Bogeymen just aren't all they're cracked up to be.
And who could be more boogifying than the Mexican police? I still recall my friends being stopped by the Mexican police on their honeymoon back in the 1970s.
Newlyweds from South Dakota, they were pulled over by the Mexican police in their rental car. Misunderstanding occurred, perhaps over the cash the police were demanding. In the end, the young husband, a gentle anatomy professor who perhaps weighs 140 pounds dripping wet, was hustled off to jail leaving his shell-shocked bride to negotiate his release.
And that was before all the drug troubles.
But boogeymen sometimes sidestep the stereotype. The guys we love to hate surprise us. Or maybe the stereotypes are out of whack, but we tend to hear what fits our preconceived ideas and filter out what doesn't.
So when I read this story from some well-known bloggers, it reminded me of my own close encounter with the police in Mexico.
For a week my family had been camping in a sweet spot by the ocean just south of Ensenada in Baja, Mexico. At that point, we'd been rambling around the Baja for several weeks and had recently driven across the peninsula to this mid-sized town about 60 miles south of Tijuana.
It was time for my college-age son, who had been travelling with us, to return to school, and Ensenada was nicely positioned for an end run to the San Diego airport. From there, we would continue down the peninsula for the winter, and Luke would head back to school in Michigan.
This drive involved:
•Finding my way through Ensenada to Highway 1
•Grazing Tijuana and navigating the border crossing. (The busiest in the world.)
•Getting to the San Diego airport in time for my son's flight
•Picking up supplies for the rest of our stay in Baja
•Reversing course, recrossing the border, and getting back to the campground before dark
Not to mention that I was driving our massive Ford Dually, which doubled as a tow vehicle for the 30-foot trailer that was home to our family of four. Plus the dog.
Thus far, my time in Mexico had given me deep respect for haphazard signage, unpredictable roads, and the speed bumps (topes) that might randomly appear in the middle of a dirt road and that could destroy a vehicle's suspension. And to never, ever drive at night.
I had also learned that a Dually truck on unfamiliar Mexican roads is like fitting the glass slipper on the step-sister. It doesn't work.
So, I was terrified.
I grilled Patty and Norm, our campground neighbours from southern California, about the route. Norm's final warnings were burned into my psyche:
"There's a tricky turn on Mex 1 just as you're getting into Tijuana. Be ready to make a quick left, almost an about-face, to get to the border crossing. If you miss it, you'll be heading into Tijuana."
And: "If a Mexican cop pulls you over, just hand him 20 dollars. It'll save you a lot of grief."
Roger that, Norm.
The next morning, Luke and I wind our way through Ensenada, following the tiny signs, and easily make it to Mex 1, the only road that runs the length of Baja. This northern stretch is a smooth, modern toll-road that parallels the ocean. We roll merrily along, enjoying the view in a haze of relief and overconfidence.
See? No problem. What's the big deal?
The road narrows and becomes more congested as we near Tijuana. I am in the fast lane looking for the turn.
There!
Wait. Is that it? That break in the guardrail?
Yes!
Damn! I missed it!
Now I am hurtling along the freeway toward Tijuana, the last place in the world I want to be. Luke is stone silent, which I've come to learn is fear. He was silent like that when we almost drove off a mountain, too.
I weave unsteadily into the slow lane, looking, I'm sure, like I am drunk.
Almost immediately, lights flash behind me, and a cop is on my bumper.
What else could go wrong? I have to get my son to the airport. I'm lost, and now I'm going to lose 20 bucks, too.
"Luke, hand me the money."
I watch the cop approach in the rearview mirror. The 20-dollar bill is a damp wad crumpled in my sweaty palm.
The guy is very serious. His uniform is crisp. I can't see his eyes behind the sunglasses.
In broken English, he says, "Can I help you? Are you lost?"
Cautious relief begins to flood my overtaxed limbic system. But wait. Is this a trick to make the victim let down his guard? After all, this is the Mexican police -- the bogeyman, right?
Then, with difficulty, he tries to make me understand which exit I must take in order to reach the border. He tells me (or I think he's telling me) that not every exit will be big enough to accommodate my truck.
"OK? Está bien?"
He still hadn't asked for money, and I am limp from relief and gratitude. I'd like to have given him money, and maybe he'd have taken it. But honestly, money seemed misplaced and maybe offensive. This guy had given me a gift. An apparently free gift, but one that makes you indebted to the universe big time.
"Adios," he said and walked back to his car.
At the border, unsmiling American guards with mirrored sunglasses and German shepherds straining against short leashes stalk among the lines of cars waiting to cross. (Wait. Remind me. Who is the bogeyman again?) Because I have the right look and the right passport, I am waved across.
At the end of that very long day, I made it back to our little paradise by the ocean.
Before dark.
