The Perils of Night Driving

People here drink and drive, so night driving is dangerous. There are daytime drunks too — just fewer of them.

Mexico. The Sian Ka'an biosphere. We're parked under coconut palms on a thin strip of jungle, water on both sides. To the east, the Caribbean unfolds in every shade of blue. To the west, a freshwater lagoon, shit-colored. Kelly and I are mixing Havana Club — the aged stuff — with lime and Coke. Liz and Lucy are chatting in the breeze of the whispering palms. A Bulgarian-Canadian-American idyll in the heart of the Caribbean.

Headlights appear and disappear in the distance. The wind carries approaching pachanga in waves. "Someone feeling brave?" Kelly raises an eyebrow. The lights draw level with us — crash, a few softer thuds. Silence.

The headlights of a beat-up pickup are now staring cross-eyed into the jungle. The pickup is parked face-first into a palm tree, a few coconuts having cratered the hood. Given the overall condition of the vehicle, the resale value is unaffected.

The driver's door opens cautiously. After a beat, Felipo slides out, gracefully, belly first. Flores catapults out the passenger side, cursing, locates a serious branch, and proceeds to beat her husband with it. He tries to run. Gravity keeps winning. Repeatedly. The whole routine tires Felipo out and mellows Flores. "Ándale mi amor, levántate, mi cielo…", she pleads, trying to walk him down to the ocean. It doesn't take, so she reverts to the original method: "¡Levántate, pinche borracho, ya vas a ver, cabrón!" She finally drags him into the surf, but he's too gone, and he pitches face-first into the water and stays there.

I strap on my machete — just in case — and go to help. Quick introductions with Flores, who is also several drinks in, followed by a furious argument. She's decided my headlamp is a video camera and is making noise about me filming them. Interestingly, a 60-cm machete makes no impression on her whatsoever. The jungle must be full of foreigners chopping their way through the underbrush. Headlamps, apparently, are the novelty.

After a few minutes of shouting — during which I pick up new vocabulary — I convince Flores the lamp is just a lamp, and we warm up. Felipo, meanwhile, has crawled out of the water and passed out on the sand. This is a date he'll be observing as a holy feast. Between us, Flores and I drag him to the pickup and load him into the bed. She pours out thanks on me while simultaneously cursing Felipo. Multitasking, clearly her strong suit. She hands me the keys — they're already in the ignition — and begs me to drive them home.

I drop it into gear. The truck hops and stalls. "No hay pedo, güey, no sueltes el acelerador," advises the bride. I floor it and we peel out. In the back, Felipo comes to and starts protesting. I catch "pinche gringo… no sabe manejar…" before Flores shuts him down by slamming the rear window. More protests follow from the back. I drown them out with more gas. Debate closed. Luckily they live a kilometer and a half from the crash site, in a shack in the jungle. We unload Felipo. I walk back.

The nearest village — and bar — is 18 km away. As I said. Night driving is dangerous.