An Illegal Gringo In Old Mexico, Serialized
This is the first installment, with 14 to follow
Monday Evening
My adventure started in Playa del Carmen, just down the beach from Cancun, where I met up with my 28-year-old son, Logan. He’d attended a 4-day conference on crypto currency in late October 2017, and I’d been wandering by bus across Mexico for a month to see the country-side. We shared a wonderful week together, celebrating my 62nd birthday and catching up with each other while enjoying the Mexican cuisine, culture, and weather of the Caribbean coast.
Monday evening, I called for a taxi to the bus station. The driver rolled his eyes when he pulled up. I was a spectacle with a 65-pound suitcase, a small backpack with my prime laptop, a shoulder bag with a second laptop and books, and a grocery bag of snacks. Most curious of all, I had a cardboard box about five feet long, three feet tall, but only eight inches thick. It just barely stood up on its narrow edge. I was bringing my partially disassembled bicycle for my main transportation once I got settled.
I was traveling across Mexico, attempting to make a first go at spending the winter as an “ex-pat”, that is an American (or any nationality) choosing a months-long, low-cost vacation or permanent retirement in Mexico (or any foreign country). It seemed like a no-brainer compared to another 6-month winter in Alaska.
When my son and I met at the bus terminal, I had my ticket, but he still had to purchase his. Not having a bus reservation is rarely a problem. A few minutes before mine, he noticed a pair of young ladies waiting for a bus headed to Tulum, just down the beach. He decided to inquire, gave me a quick hug, and was away. A few minutes later, I boarded my 9:30 pm bus.
I was navigating the course despite not knowing more than a few words of Spanish. All I had to communicate was pointing out town names on maps, paying the ticket price, and getting on the right bus. How hard is that? For a month of bus travel, it had been smooth sailing.
That night, I was starting about 30-plus hours of nearly constant bus travel. This wasn’t a hardship. The Mexico buses that cover the longer highway distances are very nice, much better than a commercial flight and a toilet room twice the size. The seats aren’t crammed in to the last inch, with plenty of leg room, plus a riser to hold your feet up. The buses have various power ports for devices and solid Wi-Fi provided as it travels. At stops where there are restaurants and stores, the buses often pull over for a decent break.
Guadalajara required a taxi between the old bus station and the new one to cover a missing link of bus travel in the city. Then after another hour of bus travel, I would arrive in the small town of Ajijic (pronounced “ah-HEE-heek”, very soft on the “k” sound). It’s an hour south of Guadalajara, in the state of Jalisco (ha-LISS-ko), on the north shore of Lake Chapala, the largest fresh-water lake in Mexico. Ajijic is/was a very small fishing village. It has its original name, and I’m sure some of its original charm, such as cobblestone streets and excellent murals all over town, but it has been saturated by a continuing wave of ex-pats moving into the area starting in the 1960s. I was the next one, looking to do the same. I had a one-week B&B reservation to visit Ajijic and find cheap long-term lodging.
Tuesday
After traveling all night and half the day, my bus made another routine stop to check the residency status of random passengers. Having already traveled 3,000 bus-route miles, I’d seen it all before. A couple of uniformed immigration agents would spot check a few travelers, and we’d be on our way. This time one of the two agents stopped at my seat. I was polite and curious to see what the process was, and I presented my passport, but I didn’t understand a word of his rapid-fire Spanish.
He flipped through my U.S. Passport, and fired off more Spanish. I shrugged and pointed to my passport in his hands. One of the other passengers translated. “The agent wants your visa.” I explained my passport was all I had. When this was translated into Spanish, I felt everyone else on the bus pull back.
This was November of 2017. Trump had been in office for almost a year. My experience with the Mexican immigration officials was turning into an ironic twist of U.S. policy.
I was ordered off the bus with my carry-on. When the agent turned and walked down the aisle toward the bus’s door, I knelt beside the translator-passenger and quietly asked, “Is this one of those bribe/fine deals? Should I just throw some money at this?”
“No! Oh NO. Don’t do that. You’ll really be in trouble if you do that.” His advice squared with my own opinion. Trying to bribe my way out of legal troubles was an entirely extra level of legal problems. Looking back, I remember him speaking a very crisp English. At the time, I didn’t consider the validity of his opinion. In retrospect, he was certainly a foreign tourist like me, and his awareness of local norms was clueless.
