Bad Luck and the Death Truck

I have come to expect things on my bike to break but there are parts I have never seen break, even after thousands of miles on the road. This morning one of those parts broke. For those who are uninitiated in bike-speak, the derailler is the part on the back of the bike, above the wheel, that shifts gears. To my dismay, the arm of the derailler twisted and snapped off first thing this morning bending the part of the frame that it hangs off of with it. Even though I knew that this was a problem I was not going to be able to fix on the side of the road, I couldn't help but stare at my busted derailler in disbelief for at least 15 minutes while several trucks that could have carried me to the nearest city zoomed by.

Resigned to my fate of having to hitchhike the next 60 kilometers to a city large enough to have a bike shop that sold new deraillers, I finally made a sign that said, "Concordia, emergency." The funny thing about hitchhiking is that people never seem to stop when you most need them to. Luckily, I think I appeared despondent enough that after about half an hour some truckers with an "empty" truckbed stopped for me. I was so happy for the lift that I was able to overlook the fact that the truck was normally used to transport the left-over body parts of dead animals. On the bottom of the truck bed, there was a piece of brain here, a hoof there, a piece of scalp here, and parts which I was unable to identify randomly strewn about. I was originally going to sit down for my trip but then I noticed that the floor was slippery with the fat of dead animals. I almost slipped and fell a number of times when the semi came to a stop. Fortunately, the trip lasted just under an hour so I didn't have to endure the nastiness too long.

When the truckers dropped me off at the edge of the city, there was a nice supermarket owner who let me wash my hands in the back of his store and gave me a ride to a bicycle shop so I could beat the afternoon siesta. The mechanic at the shop appeared optimistic about being able bend the frame back into place.Hopefully, the mechanic will be able to fix my bike like new again but I am worried that it will never shift quite the same again. I can only pray to my heathen gods that everything will be allright.

On the way out of Buenos Aires, towards the border with Brazil, I actually had to pay a bribe to some corrupt cops for the first time. This is after riding through all of of Mexico, Central America, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, and Bolivia. Anyone who has ever driven through Argentina knows that there are police checkpoints everywhere. They usually are just checking for identifying documents but, I found out the hard way, sometimes they are looking for a pound of flesh.

As I approached the checkpoint, the cop indicated to me that he wanted me to stop so that is exactly what I did. He asked, "Why don't you have a knee or elbow pads?" I wanted to say, "Do I look like a fucking five-year-old, asshole?" but I only said, " I have ridden over 15,000 kilometers without falling. I am willing to risk it." To my surprise he said, "Come inside so you can talk to the boss." I didn't think anything of it since I have encountered many incredulous police officers who feigned concern over my safety before so I went along with it.

When inside, the boss immediately began talking about "fines." I protested immediately. Not only was I wearing a helmet and had a bicycle that was almost entirely reflective but I had ridden well over 2,000 kilometers in Argentina and passed through many police checkpoints without hearing a word about any of the traffic laws that I was supposedly violating. At this point, I should mention that a pig never uses the word bribe directly when that is what they want. I should also mention that the bribe is negotiable. They start high and you lowball them as much as you can. After my protest, the cop persisted in trying to get me to pay the "fine." He even showed me some bullshit law they only enforce on rich gringos since I have seen literally thousands of cyclists without mirrors on their bikes or reflectice clothing.

Realizing that the pigfucker wasn't going to give up I asked him how much the fine was, expecting some small number. My eyes popped out of my head when he told me the fine was 900 pesos. That is comfortably over $200. There was no way in fucking hell that I was going to fork over this kind of money. I would rather give my money to the Taliban than to these inbred, thieving pigs. I told him I wasn't carrying that kind of money. "You aren't carrying dollars?" he asked. "Why would I be carrying dollars? We're in Argentina." He then pointed at a Mastercard emblem on the door and said, "We accept credit cards." I lied, "My card only works in cash machines." "Well, since you have a helmet and your bike is reflective we can reduce the 'fine' for you. How does $100 sound to you?" " I can eat for a month with $100. That is way too much. I am not even carrying that kind of money."

