~Details of  Mexican Jails~

Many people can look back on their 30th birthday as one of their fondest

memories to date; big plans, big parties...  But how many people have had

the perverse pleasure of spending the beginning hours of year 30 in a

Mexican jail? 

drunktank.jpg (12137 bytes)

I should have known it was going to be a whacky evening when the waiter

chased Wrybread out of the restaurant to retrieve the tablecloth he had

been wearing around his head.  Before we left, Rina stole another so it

mattered little, but it was a sign nonetheless.  There was a good

possibility the entire evening could have ended right here, wher I'm about

to begin the story, but as it turned out, it was merely getting started! 


The buss was parked along the water near the end of the Malceon in La Paz.

We made our way back along the seaside promenade and climbed atop our

rolling silver campsite to set up the beds.  Bags flew up and bags flew

down.  Alec whipped a pillow just past my head and into the center of the

road.  Rina smacked Alec in the bum with another pillow ...  "Fuck going to

sleep, let's get another beer!"  "Sounds good to me!" 

Right about this time, a van pulled up behind the buss and 3 bright eyed

Mexicans came out the side door.  Rina was ready for bed,  but Alec, Rick

and I climbed down to say hello.  Through a combination of broken Spanisnh

and English, we discovered their names were David, Jesus and Victor.  They

were heading out to a club around the corner and invited us along.  "What

the hell, we're on our way out anyway?"  So, the 6 of us piled into David's

van and buzzed off. 


Here comes sign number 2.  As we danced our way across the street, Modelo

in hand, Jesus slapped the back of a red Toyota truck as it was passing in

fronof us.  The truck screeched to a halt and  2 guys jumped out and

started screeming @ Jesus.  Then David and Victor jumped in; beer bottles

flew, more shouting errupted and fnally, the driver of the Toyota popped

the clutch and smoked around the corner. 



By this time, of course, the bouncers weren't going to let us in, so we

drifted back toward the van.  Aled decided he had seen enough and headed

back to join Rina atop the buss.  As it turns out, he had a little run in

with the authorities himself, something about urinating in public. 


Rick and I continued on with the evening's adventure still having no clue

what lie ahead.  Somehow, the subject of mota quickly arose and we began

chasing around La Paz, drinking beer and endlessly searching for pot, like

highschool kids cruising the suburbs in search of a party.  Much like high

school, we never found what we were looking for. 


Earlier in the evening, one of the guys had mentioned another place called

Lord Blacks.  I brought up the name again, and we were off.  As soon as we

hit the parking lot, we knew it would be interesting.  It turns out Lord

Blacks is a seedy strip club on the edge of town.  Even though most of

thhese places are pretty much the same, Lord Blacks seemed just a little

different.  I mean, this place isn't exactly in Lonely Planet! 

The club was fairly crowded, especially considering it was 3 am.  There was

a long snake like dance floor and the girls slithered up and down through

the smoke filled rooom as the DJ spun Mexican dance music.    We left the

club when it closed and made it safely back to the Malceon, where we pulled

up behind the Cyberbuss. 


So, there we were; right on our front doorstep; saying goodbye to our

friends, when all of a sudden, the Policia came up from behind.  Noone

really seemed too upset.  The cops smiled and asked where we were from as

they patted us down.  Then, they handcuffed David and Jesus together and

motioned for them to climb into the back of the truck.  While another cop

locked the van, they motioned for the rest of us to pile in.  (Meanwhile,

the buss is sound asleep). 


There wasn't much to the police station.  Just a small room with a large

wooded counter where they had everyone empty their pockets and remove their

belts ("Son, we don't want any hangins" ).  Adjacent to the office was a

large concrete box acessed by a single cell door, the drunk tank.  As we

passed through the steel door into the dark, dank room, I was immediately

overtaken by the acrid smell of stale urin...and lot's of it.  There were

about 6 or 8 barrachos passed out along the benches and sprawled out along

the floor. 

David kicked a leg out of his way and it sprang back like rubber.  "It must

take a shitload of tequilla to perform a pickling like that."   A small

scuffle broke out between Jesus and another cellmate.  It ended in a bloody

barrocho lip and a few chuckles from the cops outside the cell. 


After an hour or 2, the only other consious occupants in the cell bargained

their way out and I decided it was about time for us to do the same.  I

forked over my last 200 pesos, and with a sly grin, the cops allowed all 5

of us to wander out to freedom.  Another pair of cops followed us out the

door and climbed into one of the Policia trucks in the driveway.  In a fury

of burning rubber and flying dust, they were on their way to continue

saving the world. 


The first rays of soft sunlight were now glimmering brilliantly off the

water in the bay.  "It's a beautiful day, I'm out of jail and I'm 30!" 


Later in the morning, Rina brought in a birthday cake and we took turns

smearing the marshmallow icing all over one another's face.  Life on the

Buss is back to normal.


The Happy Hobo on the Buss

 

Get Out of Jail and Back on Buss

 

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