Nobody Is Safe Driving in Mexico (Part 1)
A sequel to last week's post about leaving Mexico to return to the US
Dear Readers,
(Recap: In my last blog post, I was starting out on a 1,200-mile journey from Michoacán state in Mexico, all the way north to the US border. We had just made it to the city of Guanajuato, but we still had over 1,000 miles to drive through the remote and unfamiliar Sierra Madre Occidental mountain range.)
As we drove, my dog, Mr. Bones, looked at me sadly and said, “I don’t want to leave Mexico. I like being Señor Huesos.” (his name in Spanish)
“Sorry, buddy,” I said. We have to leave Mexico before July 7th. Otherwise, my vehicle permit will expire, and the government could confiscate the van.”
Losing the van would leave us stranded and virtually homeless. I had visions of a tow truck hauling our van away, leaving us stranded in the middle of nowhere.
No thanks. We had to skedaddle.
ACT I. The Danger is Real (or Maybe It’s Imaginary—One Way to Find Out)
As a precaution, I asked Google if it was safe to drive through the Sierra Madre mountains to the US. The response, basically, was, “Bandits await. You will die.”
Google said roving gangs of criminals stop vehicles on remote roads and rob people. My entire route was along remote two-lane highways in the mountains.
Thanks, Google. Now, I’m scared shitless. But we had not met any bandits yet.
My family had Googled the route and expected that I would be abducted and killed. I feared that if I were not, it would disappoint them. Dying might help.
Alone on the road, in unfamiliar territory, my imagination kicked in.
In my mind, I saw a barricade across the road up ahead, manned by men in black masks. As I got closer, they fired warning rounds and waved for me to pull over.
A masked bandido with a semi-automatic gun approached the driver’s window and signaled me to roll down the window. He furrowed his brow and barked.
Roaming Robber: We are looking for somebody with money to rob. Are you somebody?
Me: I’m not somebody. I’m nobody. Is it safe for me to drive to the US from here?
RR: Nobody is safe driving in Mexico, señor.
Me: Well, if I am nobody, and nobody is safe, then I am safe, right?
RR. (Looking puzzled) Uhh, I guess so. Hasta luego! (He waved as I drove away)
Being nobody briefly allayed my fear of traveling alone through remote areas. And it helped me fight the fear that almost everyone back home had of Mexico.
Their pervasive fear of Mexico reminded me of the 1966 song “For What It’s Worth” by Buffalo Springfield. It contained some prophetic lyrics.
Paranoia strikes deep
Into your life, it will creep
It starts when you’re always afraid
Maybe fear of Mexico is like that. Most Americans are afraid to visit Mexico, but I felt very safe there. I saw no criminals and experienced no personal danger.
It left me wondering whether the danger is real or mostly in our minds.
But now, on a long road trip alone, fear kept fucking with me.
Act II: Things Fall Apart, as Do Vans and Plans
My life had fallen apart frequently in the last few years, and so had my van.
I wondered if the van would hold together the whole way back to the US. I’d had it checked, but after driving a hundred thousand miles, anything could happen.
I just didn’t know where or when. In the back of my mind, a voice whispered, “Maybe the van does not want to go back to America…”
Time would tell what the van wanted to do.
Our next stop was the large industrial city of Leon, 60 miles from Guanajuato. I knew little about Leon, the leather shoe capital of the world. If that’s your thing.
I did not know it was a massive industrial wasteland that could eat us alive. A sign posted at the outskirts of town said: “Welcome to the lovely city of Leon, Mexico.”
It should have also said, “Urban blight, next five miles.” While other cities in Mexico were scenic, Leon could be described as almost obscene.
Traffic in Leon was aggressive, angry, and terrifying. Cars and trucks flew around us and swerved in and out. Dark grey clouds rolled in overhead.
It began to rain heavily. I switched on the wipers and watched them slap water.
It was definitely getting strange, and fast.
The faces of the drivers flying past looked angry and menacing. Hands gripping steering wheels, bodies hunched forward, racing to unknown destinations.
“Something bad is going to happen, Mr. Bones,” I said. ‘I can feel it.”
Moments later, I heard a loud slap on the passenger side. Something had hit my right rear mirror, knocking it against the side of the van with a bang, startling my poor little dog.
An even louder “bang!” made me jump.
It was followed by a loud scraping noise behind the van, as if the van were dragging something. I pulled over to the curb to check it out.
As I walked behind the van, I saw my entire rear bumper lying on the road in the rain, mostly detached. One single clip was still attached to the van on the left.
Inside, I was pissed off. What or who caused this to happen?
“What the fuck?” I said out loud, to no one. “How the hell did this happen?”
I had not hit anyone; I had not felt anyone hit me. Bumpers don’t just fly off. Something or someone must have hooked it and pulled it off. But who or what?
I looked behind me. No cars or trucks stopped because of a collision. They continued to fly past the lone gringo standing in the rain, staring at his bumper
I had no idea how to reattach the bumper, but I could not drive with it loose. My dog looked out the rear window and said, “Don’t just stand there. Fix the thing.”
To my surprise, I figured out how the pressure clips reattach the bumper to the van. It snapped back into place. I had a momentary feeling of satisfaction.
We drove to the nearest body shop, where the guys checked it for safety. I told them I had fixed it myself. They looked at me incredulously. “This old gringo fixed his own bumper?” I was a bit incredulous myself.
