It was the summer of 2022. I was driving back home (well, my other home), all the way from Canada into Mexico. It was my way to celebrate that the covid pandemic was over. I was behind the wheel of my truck: a massive, bright red beauty. She was used, sure, but she had a pedigree. High profile, intimidating, the kind of truck that demands space.

I was crossing the Arizona desert solo, aiming for the Laredo-Nuevo Laredo crossing, path of the monarch butterflies during autumn. The plan was precise, but naturally, the timing went rogue. I hit Mexican customs at 9:00 PM. Now, anyone who knows anything about Mexican borders —anyone who pays attention, anyway— knows that Nuevo Laredo has a curfew. You don't wander. You find the nearest decent hotel and you wait for the sun. But Mexico has this specific kind of black magic. It loves to test you, especially when you think you have it figured out.

The customs officers held me for three agonizing hours. By the time I had repacked my truck, handling my piano with the care a relic like that deserves, it was past midnight. We won't get into the sordid details of how they operate. They claimed I owed import taxes, but their card terminal was conveniently (so conveniently) "down." They wanted cash. Honestly, the bribe wasn't expensive; it was just... distasteful. But I paid them what they wanted just to end the charade.

I rolled out of customs around 1:00 AM, the piano safe in the back, the AC humming. I didn't make it forty-five meters when I reached a checkpoint. I wasn’t shocked —again, the black magic— but I was profoundly annoyed. I rolled down my window, saying absolutely nothing, and just observed them. The aesthetics were pathetic. No uniforms. Their vehicles were clearly American junkers, "chocolates" held together by rust and, more importantly, prayers. A man approached me holding a flashlight so cheap it looked like a toy from a cereal box.

"Where are you going, Sir?" he asked.

I remained silent. I just looked at him, letting the silence hang there, with the kindness that one learns in Canada.

He stepped closer. "Don't worry. Nothing will happen to you if you follow our instructions. Pull over by the curb."

My heart hammered—a pure adrenaline explosion—but my face didn't move. I started rolling the window up without a single word.

In that split second, two things happened. First, I heard the voice of a good woman from my childhood, probably a nanny or an aunt, whispering the golden rule of Mexican survival: "Don't ever stop. Always keep moving." Second, I did the math. The survival statistics favoured running over staying. And then there’s the old joke: Trucks always have the right of way.

I was in a beast. A V8 engine, a six-inch lift, tires that cost more than their entire fleet. That’s something I learnt growing up: you treat your vehicles like an extension of your own home. You don't wait for a breakdown; you keep them fit.

The decision took exactly as long as it took for the window to seal shut. I didn't just accelerate; I floored it. I unleashed every ounce of horsepower my truck had. I even surprised myself. Three tons of steel launching forward is a feeling you don't forget.

They were surprised too. One man, who had been foolish enough to block the lane, dove out of it in pure fright. It wouldn't have been wise for him to argue physics with three tons of steel hitting 100 km/h in six seconds. They didn't even try to follow me. A pick-and-pull scrap car chasing a V8?

I like stories with happy endings, and this is one. I got home safely. I learnt that night that Mexico’s black magic is real; chaos is bigger than one can imagine, and the Federal customs agents have zero class. As for the guys at the checkpoint? I imagine their night ended in frustration, waiting hours for a prize that vanished into the dark.

But maybe, just maybe, as they watched my taillights disappear, they learnt a valuable lesson too: Don't mess with the Dominion of the True North.