Josh is right.

Routine traffic stops are unpleasant.

Routine Mexican traffic stops are quite unpleasant.

One night I was driving home in rural Mexico, I got pulled over. It was about 10:30 at night and I was driving up into the foothills of the cerro where I lived. The road was a terrible flat but very rocky “road”. One had to drive comically slow, as to not damage their vehicle (or livestock). I’m the only car I’ve seen since sundown, my lights of my 1976 Renault 5 barely reached the sides of the “road”. I had just turned back to the ‘A’ side of my Ramon Ayala y sus Bravos del Norte: Corridos Famosos cassette, and saw headlights in my rear-view mirror. The lights, which seemed hovering due to their advantage over my puny car, followed me for two blocks. The suddenly zoom past me, kicking (actually wheeling) up rocks in their wake. They get a good 50ft. in front of me then pull one of these “Fast and the Furious” e-brake spins and stops perpendicular to my path. Twenty minutes later, I reach the official who had gotten out of the roll-caged Dodge Ram, I instantly see the white quarter panel and see Policia Estatal painted. the State boys. Great. Just what I needed – to be caught without papers. The driver gets out and walks through the halogen beam, the shadow of an AR-15 follow him.

As he starts towards my now-stopped car, the passenger-side door opens and a nubby uniformed henchman steps out grasping a  pump-action shotgun. Mexican cops love to flex nuts. He comes over as I roll my window down. It’s going to be an interesting night. He asks what I’m “doing”. Driving I tell him. “Where?” “To my house.” “Where do you live?” “Up the road” “Where are you coming from?” “Down the road” and so on. He finally coaxed my photocopied Michigan Drivers License  out of my sparse wallet. He took out a flash light and examined the license almost as if peering through invisible glasses. After what might have been two minutes he asked me “How did you get a Michigan license?!”"

“Incidentally, I live in Michigan” “I can see, but how did you get a license.” “Well, I went to the DMV (for the fogies (not to be confused with the DMZ, which also takes sentries) and got it.” “How” At this point I almost lost my mind. The Estatal didn’t realize that I wasn’t Mexican. I had to explain, my whole ordeal, just so he could understand how I had a valid photocopied Michigan license. Finally understanding his face turns sour and “asks” for coffee money. “I don’t drink coffee.”

Not amused at all he levels the chilly muzzle of his semi-auto, and rests it on the edge of the down-rolled tinted window for me to get a hankering for a roasty-toasty Juan Valdez cup of pure Columbian brew. The problem was I had no cash. I reveal the sterile calfskin interior of my wallet, and pout. Not amused he shoves the barrel closer to behind my left ear. “I think my partner wants a cup also..”, he nods to his accomplice and the me-shotgun distance closes five feet. “Hold on.” I dig in my pocket. Eight pesos. I extend my hand almost to his bullet-proof vest and smile a big Mexican State Trooper smile. He takes the money out of my hand. “Next time we will want caguamas.” *

*Mexican 1L -1.2L beer bottles. Comparable with the American “40 oz.” renowned for its economic lowness and maximum “bang for tu peso”.  Recently many Mexican beers have been making a Mega containing around 1.2L of beer. Caguamas are delicious for a hot day, but for a relaxing afternoon drink I prefer pulque.