This file is long. You may want to save it to your disk and read it offline. I put it here with hopes that reading about my experiences will help others avoid the same. Enjoy.
Steve
Brian and I left on our drive to Costa Rica last Thursday, December 21. We planned the trip about six months prior. We were to drive down to Costa Rica, surfing all the way down, crossing Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, and into Costa Rica. I spent three months there earlier this year, surfing. This was going to be one of the greatest road trips either of us had ever taken.
We spent the first night in Tucson, with our friends Susan and Munro. Susan was the manager of the whitewater rafting operation on the Kern where Brian and I worked through the summer season. We crossed the border at Nogales at about 1:00 P.M. Friday, December 22, headed south. It was an uneventful several hours of driving down the Mexico 15 and we arrived at Guaymas at about dusk. The "Mexico West Guidebook" we were using described a beach a few miles outside the city that was quite beautiful, and had some excellent areas for camping. We thought we'd go there and eat. (We'd look strange pulling up into the middle of town and pulling out our Coleman stove to cook some dinner.) We'd eat there and then decide whether to drive back into town or camp right there. After all, the guidebook did say it was quite good for camping. We'd been advised to stay in populated areas further south in the state of Sinaloa, especially around Los Mochis, and south to Guadalajara, but nothing had been said against this area.
Pulling off the highway, we drove down a dirt road towards the beach, and relaxed. We'd been driving for several hours, and the weeks of preparation for such a journey had been long. There were arrangements for mail to be collected, bills to be paid, and other responsibilities to be met. Things had to be collected and made ready for the journey itself. Maps, guidebooks, advice, insurance, passports, international drivers licenses, etc. The car had been gone over with a mechanical fine-tooth comb, and had new tires, a full set of spares and tools, and a new stereo. A platform bed was built in the back of the pickup, and a shell that we bought from our friend Goose had been put on. Brian had a new surfboard made for the trip. All our surfing and river equipment, cameras, clothes, and food enough for several weeks on the road were packed in. We were there, our first night. We were doing it!
The water beckoned. We could hear it, faintly, so we took a short walk there. We returned to the car, happy, confident, satisfied. We'd been there about an hour when a car came cruising by. It was an old Chevy full-size pickup, white, beaten up. We didn't think too much of it. Then about ten minutes later they came back, this time pulling up right next to our car. A man jumped out of the driver's side of the car, brandishing a 9mm (or .45) pistol. I was sitting on the back of the truck. He grabbed me by the collar, and threw me on the ground. This was not going to be our night.
Brian was on the other side of the car. They yelled something and he came out immediately, and lay on the ground. They pushed our faces into the dirt with the pistol. Two others got out of the car, and one immediately slashed two of the tires with a knife. The whoosh of air was short, complete. They began unloading the car, methodically, completely. All the while we were being pushed and taunted by the gun, laughed at, and obviously made fun of in Spanish. They went through the bags as they pulled them out, laughing at some of the items they found.
There was no sense of urgency to them. It was taking forever. There was a strong smell of alcohol and cheap cologne. They took turns keeping us on the ground, always keeping our faces in the dirt. Always, with a prod of the foot, a poke with the gun. They didn't want us to move. I could hear the rustling of the paper bags of groceries, the strain in one's voice as he picked up my heavy bag, swearing. The only English he knew was "Shut up." When it was his turn to guard us, he repeated this over and over. He did so with a lyrical Mexican intonation that made it sound rather comical. I wasn't laughing though. The other, the first to jump out with the gun, spoke enough words of English to demand things, but not enough to make a sentence.
"Llaves, keys" he said. "Where you keys?" They had fallen out of my pocket as I was lying in the back of the truck reading. I remembered seeing them beside me and putting them in the corner of the camper shell. There was no way he was going to believe I didn't have them. I told him they were in the back of the truck, but still he wouldn't believe me. He picked me up by the collar, popping off the buttons on the front of my shirt, and pulled the hood of my shirt over my face. He dragged me around to the front of the car and demanded "Llaves!" Brian had a set in his pocket that he'd forgotten about. One of the others picked up Brian and held the knife to his ear, also demanding keys. Brian remembered his set and pointed to the pocket they were in. With that settled, they pushed us both around to the other side of the car, away from the light, and threw us back to the ground. One of them sat on my back and in his drunken stupor, played with my hair with the cold steel barrel of the 9 mm. I just wished I knew if it was loaded.
By this time, we were both shivering uncontrollably. The ground was cold and we'd been on it for almost thirty minutes. We'd been in the car, and were not dressed particularly warmly. It was a cold Sonora desert night. It was getting colder.
One of them came over and felt all of our pockets, pulling everything they found out. They checked for watches, and took them. They checked for necklaces, but the neither the cheap black shell, nor the "Virgen de Guadelupe" necklaces I was wearing interested them. One of them shouted: "Esta toda limpia, toda."1 The car was completely cleaned out. There was nothing left. They had even taken the bag of trash we had accumulated on the drive. They took a shirt, a bag, something, and began brushing over their footprints, walking backwards.
"Listo?"2 one yelled. Two of them jumped back in their own truck. Their headlights had been on the whole time. Now their battery was dead. Their truck wouldn't start, and they'd slashed the tires of our car. It was comical. I was pissed.
