Bad Day In Mexico

March 19, 2002 Bad Day in Mexico I woke feeling some sense of dread. We were on our way from Palenque to San Miguel de Allende, and had stayed a couple of nights at Cholula. From Cholula to San Miguel de Allende, the most expedient route would take us on the northeast loop around Mexico City – much closer to the City than I really wished to travel. We have heard horror stories about folks caught in Mexico City traffic, robbed and worse. It is a well-known fact that Mexico City has a very serious smog problem. To help resolve this problem, the city fathers have instituted somewhat draconian measures to reduce the air pollution. Automobiles are allowed to drive only six days per week. This law is enforced based on the last number on the license plate. For example, if the last number is a seven or eight, you are not allowed to drive on Tuesday. As you might guess, our license plate ended in an eight and it was Tuesday. In the RV park in Cholula, I chatted with other RVers who thought that the Mexico City law does not apply on the bypass. We decided that it would take hours longer on hilly and narrow roads to take another, much longer route around Mexico City. We would take a chance on the bypass. Our experience has suggested that most of the horror stories we had heard about Mexico have been greatly exaggerated. We had heard many stories of cops inventing traffic violations to foist on unsuspecting tourists, but most all the cops we had met were friendly, courteous and helpful. The trip from Puebla to Mexico City was easy on the broad, smooth cuota (toll) road. The views of Popocatepetl and the snow-capped Ixtaccihuatl volcanos in the morning sun were excellent, once we climbed up out of the haze of the Puebla area. But as we exited the toll road for the bypass, a cop standing in the middle of the three-lane road, blew his whistle and motioned us over to the side of the road. Three cops came to the door, smiled and said, “Buenos dias.” I replied with the same, but something told me that I was not being pulled over for a friendly chat. Two cops stayed outside while the youngest came inside and sat down. “You are driving illegally because your license plate ends in an eight," he explained. Unsure that I had understood, he invited me outside and pointed to my license plate and the number 8. I understood. “But,” I protested, “we are not in Mexico City and the law does not apply here.” He quickly dug out a Mexico City law book where he pointed out that the law did apply here. “We are in the Los Reyes barrio and this law includes Los Reyes. multa (fine) or your motorhome will be confiscated.”

You must pay the

By now, I was fairly well resigned to the fact that I had actually broken the law, so I asked the amount of the multa. He opened the book to another page and showed me that the fine was a fraction of your daily salary for 52 days. “But I have no salary,” I protested, “I am retired.” “Then the fraction of your salary will be the minimum -- 120 pesos per day,” he said. A quick calculation showed that I owed 6,240 pesos or about $600. I laughed a loud, but nervous, laugh.

“This is loco,” I complained.

“Si,” he admitted, “but you must pay.” “But, I don’t carry that much money on me.” “How much do you have?” “About 600 pesos.” My friendly policeman shook his head.

“Not enough.”

“How much is enough?” I asked. He pointed his index finger to the sky and placed his other index finger across the first finger to make a cross. I remembered from somewhere that this meant half, so I assumed that he meant half of the $600. At this point I was somewhat relieved. It appeared that the fine was negotiable and the risk that they would impound my motorhome was less likely if we could come to an agreement. Then I remembered that, squirreled away in the recesses of our motorhome, we had some US dollars. “Will you take US dollars?” I asked. A smile broke out on his face and I knew the answer. I dug out the dollars and counted out a combination of pesos and dollars worth $213. He accepted them very readily and I quickly realized that I could have bargained the fine even lower. “How do I know that policia from other barrios on the bypass won’t fine me again and again for the same offense?” I asked. “I will write you a note of permission. let you go.”

Show it to the other police and they will

“How can I believe that this is true?” I asked. He made the sign of the cross and said something like, “On my mother’s grave and God will punish me if I lie.” By now Pat and I were feeling very bad about the whole deal. We knew we still had a very hard drive around the bypass and we were very unsure that the permission note was of any value in other barrios on the bypass. We really hated giving up $213 bucks that could have been spent on good food, RV sites and other necessities. The three cops smiled and shook my hand. “Well, at least they were nice about it,” I thought. But the fact that I did not receive a ticket, the fine was negotiable and there was no evidence that money had exchanged hands, made me very suspicious of the whole deal. If the law was truly on their side, why would they negotiate? Why not automatically confiscate my motorhome and release it only when I paid the whole $600? We drove through the heavy traffic for a while and caught up with a caravan of RVers from the USA and Canada. At a critical intersection they stopped to pull into a Pemex station – tying up the traffic for a while in the process. I thought they might help lead us through some critical intersections, but decided that maybe we could find our way just as well as they could, so we left them. By now, we were feeling a little better about our ability to navigate in the heavy traffic and with the confusing signs. After maybe an hour and half on the bypass, we turned north into the barrio of Coacalco. There, on the side of the highway was another policeman – motioning me over to the side. Our hearts sank! I whipped out the permit obtained from the previous policeman. “That is no good in our barrio,” he claimed. “You will have to pay the multa or we will confiscate your

