This Could be Heaven or This Could be Hell.

Los Cabos, Mexico —  Been rambling around Baja California South for a week or so, and happened onto a town that claims to host, “The Hotel California.” It wasn’t a place of mystical intrigue and danger as the Eagles’ song suggests. It was more like the New Orleans French Quarter with a Mexican twist. Full of great food, art, tour buses and overpriced junk.

It also isn’t The Hotel California from the song. That’s in the other California — about 1000 miles up the coast.

I didn’t arrive via a dark, desert highway as recorded, but along some fabulous Pacific Ocean vistas on a sunny drive up from Los Cabos. Think Big Sur without the landslides.

Although, I did leave on a dark, desert highway. 

I stopped along the highway and got out to interpret a directional sign that I couldn’t translate at 80 KPH. Then a National Police officer stopped to inform me I was, “Infraction.” Apparently, stopping on the shoulder without using your emergency flasher is  big no-no in Mexico.

Fooled me. I thought the traffic code was, “drive with courtesy, don’t run over any one,  and do what makes sense.” That’s why I like driving here. For example: the four-way stops all have stop signs, but you’re only expected to stop if others are using the intersection. If it’s clear, you go through cautiously, without wear and tear on your brakes. 

In my defense, I said, “this is a German made car (VW) and those guys didn’t even put pollution controls on their cars, why would they install a flasher?” Actually, it had one, and probably had pollution controls. I looked for a flasher before I got out, but I couldn’t find it. Later, I found it cleverly hidden in the turn signal mechanism.

For all the places, times and miles I’ve driven around Mexico over the years, this was the first time the Federales introduced themselves. No mucho gusto. I wasn’t pleased to meet them, but I was due.

It wasn’t a normal conversation. The cop was speaking Spanish into a translator program on his phone to explain how serious was my infraction. His partner offered his phone with a text translator for me to answer. It got to be like a Jew and an Arab haggling in a Persian rug shop. Back in the good old days when those folks all got along.

About the time I realized this was a shake-down, the cop gave me a choice. “Get a ticket or pay cash now.” He  didn’t ask if I had a license to drive or insurance if I couldn’t.

“How much?”

“$100 US.”

“How about twenty?”

“No beuno. Seventy-five”

“Oh, No.No. No.” Feigns heart attack. “fifty.”

“OK.”

Having been the Payee for about 75 infarctions of America’s Traffic Codes, over a lifetime of creative driving, I have some opinions: it seems the way we do it back home, the infraction gets run through the court; the cop lies, and the court believes him and adds on their cut; the governing body the cop works for adds their cut; and the State adds their cut because well, they are the Don; and meanwhile a half a dozen social causes get a small taste of every ticket because that makes the  politicians look good; but the cop’s sergeant has to lie about overtime for the cop, who did all the work, to get his.

The Mexican way is cleaner and cheaper. The shameless criminal just pays the corrupt cop’s salary — direct — and everyone has tacos.

# 30 #