Mexico - 3. Chapter 3 of 16

Guaymas turned out to be more than an hour away. Or else traffic was heavier than expected. Though I wasn’t especially hurrying.
“Have you been here before?” I asked Mrs. Ingram. She was nearer to me, in the front seat, so she could hear more easily. My car wasn’t air conditioned, and all the windows were down.
She nodded. “We come once or twice a year. We thought of buying a house here, a weekend get-away, but that really isn’t legal. And there’s so much crime.”
“Not legal?”
“Not from what we’ve heard -- from what we’ve been told. Technically, you have to be a Mexican citizen to own property. There are ways around it, but they’re all so complicated.”
“I didn’t know that.”
She nodded again.
There was a lot I didn’t know about Mexico, and I probably should have read some more. I usually plan more carefully. But I wanted the whole country to be a surprise. And I wanted to get away. For three months, I wanted to be some place that wasn’t Iowa.
I didn’t want to think about anything I had before.
I didn’t want to think in any way I had before.
I certainly didn’t want to consider my life.
“You want to stop?” I soon asked Mrs. Ingram. We’d been driving for maybe a half hour. I pointed to a low building on the far side of the road. Concrete block. No signs that I could easily translate. But in front, a farm stand.
My passengers agreed. We stopped, and mainly with gestures, I bought some assorted fruit.
“Do either of you speak Spanish?” I asked.
They immediately said No. “Well, a little,” Mrs. Ingram amended. “But not as much as I should. I’m really bad with languages.”
“I’m just lazy,” I confessed.
“Is this really safe?” she soon asked. She was talking about the fruit. “I’ve always stayed away from Mexican produce. At least, in Mexico.” She laughed. “I’m sure, at home, we eat it all the time.”
In Iowa, I ate corn.
“I’m sure it’s safe,” I told them. “My friends said, ‘Anything with unbroken skin.’ In any case, we’ll know soon enough.”
I wasn’t worried. Earlier that day, at another farm stand just after I’d crossed the border, a woman from Topeka assured me, “All those stories about Montezuma’s revenge are just told to scare you. I mean, why drive a thousand miles to live on bottled water?”
Why drive a thousand miles to do anything the same? Once I left the States, I’d promised to speak only Spanish. I mainly stopped at these farm stands to test my skills. Unfortunately, I couldn’t manage the language as easily as I’d hoped, though I could understand more than I could say. And in high school, I’d been taught with a Castellan accent. Deprogramming that sibilant S proved tricky.
Back in my car, Mrs. Ingram asked why I was in Mexico. I told her again about the dig. “Friends of mine are running it. Well, friends of friends. When I asked if I could come along, they said, ‘Volunteers always welcome.’”
“But you teach math,” she told me.
“Yeah.”
“Are you interested in archeology? Or anthropology? Or both?”
“Both,” I said. But the real answer was “Neither.” I lied, slightly, so I wouldn’t have to explain that the real reason I was in Mexico was a guy named Chris.
Then, to make sure I didn’t have to explain anything further, I told Mrs. Ingram and her future son-in-law how I’d almost gotten arrested the night before.
“Arrested?” she asked. And I could see her wondering if she should have taken this ride.
“It was just a mix-up,” I insisted. “A misunderstanding at the border.”
“Go on,” she nudged.
“Well, I’ve been sleeping in my car...”
“You what?” she exclaimed.
“I’m not homeless,” I said, grinning. “It’s like camping. And easier than packing a tent.”
“Where do you sleep?” she questioned.
“There’s a fold up mattress in the back. And that seat folds down.”
I indicated the seat her future son-in-law was sitting on. My car was a small SUV.
“You can fit in there?”
“It’s almost six feet.”
“Aren’t you taller than that?”
“Just a little. But I kinda scrunch in diagonally. It’s plenty wide.”
“And you don’t have trouble with the police?”
“Not really. A state trooper’s occasionally gotten me up at three AM. But mostly to make sure I wasn’t dead.”
“That’s nice of them.”
“People are generally okay. You’d be surprised. Though I’ve promised I wouldn’t sleep in my car in Mexico.”
“Then you’ve heard about the crime?”
I nodded. “You just mentioned that. And friends have told me. And I was warned, again, this morning, at the border. It seems there are too many people. And too many trying to get into the States. And drug problems.”
I laughed, which must have seemed out of place.
“What?” Mrs. Ingram asked.
“Oh, not about that,” I explained. “I was just thinking about what happened last night. If I had any thoughts about sleeping in my car, that killed them.”
She laughed, but then asked, “Are you going to tell us?”
“If you really want me to...”
“Now you’re just teasing.”
We both grinned. Then I began.
