Another perspective

From Betty (Read the one under this first):

Yesterday, about noonish, I had gone up to the roof to read. I heard some loud crashes and rattles from the street, but that's what trucks sound like when they come down our cobblestoned streets. Then I heard pounding on the door and rapid, successive ringing of the doorbell. I leaned out over the edge of the roof to see who was there, but all I could see was a young man running away. About the same time, I heard Bob yell, "Oh my God!" And then he took off running. From where I was on the roof, I couldn't see across the street where the car was parked. The tall ficus trees that line the street block that view. I thought maybe a pedestrian had been hit and Bob and the boy were running to the rescue. So I ran downstairs and asked Gabby what happened. She didn't know. On the corner outside our door, however, was Crazy Emily (the blonde Texan from down the street who likes to talk to us through the window from the sidewalk). Crazy Emily had had her back to the event but was talking to the boy (Eddie) who watched it happen. Eddie memorized the license plate number and he and Bob stopped and wrote it down with paper from a store down the street on their way back from chasing the culprit. Meanwhile, after getting the story, I asked Gabby to call the police. They'd be here in ten minutes, she said. Sure enough, in just a few minutes, a green and white Policia pickup truck came careening around the corner with two young (16? 18? 20?) men dressed in black with high laced boots and semiautomatic weapons at the ready. Eddie described to them what had happened, while Crazy Emily flapped her hands and had palpitations. I ran inside and got Cokes to hand out all around (diet for Emily). That seems to be my role in Mexican crises. Then I went down the street to the rental agent for Paola to come help interpret for all of us. So there we were, a motley crew: Bob and I, Paola, Eddie the teenage car washer down by the plaza, Gabby, and Emily babbling away with nobody listening to her. After taking down all the information and alerting both Chapala and Ajijic traffic patrols with the description of the white van and license plate, the two young cops sped off in pursuit. But, in the meantime, they said, we still needed to go to the police station in Chapala (the municipality) to file a formal report. Paola had to get back to work, but Gabby pipes up and said her brother-in-law Noe was on his way. He's a realtor and speaks English, so now we had a translator. So Bob, Noe, and Eddie climb into the van (now bumper-less but perfectly driveable) and head to Chapala. You've read his comments on that in the previous post.

When Bob got back, we were sitting on the couch trying to catch up on his experience, when through the window we saw the same green and white pickup with the two young cops, yelling in Spanish, something like: "Bob, come on. We've got him!" Through sign language, they indicated they needed him to id the van. Without a word, Bob jumps in the cab, one young cop gets into the back (rifle at the ready) and off they sped (well, as fast as they could on cobblestoned streets!) toward the plaza. Me, I'm standing on the corner outside our door for the second time that day watching my husband take off for God knows where....but this time with two teenagers and semiautomatic weapons!

About 45 minutes later, Bob walked home from the plaza to get both the car and all the insurance paperwork. This time I went with him back to the plaza. I wish I could have captured pictures of the scene. The cops had found the culprit parked in the taxi ranks on Colon, west side of the plaza. Now we had not only the two young cops but also a number of transito police--traffic cops. And all the old men who sit on the park benches and talk and watch. It was great theater for everybody. Hearing the driver speak and move a bit, I realized he was drunk. I asked one of our young cops if that was so, and he said, "Si. Muy barracho." But the amazing thing is that during the several hours that everybody was there at the plaza--almost four hours--the driver kept going across the street to a little shop and buying beer--while the police watched and never tried to stop him! The driver would get belligerent every now and then, and the cops would go over and yell at him and point fingers under his nose. At one point I heard him call us in Spanish effing gringos and I reacted with "whoa." The police gave him another lecture and moved us to a bench farther away. "No fight," they said. At this point, I translated for Bob what he'd said. Now Bob was mad. Waiting for our Mexican insurance guy to come from Guadalajara, I walked back home to meet Noe who had arranged with Bob to go back with him to Chapala at 6 to translate while finishing the report. Noe and I drove over in his car to the plaza just in time to help out with translating between Bob and the insurance guy.

Incredibly (at least to effing gringos like us), the situation ended with the driver and his wife going across the plaza to the ATM at Bancomer and withdrawing about 4500 pesos. The insurance man took that as payment for damages to our car. Then Bob had to sign a paper releasing the guy. What happens if we don't sign, we had Noe ask. Then both cars--ours and his--would be impounded until everything was settled. I still think the driver would have been free to go--just without his car. So, given that as our only alternative, Bob signed the papers.

The amazing thing to me is that through the whole day we experienced so much kindness and helpfulness. Even the woman carving the old tree trunk at the plaza asked me if she could help us. The young cops were jazzed that they'd got their man, and even the plaza sitters were on our side, ridiculing the drunk driver. His wife apologized for her husband, and he even attempted a sort of apology. I asked the young cops about the possibility of reprisals from him, but they laughed and said, "He won't even remember this tomorrow. And if he tries anything, just call us," thumping their chests.

All in all, an interesting lesson in the system (?) of Mexican justice.