One walked back over and asked, more politely than their previous demands, "Tienes cables?"3 They had unloaded everything in the car. They'd seen, in fact had taken, everything that was in the car. "No tengo!"4 I said. He stomped his feet and shouted expletives in Spanish. They were flustered, didn't know what to do, and were shouting at each other. I was getting colder. Even more pissed off. "Lleva la batterìa, Lleva. Tienen todas. Lleva la batterìa, tambièn"5 I told them. It was like a ray of light to them. Why hadn't they thought of that? They popped the hood and stood there looking at it. The battery was bolted down.
As I lay there trying to spit the dirt out of my mouth, another came over and asked for something. They were slurred drunken words I didn't know, but presumed were tools of some kind. They were making a lot of noise, hitting, metal against metal. It didn't sound good. They asked again, but I didn't know what for. I told them the brown paper bag that was in the back, as well as my poor Spanish allowed. More metal against metal sounds, and finally something gave. They had pried out the battery with the tire lever. I'd had enough. They had their car running. One came over, and just for good measure, punctured a third tire. But this time, his knife just bent. He had to stab it several times before the faint hiss of air was audible. Again, they went through the routine of brushing over their footprints. The car was running and they'd moved it down the dirt road a few yards. Our guard told us "no look or I blow your f***ing heads." He must have seen the same movies as me. He knew exactly what to say. With one last shove of our faces in the dirt, he got up. We didn't look, but heard the door slam and the truck drive off.
It was silent, dark, and cold. I looked around. There was a faint sound of the water lapping on the shore in the distance. They'd taken the surfboards off the top of the car. It was too dark to see inside the car, and we had to reach in and feel for anything we could find or salvage. The stereo was gone, plastic pieces of the dash lying on the floor, and on the ground outside. The car was listing to one side, with the two driver's side tires completely flat. There was still a faint hiss from the third tire. It was a slower leak, and wasn't flat yet. That one may be able to be repaired. The hood was still open, but it was too dark to see under it. We could feel the space where the battery was supposed to be. The bed I'd made for the back of the truck was still there, but everything that was packed under it was gone. They'd left a fin block--a piece of foam used to protect the surfboard fins. Probably couldn't figure out what it was. The glove compartment was open, empty. My pillow, now dirty, lay in a rumpled, useless heap. The magazine I was reading was still there. I had been reading about places we might have been surfing in a few days. The weight of it took me. We wouldn't be doing that now.
They got my wallet. In it were a few hundred dollars in travelers checks, some cash, and two expired credit cards, one expired ATM card, and some other worthless, easily replaceable cards. What was not replaceable was my passport. It had been sitting in the compartment under the stereo. Brian had lost everything: passport, travelers checks, all of his worldly possessions. I had the foresight to be wearing a money belt, in which were the bulk of my travelers checks, $300 cash, my credit and ATM cards, drivers license, and an emergency Auto Club plastic key. We weren't going to starve, at least. Brian had a small money pouch hidden down his pants, but only had some cash and a credit card in it.
We looked around some more. I found a flashlight. We went back to the car, and now with the flashlight we could see the damage and the loss that before we could only grope for with our hands. It was devastating. The battery clamp was bent. I found a lip balm, a packet of lozenges, and one bottle of Crystal Geyser Juice Squeeze, orange and passionfruit flavor. I found the paperback novel a friend had given me in Australia. I found the small pocket notebook that was to have been our trip log. There were a few entries in it: the mileage when we left L.A., the gas we'd put in the car, and the mileage when we'd turned down the dirt road. It was incomplete, but told the story. It reminded us of what we weren't going to be doing for the next three months. And this was our first night.
There was nothing to do but walk. From the log book, I figured out how far it was to the town. About 20 kilometers, 12 miles. We started walking. We were cold, and the night was getting colder. Walking would at least help us get warmer. We hadn't eaten since Tucson late that morning. Who knows when we would again. We walked, looking along the side of the road for any useless items they might have discarded along the way; passports, books, surfwax. It was futile.
We laughed at how stupid they were, running their battery down. At the knife bending against tire as they tried to puncture it. At them asking if we had jumper cables to start their car. At what they could possibly want the keys for. At them not getting the hidden money belts. At them later trying to use the expired credit cards. We laughed at how ridiculous it was, the whole situation. At ourselves, walking on a dirt road through the Sonora desert at whatever ungodly hour it was. At how stupid we must have been to even be there in the first place.
The end of the dirt road and the main highway were now in view. The lights were off in the restaurant at the corner where we had turned, but were on in the back. We knocked on the window. A man came out, and, as best I could, told him our situation. "Fuimos robado de todas nuestras cosas. A la playa. Tres hombres con pistolas, y cuchillas. Necesitamos llamar la policìa. Puede ayuda nos?"6 He couldn't. He didn't have a telephone, and the nearest one was a few kilometers down the road at someone else's house. The police station was in Empalme, about 15 kilometers up the road, in the opposite direction to the nearest telephone.
What if the phone at that house didn't work? Or if the people were not home? It was only a few days to Christmas, after all. We decided to walk into town. The highway was dark. No lights, no shoulders. The traffic flew by at 100kph or more. Trucks would go by and flash their headlights, honk their horns. Cars wouldn't even slow down. We weren't sure what time it was, or how long it was going to take to get there. It wouldn't be easy to get a ride, he told us.
Brian and I walked. We drank our juice squeeze. We waved, put out our thumbs. It was useless. There was nothing visible in the distance, except for car headlights coming the other way.
