Brush with Death: Running for Your Life

My most recent brush with death, and there have been many, was with the little green Nissan cab my neighbor, Pancho, drives. The thing exploded, like a mini-nuke, into flames that threatened to go off like a bomb, which would have killed my wife and I since the flaming torch of a cab was about 3 meters in front of our bedroom, next to another car no doubt gas-filled, and a nice hot water heater connected to a two-megaton blast butane gas tank. This occurred at five in the morning. Needless to say, we were wide-awake for the day. I think it had to be the excitement from the fact that once we realized if we didn’t vacate the house immediately, we would soon perish. That kept us up for the entire day contemplating our fragile mortality. In addition, the hideous smell of smoke from the fire permeated our apartment and our hair.

Our hair stank!

The police here in Guanajuato are simply amazing. I love them. This is not just because their prompt appearance saved our lives, but that they do the “Don’t-Mess-With-Me” brand of policing that we used to see in America when we were growing up in the 50’s and 60’s. You know the type. They tell you something once and fully expect immediate compliance. I once saw a cop take a drunk into hand during Guanajuato’s Cervantino Festival. He told the guy to get into the truck and this Mexican man balked. Next thing you knew, the billy club came out and the drunk was suddenly in the truck. I love that! The cops here are ACLU resistant. They don’t fear getting sued because, hey, there is no ACLU in this country. I love that even more!

Cops here are mostly foot patrol police. This is because a great deal of Guanajuato is composed of huge residential areas we call barrios perched precariously on the sides of the undulating mountains. These cops have to run up and down the mountainsides to do their jobs. If there is an emergency call, they have to run up oxygen depriving mountains via the stairways to heaven that we call CallejÃ?³ns. There is no car access. I wonder if Americans can even begin to wrap their minds around that concept: living where you cannot possibly park your car! Anyway, these foot patrollers are in pristine physical condition and you don’t see them sitting around drinking coffee and getting fat from donut overdose. They are muscle men and women-I am thrilled to report. You can see trucks of cops tooling around town on patrol. These are trucks in which, get this, they handcuff the bad guys to a pipe wielded into the truck’s bed. Are you beginning to see why I love this country so much?

Well, the first cop came running to our taxi bonfire on foot, took a water hose into hand and immediately began fighting the fire. (Needless to say there are no fat cops here). The next thing I knew, 25 cops appeared. I saw a couple of cops reach around the back of their gun belts and pull out this compactly folded gas-smoke mask and put them on. It looked like Batman reaching around, flicking aside his cape, and grabbing something out of his utility belt. Ready for war, the police begin fighting the fire with extinguishers until the bomberos, the firemen, showed up. One cop trained a hose on the gas tank to keep it from overheating.

LET US STOP FOR A BRIEF BUT PREGNANT PAUSE IN THE PROSE:

You should see me trying to get my big fat gringo fundament in and out of these cabs. All these cabs are small Nissan four doors. I mean, the backseats of these cars are made for little-fundament people (like Japanese and most Mexicans) that are no taller than, let’s see, a Hobbit! When we use a cab, I always insist that my wife get in the front seat because it is far more accessible. Me, I have to somehow suck in my middle-aged gut and try tightening my arse (like doing a “Buns of Steel” exercise video) enough to get into the backseat. Then, OH MY GOD, to get out.

I can just barely get my right leg out the door because my left leg is always lodged under the seat in front of me. If I try getting myself out without her help, I get a deathly cramp in my left butt-cheek and begin to thrash and scream. Once the cab driver was so frightened that he spun around from the driver’s seat and watched in horror while Cindi pried me loose. Another time, I ripped the molding off the right back door when my left foot came shooting out from underneath the seat where it had been stuck while I was trying to get out by myself. I just patched the molding back on and tapped it around the edges while the cabbie looked for a tire iron with which to kill me. I have to literally lay down in the back seat, have Cindi pull me, and strain to the point of having a BM in my knickers to get out of the car…. But, oh my, how I digress. (I have also broken many public toilet seats in Guanajuato because, I swear this is true, the toilet seats are the size of a glazed-donut. They are made for a Barbie or Ken doll to make potty.)

BACK TO THE FIRE:

I thought the car was going to blow. Had it blown, it would have killed a few Mexicans, no, actually a lot of Mexicans, and taken out our bedroom. That’s why we broke our necks vacating the house since we would have surely died had we waited it out in the house. The almost instant police response time is what prevented a more serious outcome to the event. The emergency services you get here are amazing. That is how it should be everywhere.

There was a Volkswagen bug parked next to the flaming taxi. While several policemen were fighting the fire, six other policemen picked up the Volkswagen and carried it some distance away. They obviously were afraid it would catch fire as well.

The firemen showed up a few minutes later and put out the fire. �¨Photos during and after the fire were taken by what I presume were fire investigators. At last, the fire was out and all the neighbors eventually drifted back into their houses.

The smoke damage in the bedroom is not too bad. However, I can still “taste” the fire in my mouth when I am in the bedroom. The people who live right above the cochera (carport) where the fire belched smoke, and lots of it, into their windows, were out of town…OH MI, OH MY!

Well, that’s all for this brush with death.

NEXT BRUSH WITH DEATH STORY:

How To Keep From Being Beaten to Death By All The Gringo’s You’ve Recently Pissed Off.