**The Federales: A Mexican Lesson in Humility**
Surprises rarely knock on my door. After all, at my age, life tends to settle into a familiar rhythm. I can predict the contents of my birthday gifts—dark chocolate or fishing gear—and the occasional overdue bill from my sons’ college days is as thrilling as it gets. I’m content with this predictability. My routine suits me. Yet, every once in a while, something unexpected catches me off guard, and in the fall of last year, a trip to my retirement bungalow in Ensenada, Mexico, delivered just such a moment.
It started with something as ordinary as running low on milk. Normally, my wife is in charge of dinner, and let me tell you, she’s quite the cook. She likes to say I’m easy to please, but I’m just content with whatever she puts in front of me. However, when I’m alone in Mexico, I tend to fend for myself—fishing occupies most of my time, so meals are an afterthought. A cheese sandwich or a can of beans is fine, but on this particular day, I had a hankering for some leche. There’s a convenience store at the end of the street called OXXO, which is as common in Mexico as Starbucks in the States. So, I grabbed my keys and headed out for what should have been a simple errand.
Here’s where the surprise starts brewing. I only needed about 40 pesos for the milk, but I stuffed a 200 and two 500-peso bills in my pocket—careless, I know. I looked like a bit of a mess too, dressed in a tank top and floppy shorts, my beard and long hair giving off a vaguely hippie vibe. Nothing unusual, really, but it was enough to turn heads when I pulled out that thick wad of cash at the register.
Mistake number two was not paying attention to who was around me. Standing in line behind me were two members of Mexico’s National Guard, the Federales. The Mexican government had recently deployed them to combat crime in the major cities. In theory, they were there to protect people like me, but I knew better. Municipal police in Mexico are often locals who understand the pulse of the community—they help with directions, keep the peace, and generally look out for their neighbors. The Federales, on the other hand, are an entirely different beast. Brought in from other regions and grossly underpaid, they make their real money through bribes.
After I left OXXO, I barely made it down the side street before I heard the sharp wail of a siren and saw flashing lights in my rearview mirror. I hadn’t done anything wrong, so I wasn’t too concerned—yet. I pulled over, and within moments, they had me out of the car. One of them began rummaging through my trunk, while the other took to frisking me, searching with a bit more enthusiasm than I was comfortable with. Things got interesting when he yanked open my shorts, only to discover I wasn’t wearing any underwear. His expression was priceless.
As I stood there, shorts askew, his partner triumphantly emerged from my car, clutching a bottle of Benadryl as if it were the crown jewels. “¡Drogas! ¡Drogas!” he shouted, eyes wide with mock alarm. I tried to explain that they were allergy pills. I even mimed sneezing and gasping for air, but my performance went unappreciated. They had found their “drugas” and were determined to play it for all it was worth.
Then came the real scare. One of the officers began telling me, in no uncertain terms, that they were going to take my car. That was the first moment I felt true fear. I could deal with a fine, but losing my car? That was something else entirely. I had no choice. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my crumpled bills, holding them out in what I hoped was a universally understood gesture. The officer seemed startled for a moment, thrown off his rhythm. Bribery is an art in Mexico—never to be conducted in plain view of witnesses. Quickly, he hustled me into the backseat of their vehicle, away from prying eyes.
As expected, they wanted the money, all of it. I handed over the wad, and after carefully smoothing out the bills, the officer, in a surprising act of decency, handed me back the 200-peso note. “Have a good desayuno,” he said with a smirk, as if the whole ordeal had been nothing more than a friendly misunderstanding. Then they sped off, leaving me standing there, fifty bucks lighter and feeling utterly violated.
I didn’t stick around for breakfast. The desire for leche had long since evaporated, and I headed straight home, reflecting on what had just happened. I had my car, and I wasn’t harmed, but I felt like a kid who’d just been shaken down for his lunch money. It wasn’t a violent encounter, but it left a mark—a reminder that sometimes, even when you play by the rules, you’re still at the mercy of those who don’t.
It was another lesson in the unpredictability of life in Mexico. I couldn’t quite put my finger on the moral, but one thing was certain—next time, I’d remember to wear chones (underwear).