We had been at South of the Border for more than 12 hours when my 9-year-old son posed a compelling question: "How come Pedro's always holding his stomach?" Sure enough, everywhere we looked, Pedro -- South of the Border's grinning, mustachioed, sombrero-wearing mascot -- stood with a hand on his ample belly. Why? we wondered.
Well, there's no easy answer. Then again, there's no easy answer about anything having to do with South of the Border, the gloriously campy, slightly seedy "resort" off Interstate 95 just south of the border separating South Carolina and North Carolina.
South of the Border -- "SOB" in its own unabashed shorthand -- marks a surreal nexus where stereotypical Mexico meets the Old South, "dirty old men" are celebrated, and fireworks could pass for local currency. In other words, a perfect piece of oddball Americana that contrasts starkly with sanitized Disney World and other clean-cut meccas of family fun.
Begun as a beer stand more than 50 years ago by an enterprising local, South of the Border has survived for decades by drawing in weary families driving up and down the East Coast's main north-south route. Like most travelers, we had zoomed through once, years before, filling up on gas and marveling at the excess.
But this time around, we accepted Pedro's billboard invitations to stay awhile and explore his sprawling domain. We wanted to see South of the Border as a destination in and of itself, a legendary roadside attraction where, as the signs boast, "your sheep are all counted" and "you'll be tickled pink!"
Modest start in 1949
South of the Border was the brainchild of Alan Schafer, a maverick native of nearby Little Rock, S.C., who died last month at 87, not long after our visit. The empire began modestly with a pink beer stand Schafer put up in 1949, close to the border to attract drinkers from dry North Carolina counties. A small diner, the South of the Border Drive-In, followed, and Schafer never stopped adding and tweaking. You don't need directions to Schafer's quirky creation. It's a straight shot south from Baltimore on I-95, a drive of 417 miles, according to the mileage chart found on every SOB counter. Beginning in North Carolina, countless corny billboards commanded us to pull over for Pedro's unusual brand of hospitality.
"Too moch tequila!" "Keep yelling, kids!" "You never sausage a place. Call it a wiener!" And "Home of the $1,000,000 Pecan Pie!"
