THE BORDER REPORT

My column in The News of Mexico City

I finally had enough of the glacier-like movements of the cattle truck, it’s wide fenders taking up not only its lane, but the oncoming traffic’s, rumbling along at 20 mph, and when a flat plane of desert offered itself off to the right, I took it, gunning the Tacoma’s engine and speeding up when I hit sand, passing the slow-moving truck and jumping back in front of it. I was feeling quite pleased with myself and basically, acting just like the desperado asshole Mexican drivers who take my life in their hands every day. But never mind all that, I had a meeting to get to in this Pinacate Desert farming and smuggling city, Caborca, Sonora. And, predictably, that’s when the grey Ford Lobo pulled in neatly behind me, its red and blue lights flashing, the abrasive horn blaring at me to pull over. Cursing, I didn’t feel quite so pleased with myself now. Here we go; the damned mordida, the blatant request for “a little something for the sodas, señor.” The arrogance of a redneck Mexican cop scoring $20 from some yoohoo gringo because said gringo doesn’t want his Arizona driver’s license confiscated and lost in some backwater bureaucracy. I pulled over, dreaming up a new plan. I wouldn’t speak Spanish; make conversation so painful he can’t ask for a bribe. A dirty trick, but better than adding to the cop’s fat wallet. “Buenos días, señor,” the cop said. He was a short, thick man and bore an AR-15 slung over his back “Umm, good morning, sir,” I said. “You know what you did back there?” he asked in English. So much for my strategy. Apparently, I’d been so pleased with myself when I pulled my little Evil Knievel stunt that I’d failed to notice I’d also blasted through a stop sign. “Give me your license, please,” he said. I handed over my driver’s license, still waiting for the bribe, and now, actually thinking I may pay it. He took my license and pointed back the way we’d come. “Please follow me to the comandancia,” he said. This was an unforeseen event. I pulled in behind him and we drove back to the police station. A second officer came out to meet us, checking my registration, jotting down my VIN number, running my license for warrants, and, in general, doing everything a cop’s supposed to do. The tiro de gracia came when the cop walked me into the lobby and presented me with a stamped and signed ticket for 100 pesos. I gave him $10. He gave me a receipt. Just like that, I was free to go, a registered traffic ticket in hand. No bribery, no oozing Deputy Dawg attitude. Frankly, I left feeling like a jerk. Extortion by Mexican cops is so expected it’s become passé. What’s news is a cop who actually behaves like a cop is supposed to behave with none of this “screw or be screwed” mentality that fuels most petty corruption in Latin America. The Mexico City-based CEI Consulting & Research found that 87 percent of Mexican nationals will pay at least one bribe to a Mexican cop in their lifetime. Mexicans end up paying about seven percent of a household’s annual income in bribery. No surprise, the study found, in a country where 15 percent of kids between 10 and 15 years old have already paid a bribe, usually to a schoolteacher. I’ve been pulled over and harassed by cops from Nogales to Guadalajara. From Nuevo Laredo to Mexico City. Usually – except in Nuevo Laredo – the cop will back off after you ask to be taken to the police station. I had no desire to visit the Nuevo Laredo police department. I don’t know what was wrong with this Caborca cop but I remember thinking that this guy should get some kind of award. Of course, this still being Mexico, he’s also just as likely to get canned for not sticking it to me. But I've clearly been wrong before.

-- Michel Marizco