Something in the brush along the side of the road was following us. The name of the beach we had left was the Spanish word for mountain lion. With that in mind, we moved to the traffic island in the middle of the road. It was wide and safe. By this time we weren't laughing. We'd gone through the relief and denial stage, and were sinking into hopelessness and depression. We'd been walking at least two hours, by my distorted estimation. It was still cold, and Brian suggested we run a little. We did. It didn't help, but we did seem to be approaching somewhere a little faster. We walked on, turning around, waving, pleading, even kneeling at cars as they went past. Finally, a bus driver on his way home stopped and picked us up. We explained we needed the police. He was going right past the station, but it was only a short way down the road by now. We'd almost walked there.
His bus was classically Mexican. It crunched every gear change, had brushmarked bright blue paint, and shook more than any vehicle I'd been in before. It had a red velvet curtain with a gold fringe that obscured the top half of the windshield. We would never again have anything bad to say about the buses our rafting company owns. It was the best bus either of us had ever seen.
After almost no time in the bus, we were at the police station, the "Transito." There were lights on, but all the blinds were drawn. There was no police car outside, just a group of trucks parked along the highway either side of the station. These drivers were catching some shut-eye for the night. They obviously knew where the safest place to sleep in a vehicle was. You know what they say about hindsight...
We knocked on the door. Nothing. Knocked again. Walked around the building. Another door, and we could see someone. He was dressed in a uniform, and was only about 20 years old. He went back into another office, and grabbed an automatic rifle, and some keys, unlocking the door from the inside. I recounted the story again, in my poor Spanish. He had us come in and sit down, and pulled out a legal pad from the desk drawer. I could see rumpled blankets on the couch in the back office. He had been asleep. We asked the time. It was nearly midnight. It was a little warmer inside the room. The couch felt good.
After scribbling a page of random looking notes, he had an idea of what had happened. He had a list of the major items that were taken. It was above him. He would need "el jefe," the boss. He went into the back office, got on the telephone, and talked for several minutes. "Espera, el viene,"7 he said. We would wait.
He tried to make conversation, asking what we were doing in Mexico, where we were from, what we did. I had been hoping to practice my Spanish on this trip, but not so soon into it, and not so intensely. I did my best to answer his questions, and ask the same of him. Brian help me describe whitewater rafting with his gestures. It was nice to be talking to someone, and not mentally recounting the endless list of things that were now gone, as we had while walking for the past three hours.
The boss arrived. Older, more official. Two assistants. He drove a near new Dodge Fam full-size four-wheel drive pickup. He laughed when I told him about the fake wallet and the hidden money belt. "Eres muy intelligente,"8 he said, laughingly. "Si soy tan intelligente, porque fui allà a la playa este noche?"9 They all laughed at that. I told the story again. Three men, one with a gun, faces in the dirt, description of the one man we saw, punctured tires, no battery, list of things taken. It was becoming routine. As the evening had progressed I'd remembered more Spanish words, so it was becoming easier to tell.
He got on the radio, and spoke for a few minutes. Then, after much difficulty, I finally understood that he wanted us to go to the car and tow it back into town. It was difficult Spanish, and I was tired. He got back on the radio. It would cost us $40 to tow the car. One of the assistants stayed, and four of us crammed into the cab of the Dodge. We began driving out to the beach. As we drove out there, he told us how bad Mexico had become, how desperate the people were getting. It was a bad Christmas, he said. We turned down the dirt road. Lots of "assaltos"10 here, he explained. "Està muy peligroso."11
We approached the car. It looked grayer than it used to, dustier. It was not leaning as much because the third tire was completely flat now. A problem became apparent. Three flat tires, how could they tow it? "Tienes una llanta extra?"12 he asked. "Si, pero no tengo levantador."13 The spare tire was under the bed, and needed to be wound down with the jack arm. They surveyed the scene. Footprints had been pretty well covered, though we did find one or two. The tire tracks of the truck were visible. The officer shone his flashlight under the car. There was my passport, open, face down in the dust. This was the one biggest relief of the evening.
The tow truck arrived a short time later. Backing up to the truck, they hooked the chain under the bumper and lifted up the back wheels. There was no way the spare was coming off. They struggled, banged, hit, and scratched their heads. I looked in the cab. The jack was gone, as was the Toyota toolkit. But the jack arm was still clipped into the bracket. I pulled it off. There wasn't a handle, but they'd make do. Eventually, they lowered the spare, and changed the front left tire. There were several gashes about three inches long in it. With the two good tires on the front, they pulled the car onto the dirt road. The bare tow chain was fed around the bumper, and the car lifted up again. The bumper was physically straining, but at least we were getting the car out of there. Then, yet another problem. The steering wheel lock wasn't working. I put in my plastic key, and jiggled a little. Still no. It was settled. One of the tow truck operators would sit in my car and hold the steering wheel. He wasn't happy about it.
They headed off and we followed. We all laughed as we watched the "driver" of my car bounce around, facing us. All I could think of was how bent my rear bumper was going to be. The cop had noticed the holy cards on the floor of our cab. My next door neighbor had given me prayer cards with pictures of the Virgen de Guadelupe, and Jesus, to go away with. The officer asked if I was Christian. I told him "Si, soy catòlico. Los tarjetas de santos son regalos de me amiga, para protecciòn. Pero, no sirve!"14 With that the laughter was great, and long. I was relieved to have the car back, and relieved that they seemed to like us. After all, we'd heard so much about the corruption of the police there. The conversation switched to "mi amiga,"15 and "mi cerveza favorita,"16 and other such things. One thing they couldn't understand though, was why we were looking for waves to surf on the sea of cortez?
