The Shake Down or The Mexico Fiasco
I had been back from that last tour for a couple of months; domestication was beginning to set in. A type of spiritual rust has started to form at the ends of my soul. Not feeling very spontaneous. Not feeling very myself. I decided, being a resident of Texas for as long as I had, it was far passed due, a trip to Mexico. Random, spontaneous, no planning, no forethought, it was a researchless venture decided on a whim.
Driving across the border, I remember the fine line between civilization and what I can only describe as Iraq like. It was a completely bizarre experience. One moment you are in America, good old USA, and in a matter of seconds you were somewhere else completely, another third world. The streets went from a major American interstate to abruptly something just shy of an ally way. It took forty five minutes to get into Mexico. Hardly a checkpoint at all to get in but, you could see the line for miles just on the other side to get into the U.S. I cringed at the realization. Shoddily constructed houses crammed together, the poverty instantly obvious. That bastard, tank of a truck I had rented from Enterprise for this little venture was hardly appropriate. It felt more like an actual tank narrowly fitting down the already tight corridors.
It didnt take me long to get to the task at hand. My objective was Boys Town or La Zona, Laredos red light district. My purpose was cheap Mexican beer and to take in the tourist attractions. Simple enough. Five hours in Nuevo Laredo, I was well on the right path to achieving that objective. I was already hammered. I was stopped at a static checkpoint by a couple of locals in blue body armor armed with assault rifles. I know enough with the Iraq analogies but I swear these guys looked just like IP's. I didnt know if the concept of DUI was an issue in Mexico. I had two hundred dollars in the center console I quickly hid in my underwear. They asked me if I have any guns drugs or knives. Given my generally good nature of compliance when it comes to international law enforcement agencies, foolishly I tell them yes. I pull out this gargantuan AK-47 bayonet that I generally had with me in any automobile. That was just a precautionary measure to be on the safe side. Dont judge it could have easily been a nine mil. That coupled with the body armor I had in the front seat didnt go over very well. Thats your standard recipe for disaster. Language barrier, plus big knife, plus ballistic body armor, plus foreign country. I was never really good at math. Id make some crack about a no shit Mexican stand off but they all had assault rifles. No bueno. I was completely ignorant to the laws of Mexico. Apparently, knives are illegal, especially Crocodile Dundee sized ones.
They drew their weapons and asked me to step out of the vehicle I figured compliance was a pretty good idea at the time. Weve all seen the news. I didnt want to be on it. They searched the rest of the vehicle. The gentlemen, I can only assume that was their jefe, walked up to me and in as good of English as he could muster gave me a proposition I couldnt refuse.
"OK, no problem. You give to me six hundred dollars. No problem," politely suggested Jefe.
Like a shmuck,i refused it.
"Look Im sure youre used to scared, chump, college kids coming down here and falling for this shit. Im definitely not giving you six hundred dollars. Youre just going to have to lock me up," I politely replied.
I thought it was a good tough guy bluff. He smiled turned to a subordinate and rambled something in the native at a speed which I was unable to discern. The subordinate handed jefe the vest and bayonet.
"Ok, this problem," with that he held up the knife and the armor.
They put me in the back of a raggedy Toyota truck and we went to jail. The bluff was a fail. I was getting nervous. But, I refused to give in to basic scare tactics. I mean Im an American, I have rights. Surly some rabble of third world policia arent capable of taking advantage of a member of the greatest superpower the world has known.
We arrived at the station. They escorted me to a cell. I still had hope. They hadnt officially arrested me yet. No Miranda rights. No pat down. No cuffs. I ignorantly held on to my confidence in my Americanism. Moments later they came back and repeated their offer.
Give to me six hundred dollars. No problem. You go drink. Have a good time, he suggested a little more empathetically.
Again I turned it down. It was obvious they were just toying with me until I broke and gave them the money they were certain I had. Apparently, this magical number was an average of monies from prior shakedowns. This wasnt their first rodeo. I acted like it wasnt mine. I sat coolly in the cell, awaiting my release.
