By Walter Agnew Moore II

So the Ukranian and I are driving along in the Tracker. I am showing her the good parts of Colima, because she had seriously freaked out from culture shock her first day at the Tec. It was sort of my job to show her good stuff, un-freak her out, because her new classes start this Monday.

We are chattering away through the intersection, and a big red truck comes flying and bashes the nose of the Tracker, whipping the tail around counter-clockwise to smash into the back of the truck, then we hit a curb and blow out the left front tire and end up hanging there in front of somebody's corner house, between two trees.

Nobody is hurt. The man driving the truck politely points out the "alto" written in big letters that I had not seen and intimates that he sure could use about 500 dollars to fix his truck. I say we'll see.

The cops show up, no nonsense. After it turns out no blood is anywhere, it is fairly relaxed. They photograph both vehicles from all angles. The other driver keeps wanting 500 bucks.

The Ukranian signals me from where she is talking to a grizzled drill-sergeant type and says, "This nice man says that he believes that the other guy was really speeding, and that you shouldn't give him a cent." The drill-sergeant is Mr. Trinidad, who lived in LA for 20 years and who speaks to me in English since all my Spanish has been whacked out of me.

The Tracker looks like it has hit a mine.

A tow-truck shows up, and one of the cops gets me and the other driver and says: "OK, how are we going to work this out? Nobody was hurt, so did you two guys come to a settlement?"

My Spanish is coming back, but I find it tactically advantageous to let Mr. Trinidad interpret for me. He puts a crusty belligerent self-righteousness on my words that I wouldn't be able to manage on my own. See, I am worried about being the Happy Gringo in the Jail. Mr. Trinidad is more concerned with Not Giving That Other Bastard a Cent.

This does not go over well with the Other Bastard, who starts fuming about courts and lawyers. The cop says fine, if we can't work it out he is going to have to impound both the cars for whenever the trial date happens to be, 2 or 3 months down the line. I say "How much do you need", which Mr. Trinidad translates into a general tale of a hardworking teacher's poverty and says I can only pay 250 dollars. The dude wants 400. The cop says, fine, give him 250 now, and sign an agreement that says you'll give him 150 more next payday. Done. I see on the piece of paper that the other driver has the same family name as a very prominent local politician. Hoo hah.

When I dig out my wallet I only have 2450 pesos, 245 bucks to give him, and the Ukrainian pulls out an extra 50 to make up the difference. I stand there in a classic Don Walterio pose and tell her in Spanish: "No. You must not pay. It was not your fault. This is a matter for me and him to work out, as two men."

An old woman in the crowd nods approvingly as somewhere a flamenco guitar strikes a chord. Well, it should have.

Mr. Trinidad whispers to me "Go start your car and follow me. If you let them put it on that tow-truck, they will charge you another 280 pesos."

I do. It cranks right up. After I get it out of the trees, Mr.Trinidad's brother-in-law and I do a Nascar pit-crew job on the tire. The Ukranian leaps into a taxi and disappears. The cops drive off. I follow Mr. Trinidad out of there to his machine-shop. One of the front tires wobbles all over, but the other one doesn't, tough little Tracker.

We park it in a huge warehouse guarded by a pit-bull, and Mr. Trinidad introduces me to his son Salvador, with instructions to tell that *cabron* body-work man next door to do a good job on this one, or else. Then he drops me off at home in his truck. He is cackling about the 400 dollars, and I ask him why.

"Because to fix that guy's truck, they are gonna charge him 800 minimum at the place where he was going. Oh, you stuck him good!"

"So Mr. Trinidad, I know you said he was speeding, but it was my fault, right?"

"Oh hell yeah, you ran the stop, he's that guy's cousin, you'da never won the case. You got the best deal you could."

Not to mention that we collided in such a way that there wasn't a dead Ukranian in my car.

So the next day I go to the shop to talk to Salvador. What looked like mangled scrap-iron under the street-lights looked like somewhat bent metal during the day. No damage to the radiator, engine, drive train, or gas tank. The wind shield isn't even broken, and the lights all work.

Salvador is getting two estimates from body-guys. He told them I am his cousin.