Drive to Mexico: Thursday Morning 2/9/06

We have been using another blog named "The Sutton Sanitorium," but though we act pretty crazy at times, the name didn't seem to fit us quite right. So this is our renamed place...

We've been promising all of you an account of our drive to Monterrey Mexico two weekends ago (February 9-11 2006). I've broken it up into two posts per travel day (as with doggie years, one day of Mexico-trip time equals approximately six days of regular time!). I'll put them up as I complete them over the next couple of days. Not to worry; nobody will be shortchanged: Each post will still be ridiculously over-long.

So without further ado, we present...(drum roll)...the first part of our first Mexican day!

Down the rabbit hole...

As I sit writing this account on the first full day of our first trip to Mexico, it is late and Debbie and I are back at our hotel. It is an exotic Mexican place they call a "Fairfield Inn." Actually, it's kind of nice to get back to a little piece of the USA, to anchor us in the middle of our truly Mexican experiences thus far. Let me recap a bit...

Last night we finished with our marriage class at the church, and then drove to below San Antonio. We stopped to sleep at 2 am. This morning we got going again by 9 am, and reached Laredo by 11.

Crazed gringo couple in the (American) Walmart

We had just picked up Debbie’s prescription at the Wallie pharmacy and were doing some last-minute pre-crossing shopping. We had just arrived at the toilet paper aisle (all the books say to BYOP…get it?). A man and woman--both obviously Anglos--turned the corner. I said something to Debbie, not paying any attention to them, and he turned to me and with a half-crazed look in his eyes said (this is my translation, including both his actual words and his body language), "Thank God…you speak English."

His wife turned towards us just as he asked "Are you going to cross the border?" I said yes, and Debbie asked them if they had gone into Mexico before. They said yes, though only at an entry point three hours away. He said that Laredo used to be the place to cross many years ago, but now there was an average of one killing there a day. He practically got on his kness begging us to make the three-hour drive.

Well, we smiled and bid them adieu, and walked out wondering "what in the world was that about?" We couldn´t quite figure out if God had sent them to warn us, or if the devil had sent them to put us off. So, we went on to the Sanborn auto insurance place.

You must have Mexican insurance to drive in Mexico; American insurance doesn’t work. We talked to an agent about the situation in Nuevo Laredo (the Mexican side of the town). She said "there's no danger to tourists; but it's not good for the people who live there...drugs." We walked out with our car insurance plus a Sanborn-branded travel guide of detailed information about driving routes in this part of Mexico. It turned out to be our most valuable reference for the trip, though I’d researched, bought, and carried several other guidebooks along with us.

On to the next stop, the International Bank. From a young Hispanic lady teller we collected some pesos and a restaurant recommendation for Monterrey. She was in love with being in love...but with nobody in particular at the moment. In fact, she was looking for a man who was as in love with being in love as she was. The restaurant would be perfect for this, she reassured us. Thanks, we said...and skeedaddled for the border.

Border crossing

As we are pulling up to the border guard station, Debbie looks at the insurance documentation and reads "anyone entering the country with guns or ammunition will go to a Mexican prison." At this point--about 500 feet from the crossing--we say "hmmm...I wonder if Jimmy left any of his ammo in the car" (knowing Jimmy's fondness for bullets, like the one hanging around his neck right now). Deb reaches into the little pocket in the dash, closes her fingers, and--lo and behold--pulls out a bullet.

We furtively pull over to the side of the road--unfortunately, under the direct gaze of three Mexican border workers--and start asking innocent questions, like "where was that border again?" Meanwhile, I crack open the door on my side and slip the bullet out onto the pavement (a flattened, previously-fired slug with no casing, so no danger to innocents when a truck rolls over it later…but still jail bait). All on the US side, thank God, so we weren't in immediate danger of going straight to Mexican prison (as Deb is saying "without collecting $200").

We reach the border and the Hispanic guard asks for our $3 toll. We hand it to him, and I ask him to confirm that we should go to the next street, turn left, etc. etc. as we had been instructed at the insurance place, to get to customs. He says "Oh no! Customs is right there," pointing to his left and just behind all of us. "I can have them open the gate (just ahead of us on our right), and let you go through. But customs is closed for lunch." That much was obvious even to us, by the long line of people standing at the door to which he had just pointed. I asked him, one last plaintive time, "it's not at the next street, turn left, etc. etc.?" And his eyes open up and he says "Oh! You mean Mexican customs! Yeah, that's where you go. Have a good day."