Some time passed. I was getting anxious. I remember I had a bottle of Stoli in the truck. It was parked outside the jail. They had driven it. Somehow I had negotiated the bottle into the cell with me. With the strict understanding that hammered I would be more cooperative and much more prone to part with my money. I as charismatically as possible played the, Im in Laredo just wanted to get drunk and have a good time card. Fuck me but it worked.
So I discontentedly spent the next couple of hours sitting there, at their request, in my body armor drinking, at my request. Well the vodka certainly didnt make me any more cooperative. The next proposition didnt go as well at all. Instead of a diplomatic negotiation Jefe got drunken asshole American. The best kind if you ask me. However, not the best kind in a border-town pinch. The summery I recall was polite proposition from Jefe followed by my terms.
Fuck you. Im an American. Well invade this shit hole and bla bla bla.
You get the gist. With that jefe disappeared and minutes later three guys show up two stay outside. One enters the cell, with handcuffs. At the sight of those handcuffs a serious degree of panic welled up inside of me. Fight or flight, combat stress call it what you will, it was go time. There I am in board shorts, sandals and an A&F polo fighting a guy in armor with a slung assault rifle trying desperately to hand cuff me. He successfully gets the cuffs on one hand. I somehow end up knocking him over before he finishes and hit the door juking the other two like Adrian Peterson heading for the end zone. Here is the moment in any given night were you take that mental freeze frame, a snap shot, if you will. It goes something like this. This American madman running bare foot down a street lined with bars and onlookers. Handcuffs flailing back and forth beating on my chest with every step. Drunkenly certain Im heading north and if I just keep going Ill hit the border in no time. Gun shots going off in the not too distant distance. I now believe they were, in the air, warning shots. Not effective at all. Who would actually stop running due that style of warning. That generally means run faster. I did, making Z patterns through back alleys and adjacent streets. Short of breath and completely disorientated I stopped running and threw up some of my vodka. I collect myself and look around. Desperation sets in. then I see it. Hope in a neon Modelo sign. With nowhere else to go I figure why not. So I go into the bar and order a drink.
...to be continued
HOLY SHIT
I had been back from that last tour for a couple of months; domestication was beginning to set in. A type of spiritual rust has started to form at the ends of my soul. Not feeling very spontaneous. Not feeling very myself. I decided, being a resident of Texas for as long as I had, it was far passed due, a trip to Mexico. Random, spontaneous, no planning, no forethought, it was a researchless venture decided on a whim.
Driving across the border, I remember the fine line between civilization and what I can only describe as Iraq like. It was a completely bizarre experience. One moment you are in America, good old USA, and in a matter of seconds you were somewhere else completely, another third world. The streets went from a major American interstate to abruptly something just shy of an ally way. It took forty five minutes to get into Mexico. Hardly a checkpoint at all to get in but, you could see the line for miles just on the other side to get into the U.S. I cringed at the realization. Shoddily constructed houses crammed together, the poverty instantly obvious. That bastard, tank of a truck I had rented from Enterprise for this little venture was hardly appropriate. It felt more like an actual tank narrowly fitting down the already tight corridors.
It didnt take me long to get to the task at hand. My objective was Boys Town or La Zona, Laredos red light district. My purpose was cheap Mexican beer and to take in the tourist attractions. Simple enough. Five hours in Nuevo Laredo, I was well on the right path to achieving that objective. I was already hammered. I was stopped at a static checkpoint by a couple of locals in blue body armor armed with assault rifles. I know enough with the Iraq analogies but I swear these guys looked just like IP's. I didnt know if the concept of DUI was an issue in Mexico. I had two hundred dollars in the center console I quickly hid in my underwear. They asked me if I have any guns drugs or knives. Given my generally good nature of compliance when it comes to international law enforcement agencies, foolishly I tell them yes. I pull out this gargantuan AK-47 bayonet that I generally had with me in any automobile. That was just a precautionary measure to be on the safe side. Dont judge it could have easily been a nine mil. That coupled with the body armor I had in the front seat didnt go over very well. Thats your standard recipe for disaster. Language barrier, plus big knife, plus ballistic body armor, plus foreign country. I was never really good at math. Id make some crack about a no shit Mexican stand off but they all had assault rifles. No bueno. I was completely ignorant to the laws of Mexico. Apparently, knives are illegal, especially Crocodile Dundee sized ones.
