"People come here from all over northern Mexico," said
general manager Ramón Flores. Flores,
who was standing inside the entrance when we
walked in, was wearing black boots, faded blue
jeans, and a black button-down shirt. His hair
was long, pulled back from his receding hairline
into a queue with a generous amount of hair gel.
Flores managed Baby Rock (where we had gone earlier
to find fighting) for ten years and had been
with Balak for a year.
We were carded at the door, and Eddie translated
for me that the cover charge was $10 -- for $15
it was an open bar. On Fridays, there was no
open bar, and the charge was $10.
It was early yet, and the gigantic club was
fairly empty. Eddie and I grabbed a drink (again
I settled for a vodka tonic -- of the three bars
in the joint, no one had ever heard of a lemon
drop) and headed upstairs to check out the VIP
room. Up to 25 people can fit into this room
that costs $2000 for the night.
If I was surprised to hear how cheap it was
for the cover and an open bar, I was stunned
into silence at the cough-able price of the VIP
room. Two thousand bucks? Flores said
that the price included up to 25 normal-sized
bottles of liquor (they figured a bottle per
person) and, yes, people can take the leftovers
home. The room overlooked the dance floor downstairs;
two glass doors opened to reveal both the club
and a flat-screen TV that showed a live video
feed of the DJ booth (the DJ this evening was
an import from Russia).
The place reminded me of a hip club in San Francisco,
Ruby Skye. For a VIP area we had to share with
others, my group had paid $300 (not including
a $20 cover charge or drinks). We received only
one bottle of our choice with the booth. With
the bottle of vodka we chose, we were given cranberry
juice, limes, and plenty of tonic to make the
vodka last. What we paid for, in essence, were
the guaranteed seats, whereas everyone outside
of our little area was forced to stand or dance.
At Balak, I saw what I'd never seen at another
dance club -- seating everywhere. Placed throughout
the club were about a hundred small, round tables
with white tablecloths, each with two ashtrays
and a couple of chairs.
The Mayan decor was carried throughout the inside
-- flat reproductions of the statues outside
were built into the walls, but the old-world
feel was replaced with new-world club technology.
Scenes from what looked like a performance by
Cirque du Soleil played on a giant screen against
the wall behind the stage and dance floor. We
sat at one of the tables, and a man in a green
coat was suddenly at my side, asking if I needed
anything. I declined service, noticing for the
first time the dozens of similarly dressed men
and women waiting with their notepads and napkins
to serve hundreds of arriving guests.
Flores mentioned that Saturday nights at Balak
drew a larger percentage of Americans than Friday
nights, and he attributed this to the music --
Saturday night there tends to be more house music.
Amidst the clubbers pouring through the doors,
I found a couple from Minneapolis -- older, Caucasian,
sharing a drink at a table by the dance floor.
They came to Tijuana for vacation and had heard
of Balak from a local. While I learned of this
couple's traveling exploits around the world
(oh really, you went to an island named after
women? Wow), I watched the pictures on the screen
change -- now it was showing silhouettes of women
dancing against brightly colored backgrounds.
At 11:30 p.m., the dance floor was "opened." Earlier,
I'd asked Flores, "How does one 'open' a
dance floor? Can't people go out there and
dance whenever they want?"
"You'll see," he'd said. Now I watched
as the dancing silhouettes disappeared, and the
screen lifted to reveal painfully bright stadium
lights -- effectively capturing our attention
as we blinked with discomfort and sought out
its source.
Two men in yellow hardhats came onto the stage
as all lights (including the blinding stadium
bulbs) went out for a few seconds. When they
came back on, fast house beats were pumping and
an electronic voice steadily chanted, "Satisfaction...
satisfaction."
"These guys can't dance for shit, but they're
fun to look at," Eddie said loudly into my ear.
The dancers were stiff, too buffed out to be
light on their feet, but as soon as they started
to remove their clothing, I stopped judging them.
So this was the open dance floor -- the music
was louder, the beats were faster, and the club
was darker. It wasn't long before three go-go
girls joined the eye candy onstage. Here were
the dancers. These girls shook, gyrated,
and spun to the music. One wore a short dress
with white, knee-high boots, and the other two
sported skin-tight bodysuits cut to reveal their
bare midriffs. Occasionally from behind them,
the stadium lights would shine as if to make
it too uncomfortable for anyone to merely sit
and watch.
Despite the energizing music, which Eddie had
said was the best he'd heard in years, we
were pooped and simultaneously signaled to each
other our desire to call it a night. Once through
the entrance, I was fooled into thinking we'd
stepped into daylight, but Eddie pointed out
the multitude of lights surrounding us, each
of them aimed at the façade -- a sobering
effect for those leaving the building, for these
were nearly as bright as the stadium lights that
had been blinking on and off inside.
I asked an English-speaking doorman where we
might go to catch a cab, and he insisted on walking
us to the location. Edmundo, the doorman, led
us around the side of Balak and through a small
outdoor shopping center. I asked him what time
Balak closed, and he said, "We close when the
last person wants to leave." He left us on a
sidewalk, refusing my tip, and a taxi scooped
us up within minutes.
Coming Home
Entering the U.S. is not as simple as entering
Mexico. We followed the sidewalk, moving faster
than the cars that were lined up to our left.
Our path led us into the building now operated
by the Department of Homeland Security, and we
prepped ourselves for the inevitable inquisition,
of which Torquemada himself would be proud.
"Why did you visit Mexico?"
"Just for the hell of it."
"Did you buy anything?"
"Nothing that I haven't experienced or ingested
already."
"Are you alone?"
"No, that guy is with me," I said, pointing
to Eddie. Torquemada called Eddie over.
"You know it's dangerous to be here alone," said
Torquemada.
"Yes, hence Eddie," I said, wondering when it
would all be over. I imagined the next string
of questions would be: When was your last
period? Are you sexually active? Do you think
I would look better without a mustache? And
other invasive, irrelevant facts one might need
to know while trying to determine whether or
not I'm smuggling an alien holding biological
weapons where my breasts might otherwise be.
Finally, after demonstrating that I could reproduce
the exact facial expression I made when the lady
at the DMV took my picture six years ago, we
were released into America.
The only way to get back to my car was to follow
the winding path that leads to the walking bridge
over the freeway.
"So, what do you think? Is there more to TJ
than you thought?" Eddie asked as we winded back
down on the other side of the bridge.
"I might have to see another movie to be sure," I
said.
"We can arrange that," Eddie said, sparing me
the dreaded I told you so.