That moves us ahead about 50 yards to the Mexican guards. They wave us to a lane where a traffic light turns red indicating that we are to be searched. But there isn’t anybody around, and I am a little confused (yeah, and the Titanic was a rowboat), so I slowly pull forward. Initiating a guy running out and screaming behind us. I pull over.

He looks in the trunk, and says "OK, go on" (or what sure seemed like it, since I'd never heard the words before). We pull out onto our first Mexican street.

Held up by rubber-strip wielding desparados

At the first intersection we are supposed to turn left, but two guys with squeegees rush to surround our car. Doesn’t matter that the light has just turned green and the two cars in front of us are going through...no, one guy steps in front of our car, the other goes to the driver's side, and they both begin madly gesticulating across the windshield with their tools. Occasionally the one on my side stops wiping and moves his right hand with extended fingers towards his suddenly-wider mouth...in and out, like he is holding a Big Mac and trying to wolf it down in four bites. Then he regales us with the only English he apparently possesses, saying " Quarter, quarter, dollar, dollar?" I give him a dollar (couldn't find a quarter fast enough).

By now horns behind us have wound up a Beethoven symphony. But, good fellows that they are, as soon as they have our dollar the other guy moves away from the front and allows us to move on. It seems like the light has cycled five times, but it has all amazingly happened in the same green.

We finish turning left, etc. etc. and halt at a stop sign with a building built up to the very right corner of the intersection. I look, don’t see anybody, pull out and nearly kill my wife! There is a car--artfully concealed just out of sight beyond the building, tearing down at poor Debbie's door. Ayyyy! I hit the accelerator, and we move on. Have I mentioned yet that Mexicans love to use their horns? Well, I heard another one then. We haven't stopped hearing them since.

Mexican customs

We pull up to the customs building, a low warehouse-looking building about a block long, and go in. We are met by a Mexican auto insurance guy, who tells us that we paid too much for our insurance (interestingly, they play this game on both sides of the border: the American auto insurance worker told us to go exchange for our pesos in the international bank on the US side, because it had better rates than found in Mexico. We haven't found rates that high yet anywhere in Mexico!)

We walk up to the window for the first step in the customs process, and the official on the other side looks very disgusted (Debbie's word; fits perfectly). He hands me two forms and asks a couple of questions in passable English. I say we want to get the longer stay approved, since we might like to come back. He says to fill out the forms, which I do (Deb doesn’t have her glasses on). One place on the form is for "length of stay", for which I put "3". Unfortunately, I don’t notice the section's small print in English, "for official use only."

To make a long story short, he stamps the forms and tells us we have to leave Mexico on Saturday (3 days isn't "the 24 period from now until tomorrow the same time, etc. etc.;" it is "today, manana, and manana after that"). I say "oops; I got confused" (did I mention that this happened to me a couple of times in Mexico?), and he looks at me with a combination of vindictive justification, resentment, and boredom, and manages to convey it all in his delivery of a single word: "No." Translates into something like "toooo bad" in English. Still holding the paper receipts in his hand, with a wastebasket 5 feet away.

I figure I better get out of there while I am still a free man, so we walk on to step 2. Debbie and I have a nice conversation about what we are going to do with our extra day back in Texas this weekend.

We finish the rest of the customs process with little trouble, and I use Jon's amazing translator (thank you, Jon!), and go back to the first official guy and say "Estoy arrepentido. Buenos tardes." Meaning, of course, "I'm sorry. Have a nice day."

Well, you'd think I'd just kissed his baby. He breaks out in a big smile, his co-worker does likewise, and he says "you can extend your stay at the government offices in Monterrey, just by calling. Enjoy your stay!" Sheesh...talk about your classic bipolar personality! No, actually I really think he had probably had it with one too many "ugly Americans," and was surprised that I cared enough to say anything.

Cruising the countryside

We get back on the road to Monterrey and do fine for the next 15 miles. Then we hit the first checkpoint…a wide spot in the road with a collection of earnest young men in camo, dangling at from their hands least one M-16 each, lounging against pristine Hummers (I guess they knock down all their game on the first shot).

But other than experiencing a slightly surreal feeling of disconnection from reality, we make it through that just fine, too. Soon this road splits into two: a libre, or “free road” (libres are known for heavy traffic, potholes, and various other dangers), and an autopista, or toll road. These are supposed to be as good as American turnpikes. We pay the 185 peso ($18.50 US) toll, and merge onto the autopista to Monterrey. Thus far we’ve had perhaps a little too much adventure for our tastes. We’re ready for a little predictability…at least, for awhile.