They drew their weapons and asked me to step out of the vehicle I figured compliance was a pretty good idea at the time. Weve all seen the news. I didnt want to be on it. They searched the rest of the vehicle. The gentlemen, I can only assume that was their jefe, walked up to me and in as good of English as he could muster gave me a proposition I couldnt refuse.
"OK, no problem. You give to me six hundred dollars. No problem," politely suggested Jefe.
Like a shmuck,i refused it.
"Look Im sure youre used to scared, chump, college kids coming down here and falling for this shit. Im definitely not giving you six hundred dollars. Youre just going to have to lock me up," I politely replied.
I thought it was a good tough guy bluff. He smiled turned to a subordinate and rambled something in the native at a speed which I was unable to discern. The subordinate handed jefe the vest and bayonet.
"Ok, this problem," with that he held up the knife and the armor.
They put me in the back of a raggedy Toyota truck and we went to jail. The bluff was a fail. I was getting nervous. But, I refused to give in to basic scare tactics. I mean Im an American, I have rights. Surly some rabble of third world policia arent capable of taking advantage of a member of the greatest superpower the world has known.
We arrived at the station. They escorted me to a cell. I still had hope. They hadnt officially arrested me yet. No Miranda rights. No pat down. No cuffs. I ignorantly held on to my confidence in my Americanism. Moments later they came back and repeated their offer.
Give to me six hundred dollars. No problem. You go drink. Have a good time, he suggested a little more empathetically.
Again I turned it down. It was obvious they were just toying with me until I broke and gave them the money they were certain I had. Apparently, this magical number was an average of monies from prior shakedowns. This wasnt their first rodeo. I acted like it wasnt mine. I sat coolly in the cell, awaiting my release.
Some time passed. I was getting anxious. I remember I had a bottle of Stoli in the truck. It was parked outside the jail. They had driven it. Somehow I had negotiated the bottle into the cell with me. With the strict understanding that hammered I would be more cooperative and much more prone to part with my money. I as charismatically as possible played the, Im in Laredo just wanted to get drunk and have a good time card. Fuck me but it worked.
So I discontentedly spent the next couple of hours sitting there, at their request, in my body armor drinking, at my request. Well the vodka certainly didnt make me any more cooperative. The next proposition didnt go as well at all. Instead of a diplomatic negotiation Jefe got drunken asshole American. The best kind if you ask me. However, not the best kind in a border-town pinch. The summery I recall was polite proposition from Jefe followed by my terms.
Fuck you. Im an American. Well invade this shit hole and bla bla bla.
You get the gist. With that jefe disappeared and minutes later three guys show up two stay outside. One enters the cell, with handcuffs. At the sight of those handcuffs a serious degree of panic welled up inside of me. Fight or flight, combat stress call it what you will, it was go time. There I am in board shorts, sandals and an A&F polo fighting a guy in armor with a slung assault rifle trying desperately to hand cuff me. He successfully gets the cuffs on one hand. I somehow end up knocking him over before he finishes and hit the door juking the other two like Adrian Peterson heading for the end zone. Here is the moment in any given night were you take that mental freeze frame, a snap shot, if you will. It goes something like this. This American madman running bare foot down a street lined with bars and onlookers. Handcuffs flailing back and forth beating on my chest with every step. Drunkenly certain Im heading north and if I just keep going Ill hit the border in no time. Gun shots going off in the not too distant distance. I now believe they were, in the air, warning shots. Not effective at all. Who would actually stop running due that style of warning. That generally means run faster. I did, making Z patterns through back alleys and adjacent streets. Short of breath and completely disorientated I stopped running and threw up some of my vodka. I collect myself and look around. Desperation sets in. then I see it. Hope in a neon Modelo sign. With nowhere else to go I figure why not. So I go into the bar and order a drink.
...to be continued
HOLY SHIT
how are you?