Never Try To Outrun The Cops of Mexico

by H. Jacob Sandigo Sandigo (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Mexico

Isle de Mujeres, Mexico 4PM Winston sees the speed bump too late, the golf cart takes the impact, causing us to canoe. My cup of absinthe sent to the heavens, the liquor baptizes my face. A few of the locals point and laugh at our mishap. “If you weren’t my best friend you’d be lying on the concrete right now.” The police are not as amused. They pull up beside us, a cop steps out of the passenger seat, gun pointed at Winston’s temple She looks at me and asks if I speak Spanish. More or less. She nods. “Have you been drinking?” I can barely form a sentence. No sense in lying. She looks at Winston. “Has he been drinking?”Her partner, a pomegranate looking fellow, peeks his head out the window to size us up. “No, he picked me up from the beach.” Winston attempts to remain calm, following the patterns of his breath. He had consumed two rum and cokes before leaving the beach, and there’s a bottle of Van Gogh in the glove box. She instructs Winston to blow into her hands. He complies, she takes a whiff and fans her nose. “Follow us to the station.” I call my cousin to tell her we won’t be making it to dinner “Why?” “The cops are taking Winston to jail for drunk driving." This sends our party into a panic. We drive along the baseball fields, where families sell hotdogs and Mexican candies, before turning into the precinct. The guard points his machine gun at us before ushering us in. We are a postcard of America. The police ask the typical questions.Where are you from? How long are you on the island? She laughs in Winston’s face when he states fireman as his profession, claiming he doesn’t have the size for it. We have no form of identification, all is word of mouth honor system all around. Winston is given a breathalyzer. He blows a 33, the legal limit is 40. “33- bien- si?” The Officer shakes her head. “No.” She explains that it is still an infraction, if it had been any higher he would have been in handcuffs. 4,000 pesos ($300 US) will grant Winston freedom and repossession of the golf cart. No wallets,no cash,nada. Our hotel is down the road, but we have no way of communicating this. After an attempt to pantomime our plight the police become paranoid, fidgeting with batons, eyeing our every move. Our Spanglish leads to further confusion. I’m barefoot, hiding behind Ray-Bans, leaving a trail of sand throughout the precinct surrounded by asylum like walls with blue stripes running down the middle. Technology bails us out. Winston has a light bulb moment and pulls out Google translate. All our money is at the resort. The officer nods and says, “Fine. Call a cab and get the money from the safe.” We set out on foot and follow the dirt road until we reach the room. My hopothesis, Winston’s appearance screamed America, a delusion of wealth. Upon our return to the station, the transaction is swift,an exchange of money while the officer notes the amount paid, then Winston is told to sign. After the amount is checked by an additional officer, she rips up the paperwork and says we are free to go. “No more beers!" The hotel resembles a temple as it peeks at us through the overcast. We proess the event with a couple cigarettes by the pool. The officer overlooked the bottle of absinthe, I kick my feet up and top it off. We end the night at Jax Bar & Grill with the rest of our party. Each red and blue light show that passes the restaurant transports me into a flashback I do not wish to relive. The false notion of paradise polluted by the realities of the world.