Bringing My Car to Mexico: An Exercise in Acceptance

Everyone knows there are some things you cannot control. Conventional wisdom is that we can’t change other people – we can only change ourselves. But even that power is overrated. Looking back on my own life, I have traveled through it like a migrating bird, propelled by unseen impulses, rather than conscious choices.

In a foreign country, making choices is even more difficult. The data is alien and difficult to comprehend, let alone act upon. We face a simple question: what should be done about our car, a VW Passat that repeatedly breaks its oil pan on the rough roads?

Data point 1: A friendly tow truck driver suggests that our car is not well-designed for Mexican roads and that we should find a different car. This makes sense. We want to take trips and explore the back roads, but our sense of adventure has its limits. Being stranded on a deserted road with a weeping five year-old crosses the line. We decide to buy an SUV. The kind of car I have fantasized about for many years. In my fantasy, I hold a key in my hand and was writing on the side of the car something like, “How many people must die so you can drive this?”

The next decision: where to buy the car? We decide to buy a car in the U.S. and drive it down. We are going to California to visit my mother. This is commonplace in Colima where a cottage industry exists among those Mexicans who have U.S. visas. They frequently travel to the U.S. where they buy used cars and drive them here for re-sale. A car worth $5,000 in the U.S. sells for $7,000 down here. My thinking was this: “I had the time. Why not?” The answer to this question existed only in the future, lurking out of view, blurred beyond recognition by hope and naiveté.

After deciding to buy in the U.S., I investigate the law in Mexico about importing used cars? Being a lawyer helps. Being a remedial Spanish student doesn’t. I want a Toyota. There is a Toyota dealership in Colima so I assume that finding a good mechanic here will be easy. After many weeks researching and inquiring about a Toyota, I learn that Japanese-made cars cannot be imported to Mexico (unless they are pick-up trucks). Only cars made or assembled in the U.S. are eligible for importation. (Made possible by NAFTA.) Next, I learned that Isuzu makes an SUV and assembles it in Kentucky. Therefore, I started investigating the Isuzu Rodeo.

I locate several Rodeos on craigslist available in California. Eva and I settle on a 1995 Isuzu Rodeo with 160,000 miles. Price: $3,600.

Next question: what procedures will we need to follow in order to import and legalize the car? Several customs brokers tell me that in order to import a car permanently I will need to: (a) wait 72 hours at the border; and (b) assign the title of the car to a Mexican citizen. This is totally unworkable. I refuse to sit in Nogales for 3 days and then transfer title to someone else. So I decide to simply import the car temporarily, as we had done with our Volkswagen (and which I could have done with a Toyota for that matter!). Temporary importation means that I must promise not to sell the car in Mexico and that we MUST return it to the U.S. Fine. Whatever.

The last step was to buy the car. The seller, a man living in Pasadena, wants a $500 deposit to hold the car until we arrive several weeks later. I order a certified check from our bank in Seattle. A few days later, he writes me that the $500 check had arrived but it was not a cashier’s check – it was an “official check” which means that I can put a stop payment on it at any time before it clears. Because of that fact, he will not release the car until 5 days after the full payment is received – until the check cleared. I call my bank to verify this fact. Then, I immediately send him a check for the remaining $3100. Delivery of the car was imperative before we are scheduled to leave the country, whether or not the check clears. We are putting an immense amount of trust in this guy who will have both the money and the car. I send him an email explaining the importance of having the car before we leave. This is his response to me, which I get the night before we left Colima:

Alex-You have to understand that one of the responsibilities I have for myjob is to find and weed out any potential fraud for the company. Weget a lot of fraud attempts, and only actually process very few. Assuch, I can usually smell a fraud case from a mile away.From that perspective, having a guaranteed check (as opposed to acashiers check) drawn from an account whose name I cannot verify inthis transaction from a bank in Washington State to a person fromMexico who is emailing me from a gmail account (that doesn’t show theIP of where you are connecting from, as yahoo does) just rings offraud. In this situation, I just have to be careful to protect myself.I’m not trying to rain on your parade the night before you fly out,and I will be there on friday provided the check clears. I’m justlaying out all the cards and explaining why I’m so ansy about thisparticular transaction. . . . There’s a couple of little loose ends that we also need to clear up.First, according to the documentation I’ve seen, I can only releasethe vehicle to someone with a California drivers license or ID card.I assume you or your mother has one? Secondly, I just want to makesure you have access to email during your stay here, or there isanother way to contact you.

-Conrad

I close my computer, turn off the light and try to sleep. This will all work out fine. Don’t respond now; you’ll just say something mean or sarcastic or stupid. My head hurts. I really try not to respond but, like those migrating birds, urges rise up in me. I write a message to cover up my intense irritation with light-hearted banter: “If I was perpetrating an elaborate fraud, I would aim for something more than a 1995 Isuzu Rodeo!” Ha, ha, ha! What I really want to say is this: “I sent you the money, motherfucker. Bring the car or I will hunt down your bureaucratic, fraud-sniffing ass!”

