Argentinian Shakedown

© Alisa Clickenger / RumBum.com

Getting shaken down by the Argentinian police. And their suitcase.

The brakelights ahead should have been my first clue. The second clue should have been the traffic backup. Somehow, I missed both clues because I was “in the zone” – riding in that space somewhere between joy and blissful abandon. Unfortunately, I did not heed any of the warning signs, and I was about to pay for it.

Police checks, military checkpoints and transit inspections are common throughout Central and South America. As a traveler, one gets accustomed to them and learns to accept them as a necessary part of the journey. While there are “notorious” places where police are known to be corrupt, the majority of stops are perfunctory. Unfortunately for me, I did not know that Route 14 in Argentina is one of the “bad” places.

Flagged down by a policeman on foot, I pulled over to the side of the road. I thought I had nothing to worry about since all my paperwork was in order and I certainly was not speeding. After some chit-chat about where I was going, where I was coming from, what country I was from, etc., the officer got to the point: My headlight was not on. Hm! I had not considered that. My throttle cable runs close to the headlight switch, and evidently when firing up the motorcycle at the last stop, I bumped the cable which bumped the switch, and the headlight was indeed off.

I explained this to the policeman, and he seemed sympathetic. He informed me that I still had to meet with the other officer – looking back on it a classic case of good cop / bad cop.

Mr. Bad Cop was all business. From behind conceal-the-expression dark sunglasses he went over everything Mr. Good Cop had covered, then proceeded to do a lengthy and complicated calculation (on a calculator no less!) of the fine that was due. Sure, I thought, give me a ticket, I'll ride off with it and never pay it.

Wise to this traveler tactic, Mr. Bad Cop issued the deal-sealer: I could pay the $100 fine there, to him, roadside, or I could have them tow the bike and find my own transportation to town, and pay upwards of $250 to retrieve my bike. I fell for it! Weary from my experience at the border a few hours earlier, and in a time crunch to get to Buenos Aires, I capitulated.

None of my cajoling, reasoning, even pointing out other cars passing with their headlights not turned on swayed Mr. Bad Cop. I asked to see the statute in writing (which he provided), I even asked to see the list of transgressions and their corresponding fines (which he could not provide). I told him I would I need a receipt.  I even threw in the fact that I am a motorcycle journalist in the United States, to no avail. He had me where he wanted me: in a hurry and seeking the path of least resistance by paying the fine.

These policemen in Entre Rios are so well prepared for this, that they even have a briefcase of money to collect their fines and to make change. What's more, offenders have the option of paying in Dollars or Argentinian Pesos. Supremely frustrated and mad at myself for making such a simple and expensive mistake, I paid my fine, got my receipt, took pictures of the transaction and the officers, and rode off in a huff.

Further adding insult to my experience that day, I learned from other moto-travelers at my hostal that night that they, too, had been stopped by the Entre Rios policemen. They, however, knew that it was illegal for the policemen to collect the fines roadside, and refused to pay. They did not fall for the scam, their bikes were not confiscated, and they did not pay the fine. Next time, I'll know.