South of the Border, located off U.S. 95, on the northern edge of South Carolina, is impossible to miss. Cruising the highway in Florida, motorists find billboards that claim to be 500 miles away from this tourist mecca (about 430, according to our odometer). Heading north, "frito bandito" caricatures entice motorists with catch phrases such as "You never sausage a place!" and "Chili Today - Hot tamale!"
In an age of political correctness, South of the Border is unapologetic. The motel's mascot, Pedro, leers into the face of polite society -- daring you to get offended. No doubt, many do. But we press on, waiting to discover for ourselves what the authors of Roadside America call one of the "seven wonders" of American kitsch. Right after you pass the billboard that promises, "Keep yelling kids! They'll stop," Pedro appears, hoisting a giant sign and standing ten stories tall. Turning onto U.S. 301, you enter a neon nether world of shops, restaurants, amusements and -- oh yeah -- 300 motel rooms.
After getting your room key, a teenager guides you with his bicycle through the maze of streets to your door. Just follow "Pedro," the clerk says. Supposedly all the employees of this complex are called Pedro. But that memo hasn't been circulated too widely. The folks who maintain this tiny city, literally hundreds of them, wear virtually the same tired expression of people who can't believe they are actually working at a place like this. Getting through school, waiting for a better job, wondering what went wrong . . . there are some sad souls south of the border. Even so, fiberglass animals -- wiener dogs, dinosaurs, sharks -- wait for picture snapping. Otherworldly electric cacti glow and hum. Pedro salt and pepper shakers are on sale!
Want some fireworks, T-shirts, sex toys, or maybe a round of indoor golf? You'll find these wonders at South of the Border, under a 200 foot tall sombrero. There are even twenty so-called Heir-Conditioned Honeymoon Suites: "When nothing but the Very Best Will Do for the Bride!"
Wandering the many stores found in the complex, you'll find souvenir spoons, cups, pennants, back-scratchers -- just about any cheap and tacky way to remember your stay. Fill up on greasy enchiladas or a twenty dollar steak in a restaurant shaped like a giant sombrero, and don't forget to stock up on some ginger ale; it's manufactured on the premises.
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Stonewall JacksonDrive further south through Dillon and visit the wrecks of abandoned motor courts that were wiped from existence after SOB began to grow and mutate. Stop at the Stonewall Jackson Motel and imagine why so many folks have chosen to abandon their cars in this overgrown parking lot. Continue along 301 past a dozen relics or relics-to-be struggling to hang on. Keep driving; you won't get lost. Pedro glows just over the horizon. It's easy to hate this mad counterfeit Tijuana that casts such a long shadow over the highway. But like the real Tijuana, south of the real border, you have to visit at least once. Stumble in awe under the glaring lights, stand in the pedestrian walkway -- staring down the lumbering trucks -- and take a picture next to Pedro like so many have before. We did, and we'll probably be back. South of the Border, like a stinky cigar, is a guilty pleasure that's hard to ignore.
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