Almost no Mexicans use the autopistas; we have the road almost completely to ourselves. It’s in pretty good shape; it’s usually four lanes (occasionally two), and all the potholes have been filled. Stretches are first class virgin asphalt. Pretty nice.

Northern Mexico is really bleak and brown. No trees, only lots of small cactus and brush. Also, thankfully, no billboards or advertisements. Only an occasional road sign like “Retorno A La Izquierda, 500m,” meaning turnaround to the left 500 meters ahead. Occasionally we see abandoned homesteads just off the road. They are small houses with attached animal shelters, from which the roofs have long since been lifted. They are only walls now, and who knows where their families went or why. We are intrigued.

No bull

An hour before reaching Monterrey we start seeing mountains. They rise higher and higher, closer and closer to the road. We come through a pass, and then we see it: A giant sculpture of a Mexican bull. It stands tall with the pride of thousands of years of Mayan, Incan, Toltec and other native artistic forbears. We squint into the brilliant haze. I’d always heard the Mexicans were famed for their sculpture. I had no idea they would go to such ends however; creating a work of art on a truly stupendous scale, in the middle of a bleak road through nowhere. These people are truly dedicated to their craft.

It is awe-inspiring…towering over the surrounding cliffs as if to say to all passers-by, “The Spaniards were not able to assimilate us, and neither will you.” We comment back and forth about how privileged we are to be seeing it. I quickly reach for our digital camera. (Debbie is now driving.) Good thing Debbie charged it up the night before. I focus once and shoot. But the sculpture is still tiny in my viewfinder. I zoom in to get a better angle…and the lens retracts into the body as the camera shuts itself down. The battery is dead.

No matter. We’ll be back through here in 2 days and can take all the pictures we want. People lose touch with the world around them by trying to see it all through a lens. Now we can fully drink in the experience.

We draw closer. We are now both leaning forward over the dashboard and gazing upwards. Our necks rotate as we draw near…almost alongside now…oh the anticipation…Wait! Why does this wonderful work of art suddenly look so…er…two-dimensional? And what is the meaning of those two poles we can now see projecting beneath the body into the ground? We flash past and I twist to look back through the rear window. The intense light still makes it difficult to see, but on the backside (which turns out to be the front side) of the animal I believe I can make out letters. It looks like…“Wayne.”

It's a billboard. We can't stop laughing at ourselves. On the trip home we will see the writing more clearly and discover that the brand on our bigboy's side is the name of a local beer: “Magna.”

Hmmm…I wonder if that’s Spanish for “Wayne?”

In another half hour we reach the outskirts of Monterrey. We pass one American factory after another. It is all surprisingly modern. I am following our map, yet I somehow allow us to drive almost all the way into downtown before realizing we have missed our turn (an unmarked exit for the International Airport). We throw in the towel, reverse course, and stop at an exotic Mexican "7Eleven". Yep, just like an American one. Just down the road from the Wal-Mart. Reminds me of the joy I’d felt a half an hour past the border back in Nuevo Laredo when, after seeing an unbroken string of nothing but Spanish slogans on trucks, we passed a semi displaying that classic Anglo-Saxon word; "Werner."

Now is my chance to try my first real "pidgeon Spanish" interraction, to hopefully find a way for us to reach our hotel before dark. It is 4:30 pm, and the one common factor in all the reading I have done in preparing for this trip was that every book said “whatever you do, don’t drive after dark.” Among the hazards listed were frequent deep potholes, big rocks placed in the middle of the road by helpful motorists to “warn” other drivers of a breakdown ahead, giant mutant speedbumps called topes that are placed seemingly randomly and without any warning and are known for literally ripping out the undercarriage of vehicles that hit them at speed, free-ranging black cows taking nighttime strolls on unlit blacktop, local cars flying low without headlights, and (very rarely) highway robberies. One quote completed this list with the final disclaimer “and if you choose to disregard all of this and drive in the dark anyway, then later on just remember that you were warned!” (italics in the original). The sun is getting close to the horizon and my mouth is getting dry.

Well, I use my two words of Spanish, and the old gentleman uses his two words of English, we both wave our hands a lot, and Deb and I end up back on the right track. A short while later we pull into the hotel. Just before dark.

Life is good.