Mexico is Driving (Me Crazy?)
All the Excitement of Driving in America Without All the Road Rage
Welcome to sunny Mexico, home to 130 million people, driving 50 million vehicles, dodging 15 million stray dogs that wander in and out of traffic lanes.
And there are virtually no traffic police in sight.
What could possibly go wrong?
In the US, driving is safe because we have rules. Lots of rules. And signs. And lots of police on the road. The fear of getting caught, punished, and fined, is what makes Americans such good, law-abiding citizens.
Down here, I can’t figure out what the rules are. I almost never see any traffic police on the road. Everybody seems to make it up as they go along. Yet, I see very few accidents.
“So, to drive safely,” I said to myself, “We need rules, or we don’t. We need police, or not?”
Clear as a bell. And I’m a ding-dong.
Down here, they also drive on the right. Yield to whoever has the right of way, and be polite.
In the US, we let other drivers know if they are impolite by flipping them the bird and shouting obscenities. It’s quite civilized.
Road rage in the US demonstrates that we Americans are a calm and composed people.
On to Mexico.
We have already spoken about topes, which are ginormous, often invisible speed bumps. I tried being ever vigilant to avoid hitting them, but inevitably, I get distracted, and a tope suddenly appears. My car hits it, and airborne we go.
This was fun until my suspension died. The van began to bounce. I had to get new shocks.
Then I discovered the secret: always follow another driver, and let them hit the tope.
I assumed the proper way to pass a car on a two-lane highway at full speed was the same as in the USA: Wait until I see there are no cars coming towards me, and I have a big gap.
This is what Americans call the safe way to pass. They do that here, except for the waiting-until-it-is-safe-part.
As I was driving along a two-lane highway, a semi-tractor coming the opposite way pulled out from behind an oncoming vehicle into my lane, going full speed, heading straight at me.
There was no chance he could move back in time. Oh my God. I am going to die.
As I was saying my prayers, the pickup truck, which had been in front of the semi, quickly pulled over to the shoulder on its side, freeing half a lane. Without thinking, as the truck drew closer, I pulled right onto the shoulder in my lane, clearing the other half of a lane. Sheer survival instinct.
As I shouted, “Oh, shit!” the truck squeezed through between us, smack in the middle of the road, missing me by what felt like inches, without slowing down.
A blast of air from the semi hit the front of the van and rocked us as the truck went by. Through the closed window, I felt the deep rumble of the diesel engine.
“It’s a miracle!” I shouted to my dog. “We survived!”
What about the concept of right of way (ROW)?
Americans love the ROW, unless they’re wrong (then they have the wrong of way).
Join me on my first trip around a traffic circle in Patzcuaro.
As the driver already in the traffic circle, I expected to have ROW. Cars trying to enter the circle will yield, I told myself confidently. It cannot be otherwise.
As I rounded the traffic circle, on the first incoming lane, most of the incoming cars yielded, but one car sped up. “What is he doing?” I asked my dog. “What should I do? I could ram into it, or brake and let him by.”
My dog gave me a look of disdain. “Don’t ask me. I’m just a dog. Remember?”
As the incoming driver cut me off, I saw a frightened, apologetic look in his eyes. He gripped the steering wheel white-knuckled.
Was the guy driving a car, or trying to ride a bucking bronco, I wondered. Where are the rodeo clowns when you need them?
Perhaps his car did not have good brakes. His eyes implored me to let him proceed.
Be my guest. I insist!
Maybe whoever gets there first has the right of way.
Or the first of way.
Blind intersections—another problem I didn’t see coming.
In the small town of Patzcuaro, the narrow streets downtown often meet at corners obscured by old, colonial-era buildings that end close to the street, blocking vision.
In the US and much of Mexico, stop signs or signals are placed at intersections.
Not here.
I arrived at such an intersection. No stop sign or signal, just a cheerful round, blue sign with white letters saying, Uno y Uno. One and one. Like a two-for-one offer?
What does that mean, I wondered, then quickly forgot about it as I scanned for a stop sign, trying to figure out who goes next.
I inched forward in slow motion, warily. I still could not see what was on my right.
In a brief moment of panic, I stopped momentarily.
As I hesitated, a red taxi came from my right and shot into the intersection. The taxi driver did not even glance toward me to see if anyone was coming through.
He missed the front of my van by inches and continued through the intersection. I stared around. No reaction from anyone that I could see. Was this … normal?
Since I was halfway into the intersection and now saw a gap, I went next.
Later, I found out that Uno Y Uno means taking turns. However, there is a tiny problem: if no one knows who got to the blind intersection first, whose turn is it?
Whoever goes first, goes first. Fortune favors the bold. So does driving in Mexico.
In Mexico, I have learned to pay close attention to other drivers, to watch their eyes. It’s like fighting a bull without a red cape. Ole!
Oddly, hardly anybody ever gets upset here. No pasa nada. No big deal. Perhaps the more rules and the more police, the angrier we become when we drive.
I stopped off at a restaurant and said to the waiter, “Hey man, driving is loco here.”
He pulled out a pad and a pen. “Comprendo, señor. Has your sense of order been taken?”
“Yes, it was, right after I crossed the border.”
“And they can keep it.”
AFTERWORD
Let’s take a quick poll. Do you prefer driving in the US, with all the rules, signs, and police, plus a high level of road rage, or in Mexico, with a relaxed feeling?
I still freak out occasionally about how chaotic it can be on the road down here, but on the other hand, I almost never get angry enough to experience road rage. No one shouts at me or honks or flips me the bird, so why should I get angry at them? I have developed this strange ability to look at a car and driver and know what they are trying to do, and they seem to know what I am trying to do.
Don’t ask me to explain how it works. I have no idea. But it seems to function.
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I have long said that in Mexico. street signs are merely suggestions.
This made me smile, Carl! I think I might prefer driving there as opposed to here :)