“What-Me Worry?”

David and Bandido - circa 1990

By David Kindopp July 10, 2014 14:55

I occasionally reminisce about experiences in Mazatlán, mentally catapulting back in time more years than I can scarcely believe. One such reverie still projects in vivid Technicolor, on demand, in that part of my brain that stores and re-plays vignettes I trust will serve me well in the old sailors home as I rock on the veranda, blanket on my knees, while gazing out toward the sea.

Or, if book sales don’t go well, as I look out on the Walmart parking lot.

Sometime in March of 1991 I was cruising home, headin’ south on the Malecón in my 1970 Jeepster Commando convertible, approaching the red light at the Fisherman’s Monument, at a respectable ten to fifteen miles per hour. The locals call the monument the Monos Bichis – the naked dummies. (I wonder if that reference is a denial of sexuality. Still, the more I think about it, sexuality, in women, seems to be on constant display in Mazatlán these days. Women wear see-through blouses revealing cleavage and lacy bras to go grocery shopping.) During the last thirty seconds of rolling toward the intersection, my irrepressible Golden Lab puppy leaped from the back seat while enthusiastically chasing after a bright green stuffed toy frog, given to him by a striking Nordic blond female friend of his who occasionally rode with us, into the front passenger seat. Flying by me and over the automatic gear shift lever (who the hell ever thought up a Jeep as an automatic!) he managed to shift the Jeepster into PARK.

I was the first vehicle at the light as the wheels all stopped turning and we bounced and skidded to a stop before I jammed the shift lever back into drive and properly applied the brakes. The lab recovered from being compressed into the dashboard and looked over at me like he knew I got my driver’s license out of a box of Cracker Jacks. Unfortunately, that maneuver, predictably, caught the guy behind me by complete surprise and he and his rusty sedan beater plowed into the back of the Jeepster with, although not a gut wrenching impact, a noticeable crunching noise.

Quickly glancing back, I caught a glimpse of him through his front windshield, wide-eyed in disbelief. I wheeled left through the green light and immediately pulled to the right near IMSS and parked at the curb, thinking the driver who crashed into me would want my identity and such. Certainly, I was at fault. I thought I was in trouble. I was ready to be shaken down for car repairs. He turned left also, right behind me, then, to my surprise, shot past me like a rocket, disappearing in the traffic on Manuel Gutierrez. Of course, he knew what I did not. If the police showed up we were both going to be in serious, circa1992 police on the scene of an auto accident, trouble.

It was simpler days then. I was, regarding many things Mexican, uninformed, unconcerned and unconscious. Sailboat in the harbor trying to get legal, ‘partners’ with perpetual gesticulations of ‘no problema’ regarding just about everything – no time, or need, to worry about long expired registration and pesky car insurance that was valid for the first thirty days into Mexico, well over a year ago.

Mazatlán was, in many ways, a frontier. There was no noticeable Gringo community, or any community linked by anything like the internet and even land line phones were rare. Often, two years to get a home phone line installed. Cell phones? That was science fiction. You were on your own. Someone you knew told you what was real – like don’t worry about no stinkin’ insurance – and you had to trust it, even if they, or you, got it directly from some ‘official’ source, which was usually suspect anyway. Back then, I’d guess seventy-percent of drivers in Mazatlán had no car insurance.

I drove back to the Flota El Dorado at the old harbor – home, where my travel trailer was located so I could keep an eye on my 50’ sailing ketch – mentioned the fender bender to my ‘partner’ hanging around the office and he simply shrugged and made no comment. Finding a huge pipe-wrench I pried the Jeepster bumper back to almost where it was before my traffic incident, and called it good.

Mazatlán. December 2005:

After driving from California to Maz with the top down in my white convertible, to hang out for a month or two (with full coverage car insurance and a minimally covered redhead) I had been in town a while and was chatting with a very long time Mazatlán gringo resident. We were casually trading Mexico stories and I related my monos-bichis traffic incident indicating I had in those days driven around Mazatlán for about three years with no auto insurance. His jaw dropped as his eyes became disbelieving saucers. He exclaimed – “In all the years I’ve been here I would not drive one block in Mexico without excellent car insurance.” He went on to explain that if one is involved in a major accident (especially if there is an injury) and cannot immediately prove insurance or financial responsibility, it is almost certain they will go to jail, on the spot and probably for a very long time.

Of course, this I know, now.

Ahhh, yes – in Mazatlán in 1992, ignorance was bliss.

In Mazatlán in 2014 ignorance is still bliss. I just don’t know what about – yet.