They sent us on our way. I began to worry what else might fall off my van along the route. And what to tell people about stupid, bumper-grabbing Leon.
My advice is to avoid Leon. Weird shit happens. Important things fell off vehicles for no apparent reason. To this day, I am still grasping for an explanation.
“Maybe my van did that on purpose?” I mused. There, I had said it out loud.
My dog said, “You’re losing it, dude.”
Was I losing it? Maybe he was right. I used to be adventurous, fearless … but not now? I felt sorry for my dog, having to put up with me and our life on the road.
Traveling with me in the van is a mix of the sacred and profane, of unexpected highs followed by abysmal lows, of silent nights and loud noises.
From Leon, I drove on to Aguasclientes, where nothing interesting happened.
I was heading for a destination, keeping to a schedule, not a tourist. All I allowed myself was overnight stops and a brief look-see at major cities along the way.
I had done an online search to identify campgrounds for each night, assuming they still existed, but the cheerful-looking websites were often out of date.
One said a campground in Guanajuato was ready and waiting for us! But on arrival, I found a lot, overgrown with weeds. A big, ugly building was going up.
The best laid plans of ratones y hombres.
My next point of interest was the city of Zacatecas in the state of the same name. When you read the guidebook, it says ridiculous things, which is why I often hate guidebooks.
“In 1993, UNESCO designated the city a World Heritage Site because of its “’ stunning colonial architecture and exceptionally well-preserved 16th-century layout.’”
In other words, nothing has changed in 400 years. And the town knocks you out.
We tried to explore the colonial architecture, but I kept getting stunned and losing consciousness. Stunned tourists were sprawled out all over town.
But actually, everywhere I looked, Zacatecas was stunning, even breathtaking, and the moments of awe that it inspired in me more than made up for any fear or any hardship that we had faced on the road, and perhaps any that might lie ahead.
So the damn guidebook was right.
Next, we drove 290 km to Durango, Mexico, population 700,000, arriving early in the afternoon. It was quite hot, noisy, and crowded; I couldn’t wait to leave.
At the end of the afternoon, we headed out of Durango to our campground for the night, a cheerful-looking water park near the end of a long, divided highway.
Google Maps told me to make a U-turn to get off the divided highway. As I completed the U-turn, right in front of me, I saw a policeman; he waved me over.
“Shit,” I said, pulling to a stop. My first traffic stop ever in Mexico.
How the hell did the police just happen to be here? Like they were waiting for me. Then I saw that other vehicles had been pulled over. I was just the latest victim.
Two cops had parked their vehicle on the side of the road out of sight of people making the turn. I watched as another vehicle made a U-turn and got pulled over.
Aha. It was a trap.
I had that moment of dread people experience while waiting for the cop to tell us our crime, and learn the penalty. That moment of hidden guilt buried deep inside.
A short, pudgy cop with a round face approached my window and told me in a rather bored Spanish, which I half understood, that I had violated a traffic rule.
“What traffic rule did I violate?” I asked.
He pointed to a yellow overhead traffic sign above the highway I had just left.
It said, ‘Accesso Exclusivo P. F.” (Access limited to the P.F.)
“Do you know what P.F. is?” he asked.
I shook my head.
He said, “Polícia Federal. Only the police can make a U-turn there.” He took my license and said he’d keep it until I went to the police station to pay my ticket.
I was in a panic.
He had my driver’s license and was sending me to the police station. In a foreign country. I did not know the rules and did not speak the language.
I had images of a jail cell door swinging shut. I’d be locked up. Sweaty Mexican men in the hot jail cell would whistle and call out, “Hey, gringo! Bienvenidos. Let’s all be amigos!”
I didn’t want to go to the police station. I wanted to get my driver’s license back.
Based on my experience living abroad, I said imperiously, “I will have to notify my embassy about this.” I knew that my embassy wouldn’t give a shit, but he didn’t.
He shrugged and asked me, “Do you want me to write the ticket?”
The words struck me as odd.
What kind of thing is that to say? Was he angling for a bribe? Or was this an opening for me to plead for leniency? American cops never said this to me.
I didn’t want to say the wrong thing. He could get mad. He could get violent.
I said, “You are the police. I cannot tell you what to do.”
He stood there, holding the ticket pad and a pen, poised to write a ticket, looking puzzled.
He conferred with his colleague, pointing at a growing line of vehicles they had pulled over.
He turned back to me and said, “We have decided to give you a warning. Here is your license. Be more careful.”
Relief!
Not knowing what to do, I reached out and shook his hand. He looked surprised.
I put my license back in my wallet and drove off down the road. It beat spending the night in a Mexican jail cell full of sweaty, overly friendly Mexican men.
***
My dog said, “Have you noticed things seem to keep getting worse on this trip?”
Yeah, I noticed. I had also noticed our trip alternated between terror and relief.
We had driven over 500 miles, not even halfway yet. Parts had fallen off my van; the police had implied I might be detained. Mosquitoes had drained my blood.
What would happen next? Would we make it to the border? Of die trying? Would the true splendor of the old colonial cities make the trip worth all of the hassle?
Read the rest of the story next week. Find out if nobody is safe driving in Mexico.
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A great ride through Mexico, looking forward to the next one
Loving reading these adventures!!