This was a different station, the main Transito station in the town of Empalme. Another officer came out, who spoke just a little English. He had tried to translate over the radio to me as we were driving, but the poor reception, his poor English, and the fact that it was nearly 2:30 in the morning were stacked against us. He was easier to understand in person. Again, I recounted the story. This time Brian helped, as it was in a mixture of English and Spanish. We surveyed the car together, and went over the details. He took down notes. We went inside the station and he reported it to another officer. Then I reported the same to this officer. I would have to return in the morning to file a report here, then file another report somewhere else.
We were offered a blanket, and a night in the station. There were already three people in the room, two of them asleep. Gracefully, we declined, and asked instead for a hotel. Again, I was asked if I had money for a hotel, and again I got to tell about the fake wallet and the money belt. Again, I was told that I was smart, for a "norteamericano."17 I was tired. I locked up the car with the plastic key. Why, I don't know. There wasn't anything in it, and it wasn't going anywhere. We were dropped off at a hotel in the center of town. They would be there to pick us up at 9 in the morning. It was now 3:30.
The room was twenty dollars. Expensive for the area, but well worth it. I managed to tell the story just one more time to the lady who checked us in. Too tired to be hungry, too cold to care. Two beds and hot water. The room was very large, clean, and spartan. We slept. Deeply.
I woke early. Too early; grabbed the notebook and started writing down things that were taken. I needed a list for my own sanity. It represented a first step towards regaining some sense of order and control. The list grew. Two pages, three, four; I still wasn't finished. I had packed very conscientiously, knowing full well that robbery on such a trip was a possibility. The laptop computer, the three cameras, binoculars, surfboards, handboard; each item of clothing; the cassette tapes I'd recorded for the trip; the towel my grandmother gave me ten years ago; the sleeping bag that had been around cape horn; my four favorite pairs of shorts; my favorite jeans. They'd all been packed with that possibility in mind. Now they were gone.
Brian slept. He had only a pair of sandals and had done all that walking last night. The ankle he broke two years ago had been giving him trouble towards the end of the walk, though he didn't complain about it. I know he was hurting by the time we got to bed.
I had no idea what the time was. My watch was adorning some other wrist now. The sounds of activity out on the street were growing. I could hear people, cars, a few dogs barking. It was Saturday. I wanted to pinch myself to see if it really was a dream or not. I did, and it hurt. I didn't wake up. Neither did Brian.
Eventually the sounds of the city did wake him. We had only the clothes we were wearing: my gramici long pants, a t-shirt, my airwalks, and a long sleeve shirt. Brian had shorts, and a polartec shirt, his sandals. We also had a flashlight, a paperback, a small notebook, and a supply of cash and travelers checks. Brian got in the shower. There was a knock at the door. The police were here to pick us up to make our reports. It was 9:30 in the morning. They waited for Brian to finish his shower, as I recounted the story for the first time today.
The town was small and dusty. There were no sealed roads. People walked up and down the street. A horse drawn cart went past. It had a rear axle from an old car, the differential still intact and the driveshaft coupling was still turning as it rolled past. The men wore cowboy hats. Some of the cars looked like they had just come out of a wrecker, with hoods missing, doors missing, smoke billowing. It was a poor town. It was a town straight out of a Mexican Western movie. I expected to see "El Mariachi"18 ride in on a motorbike. Then I remembered, I had been robbed.
It was about a mile or so to the Transito station. It was on the outskirts of town, near the "carraterra de cuota."19 They were, after all, the transit police. The officer who spoke a little English was there. He'd been working all night. We went over the details one more time, as he dictated something to a woman at a typewriter. I went outside and opened up the car again. I felt sorry for it. It had served me well over the years.
The next step was to try to cancel the one credit card I couldn't find (it had been in the ashtray, I remembered), and the travelers checks. There was a phone outside. After working through the maze of phone operators and unfamiliar phone sounds, I got a number for AT&T. It was like a godsend. An English speaking operator. I explained the situation, and that I needed information for American Express and for Chase Manhattan Visa. After some discussion, I learned that he couldn't get information without me paying for it. So I gave our calling card number. A call was then placed to Chase Visa. It was fairly straightforward. The Visa card would be cancelled, and a new account number and card issued in the next few days. Great. Now the traveler's checks. That proved to be more difficult. The credit card department couldn't do it, and credit card information was all I could get. In the end I gave up. Then I called my friend Eric. He was visiting his parents, and I didn't have their correct phone number. Another paid-for call to information, and finally I got through. I spared the details, but did say that we would try to get out of there and back to Tucson as soon as possible. He would call Susan and tell her to expect us.
All this time (it was over half an hour), several Mexican officials had been swarming over the car. They were admiring it. How many miles? How much did it cost? Did it run well? The engine was so big and clean looking they said. I guess they're not used to seeing a four-banger toyota with all the pollution gear on it. And especially not in this good a condition after cien mil20 miles. Their roads don't allow it.
Finally, our letter was done. Though it took a few hours, It turned out to be nothing more than a letter of introduction for us from the Transit police to the Procadura General de Justica, Agencia del Ministerio Pùblico del Fuero Comùn, estado de Sonora, Mèxico.21 That was who we would actually file the report with. They were on their way to pick us up.
