This is the final installment of a four-part piece. Click to read part I, II and III and be sure to comment on the new iteration of the blog. --rg
The final chapter of our car buying in Mexico begins in an unplated car driven by a terrifying man with enough firepower on him to shoot his way out of Fort Knox. You are on your way to pick up a document on the outside of town. Because you are a sensible person, you had no plans on getting in the car with the scary gun man, but your boyfriend --who you promise to murder if the scary gun man doesn't do it first-- refused to get out of the car.
This is a terrible idea.
You know it's a terrible idea. This is like Stranger Danger 101. About thirty seconds into the car ride your partner also realizes it's a terrible idea and you see the scar on the back of his neck go white. You think about the odds of the heavily-armed Niblets doing something nefarious and getting away with it. After all, you have his employer's vital information, not just paper copies but in email, too. It includes his fingerprints. Sure all the documents could be forged, but that's an awfully big investment for a relatively low-profit/high-variable scheme.
You pray if it's anything that you'll just be robbed. It's not in his interest to kill you, right?
On Buying a Car in Mexico: Part III
This is a long piece which has been broken up into several posts. Click to read part I and part II. The final installment will appear tomorrow. --rg
When last we left this sordid tale we had been mistaken for a hooker, harassed by border patrol, been terrified by a neckless bodyguard you've nicknamed Niblets who prayed for your ovaries, and finally decided to purchase a vehicle from a man named Jesús who lives in a fortified compound in Tijuana.
Almost all transactions are done in cash in Mexico but you are uncomfortable strolling around the streets of Tijuana with $20,000 American dollars in your pocket so you agree to do a wire transfer from your outstanding bank in Texas (Prosperity Bank por vida!) to his grim and horrible Wells Fargo where dreams go to die.
In order to get the car that day and avoid yet another day away from home, your wire request has to go through by 11:00 a.m. so the race is on and you ignore the portentous rumblings coming from the vicinity of your large intestine.
When last we left this sordid tale we had been mistaken for a hooker, harassed by border patrol, been terrified by a neckless bodyguard you've nicknamed Niblets who prayed for your ovaries, and finally decided to purchase a vehicle from a man named Jesús who lives in a fortified compound in Tijuana.
Almost all transactions are done in cash in Mexico but you are uncomfortable strolling around the streets of Tijuana with $20,000 American dollars in your pocket so you agree to do a wire transfer from your outstanding bank in Texas (Prosperity Bank por vida!) to his grim and horrible Wells Fargo where dreams go to die.
In order to get the car that day and avoid yet another day away from home, your wire request has to go through by 11:00 a.m. so the race is on and you ignore the portentous rumblings coming from the vicinity of your large intestine.
On Buying a Car in Mexico, Part II
This is a long piece broken down into several posts, concluding next week. To read Part I, click here. --rg
When last we left this adventure, we had struggled to find a nice SUV not owned by an aspiring drug lord and been openly patronized by a man whose dangly bits ended up --at least on a metaphysical level-- serving as a fetching if small change purse. Eventually The Right One made itself manifest, a shiny blue and white doppelganger of the deeply mourned wrecked one, owned by an endearingly dorky restaurateur in Tijuana named Jésus and protected by his body guard, a man secretly nicknamed Niblets who looked like a cross between Manuel Noriega and a slab of frozen mastodon. It is late evening and you have agreed to meet Jesús and Niblets the following day.
When last we left this adventure, we had struggled to find a nice SUV not owned by an aspiring drug lord and been openly patronized by a man whose dangly bits ended up --at least on a metaphysical level-- serving as a fetching if small change purse. Eventually The Right One made itself manifest, a shiny blue and white doppelganger of the deeply mourned wrecked one, owned by an endearingly dorky restaurateur in Tijuana named Jésus and protected by his body guard, a man secretly nicknamed Niblets who looked like a cross between Manuel Noriega and a slab of frozen mastodon. It is late evening and you have agreed to meet Jesús and Niblets the following day.
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