bout de papier, Vol. 19, No. 1 (2002) — Spring/Summer 2002 // Printemps/Été 2002, pp. 20–21
66 our lights were on. I thought you were going to pull something on us,” said the man with a hard stare and, without a hint of apology or nervousness, moved the safety of the .45 gun back to its locked status. The black suburban with totally darkened windows sped off and, to this day, I know not who was inside nor what it was about my car headlights that worried them so much on that sunny afternoon at a busy intersection in Guatemala City.
Then again, this hasn’t been the only time my headlights have been at the centre of a near-death experience. Daytime Running Lights [DRL for short] were introduced in Canada in 1990 and are now a regular sight on our roads. Canadian standards can also have quite an impact on our lives in the foreign service. By the way, the events herein described are completely real except for some names which have been altered to protect the embarrassed.
Chiapas, Mexico, 1998
In the aftermath of two volcanic ash storms, a mid-sized earthquake, and the brutal drought and vast jungle fires which preceded the devastation caused by Hurricane Mitch, a lot of damage had been sustained by both roads and bridges between Guatemala and Central Mexico. Against this backdrop, the typical bureaucratic wrangling which seems to precede every doctoral dissertation defence was about to claim yet another victim. Having gotten the final date for my defence confirmed, I realized it was too late to get an airplane reservation coming out of Guatemala, other than an enormously expensive last-minute seat. Though only partially aware of the dangers ahead, I decided to take our small Mazda 323 and drive across North America to get to my defence in Toronto. In late October, I embraced my wife in front of our embassy in Guatemala City. It would be two weeks before I was able to hear her voice again.
The border guards in Mexico were friendly and surprised to see a Canadian in a car with Guatemalan Diplo plates. After the car was doused with chemicals – for pest control, they claimed — came the turn of the Drug Police, known by different nicknames depending on whom you talk to. Armed to the teeth and dressed fully in military-style black fatigues, they approached me from both sides:
“What’s wrong with your lights?”
“Nothing, but can you tell me how the road is ahead?”
“What road? You mean the one washed out by the floods?”
After thoroughly searching the vehicle, they ask to see my passport: “Excuse us, sir, we didn’t know you are a diplomat.”
“No problem. I just hope what you told me about the road isn’t as bad as it sounds.”
“You’ll see, sir. Que Dios lo acompañe.”
Barely 50 kilometres from the border crossing, I began to realize that his good wishes had not been a mere polite ritual, like many words uttered throughout Latin America by way of farewell or greeting. Bridge after bridge along the toll highway had been snapped like matches by the force of the rivers of mud and rock underneath. I remember thinking that nobody could believe this devastation unless they saw it. So, I told myself, I should stop the car to get a quick picture with my camera. Forced by the flood tide to drive in long convoys down hastily built detours that ran more or less parallel to the destroyed main highway, most of us did not realize that the rivers had kept on swelling and had eaten away what little soil we had to drive on. A few steps away from the car, I was knee-deep in the strong current. Deciding that a snapshot of the disaster was not worth my own epitaph, I quickly turned around and headed for what was left of the improvised road. Suddenly, my car seemed beyond reach. The water kept on rising very rapidly all around me.
It was waist-high by the time I managed to get to the car. Behind me, a truck driver and his friend gravely said hello. “We were flipping a coin,” they informed me, “to see which one of us would drive your car the rest of the way. We didn’t think you’d make it out of there.” Gasping for air, I could see their stone-faced expressions neither demanding nor expecting an answer. In those parts, dead people are usually not required to explain their own demise.
After my first 18-hour day of driving, having moved about a quarter of the distance I was supposed to, the math of my destination caught up with me. At this pace, I’d never make it in time for the defence. The driving was further slowed down by the numerous roadblocks set up by a panoply of groups: Drug Police, Federal Road Police, the feared Policia Judicial, and of course the Army, all asking similar questions and all looking in disbelief at my small car and my plates and my passport. It was clear I was getting nowhere and taking a long time to do so. Looking at the road map as if I was looking for hidden treasure, I found a way out. I asked a Policia Federal de Caminos agent what he thought about my plan. Facing me the way a physician confronts the relative of a seriously ill patient, he pronounced his verdict. “It’s a 400-kilometre detour through lonely mountain passes and down to the Gulf of Mexico jungle. Only big trucks travel that way. Sometimes, things happen. Drivers often claim they see things … Perhaps it’s the booze.” Of course, this was Zapatista country and I started to think this cop was trying to warn me about going further into this disputed area.
Two days later, I sit at a small restaurant off the road. The ultra-modern Villahermosa- Veracruz multi-lane toll road is less than two kilometres away. The waitress cannot believe her ears. “You came from where? Either you’re crazy or very brave. Perhaps both,” she declares as if to pronounce my case closed. As I listen to myself recount my journey, the cop’s parting words are quite fresh in my memory:
“You know, we say in Mexico that real men always die with their boots on. In your country, I guess people die with their lights on.”
Lima, Peru, 1994
In 1994, Lima was a survivors’ town: lots of explosions, courtesy of waning rebel group activity; a profound restructuring of the economy that brought increasing hardship to large segments of the population; and, for good measure, the chronic water shortages the area is well known for. At the time, it was possible to drive past a brand new luxury vehicle one moment, only to face a 30-year-old museum piece next. This bewildering array of automotive make, longevity and noise or smoke level had only one common thread: the minimal driving skills of their owners. The driving experience in Lima is something closer to a Nintendo police-chase game than real-life commuting.