motorhome.” Two of the cops climbed in our motorhome and instructed me to drive ahead. They carried hand-held radios and talked into them frequently. “Stop here by the curb,” one said. Now there were four policemen. One, apparently the jefe (boss), sat inside a small business building. All deals had to be approved by him. But he refused to deal with me. I explained that due to the fact that I had just paid a fine, I had no more money. However, I really thought that they probably had the law on their side and that I would pay one way or the other. I suggested that I might go to a bank and obtain some cash. “How much will the multa be?” I asked the same question to three different cops standing around and received answers ranging from $400 to $120. Now something seemed really fishy. They had not cited the law, fidgeted a great deal and seemed in a hurry to make a deal. I decided to take another tack. If they were in a hurry, I would be very patient. One suggested that for $120, he would travel with us through the remaining barrios to protect us from any additional fines and that he could also guide us through the tricky route. I told him that $120 was too high. Our negotiations continued on and on and it was apparent the cops were becoming a little agitated concerning the time we were taking. Yes, we would be late arriving at our campground, but this was beginning to be fun. I felt that I was somehow gaining the upper hand. Then I remembered what might be my “trump card.” A Canadian lady had sold me a Mexican Tourist form to use if I suspected a police rip-off. So I got the form and asked the subordinate jefe (cop boss) his name. I explained that we would have to fill out this form before I could pay any fine. It required that the offense be spelled out clearly and included a place for the cop’s signature. I pulled the digital camera from my pocket and explained that I would need his photo and much other information that the form requested. The belligerent expression that he had been using changed quickly. He huddled with the other cops and the decision came quickly. “You are free to go,” he said. Now all the policemen smiled and shook my hand and bade me farewell. Those who had, only a few minutes before, threatened me with the confiscation of my motorhome and possible jail time, were now my good friends. There could have been no stronger admission of their guilt in trying to rip me off. I thought about taking their photos anyway and submitting the form to the Mexican Tourist Conciliation Department in hopes of getting some revenge, but decided not to push my luck. Also, we still had several more barrios to pass through before reaching the safety of the countryside. The cop who had first suggested guiding us through the remaining barrios for $120 reduced his fee to $30 – I refused. By now it was very late in the afternoon and I was tired of driving and negotiating. I obtained permission from the Pemex Station manager across the street to spend the night in his parking lot. We would continue our journey through the other barrios tomorrow when we could travel legally. We walked to a local mall where we obtained some pesos from a bank, read our email and went to see the movie “Un Mente Brillante” (A Beautiful Mind). Presented in English with Spanish subtitles, it was a solid four-star movie! But our experiences of the day had shaken our confidence. This day had clearly met our definition of a “bad day.” Even during the movie, we both worried about the safety of the motorhome and its contents. Would the bikes still be there when we returned? Folks on the street seemed to have more threatening expressions.

Then I realized that we had stopped being friendly and had maybe treated them with suspicion. We forced ourselves to be more friendly and sure enough, many responded in kind. During the evening, a storm blew through Mexico City that produced about 10% rain and 90% dust. The rain was just enough to cause the dust to stick to our vehicles. The windows to our motorhome were open to combat the heat, so gritty, street dust blew in and covered everything before we could close the windows. That night, several tired truck and bus drivers parked their noisy rigs near us. Because of the day’s events, neither Pat nor I slept well. About 4:00 A.M. somebody knocked on the doors of the trucks and buses to wake the drivers and in the process, woke us too. By 4:30, most of the vehicles were gone. Since I was not sleeping anyway, maybe we could beat some of the rush-hour traffic by leaving early. The traffic at 6:00 A.M. was already heavy and it took us about an hour to escape the metropolitan area. We passed several policemen directing traffic on busy street corners, who scarcely gave us a second look. When we reached the toll highway 57 to Queretaro, I was fairly confident that we would no longer be stopped on some trumped-up charge. Once out of town, we stopped, took and well needed nap and ground some tasty, medium-roasted, shade-grown, Mexican coffee sold by “My Grandfather’s Coffee Company” of Cholula. We had escaped the choking city smog, the choking traffic and the choking atmosphere of Mexico City. As the caffeine from Grandfather’s Coffee began to work, the sky turned blue, the morning sun warmed our beleaguered bodies and we began to regain our sense of adventure. Our feeling of being victims of sleazy cops began to fade. But there was also a renewed awareness that in this warm Mexican culture, there are rogues -- just as there are in any other culture. With our bad day behind us, we could begin to remember the many good days spent in Mexico and to anticipate having many more good ones in the future. But now I have concrete evidence that bandidos still operate in Mexico -- unfortunately, some wear policemen’s uniforms. Winfield Sterling [email protected]