A few minutes later, an old rusted out Jeep Cherokee with a magnetic police light on top pulled up. Miguel stepped out. Big, overweight, and friendly. The only Mexican male in town without a moustache. And a pearl handled 45 hanging out his back pocket. He had been assigned to our case. He looked over the car, and asked what happened. By now I was getting good at telling the story. He asked a few questions, and after he'd cleaned out all the empty beer bottles, we jumped in the back seat of his jeep. It was off to the Ministerio Pùblico.
The building was dilapidated. The yard overgrown, with the remnants of a swimming pool in the front yard. It had been filled in with dirt, but the ring of broken tile gave it away. There were old construction materials lying around. It was adobe, and in it's heyday, may have been one of the nicer homes in this town. There were rooms piled with old bicycles, boxes, and broken furniture. There was a large room, empty, opening on to the balcony. There was no bathroom. Three small offices were being used. We sat in the middle one, with two small desks, a file cabinet and two manual typewriters. A single, bare incandescent bulb hung down. There were a few people here ahead of us. We'd have to wait our turn. One seemed to be a domestic dispute. Another elderly man had been robbed. The Spanish was difficult for me to follow when they spoke amongst themselves. Miguel left, telling us to wait. Then we were next.
We went into Rosa's office. Rosa was a young woman, friendly, if only slightly jaded by all the stories she'd heard in her office over the years. A picture of the governor of Sonora hung on the wall behind her. Her office was even more spartan. One desk, one typewriter, two chairs. There were no telephones. They had a walkie talkie sitting on the table, with which they communicated with the cars that were out. From what I could tell, there were at least two cars. We spoke to Rosa. I told her the story, the brief version. She listened intently, and asked some questions. Eventually it became apparent that she was not going to be doing anything official for us, at the moment, as she was not on our case. She just wanted to hear what happened. Alberto, whose office we were in previously, would be taking our "declamaciòn."22 We went back into his office.
Alberto was now taking the report from the elderly man. His wallet, with all his money had been stolen. In daylight, this morning. We were hungry. It must have been going on 11 am, and neither of us had eaten anything substantial for about 24 hours. Brian went out and found some sodas and pastries, but they couldn't make change for a US$10 bill. Neither of us had any Pesos, but I had a few $1 bills. He brought back a Gatorade for me, and a Sprite for himself. We drank. His ankle was sore, and his stomach was getting pretty bad. He'd been on medication for a Giardia infection, and the medicines were among the items stolen. He hadn't had them for nearly 24 hours. We waited over an hour. Finally it was our turn.
Alberto looked over the letter from the Transitos. It was not complete. It didn't have any description of the vehicle, any licence plate numbers, or anything substantial about the incident. Nor was it signed. It would have to be done again. And I would have to go over the story again. Alberto rolled four sheets of paper and carbon paper into his typewriter and began typing away. The first few paragraphs were pretty standard. Meanwhile, I had written a list of the major items in as good a Spanish as I could muster. He began asking questions. He wanted descriptions, anything, everything. He was thorough. It wasn't like telling the story the countless times before. All the while he typed away. I'd forgotten how noisy manual typewriters are. His mood was jovial. I had dropped the joke about the Holy cards not working, and just tried my best to answer his questions. Then I mentioned the alcohol, the roughness. His expression changed, as he stopped typing. He looked at me, quite seriously. His voice became stern. "People of this part of Mexico are very rough, very strong, and very poor. Life is hard here, times are bad." he said, in Spanish. "People get robbed all the time here." He would know.
He started typing again, now reading from my Spanish list of things stolen. Miguel returned, and sat at the other desk. His assistant stood outside, all of them smoking. Miguel was going to help us get tires, and knew who could do it. The report was finished. It was full of Spanish legalese. I had to read it, sign each copy. Brian was concerned because it only required my signature. Apparently, it is illegal to take a declamation from someone who doesn't speak Spanish. But he was mentioned in my declamation, and should be covered for all purposes. I could recognize the gist of what it was saying, and it appeared correct. They had misspelled Brian's last name, so with liquid paper and about fifteen minutes of correction for the four copies, it was complete. I could sign it, then we'd be done. At least I hoped so.
But not quite. They couldn't find the official stamp they needed to make it official. They looked around everywhere, before Miguel remembered that it was at his house. Off he drove, smoke billowing behind his jeep, to get it. He returned about ten minutes later, and the papers could be completed. I told them I needed a copy.
That changed everything. Copies, to be official, needed to have an extra paragraph, an extra stamp, and extra signatures. He put one paper in the typewriter, and scrolled down past my signature, and began typing again. This paragraph had to be typed directly on the paper. No carbon.
I told Miguel we needed to get food. Rosa needed to get the letter to the Transitos to get it stamped and signed, and make four copies for their records. She came with us. We drove around the town in the old Cherokee, and found the restaurant. It didn't look promising. Miguel could sense we weren't enthused, and took us to another place, a little outside the center of town. The meal was good. Rosa ate with us, but Miguel declined. Then it was back to the office. Rosa got out, and Miguel's assistant got in. It was time to work on our weary car.
We drove around the town. Miguel would get out and knock on people's doors, say a few things and get back in. They'd wave to lots of people, and never stopped at one stop sign. We ended up at what appeared to be a tire repair shop. Brian and I were pretty much left out of it now, as Miguel and his partner handled all the details, talking, motioning, pointing. We took one of the guys back to the car with us, along with a floorjack and lugnut wrench.