He showed up on Friday with the car. Seemed like a nice guy.

The returning to Mexico is a simple plan: I drive the “new” car back 900 miles while Eva and Zoë fly. After dropping off Eva and Zoë, I pulled away from the terminal. Almost immediately, I notice that Eva had left her I-Pod in the car. She loves that thing. She can’t run on the treadmill at the gym without it. So I pull over in an empty spot in a vacant area between two terminals. Perhaps a large sign or flashing orange terror alert is nearby but I don’t notice. It seems like a perfectly safe spot to me.

I leave the car and sprint back to Eva and Zoë. During my dash, I realize how suspicious I look – racing like a madman away from an older model SUV (surely those Trader Joes’ bags are a convenient cover for explosives!). In my hand, I carry a small, red detonation device with a white cord dangling from it (Eva’s I-Pod). I run even faster, imaging that Kiefer Sutherland is gaining on me.

I hand off the I-Pod to a pleasantly surprised Eva and begin my return sprint. I am losing strength. Then, I see him. The cop. He is standing by the car with radio in his hand. It’s being called in. When I get there, he is visibly agitated.
“Come here,” he demands. “Is this your car?”
“Yes,” panting, “My wife needs her I-Pod … thinks she’s fat….”
“Can you tell me any reason why I should not give you a ticket?”
I think of several, such as the short time I was there or the fact that this is a vast, empty space between terminals that isn’t a likely spot for any mischief. But I decide to lick the boots of authority for once in my life: “No, I can’t think of any.”
He says something like “get the hell out of here.” I gratefully and happily comply.[1]

The first day, driving from Los Angeles to Tucson, is fine, other than the Isuzu doing a fair amount of jerking in the higher gears. Throughout the day, the “check engine” light flashes on and off. The transmission seems to get stuck from time-to-time before eventually changing gears. We make it to Tucson (me and the car). I decide to push on to Colima before having the car worked on.

The next morning, I find a Starbucks in Green Valley, Arizona (an oxymoron), and head for the border. Less than a mile away from the border, my cell phone rings. Eva sounds sounding anxious, “Where are you? I have something to tell you. They might not let you cross the border.” Apparently, she has just learned that you can only bring one car into Mexico and I had already brought in our Passat. A strange calm settles over me. Eva is troubled, sensing only the calm before the storm. She continues tentatively, “No matter what happens, keep a sense of humor about it.” It is her polite way of saying, “don’t throw a hissy fit.” But for some reason, I am not upset. A flat tire and I would lose it – throw things around, etc. But this is too big. Plus, I have plenty of time for a meltdown later. I stop at the border. I parked my car at the immigration office and enter. My visa is stamped and that’s it. No one says anything other than a checkpoint 21 kilometers south. When I get there, an armed policeman briefly glances at me and waves me through. He asks no questions. Doesn’t even ask for my i.d. Nothing. For all he knew, I could have been hiding Lou Dobbs in my back seat.[2]

The rest of the day I drive south through the state of Sonora. Military personnel are everywhere. A week ago, drug dealers made a brazen daylight attack against the police and military.[3] In response to this incident, the military has set up a series of checkpoints on the highway. At one of these, I see a soldier peering at me over the cab of a military pick-up. He has a machine gun aimed directly at me (and the other cars in the line). I try to look innocent. What does that look like? I remember the recommended “10 and 2” position on the steering wheel and use it immediately.

Military transport vehicles carrying armed soldiers are everywhere. The soldiers – very young men – look nervously from the back of the trucks. They hold onto their guns tightly, often pointing them out the back of the truck, preparing for an attack at any minute. I follow behind one such truck for a few miles, afraid to pass but not slowing down much either. My 10 and 2 will save me. (I find it difficult to think with guns pointed at me.)

A week after I pass through Sonora, a family of 5 (two women and three children) are gunned down at a military checkpoint for allegedly failing to stop. This doesn’t surprise me. Scared young men are heavily-armed. If a car make a false or suspicious move, there are many young nervous fingers on the trigger.[4]
The next day, I continue south, entering Sinaloa, the place that most American guidebooks warn about. It appears that the local criminals have stopped robbing Americans on the highway and have decided to sell drugs to Americans instead. It does seem more civilized to let us pick our own poison. Let the free market reign!

Driving through Sinaloa, it is apparent why banditos chose this area. Except for the city of Mazatlan, there is nothing but an empty highway for hundreds of miles -- perfect setting for a thorough and leisurely robbery. There aren’t any gas stations for a very long while. As the gas gauge approaches empty, I have a déjà vu: when traveling this same highway last August, I almost ran out of gas. The wit and wisdom of George W. Bush comforts me: “Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, well, . . . don’t get fooled again.”

