

While I was in Oregon, I ran out of my test strips. In Mexico, I would go to the pharmacy shelf, choose what I wanted, and pay for it. It could not be simpler. Just like buying a papaya.

Not so, in Oregon. I stopped at the pharmacy in Fred Meyer (a La Comer-style store). There was almost nothing on the shelves. Everything appeared to be behind the counter like a general goods store in 1880 Boise.

I asked the young man at the counter if he had the correct brand for my tester. I expected a "yes" or a "no" reply.

Instead, he asked: "Do you have a prescription?"

Puzzled, I responded: "No. Why would I need a prescription for test strips. Are they a controlled substance?"

He did not know. I assume he was relatively new at the job. He asked a supervisor and returned.

"No, they are not a scheduled item." He continued smugly, "But I cannot charge your insurance company without a doctor's prescription."

"Really?," came my incredulous response. But I then remembered I was not there to debate health care with him. "That's OK. I am going to pay cash."

It was his turn to look astounded. "Wait here a second, I have to check if you can do that." And away he went to talk with his supervisor.

I could see them chatting and pointing. The supervisor called someone on his mobile. I started wondering if the clerk had misunderstood me to say that I had a gun and I wanted everything in the cash register. Of course, he would have had to ask his supervisor.

About four minutes later, he returned and informed me, with a smile that mirrored his self-categorized Amazon-style of customer service, that, indeed, I could pay cash for my purchase.

When he rang it up, I knew I was no longer in Mexico. What costs me about $700 (Mx) (about $35 (US)) totaled $283 (US) at Fred Meyer.

But I did get what I needed for the trip.

It would have been interesting to wait for Cabo San Lucas for that transaction, but I could not wait that long.

This town at the tip of Baja California has a reputation for medical tourism. Purchasing drugs without a prescription and others without FDA certification is a boom market. If I had not known that from my reading, it would have been evident from the assortment of drug stores on tap.

We tendered to shore in the ship's life boats. Where I stood when I first put foot on the dock, I could count seven drug stores. Viagra seems to be a growing item.

I had run out of one of my Mexican medications. All I needed was a strip of ten to get me back to Barra de Navidad. The clerk first offered me a large bottle of tablets -- the same size I buy in Barra. I told her I didn't need that much, but I was curious how much it cost.

"80 dollars."

When I told her I do not use dollars, she did the extremely easy math for me. 1,600 pesos.

I did not want to re-live my Fred Meyer experience. So, I rejected the offer with no further explanation. The same bottle costs me 450 pesos just down the street from my house.

Instead, I bought a strip of ten tablets for quite a large markup.

The drugstores were filled with mainly American tourists. Having grabbed my prize, I talked to a couple of ladies who told me they fly down regularly from Minnesota for the sun and cheap prescription drugs.

I had no way to compare, but I wondered if their "good deal" was just relative. That they could have saved far more by not buying drugs in Cabo San Lucas with its semi-southern California prices.

Let me try to disarm a discussion point before it rolls out in the comments section. I do not think what I experienced is the much-touted "gringo tax" that visitors see as a form of racism practiced against them.

Tourists may be charged a premium price, but it is a price based on ability to pay, not on race. The free market is based on prices that a willing buyer and a willing seller agree upon. Based on my information, I rejected the price. If the women from Minnesota think they are getting a deal, they are willing buyers happy with what they have saved compared with northern prices.

We forget that "the tourist price" is also often charged to visitors from big Mexican cities. A fact that irritates and compliments Chilangos. Irritates because it costs money. Compliments because the buyer thinks the seller sees a person successful in Mexican society. Climbing the greasy pole costs pesos.

And, now and then, I get the financial benefit of doubt. When we went to see the cliff divers in Acapulco, the other three members of our group were charged $7 (US) for admission. It certainly was not a huge amount of money.

When I showed up, I ordered one ticket. In Spanish. The vendor asked me where I lived. When I told him Barra de Navidad, he pulled out another stack of tickets. I didn't pay attention to what he said the price was.

I gave him a 200-peso note and expected a bit of change. Instead, he handed several notes back to me. The amount stamped on the ticket was 40 pesos. I got to see the show for the bargain price of about $2 (US) -- less than one-third what my friends paid.

Why? Because I look Mexican? I say I do; but I don't. Because I was so excited about the show? I wasn't. Because I live in Mexico? Maybe.

There may be another reason. Remember what my waiter friend asked me: "Why do Canadians dress like poor people?" That may be it. I was wearing Melaque pauper that day. He may have felt I needed alms to get through the day.

Of course, the $5 I saved was easily eaten by the queen of drug inflation who sold me my tablets today. Sometimes, when we see life in that perspective, we can tone down the hubris. At least, a bit.

We are now at sea. One more sea day. A night in Los Angeles. And I will be home in my bed Saturday evening.

Getting ready for my next winter jaunt.

I think to Zacatecas -- if nothing else comes up first.