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. You must pay the
multa (fine) or your motorhome will be confiscated.”

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. Show it to the other police and they will
let you go.”

“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
Winisterling@yahoo.com