He examined the tires. Two of them were beyond repair. Two to three inch gashes, several in each tire in the sidewall. One of them had no apparent gashes. He pulled off the two back tires, and took them and the spare back to the shop. Dipping one of the tires in a pool of water, he found four holes, small enough to be repaired. Miguel motioned us to get in the car. We drove around to several houses. Again they would get out, talk for a moment, then get back in, drive somewhere else. Finally, they came back from a house with a tire. It was bigger than the other tires, but would fit the rim. It had no tread. It looked pretty dicey, but the price was right. Four dollars. Fitted. Oh, and that included repairing the four holes in the other tire.
We had tires. It was four o'clock, and we still needed a battery. The tire place also sold batteries, we found out. A new one would cost us N$300. About $42. We took it. I paid for the battery, and as I did so, Miguel and the guy from the tire shop jumped in Miguel's car and drove off. They had to go and get the battery from somewhere downtown.
We were left there at the tire shop. They did have an air compressor, but all of the tire removing was done the old-fashioned way. Tire irons, mallets, and hard work. Kids rode up on bicycles and pumped up their tires. Men rode up on bicycles and pumped their tires. People walked in rolling flat tires beside them. The flow of people was constant. With roads like this, it seems like this is a good business to be in here. One kid rode up on a bike, and in a perfect, practiced, baywatch southern California accent, said "tsup" (Californian for "What's Up?"). He pumped up his tire and said "later.." as he rode off, smiling. He was extremely proud of his English. If only he knew....
After a short while they returned with the battery, and Alberto. There was to be a big party tonight in the town, and we were invited. They would get off at about 7:00, and Brian and I were to join them for beers. I walked to a liquor store nearby, and bought a dozen beers, Modelo's, handing them out. The tire guy took two, immediately guzzling one in a single lift of the arm. The others said they'd wait. We went back to the station, put the on the wheels, and connected the battery. I put in the plastic key, and it started. Relief. We were all happy. I followed them back from the Transito station to the Ministerio Pùblico office. The car would be safer parked in the back of the office. We could leave it here and Miguel would take us wherever we wanted.
Brian and I were now resolved to the fact that we wouldn't get out of here tonight. Sleep and food had not been coming regularly in the past few days. Miguel took us back to the Hotel Jardin and said we should meet them back at the office at 6:30. We agreed.
Tonight, Saturday night, we were not the only ones in the hotel. There were two other Americans. We decided to go out for a walk into the town. The center of town was only a few short blocks away, perhaps 200 yards. It was 5:00, and everything was still open. Christmas shopping it seemed, was going full swing, though I didn't actually see many transactions take place. People were everywhere. There was definitely a festive atmosphere about the place. A marketplace of stalls had been set up in a side street, that had been closed to traffic. People selling Pi¤atas, stalls with food, clothes, and cheap toys. We found a pharmacy, with toothpaste, toothbrushes, and some sodas. I explained to the pharmacist Brian's giardia infection. They had the medicine there, and it would cost $9. We bought it. I looked for a new shirt to wear, something clean and warmer. I spent only about $12, and got a polo shirt, a long sleeve tee, and two pairs of socks.
Brian's feet were really giving him trouble now. He was limping terribly, and could barely stand. He was also beginning to sniffle, with a cold coming on. I had a scratchy throat. We had been extremely chilled the night before, lying there on the ground. We returned to the hotel room. I had a quick bird bath, and put on my new clothes. They felt good. I now had to return to the Ministerio Pùblico. Brian stayed, and began reading the paperback we had salvaged. It was 7:00 o'clock.
The car was there at the office. I had to walk, so asked someone for directions to the police. He was walking that way and would take me there. We arrived, but this was a different office. It was the regular police force. I went in, and tried to explain where I needed to be. I couldn't remember the Ministerio Pùblico, but explained it was where I had made a "declamaciòn." They understood, and told me how to get there. I walked in (it was only a few blocks away).
Alberto greeted me, "Listo para las fiestas?"23 he asked. I was, but found out that first they had to do another declamation. Apparently, the paperwork wasn't finished. It was endless. This declamation would say that I was in fact the owner of the car. I'd lost the registration papers, but did have the import paper on the car. Alberto took this and began typing. Again, four sheets of paper, but this time, no questions. He just took information off the import paper. This one was short, only half a page. He gave it to me to read, and I did. Or I tried to. It was even more full of legalese than the last one. I signed it, but wasn't given a copy. It seemed to say that I owned the vehicle, and didn't have papers on it. I had the papers I needed, and that was all that concerned me.
But I still wasn't finished. The letter from the Transitos had not been signed. It needed a signature and a stamp. Apparently, when Rosa went to get the signature, the officer who needed to sign it was not on duty, and wouldn't be until tonight. But they could do that without me, so I shouldn't be concerned. What should concern me was that they needed copies of the import paper. Four of them, to attach to this new declamation. It was back into Miguel's jeep, and back into town in search of copiers. No Kinkos here. Everything was closed. We tried several different places, but neither of the places that had working copiers were open. Back to the office.
They would have to keep the import paper and make copies in the morning. I was staying at the hotel, and tried to explain that I wanted to leave as early as possible in the morning. Alberto asked me to meet him at 10:00 in the morning. Was that early enough? That was when he started work. Rosa would be there too. They both worked full time, six or seven days per week, including Christmas Eve and Christmas day. I couldn't leave the country without that paper, and they couldn't close my file without copies of it. So it would be. I would meet them at 10:00. Right now, I told them, I would take the car to the hotel and return to go to the party with them.
