What a horrible night! I pushed it pretty hard yesterday, driving all the way from Commerce to a few miles north of Dillon, South Carolina, near the eastern end of the border between North and South Carolina. I wanted to reach a tourist complex there called South of the Border (more on that later), and when I arrived, I registered to tent there overnight.

The tenting area is to the rear of the rather large SoB campground and apparently, though I never saw it, beyond that is a pond or marsh because the minute I stepped out of the car, I was set upon by squadron after squadron of mosquitoes. There were millions of them and they were famished. I had no insect repellent (excellent planning on my part, wouldn't you say?) and all I could think to do was set up my tent, post haste, and seek sanctuary within its confines. I got the initial work done but when it came time to stake it down, I hit a snag. I couldn't get the spikes to pierce the armor of our Mother Earth. Half an inch, maybe an inch deep, then nothing. Flail away as I might with my trusty ball peen, I could not get them to advance any further into the soil. In fact, I attacked with such fervor that I severely bent one of the stakes. Meanwhile, the incessant buzzing of the feasting bloodsuckers continued unabated. I tried several spots, all over the tenting area, but it was no use. I was a beaten man.

I decided to return to the registration office and throw myself on the mercy of George, the attending registrar. I found a regular RV slot that was covered with clover, insuring that its ground was a little more amenable to invasion by spike, put the tent there and went to face my fate. I fully expected George to charge me the extra six bucks and change that such a space would normally command. It was a pleasant surprise when he declined to do so, taking pity on me in light of my now 90-minute-old struggle to pitch that *@#!%*(@!#%! tent! I should have realized that this was an omen, a precursor of what was yet to come. Someone, somewhere, was telling me, "Get out! GET OUT!"

People often praise the peace and quiet the country offers, but I've not found it to be true. That night, as I lay in the tent trying to sleep, there was, not three feet from my head on the outside of the tent, a cricket. A verbose cricket. This cricket had a lot of things he'd been wanting to say for a long time, dammit, and he was going to get them off his chest if it was the last thing he ever did. Of course, if I'd had my way, it would have been the last thing he ever did. I knew full well, though, that if I left the tent in an attempt to end his misery (and mine), he'd quiet down to avoid being discovered. So, there was nothing I could do but hope fatigue would set in and he'd get sleepy.

The cricket was not alone, either. His tones were just the nearest and loudest in an aural tapestry of creature sounds that, in its variety, reminded one of a jungle scene in an old Tarzan movie.

Finally, I was able to drift uneasily off into a troubled sleep, only to wake up some four hours later absolutely drenched in sweat. The tent was like a sauna. I looked at my watch and it read 8:02 am. How, I wondered, could it be this hot, even in South Carolina, at such an early hour? Well, as it turned out, it was rather cool outside my little cocoon but I hadn't vented the tent well, I wasn't in shade and this combination had turned my humble abode into a Dutch oven.

I probably needn't tell you here that I was a little cranky much of that day, but, thankfully, things were to improve later on. Now, I must tell you of this mystical, mysterious site, South of the Border. The name suggests Mexico, does it not? And even the place's mascot, Pedro, found in various sizes throughout the complex, ranging from a few inches high in the many souvenir shops to a 60 ft. neon sign welcoming one and all, is a stereotypical Frito Bandito-type of Mexican character. But what, you may ask, does South Carolina have to do with Mexico? I could understand, you may submit, such an attraction in Texas, say, or New Mexico, but South Carolina?

The only answer I can provide to such a line of questioning is that South Carolina indeed does have very little to do with Mexico but that's okay, as South of the Border has very little to do with Mexico, either. Sure, in among the hot dogs and hamburgers, you'll find the occasional taco or burrito offered at the snack bars. And the souvenir shops offer some Mexican items, of the made-in-Taiwan sort, but that's about it. There really is very little logic behind this place but it's a going concern. It's huge and I can't really tell you why. There is very little to attract one here. It consists mostly of cheesy little shops and questionable restaurants with a couple of kiddy rides thrown in. And neon. Lots of neon.

I think the secret of their success is their use of the "See Rock City" approach to marketing. Motoring along the well-traveled I-95, the weary Florida-bound traveller from New Jersey or Connecticut, who may fear that he will never reach Disney World without murdering his wife and children first, encounters billboard after brightly-colored billboard entreating him to stop and experience the wondrous and exciting attractions of South of the Border! Who could resist? Not I and I suspect not you, either. I urge you to visit South of the Border and ask the question all America is asking: Why?