Mexican Mechanics and Tequila
By Don Adams © Don Adams 2003

If you have car trouble in Mexico chances are good that the cause will be diagnosed as fuel pump failure whether it's the real cause of the malfunction or not. No funciona, la bomba de gasolina. Everydamn mecánico in Mexico who's worth his salt can not only change any fuel pump in less than 85 seconds, he can produce the exact tools to do it from his back pocket. This may be the single exception to the "don't drive an exotic car to Mexico" rule. I'm willing to bet that every refaccionaria in the country stocks a full range of gaskets and fuel pumps for everything from an Alfa-Romeo to a Hudson Zephyr.

I bought three on one trip from the border to Guadalajara. At the second stop I patiently explained that no, I didn't need a new fuel pump because the guy back up the road just installed one about two hours ago. The maestro, equally patient, explained that Mexican fuel pumps were manufactured under very poor quality control standards and that I evidently had been blessed with one that should have been rejected. I opened my wallet, again. My next stop was at a clean, well-equipped Jeep/Chrysler dealership in Lagos de Moreno. You guessed it! Numero Tres!

That one got me as far as the tollbooth for the "next stop, Guadalajara" leg of the trip. Or rather, close enough that the freelance mecánico who stopped to offer his services (No, gracias, I'm not buying another damn bomba de gasolina ever again, even if I live to be 384 years old and am forced to drive a succession of deteriorating, fuel-pump-eating Rolls-Cahnardlies.) agreed to drive me to the nearest tow truck. (Ask for a grua.)

I rode back to the Jeep in a clean, late-model flatbed car carrier. The driver loaded me up, asked me where I was headed and when I relied, "Puerto Vallarta" he nodded, popped the clutch, and sped away South. We whizzed past the tollbooth and toward Guadalajara.

It was a bit past dusk when we pulled up in front of a house in a residential area that I later discovered was Tonalá, one of the five main sections of Guadalajara. It's a city suburb and they're cheek to cheek. The driver stopped, got out and began releasing the binder chains. I bailed out, protesting loudly that I wanted the Jeep taken to a Chrysler dealership. "Oh no, señor. Está bien aquí." I wasn't buying.

Then from the shadows came a slightly accented voice, "Señor, I speak your language."

"Can you fix my Jeep without replacing the damn fuel pump?"

"Sí, I think. If you wish."

That was my introduction to Don Carlitos. He and Andrés repaired my Jeep-without replacing the damn fuel pump. I had business to attend to in PV so I caught the bus and after two weeks came back to claim my completely repaired vehicle. It seems the timing chain had been defective. There were also new plugs and wires, a rotor and distributor cap, and filters. They'd changed the oil, added new transmission fluid, overhauled the carburetor, done a brake job, replaced some fuses‚ "Now the radio plays, Señor" - put in a new flasher for the turn signals, repaired the door latch, and replaced a few screws…

"No charge Señor, for the wash."

"Y cuanto cuesta por todo, Don Carlitos?"

"Sssssttt!" "Joven, tequila, Squirt, ándale!" he commanded, as he handed a teen several crumpled bills and sent him scurrying to the corner tienda. There was small talk, stalling, more small talk, and more stalling, along with another inspection of the Jeep and numerous reminders that the wash job was free.

"We did much work, many things needed attention." My sphincter was puckered, my breathing was strained and labored, and my anxiety level was teetering precariously on a tiny ledge just below hysteria. Don Carlitos's words, meant to be soothing and reassuring, were anything but.

Would I be able to pay for all of this with the few thousand pesos left in my pocket? My mind began to torture me with visions of paying for some of the repairs but not having enough to redeem the Jeep, and then, flat broke, hitching back to PV, or to the U.S. without money or the Jeep. Then, even more lurid misfortunes flashed through my mind-my tortured body lying on the side of the road, mercifully released from misery by a machete whack to the throat.

Luckily, Don Carlitos was even more apprehensive than I was. Andrés had taken himself somewhere out of sight. The boy returned and set a couple of bottles on the desk in the office into which I had been ushered, handed some change to Don Carlitos, and backed from the room to join Andrés in his hiding place.

Bottles were opened and drinks were poured and consumed. Bottles were re-opened and drinks were again poured and consumed. It seems that Mexican working men, used-car salesmen, me and a rowdy little red-haired waitress up in Galveston, and nervous south of the Border mechanics all drink tequila straight up, with just a hint of citrus chaser.

"Don Carlitos, por favor mi amigo, ¿cuanto cuesta?"

Again the bottles were opened, drinks were poured and consumed. "Momentito," he muttered as he began to dig through piles of paper strewn carelessly about the desktop. I foolishly believed that he was actually searching for my bill, but that fantasy was shattered when he uttered a satisfied "Aaah!" and held up part of a dirty broken pencil as though he were showing me a Mayan artifact.

About that time I began opening the bottles and liberating the liquids and wondering if the missus was a good cook and how comfortable this dirty sofa might be when used as a bed.

Mercifully, Don Carlitos began diligently putting the pencil to use after a few more minutes of searching for a piece of paper with enough blank space to figure my charges.

Now that he was actually making an attempt to release me from my miserable state of anxiety I felt it best not to disturb him, so I again opened the bottles, poured the drinks, and attempted to place the bottles back on the desk. Finding my coordination insufficient for such a daunting task, I carefully placed them somewhere in the vicinity of where I believed the floor might be.

I'm sure that long years of experience had taught the Don the exact moment to present the bill to the victim. As calmly and fearlessly and cleanly as the matador places the blade, Don Carlitos set the scribbled bill on the arm of the sofa.

"¿Cuanto?", I croaked, just before another great gulp, sans chaser.

He made a gesture in the direction of the paper, then paused, and with a distressed look on his face and with a catch in his voice, squeezed out, "Two thousand, three hundred pesos, Señor. We did many things, but if this is too much, perhaps…".

Even in my near comatose condition I knew that Don Carlitos had just told me that I had gotten one hell of a lot of work done for much less than it would have cost me in the U.S. Moreover, I now had a functioning radio and had been gifted with a free car wash. I could drive away from Guadalajara with the radio blaring, completely free from worries of bandidos wielding rusty machetes.

I intended to say, in the gravest manner I could muster, "This is much money for such a small amount of work. And of course, I did not request much of the work you did. Perhaps we can reach a more reasonable accommodation if we discuss this matter."

What actually came from my mouth was loud manic, relief-driven hysterical laughter fueled by cheap tequila. Tears rolled down my cheeks and my breath came in gasping chokes between churning fits of uncontrollable and unrestrained howls and yelps. When I finally regained my composure enough to sit up straight again, Don Carlitos was uncapping the bottles.

No, I didn't drive until late the next afternoon. Don Carlitos sent me home with the cop who lived around the corner and I ended up sleeping on a much cleaner couch.

Life should be a lot easier for you because I'm guessing you're a bit more responsible than I am, so you've had your vehicle checked out and serviced prior to any long trip. If you do have mechanical problems on the way down most mechanics will be able to get you fixed up and on the way within a reasonable time. You may need to front some parts money, and it might take a day or two to get those parts, but regardless of how shabby the shop might look, the work will usually be up to standard.