The inside of a Mexican Jail

It was brief, and only a glance, but it left a mark.

 We were in Puerto Penasco which is southwest of Tucscon, almost straight south of the aptly named Arizona town of Why.  Sixty miles inside the Mexico border almost at the very northern tip of the Sea of Cortez.  Right on the water.  A kid had stolen a bicycle off the back of our RV where it was parked, while we were down the street enjoying the little town.  A little girl watched him do it.  She didn’t like what he did.  She told us all about it.  In Spanish.  We didn’t speak any Spanish then.  She got a piece of paper and wrote down his name and address for us.  It didn’t seem like a good idea for us to go retrieve the bicycle ourselves, so we got directions to the local police station and filed a report.  That’s where we got the look at the Mexican jail.  We walked by the holding cells on our way to the front door.  Stone walls.  Iron bars.  A giant padlock hanging like in an old western.  It was straight out of the 1800s.  These were not inside cells, they faced out into the open air, exposed to the elements.  The incarcerated inside looking out.  Looking desperate.  It was unsettling.

 Inside the front door was a single room with a single desk, cement floors, and a single police officer sitting at the desk.  We could tell he was a police officer because besides his Levis and white T shirt like everyone else, he was wearing a revolver in a holster on his hip.  We told him our story.  He didn’t speak English.  Again, right out of the old west, he wrote down our story in a giant bound book.  It was a slow process.  After half an hour, when he turned the book around and gestured for us to sign it, it was of course, in Spanish.  The vision of the Mexican jail fresh in my mind, it was a tense moment.  I scanned the report for any words that looked like they might have been a reference to drugs or guilt.  No mention of cocaine.  It didn’t look like a confession.  I signed it and turned the book back to him and held my breath.  Nothing happened.  He indicated we were done.  We gave him the name and address where our bike was.  I asked about the bicycle; would he go get it back for us.  He nodded yes.  We stood there, willing to wait for it.  Recognizing our misunderstanding, he said “Manana.”  We were due to leave manana, but to get the bicycle back, we would extend for a day.  The bicycle was brand new.

 Manana came.  We returned to the police station and inquired about the bicycle.  “Bicycle?”  “Manana!”  Okay.  Manana was a rough approximation.  We went on with our travels and one small town neighborhood bandito had the finest bike in the neighborhood for at least a little while longer.