I took the car, but took a wrong turn on the main street of town. Pulling out into an intersection, I did a u-turn. Immediately there was a whistle blowing, and a cop was running towards me. He was quite agitated. There was a single set of lights, suspended sideways above the intersection. The light was red. I hadn't seen it. I'd been through the intersection with Miguel four times today, and hadn't stopped once. I had no idea there was a light. The fine would be $20. "Pero señor, estoy robado de todas mis cosas. Todo hoy, estaba en el Ministerio Pùblico haciendo declamaciònes. Lo siento, ya estoy nervioso despuès del robo. Y no tengo mucho dinero. Lo siento..."24 I pleaded. $10 would cover it, cash.
I left the car at the hotel and walked back to the Ministerio. The office was closed and everyone had left. I wouldn't be going to the party. I didn't mind.
Brian was well into the book by this time. It had been a long 30 hours since Arizona, and the adventure wasn't over yet. I went out one more time looking for something to eat. I settled on a couple of bananas, and some pastries. Again, I tried to call my friend Eric to tell him we'd be here another night, and to get Susan's number. He had told her to expect us that night. Now, the calling card number wouldn't work. The friendly, English speaking operator told us the calling card was not valid. I had no pesos, and few places were open to get change. It was time for bed.
There was salsa music wafting in on the cool breeze. People still walking around. I walked past the closed shop windows, past what appeared to be a bar. Past a hall. A new bride was standing in the doorway, kissing and hugging people as they came in. I'd seen the procession go by earlier in the day. It was hard to miss, the old black car, ribbons on the hood, honking it's horn furiously as it drove through the town. Was this the party I'd been invited to? There was more music coming from afar. I didn't go any further.
Walking back to the hotel, a kid, white eyed and shaking, obviously on some kind of drugs, bumped into me. He moved slowly, but aimlessly. I walked away. It was time for bed.
We had slept well. Brian's ankle wasn't as sore, but the cough was settling in. My throat was still red and slightly sore. It was time for a shower. The hot water was nice, though it took a long time to get warm. The same clothes again, but now I had a toothbrush as well. Outside, it was quite cool. People were milling about, stores beginning to open. The place with the copier was open. It must have been time to go to the Ministeria Pùblica. Brian would stay at the hotel to do some reading, and to try to make some phone calls.
The Ministeria Pùblica office was closed. I waited outside and asked someone the time. It was about 9:30. Rosa drove up soon after. She opened the door and asked me inside, "Pasele, por favor."25 I told her the copier place was open, and I could get the copies and bring them back, so I could leave. She told me that I couldn't make the copies, they had to be made by an official. Besides, she didn't have the paper, Alberto did. He was not in yet. She got on her radio and started trying to call. "Catorze catorze para noventayocho, Catorze catorze para noventayocho."26 Nothing. The radio wasn't working. She motioned me outside, locked the door and drove off. She was going to find Alberto, Miguel, and my papers.
Fifteen minutes passed. She returned. There had been a murder the night before, and all the others were investigating it. They would be some time. She had been given the victim's personal effects to be held as evidence. Rosa sat me down in her office, and pulled out a small plastic bag. In it were a wallet, a hat, and a few other small things. She pulled out the wallet. Rosa examined each item from the wallet, then passed them to me. An ID card was there. Jesus was twenty years old. A picture of his wife and daughter. Rosa knew them. A small piece of paper that smelled of marijuana. A 1995 calendar, with a topless women on the front. Names scribbled on pieces of paper. Twenty pesos. He had been killed by one of the polic¡a, whom he had crossed the wrong way a few weeks ago. Shot in the head at close range. "La bala entrada aqui, y salida aqui."27 she said, pointing to her temples. They were out trying to find the cop right now.
But that didn't help my cause. I waited outside again. The sunshine was warm. Inside the office was cold and dark. The single incandescent bulb didn't give much light. Two young guys went in. One had been robbed at knifepoint last night. He was on the outskirts of town, and had lost the usual, wallet, money. She took their declamation.
Rosa and I talked as she put on her makeup. She had a grandmother in Medford, Oregon, but had never been there. One day she would like to go and see the snow. She was married, and had worked here for several years. She wanted to learn English.
About an hour later, Miguel, Alberto, and two others pulled up in Miguel's jeep. Alberto had my papers, and the necessary copies. He even had the letter from the Transito, signed and stamped. I was impressed. It was only about 11 A.M., and all was complete. Alberto was noticeably upset that I didn't go to the party last night. "Where were you?" he asked. I explained that I did come back and everyone was gone, and that I was tired anyway. No problem, it seemed. There was a bigger party tonight! Christmas is big around here. I explained that Brian needed his medicine and we would have to leave as soon as possible. He was a little disappointed, but understanding.
We stood outside the office, and he explained his vision. Next year, he hoped, they would clean up the building. New paint, new plaster, new furniture. They might even get an electric typewriter. Next time I came to Mexico, I must stop in to see how nice it will be. He was sorry for my "mala suerte,"28 and wished that I could see how nice Mexico can be. I took my papers and bade farewell. His optimism was bright, though I don't know how much of it he believed himself.
