About two months ago we booked a trip for my mom to come down for Christmas. Doing the math we decided we’d be in Mazatlan. Our math was wrong. So instead of sailing up, we rented a car and piled our crap in for the 300 mile roadtrip. And oh what a roadtrip it was.
We got off to a good start. We drove for a good half an hour before Ouest needed to pee on the side of the road. She’s already learning that dance that girls have to do when peeing in the great outdoors after misjudging the slope of the ground. Score one point for the boys.
Another half hour went by and I was flying by trucks, making good time, when I made one particular pass across a double yellow line while simultaneously making use of a turn lane to get around a slow pickup truck. Hey, it’s Mexico. The law of the road here is, “Use your judgment.”
That’s the law of the road mainly because there are so few traffic cops, not because there are no laws. Statistically speaking I should have been okay, but there is always that slim chance, and today it got me. A minute after the pass I was being lit up by a Smokey in a sombrero.
He came up, asked if I spoke Spanish, and then told me what I’d did. He was even helpful enough to point at the truck as it went by us. I knew what I’d done, and knew I’d broken the law so I was being pretty friendly about the whole thing. Ali was the only one pissed off, and that was only because she was stuck in the backseat with two kids who were already done with the drive for the day (with five hours to go).
We talked for a bit then he asked me to come around to the back of the car with him. Once there he explained there would be a fine of 400 pesos. All I could think was that at least he wasn’t one of these unrealistic cops who ask for like 5,000 pesos. I actually considered 400 pesos to be a little on the low side and would have been happy to pay.
But that’s not how this game is played. And I enjoy the game, so I must play along. “Hmmm, quatro ciento pesos huh? Well, OK, let’s go to the station and get this taken care of then.”
Not exactly the response he was looking for, but he was quick on his toes, and told me to follow him. So back in the car I followed as he rolled through the tiny town at five miles an hour. Finally he spotted his partner who he called over and had quickly climb into the truck with him. A few more blocks and we pulled past the police station and under some shady trees.
Copper number two spoke passable Spanglish, so he took over from here. “Okay,” he said, “here is how it is going to go. You must pay 400 pesos fine for your infraction. After you pay we will give you your license back.”
“Okay, sounds good. Let’s go inside. Over here right?”
“Well…um…no. You pay today, right here, and you can have license, but no receipt.”
“No receipt? Por que?” I asked with a look of genuine innocence on my face. “Perhaps there is a discount if I pay today with no receipt. Say…200 pesos?”
“No. No desquento. 400 pesos. Office no open on Sunday. Come back tomorrow you can have receipt.”
Pause, weighing my options. “OK…(smile comes across his face).”
“I’ll come back tomorrow (smile disappears from his face). So I just need a copy of that ticket there on your clipboard.” At this point I have to stop myself from laughing, the charade is so transparent. I know full well there is no way he is going to give me a copy of the ticket.
He’s lost the battle for 400 pesos and he knows it. Now he just needs to figure a way to salvage something. He walks slowly over to his partner and exchanges heated whispers while I stand there acting as if I can’t imagine what is happening.
“Okay senor, 200 pesos. But no receipt and no ticket,” he says while extending my license to me.
“Deal.” I reached into my pocket where I found 170 pesos and for a brief moment I thought about telling him this was all I had, but the cries from the backseat of my car snapped me out of it and I rustled up the other 30 for him without complaint.
Sixteen bucks for a legitimate infraction that only last year in Portland cost nearly three hundred seemed fair enough to me. Basically my feeling on the whole mordida thing is that as long as I’m picked up for a legitimate infraction I’m okay with it. Should fines be going to the community instead of police officer’s pockets? Yes, but I can’t be the one in charge of policing the police. All in all I’m pretty happy with the system.
But this wasn’t the end of the day’s drama. No sir. Another hour passed with us winding through the mountains when suddenly, and I mean suddenly, Ouest projectile vomited all over the backseat. Kids are terrible at throwing up. They don’t seem to comprehend that it is coming, and once it does come they can’t function well enough to get their heads pointed in the least disastrous direction. They just sit there looking straight ahead as puke spews forth from their tiny mouth.
Being that we were on a winding mountain road it took me a minute to pull over, by which time Ouest and Ali were both covered. Lowe was sound asleep on the other side of the car, thankfully.
Anyway, we stripped Ouest naked on the shoulder, cleaned her up with baby wipes, found her some new clothes, did what we could with the car, and drove on. We made a couple stops throughout the day and all was well again. Or so we thought.
When Ouest started acting a little weird this time we were prepared. We thrust a bucket under her head, and staved off a second disaster.
Seven hours after we set out we arrived in Mazatlan, dirty, sweaty, and smelling of puke. Thank goodness it’s a rental car.
Man, Ouest is our little motion sickness girl. We never sail any distance any more without a quarter tablet of dramamine in her. Now it looks like any drive over an hour is going to have to get the same treatment.
