By Mike Stoltz
Here in San Miguel de Allende the climate, cost of living, and lifestyle can be an intoxicating draw, but once you kick the tires, like any well-thought-out plan, you will also likely find some flaws. While San Miguel continues to surprise me daily with the joys and benefits of being an expat here, I’ve also run into some serious pot holes I am learning to navigate. Unfortunately, small-time corruption has been on the menu. I’m learning how to maneuver around that, and thought I’d share that with you in this week’s column.
When I brought my packed SUV across the border at Laredo seven months ago, I didn’t speak much Spanish nor understand the culture. While I consider myself a pretty worldly guy, with a second home in France and am fairly gifted with language skills, I guess I underestimated some challenges Mexico would pose.
My pre-entry tasks were rife with dotting i’s and crossing t’s, but I did not realize that my 25-minute check-in process at the border included the Mexican border officials overlooking an element on my checklist that included a Temporary Import Permit (TIP) for my SUV. In order to drive a foreign-plated vehicle in Mexico, you need a TIP not to exceed the time limitation on your entry or temporary VISA, or you’re in trouble.
At the immigration entry counter, when it was my turn to finalize my border crossing, El Jefe seemed to have a very quizzical look on his face. It was only interrupted by occasional hints of total confusion and shoulder shrugs as he tapped on his computer. Finally, I was given a paper I did not realize was an immigration permit for my Springer Spaniel in lieu of my vehicle TIP. I merrily proceeded down the highway without incident with my canine certificate secured in my glovebox. Should I encounter any of the menacing road blocks I was universally warned of enroute to SMA I believed I would be golden. I spent the night at the halfway mark in Monterrey and made an early start to SMA in daylight so I could reduce the chances of any issues—but only after I stopped at a Starbucks.
I was having a great time driving through beautiful scenery, pleased to discover my SUV’s ability to hug the road, and enjoying great tunes and uninterrupted Wi-Fi. I was just a couple hours from my destination, probably 11 hours of driving in the country, when a small battalion of police motioned me to pull onto a make-shift off-ramp. The men wore official-looking uniforms and numberless, identity-free badges. They asked in Spanish for my license or TIP, so I confidently gave them Henry’s vaccination-ready authorization of entry. After a lot of “no comprendo” from me, I was told, “You must go back to border for a permit or you must pay.” I was unwilling to backtrack 11 hours, and angrily asked how much I owed. The price was US$400. I reasoned it was a small price to pay for the license I wasn’t given at the border, and was the cost of what the deposit would have been, therefore I thoughtfully pulled out my Mastercard. The officer looked at me like I was an alien, and said, “en efectivo.” I hadn’t learned efectivo on Duolingo, yet I knew that it meant cash. Something told me I should open my Toyota Handbook to page 50, where I keep exactly US$101 for emergencies. The deal was done and I arrived in SMA US$101 poorer, but everything else intact.
All has been great for the last seven months. However, last week I explored the functionality of the UCD permit I obtained after three months in the country. Depending on who you talk to, this is a potentially great, although somewhat murky, way to get Mexican plates, to drive in qualifying states as long as your vehicle is older than 2012, as mine is.
Now that my car is legal in Guanajuato and Queretaro, I decided to drive to the latter for a needed MRI on my left knee. Upon my return on the carretera, I was pulled over by a cop on a shiny black and red Yamaha 700. He had the same unidentifiable badge and official-looking garb as the men seven months ago. He had had cause to pull me over, as I had been looking at my cell phone to navigate my way home.
To make a long story short, he said that because I did not have a driver’s license (it is in the mail) and was using my cell phone while driving, I was subject to an infraction. After I conveniently forgot all the Spanish I’ve learned since I got here, he naturally called El Jefe and passes his phone to me. El Jefe told me his English was poor, but he wanted “to help.” He said that based on his partner’s report they would have to “take my car” if I did not give them 4,000 pesos. As before, I made a stink in English. This time I added that there was a señora at home looking after my children, and I needed to get home to them before the housekeeper’s bus left for Leon to so she could see her sick mother. I again pulled out my credit card. “En efectivo” popped up again. Completely prepared, as you should be as well, I opened my wallet to just 250 pesos. Proviso: as he was dialing El Jefe, I took the 5,000 pesos I had just withdrawn from an ATM out of my wallet and put it in my back pocket.
The amoral moral of this story is fight corruption with corruption, or at least channel some high school exercises in theatre arts and feing complete ignorance; it will get you out of trouble and keep your wallet from lightening up.
For any column ideas or constructive insight, email Mike at vmstoltz@gmail.com