After making it through Sinaloa on my third day of driving, I decide to venture to the coastal town of San Blas, Nayarit – about three hours north of Puerto Vallarta. It’s a quiet village which has become famous for its diversity of birds. I roll in around 8:00 p.m. and find a room for $50, which include free wireless internet and air-conditioning. It is my own little Starbucks away from home. Just without the over-roasted coffee. The next morning, I intend to spend a few hours looking for interesting birds. After walking around in the heat and humidity for 25 minutes, seeing more insects on my skin than birds in the air, I decide to give up. I miss my family.

From San Blas to Colima is only 5 and a half hours. I navigate the maze of roads around Guadalajara and head into the home stretch.

In retrospect, the decision to buy a car in the U.S. and drive it south was not very wise. But despite the hazards, real and imagined, I feel safe when I am driving. I have the illusion of control. The world beyond my window seems like a video game that can be maneuvered around. When others are driving, I can be terrified – like the bus driver who drove us through the night from Mexico City. Then, my illusion of control disappears. My fear is disproportionate to the actual danger. I want to feel less safe when I am driving and more safe when others are driving. My over-confidence behind the wheel is as absurd as my fear when others are driving. The fact is that I am rarely in control of anything. And even when I seem to be in control, my own actions spring from somewhere deep inside me, often without forethought or planning. I search for that elusive wisdom that can know the difference between the things I cannot control and those which I can. The search continues.
[1] This incident got me thinking about terrorism. The collective fear of terrorism is akin to our fear of sharks. The statistical improbabilities are staggering. But imagine if every beach was set up with a color-coded shark attack alert. Some days it is elevated to “orange”. Other days, a cautionary yellow. No one is every attacked but in the newspapers and on the television, there are stories about groups of sharks gathering just offshore. Huge sharks caught offshore (given no due process) are prominently displayed as the lead story in the news. Investigative journalists write stories about how easy it would be for a 12 foot shark to swim in water as shallow as 3 feet – exactly where your children like to frolic and play! Computer animations fill in where your imagination leaves off. Those who dare venture to the beach for a swim are required to undergo thorough inspection for any small cuts that might attract sharks Yes, the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.

Terrorism seems to be a top priority in public policy discussions. Poverty? Not so much. Education? Who cares? How about drunk driving? Since 1993, over 200,000 Americans have been killed in alcohol-related driving accidents. In that same period, fewer than 4,000 Americans have been killed by terrorism. What is the difference? You are happily driving along when a drunk crosses the center line and smashes into your family car, killing some, disfiguring others. Is this not terrifying? What is to be gained by fixating our consciousness and public policy debates terrorism? Safety?
[2] For those of you who don’t know, Lou Dobbs is a CNN reporter who is rabidly anti-immigration and insists that Mexicans are spreading leprosy in the U.S.
[3] “4 Police Officers Slain” Thursday, May 17, 2007, The Dallas Morning News: “In a brazen attack, a commando unit of up to 50 suspected drug cartel gunmen stormed into the Sonora town of Cananea, near the Arizona border, early Wednesday, abducted two civilians and seven police, and later killed four of the officers.
Two officers were badly beaten and released while one police officer and the two civilians were still missing. Late Wednesday, the Mexico City newspaper Reforma reported on its Web site that the commandos had also clashed with state and federal police in the nearby town of Arizpe, leaving six of the gunmen dead.
. . . . Wednesday's violence came amid a wave of attacks against government and law enforcement officials. Gunmen assassinated a top official in the attorney general's office Monday in Mexico City, and the mayor of Apatzingán, Michoacán, was shot Tuesday in an apparent assassination attempt. Six soldiers have been killed in drug-related violence in May.
Mr. Bours said the convoy of 10 to 15 vehicles involved in Wednesday's attack had traveled about 180 miles across the state without being detected until the group was just a few miles from its target: the mining town of Cananea, about 50 miles southeast of Nogales. The commandos arrived just after midnight.
In Cananea, truckloads of state and federal police were in the streets but few average citizens, said Michael Marizco, editor of borderreporter.com, who spoke by telephone from the scene.
"People seem terrified, the police are scared, they're sitting in the back of their trucks with machine guns in their hands and the civilians are staying inside their houses," said Mr. Marizco, whose Web site is dedicated to news and analysis from the Sonora-Arizona border.

[4] Writing in the newspaper Reforma, columnist Sergio Sarmiento said the Sinaloa incident proved that innocent people were being killed in the drug war."The idea that drug dealers and the people close to them are the only people caught up in the violence we are living in Mexico is a silly lie made up to keep the population calm," Sarmiento wrote. "We are in the midst of war … a struggle in which two sides face off without any concern or thought about the civilian population."