Another consequence of the difficult situation was the lack of spare parts. Not surprisingly, black markets and theft of all manner of equipment took on epidemic proportions. In this environment, my bright headlights made my vehicle stand out like a big neon sign at night in a cemetery. During the day, inevitably, every driver took it as his/her patriotic duty to inform me that “sus luces están encendidas” [your lights are on]. Most persistent of all were drivers of those vintage-from-hell types of machines. A great many of them had no headlights or any kind of lights for that matter — at night time, these pieces of moving scrap metal could only be detected by their plumes of exhaust. After a few tries, I gave up on trying to explain the reason for having my lights on all the time. Doubtless, my exotic headlights saved my car from obliteration or worse at busy intersections where everyone wants to go first. In some parts of Latin America, the driver who flashes his lights first has right of way at intersections regardless of who got there first. Since mine were always “flashing” people felt obliged to give me a certain measure of preferential treatment.
After delivering the car for an oil change, I decided to go out for a walk rather than wait for the deed to be done. A few minutes later, someone dressed in overalls and with an obviously worried and fatigued look on his face approached me.
“Señor, your car has a little something.” In Latin America, the softer the tone of the speech the worse one has to be prepared for.
“What do you mean ’a little something’?”
“Well,” said the young man in overalls with his eyes totally glued to the asphalt beneath his feet by then and with the reluctance of a firing squad about to carry out its orders, “it’s your headlights, Señor. I can’t find a way to turn them off. I’m afraid you might need to replace them.”
He started to mutter that not all was lost and that I could get a good deal at some neighbourhood outfit specializing in cannibalizing stolen vehicles. “It’s alright,” I said reassuringly, “the lights are fine. This isn’t the first time someone has mistaken Day Time Running Lights for a…” From the body shop, out comes another figure in overalls. Clearly, some type of supervisor — other workers at the body shop defer to his commands. Middle-aged and paramilitary looking, his clean-shaven face doubles as a mask for a brutal demeanor. After staring menacingly at the young mechanic, he feigns contrition in his obfuscated Spanish:
“Have no worries, Sir. For your concerns are ours. These people,” he proclaims, as if referring to some discarded oil bin, “have no knowledge of imported cars. We ought to educate them.”
Continuing to profess admiration for “American standards,” he asks if I’d be interested in disabling my DRL switch. “You know,” he said with his eyes half-closed, “people can be envious of illuminated cars such as yours.” Still, I declined his offer.
About a week later, while doing some errands, I noticed my fellow Limeño drivers were not issuing their friendly though persistent warning about my lights. Even more interesting, the junkyards-on-wheels type of machines did not seem particularly concerned with the fate of my illuminated car. A full day of NOT being noticed for the things I was usually noticed for was too much to bear. I needn’t have worried: Giving me her usual hug, my wife declared matter-of-factly: “Your lights are gone.” I jumped out of the car as if the thing was on fire only to realize that true enough, where the headlights used to be, there were now just a few dangling wires. Sometimes, illumination has its price.
Atlanta, Georgia, 1992
In a far away corner of the Republic, the trial of the white police officers charged in the beating of Rodney King, a black motorist, was over. The amateur video which caught the officers in the act was broadcast around the world over and over again. To most observers, the video was clear evidence of police mishandling of an arrest or — at worst — outright racially based brutality. For lots of people in Los Angeles, something — anything — had to be done to show that, although Mr. King might have been wrong in evading capture, so were the officers who took such drastic actions upon his arrest. Few people thought that the officers would walk out of the courtroom as if nothing had been videotaped, but that was exactly what happened
Late that night, the L.A. Riots, as they became known, started to spread throughout the mostly poor areas of town. The self-destructive fury of those who feel cheated out of their place in society was in full swing: stores, gas stations, homes — all burned down by the people who most needed them. Twenty-four hours later, Atlanta was also seeing rioting of its own, although on a smaller scale than Los Angeles. The familiar scenes of police confronting rioters were also seen around the world – Atlanta is CNN’s headquarters, after all.
Early on, some people were saying it was best not to drive anywhere, just in case things got out of hand. But in a city like Atlanta, driving is a fact of life, especially if your staff quarter [SQ in Foreign Service lingo] is located 30-40 kilometres away from the office, as was the case with all Crown-owned SQs at the time. Sometime after lunch, I called my wife and told her the situation was getting really tense in some areas. Sitting right in the middle of downtown, with a large police station directly underneath, our Mission was NOT the place to be should confrontations break out. Belatedly, the Consulate was closed as rumours of demonstrations and clashes became confirmed news. Downtown became totally deserted. On my way to the Consulate to get my wife, I remember seeing a truly massive police presence. By then the city had become a ghost town. At some point, we received instructions not to go into certain areas as the expressways were the scene of confrontations. These instructions came a little too late for spouses who were already on the road. Remember, these events took place before cellphones were widely available.
A colleague was going home in her car, which — as you must suspect by now — was properly equipped with Daytime Running Lights. As she drove through different sections of the city she couldn’t help noticing people cheering or looking in disbelief at her car. Some were even yelling and hurling insults at her. Worried, though not necessarily scared, she kept on driving at a relatively safe distance from the many flashpoints scattered about her busy afternoon route. Unbeknownst to her, some radio announcer was encouraging drivers to turn their lights on in support of the riots. The following day, over a cup of coffee, we reflected on the previous day’s events. “I bet you I was the only white person in this city to support the riots unflinchingly throughout the day,” she quipped. “Funny how one can be totally in the middle of the crossfire and not get seriously hurt,” she added, her hands suddenly becoming tight fists as if she were still behind the steering wheel trying to avoid objects being thrown at her car. For once, I was happy to have bought American: our car did not have Daytime Running Lights.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 19, No. 1 (2002) — Spring/Summer 2002 // Printemps/Été 2002, pp. 20–21. Read the rest of this issue →