“Well, it all has to do with careful planning. I told you I was pretty good at that. So I purposely got to the Mexican border late last night. That way, I’d have a good day’s drive into the country today. I wanted to avoid the tourist towns. And I knew there was a campground just at the edge of Arizona. In a state park. I found that on a map, and it’s where I intended to stay. Except when I got there, the place was jammed. Full of trailers, and RVs, and kids, and TVS, and noise. There were people shouting into cell phones. And people shouting at each other. It wasn’t what I needed at all for a good night’s sleep. So I pulled out as soon as I pulled in. I drove towards the border, looking for a motel.”
“Sounds like a better idea.”
“Yeah, well, it should have been. But every motel -- and there weren’t a lot of them -- was full. I should have known to make a back-up reservation. But just before I drove in to town -- actually, right after I left the campground -- I noticed a rest area. Just a simple one. A handful of picnic tables and some garbage cans. An unpaved piece of dirt, really, maybe the size of a small parking lot.”
“Don’t they usually have ‘No Camping’ signs?”
“Oh, yeah. And this one had a huge one. ‘NO CAMPING!’ it demanded. But I figured I wasn’t really camping. I didn’t have a tent. I wasn’t lighting a fire. I was just pulling over to sleep. And I’d done this a dozen times before. With no problems.”
“I wouldn’t have taken the chance.”
I smiled. Despite her air of authority, I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Ingram doing anything that involved risk. Though she was with me.
“Anyhow, it was nearly ten by then,” I went on. “There was no one even on the road. So I had a little snack -- I’d already stopped earlier for dinner. Then I stripped to my shorts and tried for sleep.”
“At ten?” Mrs. Ingram asked. “That’s early.”
“I had a big day ahead.”
She accepted that, and I thought her future son-in law also nodded. I couldn’t really see, though I sensed movement. I hoped the guy was listening, but I couldn’t tell that, either. Between the high seat backs and the way he was sitting, I couldn’t catch him in my rear view mirror.
“In any case, I’d barely lay down when this cop car appeared. So I sat up and was already smiling when he shined his big old flashlight in my face.”
‘What ya doin’ here?’ he grunted.
I did a passable imitation of an Arizona trooper.
“I told him, ‘I’m hoping to spend the night.’”
“Well, he asked the same question as you did: ‘Didn’t ya see the No Camping sign?’”
“And I gave him the same answer. And he seemed to think about it. Then he asked, ‘What d’ya do?’”
“It took me a moment to figure out what he meant. Then I told him I was a teacher.”
‘School’s not out yet,’ he shot.
“I teach college. We’re on a earlier schedule.”
‘Lemme see some ‘dentification.’
“I gave him everything I had. My driver’s license. My faculty ID. I didn’t bring my passport. You don’t really need to carry one, and I figured it was just one more thing to misplace. And both my IDs have pictures. Plus I showed him my car registration. My insurance card. My credit cards.”
‘What’s ya middle name?’ he asked.
“I told him.”
‘Spell ya last name.’
“I did that, too.”
“Then he studied my pictures under his flashlight. And he studied me -- shining his flashlight beam so directly into my eyes, I could hardly see.”
‘Why didn’t ya stay at the campground?’ he asked.
“‘Noise,’ I told him. “Way too much of it.’”
“He seemed to understand that and handed me back all my stuff.”
‘Okay,’ he grunted again, ‘Ya can stay. But if ya so much as move one inch out of ya van before morning, I’ll haul ya ass right into jail. This is a high action area, comprende?’
“‘Sure,’ I said, grinning. And I thanked him.”
“That’s was it?” Mrs. Ingram asked. She almost seemed disappointed. “I thought you said you nearly got arrested.”
“I’m not finished yet. Believe me. That was only the start.”
“Oh,” she said, seeming eager for me to go on.
“Not ten minutes after the trooper left -- I was just falling asleep -- a small truck roared, as in police capers, into the truck stop, a guy leaped -- as in cop shows -- through the half-open passenger door, then he ran straight to the garbage can sitting closest to my car.”
“To throw up?”
I laughed. “He could’ve done that in the desert.”
Mrs. Ingram laughed as well. She was obviously better brought up than I was.
“Anyhow,” I went on, “the guy almost desperately heaved something into the trash, while the driver in the pickup -- they both seemed around my age -- screamed something over the unmufflered engine. I’m pretty sure it was, Did ya dump it?”
‘Hell, yeah!’ the guy right near me screamed. Then he tore back to the truck.”
Actually, he said, “Fuck, yeah!” But I wasn’t going to tell Mrs. Ingram that.
“When he jumped back into the pickup -- which was already speeding away from the border -- he just barely got the door closed and almost fell out.”
“Jeez!” Mrs. Ingram exclaimed. And I agreed.
“It all happened so quickly,” I continued, “that it took a moment to register. But when it did, I realized what came next -- the cop coming back to arrest me.”
“Did he?” Mrs. Ingram asked.
I grinned. “Be patient.”
She laughed.
