I fought the law (and the law won) (I)
MOROCCO 2006
The next chapter starts in Agadir. I was travelling on my own and I had rented a car to drive south along the coast all the way to Sidi Ifni and I was back in Agadir to return it. I was struggling to find the rental car offices, so I was driving up and down looking for them.
I passed the same street a few times and when my “where the hell was that place??” face was probably at its best, a policeman came running towards me from the opposite sidewalk (in a 4 lane street), sorting out passing cars and asking me energetically to pull over. At the very same time, another policeman carrying a sort of ZX Spectrum joystick also came running towards the car. When the first policeman arrived where I had stopped, he started waving his arms frantically and shouting “la vittese!!, la vitesse!!” (speeding! speeding!) while turning to his “friend” as in asking him: “isn’t it true that this guy was speeding like a rocket?”.
The other guy, still trying to catch his breath, responded affirmatively with his head and showing me the joystick, which happened to be a speed gun that, miraculously (and conveniently) was showing the number 67 on its screen. Despite being crystal clear that they were ripping me off big time, it was impossible not to take it with some humour. It was amazing how well-coordinated they were and how much they had trained for the whole “play”. This is what came to my head:
When the leading policeman saw my smile he smiled back. He assumed we were on the same wavelength, that I knew what was going on and their admired audience would not let them down after witnessing such a powerful act. He said: “the fine is 300 dinars” (funny enough just under 30€, it seems they ask for the same amount of money everywhere, maybe they even have an international Union of police-crooks). I replied: “All I have is 6€” and I looked at him as in saying “I am telling the truth and even if you deserve some money for your great effort everything has a limit”. I handed the 6€ over to him and he made them disappear into his pocket in a nanosecond, almost like a magician would have, and then asked me: “what is what you are looking for?”
I told him the rental company name and he replied: “reach the end of the street, first left, second right. Bye” turning his back on me and if I did not exist any longer. At the end it was like paying for a Sat Nav session. While I was leaving the scene as quick as I could, the two policemen were going back to their original spots to catch the next “client”.
Remarkably, all this events described above happened in french and my french level is quite basic. After that when people ask me if I can speak some french I always reply: “enough to be ripped off by the police”.
USA 2000
I spent most of the year 2000 living in Columbus, Ohio, as a visiting scholar at Ohio State. Once I settled a little bit, one of the first things I did was buying a car with Pedro, my flatmate. The car was a mighty Toyota Tercel’ 85 full of dents and totally run down. We paid for it just US$200 and immediately dubbed it “the Flintstones’ car“.
One day during the summer I was going with Alba to Columbus Airport to pick Pedro up. We bumped into a traffic jam in the highway and the cars were completely stopped. The car behind me did not see me slowing down and he crashed into the rear part of my car at good speed. The other car was a brand new big BMW (series 5 I think) and its front part literally disintegrated after the impact against the Flintstones’ car’s back, to the extent that our hatchback was covered with engine oil. Our car was intact (it had a really thick rubber rear bumper) or maybe you just could not tell the difference with one or more new dents as it had sooo many. Ah! and the muffler had fallen and was lying in the road but it was not too surprising since it had been attached with a piece of string after a dubious homemade DIY repair.
That's me at the wheel of the mighty Flintstones' car
The BMW driver came out of the car, asked us if we were doing ok and apologised. We called the police and while waiting for them to arrive, the other driver could not stop looking at his ex fancy BMW and repeating to himself “my car destroyed and THAT one without a scratch” (read THAT with all the hate and despise that you can fit in four letters). As soon as the agent arrived he asked us for the documents and after a few minutes he came back. The ensuing dialogue was more or less as follows:
Agent: your driving license is NOT valid (the Spanish license at the time was a (very) shabby looking piece of carton-paper and he was grabbing it with just two fingers as trying not to catch a contagious illness).
Me: yes, it is valid. It is Spanish, equivalent to international EU license and admitted in the Ohio traffic code.
A: (short pause) NO, you need an Ohio driving license.
Me: No. You can only get an Ohio driving license after 6 months living here and so far I have been just 5. Till then the Spanish/EU is valid (an epic win smile came to my face meaning “I am a smart cookie who has read all the related paperwork and small print, time to let me go”).
A: (longer pause) No. This license is NOT valid and I am absolutely positive about it. You are driving illegally so I am taking the car away and I am sending you to court.
Check mate. My smile was gone in a second. Despite my complaints, my beloved piece of junk was towed away and stored in some gritty car pound while the agent left us in a petrol station in the middle of nowhere saying “call a friend to pick you up”. Very considerate. Luckily one of our friends was home and she came to the rescue (Luisa, if you ever read this many thanks again).
