By 1973, Haight-Ashbury had faded from memory and the anti-war Berkeley radicalism had lost its sting. Psychedelics gave way to hard drugs and, with that, came street crime.
Friends chose to stay and lived in fear; I chose to move to where I was sure people were different. I bought my first house in Palouse in 1974 and have owned a home ever since.
Unlike so many urban refugees, the last thing I wanted was to recreate even a shred of what I left behind. Different latitudes, different attitudes.
Before long I started thinking like a local. I shed the creeping paranoia, left the keys to my car in the ignition and seldom carried a wallet when I drove into town. I wrote checks in those days and was never asked to show identification. When Kmart opened, they demanded even more than a driver’s license. They wanted a credit card, which I refused to own. I never shopped Kmart again.
Well, that was almost 50 years ago and times have changed. I have too, but very little in regards to readopting a city way of looking at things.
If anything, I became more lax. When Katherine and I travel abroad, I leave my wallet at home and grab only a debit card and a driver’s license. These I stuff into a small, leather wallet large enough for these two items. Which explains why, when we left for Mexico on Jan. 1, I grabbed a Washington driver’s license which expired in 2018. I discovered this mistake when we tried to buy Mexican car insurance in Nogales. Fortunately, my wonderful partner carried the right documents and south we went.
From a similar road trip seven years ago, I recalled a large plaza on the west side of Federal Highway 15 where tourist visas and windshield stickers were issued.
This trip, with a Palouse pal from my 20s at the wheel, seemed charmed. In 20, 30 miles we’ll see this government plaza. Yet four hours drive south we still hadn’t seen the permitting offices. “No sweat,” I said. They must have bulldozed buildings and surely we can get permits in Guaymas on the sea of Cortez.
It was then that things went haywire. Finding the immigration office we were informed that no tourist visas were issued there since, in truth, we were all illegal aliens.
No hay problema. I thought. In 13 years of heading south I had never been asked to show such a document. I knew, however, we would need a windshield sticker.
Another door slammed shut. None would be issued without tourist visas and so it was back to Nogales that same afternoon. After a blown tire on the four-lane and a heroic collaborative effort to mount a spare, we laid over to get a fresh morning start.
We found the plaza not 20 miles deep but seven, obtained the visas and approached the long vehicle permit counter.
I had known in Tucson when ticketed for speeding that the registration we carried actually matched a travel trailer and the truck registration was still somewhere up north. I called the license bureau and was told there was no problem. They sent a photocopy of the original to Katherine’s cell phone and it was that she offered at the Mexican counter.
No dice. They would only accept an original. Unless a way out could be found our entire vacation would have to be scrubbed. It was then that I thought to call licensing again and was told, “No sweat, we can UPS an original overnight to you.” We settled in for the night with a great landlord who volunteered to have the documents delivered to his address on the Arizona side and deliver them to us in person.
If these snafus sound comedic, I am reminded that they may have saved our lives. If I had brought the correct registration, if we had stopped on our first trip south and gotten right through, we would have spent Thursday night in Guasave in the epicenter of a war that raged between the Sinaloa cartel and government troops.
The roadblocks are now removed and we plan to head south tomorrow.
What did I learn from all these mishaps? For starters, laid back Palouse doesn’t wash everywhere. Check to be sure the driver’s license you pluck from your sock drawer is current.
Entering Mexico, plan on getting legal within the first 10 miles. If you miss it, turn around and go back. Check to be sure your registration in your glove box matches your vehicle and is current.
And never consider yourself lucky for having driven four hours into Mexico without having to show ID.
McGehee, a lifelong activist, settled here in 1973 and lives in Palouse with his wife, Katherine. His work life has varied from bartender to university instructor to wrecking yard owner.