“So I got dressed. I mean, I wasn’t about to be dragged into some police station wearing only my shorts. Then I climbed into my front seat and waited. I waited ten minutes. I waited fifteen. I checked to make sure it had really been twenty-five minutes on my watch. And I couldn’t understand why the cops were stalling. I was sure the trooper knew exactly what had happened. He’d probably already called for backups. Finally, it hit me. I realized just what they were waiting for. They wanted me to look in the garbage.”
“Oh, you didn’t!” Mrs. Ingram exclaimed. “You wouldn’t be that stupid.”
“Hell, no!” I insisted. I sat in the front seat for another ten minutes. Until I was sure absolutely nothing was going to happen. Then I calmly crawled back on my mattress, I lay down, and -- still dressed -- I went to sleep.”
“I never could have done that, “Mrs. Ingram said, laughing.
“I didn’t say I slept well,” I admitted. “I kept waking up. Kept expecting swarms of state troopers to pop up behind every cactus yelling, ‘Bust!’ ‘You’re under arrest!’ ‘Get out slowly, with your hands up!’”
“You weren’t just a little paranoid?” Mrs. Ingram teased.
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“I told you. I never would have been in that rest area to start with. And if I had been you, I would have started my car and gone right back to that noisy campground.”
“No. That was the whole point,” I insisted. “I couldn’t move my car. I’d been warned by the trooper. If I even touched my ignition, I would have gotten arrested. And in the morning, even though when I got up, I needed to do the usual things, I didn’t dare get out of my car. I wouldn’t even crack a window. I made the widest possible turn around that garbage can and drove dead south. Not even pausing till I reached the border.”
“That’s too funny!” Mrs. Ingram decided.
“Tell me about it,” I agreed, laughing.
“I would have changed all my plans.”
“I wanted to see Mexico.”
“I would have gone to Canada instead.”
“That’s too safe. It’s too comfortable. I wanted adventure.”
“Well you certainly got it,” she said, smiling.
“And that wasn’t even my first day.”
We both laughed at that, and in the back seat, I thought I heard the future son-in-law laughing, too. I turned briefly, to try and catch his grin. But my view was still blocked.
“I hope you’re enjoying this,” Mrs. Ingram finally announced.
“I am,” I admitted. “Wouldn’t trade it for the world.”
And soon enough, we were in Guaymas. Mrs. Ingram directed me to their hotel. “Wow,” I nearly whistled. “I didn’t expect anything like this.”
It was big, and old, and Spanish, and fancy.
“I’m sure it can’t compare to sleeping in your car,” Mrs. Ingram joked.
“That was in the States,’ I repeated. “I told you, I’ve promised everyone I wouldn’t do that in Mexico.”
“The hotel really isn’t that expensive,” she quickly went on “It’s just built to look that way.”
I told her I’d check. But she was wrong, at least from my point of view. The desk clerk told me the rooms were out of my range.
So I helped my passengers with their suitcases, and I watched them check in. The future son-in-law was sharing a room with Mrs. Ingram’s daughter, which only made sense. I guessed they were living together
As I was saying goodbye, Mrs. Ingram tried to tip me.
“Please,” she said. “It’s my present. You didn’t have to stop.”
“I can’t take this,” I insisted. “It’s been great meeting you. And I hope you have lots of fun. I hope your husband and Anne get here soon.”
“They will,” she promised. And Mrs. Ingram kissed me.
The future son-in-law nodded, hands back in his pockets. I kept meaning to ask his name, but by then, it didn’t seem to matter. Though seeing his face again, I decided he really was good-looking.
After I left them, I found a cheaper hotel, a few blocks away. It was really a motel. One level. Clean. No frills. Though the guy behind the desk insisted on carrying my bag to my room. My knapsack. When he carefully set it on the flimsy luggage rack, I realized he was waiting for a tip.
“Where’s a good place to eat?” I asked, handing him a buck.
“¿Comer?” he replied. “The hotel.”
“Isn’t there something more... interesting?” I went on. “¿Mas interesante? It’s not the money. Tengo dinero. I just want something more... Mexican.”
“The hotel, señor,” he repeated, his head bobbing slightly.
“There’s nothing better?” I asked.
“Not for you.”
He said that almost laughing, and I laughed as well. He was a neat looking guy. Early twenties. A bit shorter than I was. His hair darker than mine. But we both had very straight hair, hanging over our foreheads. Since Chris left, I’d let my hair go a little wild. “You growing a beard, too?” one of my students asked.
“Nope. Just not shaving.”
I’d get up in the morning, look at the picture of Chris next to my bed, and figure, “What’s the use?”
Though I shaved when my department chair mentioned it, and I shaved in the motel shower. I hadn’t that morning, retreating from the rest stop. But if I was going to treat myself to an overpriced dinner at an expensive hotel, I may as well look good.
“I’ve got no pence,” I sang.
Jolly, jolly no pence,
I’ve got no pence
To last me all my life...”
Actually, I had a couple thousand dollars in Traveler’s Cheques. Plus my credit cards. That should easily carry me through August.