Skylines, Drives and Bribes

Now that Miranda and I have had a week or so to settle in, let me describe our domicile here in Puebla, minus the half-empty cardboard boxes and scattered cat toys that currently cover most of the square meterage.

We were lucky enough to receive – without asking – an apartment upgrade in the recently constructed building that houses our fourth-floor abode. The upgrade came in the form of a much improved view – that of the Puebla cityscape and surrounding volcanic mountains, instead of the parking lot and uninspired cathedral we had seen from the apartment that had been pitched to us during a pre-move visit. Me being an atheist and a telecommuter, neither parking nor priests move me much. Give me a panorama of stucco, steel and snow caps over an eyeful of asphalt and Jesús any day of the week. God bless our rental agent.

In addition to us being the benefactors of a magnificent and divinely secular vista, the modern furniture rental package we had chosen a while back turned out to be much more stylish in person than it had appeared online. Not exactly our taste to a tee, but much better than expected, except for the humongous and clunky glass-top dining table that eats up our entrance and encroaches on our living room. We can’t decide whether to consume our meals on it or rent it out to local corporations looking for a place to hold their conferences.

We only hope that we survive long enough to truly experience the comfort of our casa and the beauty of our views. I say this because driving in Puebla puts outsiders like us at serious risk of cardiac arrest or collision – or both – every time we take the wheel. Automakers in the Mexican market should save themselves the trouble of installing turn signals, as they get used here about as often dental floss does in England. Instead, the automakers should take the cash they save from eliminating turn signals and use it to equip each car with a polyurethane coating to protect drivers and pedestrians.

That being said, there is an explanation for the reckless road habits down here: Most Mexicans, you see, are true professional Catholics (not just weekend warriors like in the States), and they feel confident that, in return for their religious dedication and frequent donations, God will protect them from massive head trauma and crushed sternums.

It all makes me miss the deadly cliff-side roads described in my previous post.

Adding to our driving aversion in Puebla is an entrepreneurial traffic police force that seems intent on turning extortion into an Olympic sport. I’m not suggesting that all traffic cops here are corrupt; just the ones who are currently alive. In a way, their dedication to pulling over and collecting (read: strongly encouraging) bribes from motorists – particularly those with American plates – is noble. These Mexican cops no doubt take their illegal earnings and donate them to the church to help pay the sculptors who specialize in constructing solid gold messiahs.

On our second night in Puebla, Miranda and I had the good fortune of experiencing first-hand the artistry with which the city’s traffic police practice their craft. We had made a left turn on a green light at an intersection that was clear of oncoming traffic – a highly legal maneuver in the U.S. – only to find out from the motorcycle-riding man in blue who stopped us that in Mexico, you can only turn left at such intersections when you have a green arrow. We apologized, explaining that the rule was different in the U.S. and that it was our first full day in Puebla. The cop smiled and was quite sympathetic, but wasn’t about to lose out on his donation money. He started to write me a ticket, then paused and asked himself out loud, “Hmmm, te doy una multa, o no?” (“Do I give you a ticket, or not?”). Naturally, I chose option B, since taking option A meant handing over my International Driver’s License, then reporting to some city office somewhere to pay the roughly $90 fine to get it back. Option B, on the other hand, entailed taking the cop’s hint and digging into my wallet to make a cheaper and easier transaction (about $50) right then and there, with the added bonus of getting to hold on to my license.

(Interjection by Miranda: “Greg has neglected to mention that with only a 200 peso note ($17) in his wallet, the police officer kindly escorted us to the closest ATM machine so that we could be a little more generous with our donation. In all the excitement, Greg withdrew the cash and left his bank card in the machine. It was not until we had returned home that we realized this, and made a quick dash back to the bank -- making several illegal left turns along the way -- only to find that the card was gone!")

Miranda, shush. ...So, the cop was happy, I was happy, and, most importantly, by not taking a stand against the illicit activity, I helped to ensure that a longstanding tradition – one that adds such color and nuance to the city’s culture – remained firmly intact.

Far be it from an American to come in here and start ruining things.


Note from El Gringo: Before you start judging this town based on the aforementioned and somewhat unsavory encounter with the Poblano police, be sure to read my next blog (soon to come) – one that will feature prominently the extraordinary kindness, warmth and grace for which the Poblano citizens are known. For real.