The manager of the hotel had pleaded with us to eat at a small restaurant across the street. We did. Huevos revueltos con tomate, y frijoles.29 It was excellent. Brian had tried to call the insurance company, but still the calling card was not working. We found out later that it had been shut down because of "suspicious activity." I tried one more time, and this time it worked. We got numbers for the insurance adjusters in Guaymas and Hermosillo. In Guaymas there was no response. Nor in Hermosillo. We weren't going to wait. It was time to leave, so we tried to find our way out. We found the Transito police station, and I went inside. I explained we didn't have maps, but needed to get to Nogales. He drew a small map. Within a few minutes, we were on the Carraterra, Mexico 15.
We drove onward. It was about 1:00 P.M. by the time we were underway. The car was running well, though I was wary of having a bald, oversized tire on one wheel, and no spare. No matter, we just wanted to leave. An hour or so later, we were in Hermosillo. It is a much nicer town that what we had become used to. The streets were clean, roads sealed, and there were even a few high-rise buildings. The university was large, but today, empty. I called the home number of the insurance adjuster, and a man who spoke English answered. The adjuster would return in an hour, but didn't speak English. Guillermo, his brother-in-law, would wait to translate for us. He gave us the address. It was on the other side of town. I asked directions in a nearby store, and we were on our way. The directions were good. We pulled up on a street corner and asked a women where the Valle de la Verde district was. We were in it. Where was Paseo de la Fuente? We were on it! We had been lucky.
Number 35. We found the house and parked. It was an extremely clean, beautiful house, with a two car carport, a foyer and an atrium. A far cry from anything in Empalme. It was the nicest house on the street. Guillermo greeted us. He was very concerned for us. He had attended college for one semester in Chicago, and spoke English well, if a little slowly. He was out of practice. I explained the story for him, and he translated for his sister. He wasn't sure when his brother-in-law, the adjuster, would return, but could pass on the information. I wrote down some details, including a list of damage to the car, and a note that said I would call from the U.S. later next week. With that, we would leave. But wait, Guillermo wanted a ride back to his house. He had walked here to visit his sister. We obliged. It was only a few blocks away.
Brian drove from here. It was as uneventful as the drive down. The car was noticeably lighter, the desert unchanged. We did stop at a restaurant to eat. Our meal came to US$6, and they didn't have enough change to give back from a $10. We didn't care. "Feliz Navidad, y nuevo año!"30 She was grateful, and waved as we left.
The plastic key was showing signs of age and use. It wouldn't unlock the passenger door now, but opened the driver's side. It wouldn't turn the ignition. I gently jiggled it again. It didn't work. I pulled it out, and turned it around. This time it worked. We would have to be careful with it.
Pulling over at the Mexican customs, Brian turned in the import paper and had the sticker scraped off the window. The officer spoke perfect English with a California accent. He was sorry to hear what had happened to us. One more stop, at U.S. customs. They asked what happened. Brian told them that we had lost everything, and that he didn't have a passport. They looked under the car with mirrors, put ultrasound devices all over the hood and fenders. He asked Brian to open the back. In the back there was only the one tire, with three big gashes in the sidewall. All the customs officer said was "F***ing Mexicans." I thought to myself, who better than a racist pig to guard the borders? With that he waved us through. We were back on American soil. We wouldn't stop for anything.
It was now about 8:30 P.M. Tucson was an hour away, but we didn't want to disturb Susan and Munro on Christmas Eve, and didn't know that she had been expecting us. Brian drove, and I read from the paperback. We had no radio. We found a Motel 6, and got a room for the night. TV. American programs. English. It felt so good, though it had only been three days.
Next morning, showers, phone calls, and breakfast at the Waffle House. It was packed. Not one empty table. It didn't seem like a very celebratory place to be on Christmas day, but it was packed. The plastic key only had to turn one more time. It did. We were on our way home.
1. It is all clean, everything. Return to Text
2. Ready? Return to Text
3. Do you have jumper cables? Return to Text
4. I don't have. Return to Text
5. Take the battery, take it. You have everything. Take the battery as well. Return to Text
6. We were robbed of all our things. At the beach. Three men with pistols and knives. We need to call the police. Can you help us? Return to Text
7. Wait, he is coming. Return to Text
8. You are very intelligent. Return to Text
9. If I am so intelligent, why was I at the beach tonight? Return to Text
10. Assaults Return to Text
11. It is very dangerous. Return to Text
12. Do you have a spare tire? Return to Text
13. Yes, but I don't have a jack. Return to Text
14. Yes, I am catholic. The holy cards were gifts from my girlfriend, for protection, but they didn't work! Return to Text
15. My girlfriend. Return to Text
16. My favorite beer. Return to Text
17 North American. Return to Text
18. The Musician. (A well-known Mexican western movie) Return to Text
19. Toll Road. Return to Text
20. 100,000 Return to Text
21. Attorney General of Justice, Agency of the Public Minister Outside the Common, State of Sonora, Mexico. Return to Text
22. Declamation, Declaration, Statement. Return to Text
23. Ready for the parties? Return to Text
24. But Mister, I am robbed of all my things. All day I was in the Ministerio Pùblico making declamations. I'm sorry, I'm still nervous after the robbery. And I don't have much money. I'm sorry.... Return to Text
25. Come in please. Return to Text
26. 1414 to 98, 1414 to 98. Return to Text
27. The bullet entered here, and exited here. Return to Text
28. Bad luck Return to Text
29. Scrambled eggs with tomato, and beans. Return to Text
30. Happy Christmas and New Year Return to Text
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