At this point, we had come to an impasse. The cop obviously didn't want to drop below $100 and I have a healthy contempt for police so I wasn't budging either. Finally, I called his bluff, "I would much rather go to jail than pay that much." "Oh, we can't take you to jail for this. It is only an infraction. How much do you have?" At this point I took out the second wallet I carry: the one with significantly less cash in it. I carry this wallet for the sole purpose of having something to give thieves if they are better armed than me. I just didn't expect that the thieves would be wearing badges. I counted out 90 pesos and said that was all I had. "How much will you give us for this infraction?" "I can only give you 50 since I need to eat," At that, a deal was struck.

I am still pissed about this even though I talked the cops down from well over $200 to about $13. I suppose I should feel grateful that I wasn't "disappeared" since that is exactly what happened to over 30,000 Argentinans during the military dictatorship during the late 70s and early 80s. I should also mention that as much as I fulminate about taser-happy police in the United States, cops in the developing world bring thuggery to a new level. It was just last month that a Nigerian Islamic militant died while in the custody of police. Whenever, Mexican cops arrest some drug kingpin they usually beat the shit out of him. This is evidenced by the black eyes and bloody noses that they almost invariably have when they are paraded before the press. American cops are models of professionalism and restraint in comparison. I remember how angry people got when a L.A. police officer kicked a suspect in the head after he finally gave up and jumped to the ground. The cop would have gotten away with it too if this whole event wasn't captured on videotape. My point to this is that when cops abuse prisoners this abuse is revisited upon them by the abused. Don't think that the Nigerian Islamic militants didn't take notice when their leader mysteriously died in police custody. When the Mexican cartels hire assassins to kill police and soldiers, the victims frequently show signs of torture. Restraint and professionalism is the only way the cops can legitimize what they do and it is what supposedly separates them from the criminals and terrorists.
I couldn't help but notice the blurbs in the news about the gun nuts showing up at rallies that president Obama attended. My favorite one was the man who brought the fully loaded AR-15 to they rally in Phoenix. The news article mentioned that Arizona was one of seven "open carry" states meaning that anyone can openly carry a gun with them for any reason. This peaked my curiousity and my Texas pride. "How could those Arizonans be any crazier than us Texans?" I asked. After a quick wikipedia search, I was disappointed to find out that Texas was not one of the seven "open carry" states. We can only openly carry firearms when we are ostensibly hunting. There goes my lifelong dream of opening up a drive-thru gun and liquor store. Maybe I will have to move to Phoenix. I can already imagine riding my bicycle around with a fully loaded automatic rifle strapped to my back on a 120 degree day. I don't think anyone would ever cut me off again.


DIE PIG, DIE

There is danger lurking on every street
But it's not from the criminals but the cops on the beat.
Through coercion and fear
And beatings admininistered in riot gear
They control the populations
Of all the world's nations.
And if that doesn't work they'll throw you in jail.
They'll call you a terrorist and deny your bail
And if that doesn't work they'll kill you outright,
Bursting in through the door in the middle of the night.
You should never underestimate a pig's brutality.
They can make your worst nightmare become your reality.

BRIDGE:

The only good cop is a dead cop.

CHORUS:
Die pig, motherfucker die.
When the revolution comes you'll have nowhere to hide.
We will no longer tolerate your bold-faced lies.
When the people rise up you'll be on the wrong side.

In Russia, and China, and the U.S.A.
In Iran, and Israel, and Zimbabwe
In Fascist Italy and Nazi Germany
Across time and space the pigs are the same to me.
If your party's too loud they'll be there without delay
But if you're mugged on the street they look the other way.
If you're smoking a joint they'll jail you right away
But in a government massacre they guilty never pay.
Those lying, thieving pigs have got some fucking nerve
When they say their job is to protect and serve

BRIDGE:

The only good cop is a dead cop.

CHORUS:
Die pig, motherfucker die.
When the revolution comes you'll have nowhere to hide.
We will no longer tolerate your bold-faced lies.
When the people rise up you'll be on the wrong side.

CODA:
One day this worldwide police state
Will collapse and crumble under its own weight
And the machine that's lubricated with the blood of innocents
Will come grinding to a halt for lack of acquiescence.