Mexico, undeservedly, gets a bad wrap.
Its people are remarkable, the country breathtakingly beautiful, and the culture rich beyond my ability to conjure with any worthy words, but there is a vampiric legacy of corruption that still haunts and drains one of my favorite locales abroad.
I have spent years trying to combat certain perceptions and encourage others to visit but to little avail. Granted, all places and people have real issues to address, and unfortunately on my first foray to a new portion thereof, Baja,Mexico, I ran into one that carries with it, baggage.
“La Morida” or “the bite” is a colloquial term for a fine, or more accurately.. bribe and last month, Tuesday, Mar 17, in Baja. I was encircled by two policemen who were clearly after one.
Perhaps I’m mistaken and that would be a nice misunderstanding on behalf of those unsung heroes who take their duty seriously and operate while under-resourced that I still respect. But, that was not a realistic reading, based on the unsavory events to follow.
I had already checked out of my AirBNB downtown, was carrying my rather out-of-place and noticeable waxed canvas backpack (mistake #1,) whilst northbound on foot in Tijuana’s Zona Norte, My mission tracking-down a notable spot for tacos de birria, which due to the ensuing events, failed.
Both chaps in question, having parked and disembarked from their little white car, its doors still askew, were rapidly approaching with only a few disinterested bystanders peering on. Readily apparent more than their over-inflated sense of authority, yielded as a shield, they wore no visible badges or identification of any form from what I could tell (warning sign / cause for alarm #1,) and were grinning ear-to-ear, with clear crocodile smiles. When dealing with “law” enforcement officers, an occurrence one rarely wants….
Neither, seemed to be overly tense, kept their arms up or at a ready to their side for anything worth reaching. Sans the august of their office, they presented no real signifiers of an immediate threat. This. Seemed. Routine.
Another warning sign….
There are times to resort to unsavory measures, be they acquiescence or aggression, or perhaps a combination of both. And, there are times to hold ground or make a bloody stand. This like, the coming interaction, didn’t seem to warrant either yet.
So, I smiled widely, stupidly, and seemingly grateful for their interest. Only an act for the uninitiated or experienced.
“Where are you from,”
He opened in English? Noted. Continue.exe.plz
And, thus began our dance. One must first find an excuse for a violation before arranging a “fine.”
My high-school Spanish is, shamefully,almost non-existent. But, being called guapo or told “tus ojos son bonitos,” and other, perhaps — more private — things, when interacting with locals in a foreign land, can make a cunning linguist out of even the most rusty gringo.
Knowing how to navigate these situations though?
Not... My. First. Rodeo.
My opening ploy is to immediately suspend even the pretense of having ever been exposed to even the most infantile Spanish. Not something one should be proud of, but anyway, in these sorts of situations?
If not able to converse at a level where surgical charm and rapport building connection can reliably be deployed?
Turn the gringo to 11. Suddenly… no sabo nada.
Inevitably. Step two, ensued.
“What are you doing here?” “This is an area known for drugs.” “It’s dangerous, etc…”
Some weak opening moves there, Sir I thought, but thanks for showing your hand.
“Ahora, nosotros bailamos.” Now, we dance.
GeniuneShockAndDismay.Gif
“I’m too boring for any of that,” I replied. “I like Mezcal and Scottish Whisky, and sometimes… a good cigar.” I refrained from opinioning on the only nearby local shops only offering the Cuban sort and the quality, or lack thereof, of soil and that I’d much prefer other options.
“I’m too boring for any of that,” was what he had to work with next.
All. Sadly. True. I failed to mention the amount of things already offered and turned down on my end, they being irrelevant and perhaps grounds for further “conversation.”.
“What’s in the backpack?”
I cheerfully set it at my feet, positioning the stainless-steel carabiner on the right and the knurled metal windlass arm of my tourniquet within reach, should either need to be utilized. A quick pat of my right pocket, seconds after they began to disembark, confirmed my mouth-guard was where it needed to be.
Unrelated of course… but I also happened to adopt a sloppy, still bladed, stance. One usually deployed whilst fighting. And, shifted my hands so they were never below my mid-section with palms facing forward, and — without any apparent delay — opened the bag’s top.
Poorly packed clothes, unwashed socks in a plastic bag, a moth-grazed light merino sweater, and three U.S. made notebooks, two of them as of yet blank, were on offer. I stirred the proverbial pot and surfaced everything within.
.Disappointed, but impressively, not yet dissuaded the lead inquisitor continued…
What do you do? For work?