Outside the bus, the agent ordered me to identify my luggage in the under-carriage stowage. The driver helped me pull it and carefully checked my claim stubs. They spoke for a moment and the driver got back on the bus. The agent ordered me to move my things under a canopy and have a seat at the aluminum picnic table. While I was shuttling my stuff, he and his younger partner escaped the heat to take a seat at the picnic table and the bus drove away.
Once I had my stuff moved and joined the agents sitting at the picnic table, the senior agent, near my age of 62, began a long string of Spanish. I gave him my full attention but had no idea what was happening or wht he wanted from me. The other agent, in his late 20s or 30s tried to help but only knew a few words of English. Neither of them could carry a give and take conversation with me.
At one point, the senior agent presented a 20-peso note folded in half. He began rubbing the ends together, just like an American might rub just fingertips to indicate money. But he was doing this directly to his younger partner, not to me. We all were close enough to play cards, and it seemed clear he wanted me to see, but my American upbringing held me back. I didn’t want to risk a bribe. Yeah, now I know. What a stupid gringo.
Based on many conversations since then, I’m convinced a bribe was being asked for with no risk of a sting. I now know the Mexican culture accepts a fair amount of graft and corruption at all levels. The proper way to take care of being stopped is to pay cash on the spot. There are two basic ways to do this. Either make a public display of leaving some money laying in the open and turning away, or ask the official for “help” in paying the fine.
After putting his money away, the senior agent spoke to me through his younger partner. The only thing I could get out of the fragmented conversation was a supervisor would be showing up to figure out what to do with me. That seemed like a great idea. I was certain it was just an administrative mis-understanding that would be explained as soon as good translation happened. Forms would be completed, fees and fines paid, and I’d be on the next bus.
After an hour, a woman in her twenties showed up driving a full-sized van and dressed in the same uniform as the other agents. When she sat down at the table, the senior agent repeated the money rubbing gesture. The atmosphere seemed like “training” by the senior agent for the other two. None of them gave me any winks, and I held back.
After the last money display failed to register, I was told to get into the full-size van the woman had arrived in. When they pulled the side door open, I noticed heavy-duty screens separating the front seats from the rear and covering all the rear windows. This was a prisoner transport vehicle. She wasn’t a supervisor, just a lowly driver, and there would be no figuring out of anything.
The senior agent ordered me into the van, and the younger one helped me get my gear in. The woman got behind the wheel, and as soon as the door closed, she took off driving like a maniac, swerving around and crashing in and out of potholes, braking hard, and accelerating just as hard. We went weightless going over the massive speed bumps along the way. My things were sliding back and forth all over the van, and when her purse slid off the middle-console onto her lap, she left it there, both hands riveted to the bucking steering wheel.
I immediately started texting my son, but was doing more backspacing than texting. I added my position from Google Maps and included the name of the nearest town. At one point, my son texted me back, advising me to get to a bathroom and hide my money. I appreciated the thought, but I wasn’t being offered any bathroom breaks, and it was beginning to look like I might be searched thoroughly.
After a 20-minute wild ride, the driver made a tire-squealing, hard-right into a driveway and under a stone archway in the middle of a long, solid rock and mortar wall. It was so thick, it seemed like we were entering a tunnel. Uniformed men standing behind heavy steel gates swung them open just in time. The same thing happened for a second set of matching gates. She shot across an open courtyard, then power braked like she was coming in for a hot-lap pit-stop. Almost touching the front of a building, the van rocked back on its springs.
Several men in various uniforms poured out of a door and surrounded the van. In contrast to the agents so far, these men had the vibe of guards. Some of them were wearing military-style belts with various gear, but I didn’t see any weapons or handcuffs. The van’s side-door was yanked open and one guard began making short, direct, action commands with aggressive hand gestures. I didn’t understand a word of it, but unlike the hyper-subtle request for a bribe, this point was hard to miss. I didn’t sense any threat of physical injury if I got my stuff and followed them, so I did. One of the guards opened a small door into the building and I was told to get inside. After I lugged my stuff in, the door banged shut and I could hear a serious bolt slammed to on the outside.
[In the next installment, I’m processed into the Mexican deportation system.]