During the following 2 weeks I got lots of letters and phone calls from all sort of lawyers and companies offering to get me trillions of dollars squeezing the other part involved in the accident. Both the letters and calls had a very aggressive style: “speak to no one and do nothing till we take you to a medical centre for an examination!!”. They had manage to get the police report with my details. Maybe this is common practice in the States but I found it all very intrusive and unsettling. I told of all them to go to hell with a one way ticket, first politely and afterwards swearing badly.
Although I was quite nervous, the “trial” in the traffic court was really quick. I was the first one of the day and I showed the judge (a really nice Hispanic guy called Antonio) the traffic code related section, my plane tickets and my passport with my entry date. In 5 minutes my case had been dismissed. He asked me if I wanted something else and I said: “yes, I do want the $70 I had to pay to get my car back”. He smiled and handed me a signed document to get them back, what I did in just 4 days. After that he asked if I wanted to fill a complaint against the agent since his lack of knowledge had put me into an unnecessary trouble. A flash image of the disgruntled agent chasing me with his gun appeared in my mind and I kindly declined the judge’s offer.
But as the Law always prevails, when I left the court feeling great and ready to celebrate with my friends, I found out that the time had run out in the park meter and I had gotten a fine…that I could not got it removed and had to pay…the $70 running away from me again.
Despite the all the twists and the parking fine this story had a happy ending: a few weeks after the crash and to my surprise, I received a cheque for $1000. It was from the BMW insurance company. They had checked my car and deemed it beyond repair, so they were giving me the market value it had. Not too bad at all considering that the Flintstones’ car continued to relentlessly go around Columbus and its surroundings for a couple of more years till one day decided to go to the car’s Heaven. That cheque paid for a 5 day trip to NY for 2 persons and a few rounds in my very missed Out-r-Inn.
BONUS TRACK: HOLLAND 2001
Summer of 2001. I had just been hired by CMG WDS and they had sent me to Utrecht to go to training and to work from the company headquarters. They had rented for me a top floor in a lovely typical Dutch house in Schoolstraat, by Wilhelmina Park, in the historical city centre of Utrecht. I had the best of times that summer.
One Saturday in August, having Ilde and Lourdes staying over with us, we left home early to spend the day in Bruges. When walking down the stairs I noticed a bad smell and saw a big rubbish bag in front of the downstairs neighbour’s door. I recalled it had been there a few days and I made a mental note to ask him to take it out.
When we returned to the flat in the evening there were a couple of police cars parked by the entrance door with their rotating blue lights on. On our way upstairs we saw the neighbour door open and a few policemen inside. The smell was unbearable and very penetrating. A minute after we went inside out flat one of the agents knocked on the door.
He asked me if I was the person living there and I said yes. To my astonishment he told me that they had found the neighbour dead in his apartment and he had probably been like that a few days since the body was decomposing (it had been quite hot the last days). The death cause seemed natural but he still needed to interrogate me and run a few checks.
Alba and I answered some routine questions about the last few days (what we did and where we had been mainly, apart from any interaction with the deceased. It happened that Alba had crossed paths with him 3 or 4 days earlier on the stairs and she had been the last person to see him alive. We also told him that Ilde and Lourdes had just arrived from Spain so they were spared the questioning. The agent and I went to the upstairs terrace check for any forced locks and any potential way into the building. The agent was very polite and friendly and when he left he gave me a card in case we remembered any more details.
Next day there was a hell of a weird situation when I had to tell both Dutch my manager and the coordinating secretary what had happened and that the police had kindly asked me not to leave the country “just in case”. They looked at me why their eyes wide open and the manager said “so you are a crime suspect? This Spanish people love trouble”. It took him a few very long seconds to start laughing loudly while patting by shoulder. Apaprently he found it hilarious. The secretary was not so sure about it and did not laugh. She was a lovely person and was somehow worried about me. I was really uncomfortable and sweating a river down my back since it was just my third or fourth week into my very first job…
The story went as follows: the neighbour was from Paris and his nephew owned the flat downstairs. They had decided to exchange flats for the summer with such bad luck that despite being in his forties he had had a heart attack. He was living alone and after not having any news from him for a few days the nephew had called the police. A few days later the nephew and his girlfriend (a young couple) came upstairs to apologise for the inconvenience (although of course there was no reason to do that). They were very nice and, not surprisingly, they were very affected.
But my more recurrent memory of the whole event happened when the policeman left after the questioning. We were speechless and in total shock, looking at each other and not knowing what to do. Ilde was very affected since it was the very first time he had travelled abroad and the “adventure overdose” had him hyperventilating. Precisely at that moment, a huge green fly (other witnesses said it was black, I remember it green) came flying through the window and I could not help saying “Wrong flat! the party is downstairs!”. The comment released the huge accumulated tension and we started laughing hysterically, not being able to stop in a long time. I can imagine the agents working downstairs and wondering what were those loud laughs coming from the top floor.