Gesturing to the notebooks. “I write.” “Journalism.”
These statements are not entirely untrue if taken in context and were (mostly) improvised in the moment, but the desired effect takes place, and risk calculations clearly start to play out on a now raised brow.
But there are few travelers about, impending pandemic and all that. And potential profit needs are still in play.
So… next,
“Do you have anything on you, a weapon? A Knife?”
And here, is where I started to sweat.
I’ll readily admit I feel naked without a blade on-hand for matters of utility alone, so much so that I recently learned to make rudimentary ones using stone if the situation so-called for it.
Prior travels in Mexico (Oaxaca ¡te amo!) made it abundantly clear that knife laws, for locals, were more of a suggestion then reality and not enforced, unless you were a foreigner. I encountered several street stalls selling sharp, pointy, things and I am easily tempted.
Other than their undeniable utility. This is due to a simple fact.
I don’t like knife fights… but I like one-sided knife fights even less.
‘And here… if I hadn’t — for one rare occasion in my life — exercised some discretion, would’ve gotten got, or had to give up a “little bite.”
I appeared innocent enough… and the worst part of this whole exchange is that, I was innocent enough!
Which is perhaps, what I found most offensive. It was daylight. I was entirely sans any influence other than the desire to seek and consume tacos, and yet still had to deal with this rubbish.
So after a few-second pause on their part, the question repeated.
“Do you have anything on you, a weapon? A Knife?”
“No Sir, I am a guest in your country. I respect it and your laws.”
Despite my displeasure in being forced to roam about declawed, there was no artifice in that statement.
But, when dejected he stepped back momentarily.
There was nothing he could publicly accuse me of or otherwise assail my reputation with. And it seemed, I was too innocent or stupid to be afraid.
I shouldered my bag, planning to disengage and head right to Rosarito and it’s much-needed ocean views.
After a few seconds in silence (mistake #2 on my end,) his equally wordless co-conspirator walked up to and entered the car, the chariot I so wished to avoid.
Now, without warning, my new “friend,” mis amigo, changed demeanor, waving me over and gesturing for me to get in.
I did not know what the exact route they would take, or where we would end up, but I knew there would be a toll, perhaps one ghastly and dreadful or merely just expensive and indigestible.
Entering that little white four-door car, was a scenario I would not readily entertain.
“No need, thanks though!”
“I know where I need to go.”
With a few easy hand gestures I indicated my path back to the Arch and tourist district, and then… without pause, smiled and casually walked off. Perhaps, ignoring some sounds I could not be assured the origin or meaning of.
I was fortunate enough that at least a few people were watching and no doubt, listening.
In retrospect?
Mistake #3 on my end was not memorizing the license plate, cross-street and exact time to report later on.
But I was equally in the elevated influence of a body-alarm reaction afterwards and elated that my instincts and past experiences had seen me safely through another storm. There was some work I should’ve done ahead of time or prudent preventive measures not yet in place too, but it worked out.
Of course, there are related stories, tips and tricks, reserved for more serious encounters to share, but sufficed to say, sometimes it pays to play dumb.
Let stereotypes or what is expected of you in a given situation help you lead complacent opposition down funnels and into areas where you dictate what constitutes the next play.
Actually being innocent and unafraid to declare that for all to hear, though not always our natural state, does seem to help.
A few hours, and a few street tacos, later I would find myself on a wooden beach chair in Rosarito, underneath an umbrella shaded spot in the sun and a wide field of view from which to scan the Ocean and on occasion, the alleyway approaches leading thereto innocently enough to give the blue and white trucks marked “Policia” no-head start or conjured reason enough to make an unnecessary introduction.
To their credit, the guardsmen or troops in Baja, or whomever there, sport checkered desert camo patterns in equally adorned open-bed HUMVEES, yielding either a H&K G36 or Browning M2 on a mount, were with a few dozen interactions in Tijuana and Rosarito, only ever professional, disinterested, or polite. One or two or three even returned a grin in passing, but I wish them all luck.
A trip-cleaving pandemic and an unpleasant one-off encounter with skelems (crooks/scoundrels in Afrikaans,) dressed as police are not cause enough to write a place off.
Perhaps I’ll return to Baja one day and catch a match of polo in wine country, enjoy world-class ceviche, and a few isolated spots near La Paz as I meant to. But there, or anywhere, we should all be resolved to let the “bites” we accept be due to natural results and nothing else. Or, at least, be ready to bite back.