Guadalajara, late afternoon. Traffic heading west, toward Zapopan, a thick slow braid in which cars, trucks, buses weave in and out of three lanes.
Impatient drivers rev radio, punch horn.
The cacophony absorbs the wail of the police siren. Tired, focused on getting back to San Pancho after a two-day shopping trip, we are oblivious to the motorcycle cop until he materializes alongside our truck. He cuts in front then motorcade-style proceeds ahead of us, one block, two blocks. At the first intersection he beckons we should turn right and follow him. He parks. We park.
Leaning into the driver’s window, inches from my husband’s face, he props elbows on the sill, smiles hard and bright, his teeth a double row of chicles.
"Buenas tardes," says Win, my husband.
"Good afternoon," says the cop. A Cheshire grin implies he is pleased to bag a nice big truck, loaded with furniture, U.S. license plate. Must be ricos.
"Un problema?" asks Win.
"You are going too fast. Your license, please."
Win switches to English. "Traffic is slow. We are going the same speed as the others," he says while fishing inside his wallet.
"But we have photo proof!"
"I want to see it."
"The radar truck is over there." The cop waves his arm too fast to ascertain direction.
Win cranes for a look. No police truck visible.
Banter begins, guy talk about motorcycles, diesel trucks, the high price of tolls on the autopista, the high price of living in Mexico. As the men make small talk I mentally calculate how many pesos we have left, how we might offer a small bribe without causing more trouble. Bribes are illegal. Offer a mordida to the wrong official and you might see the inside of a Mexican jail. I can spare $200 pesos, about $20 U.S.
"Now, sir, I need the truck registration."
"And I need proof we were speeding."
"I must write an infraccion for $1,000 pesos." He pulls a pad from his pocket, begins to scribble.
"What! This is not justified!"
The cop checks us out. "Okay," he says. "Different infacccion." He points to the seatbelt hanging on a hook behind Win’s head. "You are not wearing a seat belt. Please pay me $400 pesos."
The cop checks us out. "Okay," he says. "Different infacccion." He points to the seatbelt hanging on a hook behind Win’s head. "You are not wearing a seat belt. Please pay me $400 pesos."
"But I’m wearing a seat belt," I say, tired of discussion. "So we should pay only $200 pesos."
"How much money you have?" he asks me.
"I need money for gas and tolls. I guess I can spare $200 pesos."
Passing a paperback through the window, he tells me to put the money inside. I make a show of smoothing bills, closing the book, returning it.
"You have trouble in Guadalajara again, you just say you know officer #91200. You will be okay." With a brilliant smile he zooms away.
"Right," my husband says, snapping his seat belt into place. "Number 91200 must be cop code. Probably means these gringos are good for $200."
No comments:
Post a Comment