I'm in such a bind here I'm ready to write Gustavo Arellano, who writes the syndicated newspaper column "Ask A Mexican," even though he deals more with cultural matters than bureaucratic. Nonetheless, he may be able to explain something to me that is abidingly Mexican: What the heck is Banjercito? I got introduced to it earlier today when I went to the Sacramento office of the Consulate General of Mexico. I had a mild headache going in, a throbbing one coming out, which isn't unprecedented when dealing with any government bureaucracy.
I went there because of the quandary I face: I keep a rig at our casa in San Jose del Cabo, Baja California Sur. It's registered in California. The registration is due to be renewed in January. And to do that I need to have it smog certified, something that can't be done in Mexico, to my knowledge. Thus, I'm faced with driving the vehicle back to California, getting it certified, and then returning to Los Cabos, a roundtrip of about 2,000 miles. That's not a trek I relish, in part because I'd be losing out on a lot of time at the beach, and in part because I don't own a gun.
My option, then, would seem to be to give up my California vehicle registration and to register the vehicle in Mexico. When I went to the consulate office to ask about the means of doing this, they directed me to the downstairs office of Banjercito, which I took to be some sort of Mexican government agency responsible for handling vehicle registration in Mexico. I'm still not clear on what Banjercito is, though a subsequent online search indicated it is closer to a credit agency or a bank than a branch of the Mexican government. All I know is that it didn't help me solve my problem. "Mary," the clerk who said she was in charge of the office, explained that I couldn't register my vehicle in Mexico because it is a 2004 model, and no vehicles less than 10 years old can be registered. Why? "I don't know. You have to ask the government, sir," said Mary. I should have known then that Banjercito is something other than a government agency.
I went back upstairs to the consulate general's office in hopes of enlightment. There, Victor Pelaez, the office's consul for political affairs, explained patiently and almost apologetically that no vehicles younger than 10 years old can be brought in from the U.S. and registered in Mexico because the "minister of the economy" wants to protect the sales of new cars and trucks manufactured in Mexico. Fair enough. His advice: Bring the vehicle back to California, get it smogged and registered, then return to Mexico. He gave me a 90-page booklet, "Paisano: Bienvenido a Casa," to help me in my travels. It's only in Spanish, just like all the signs at the consulate's office. There's an online version of the book, but while the index can be translated into English, the rest of the book can't. Nevertheless, the most fascinating section is the four pages devoted to showing the official uniforms of eight agencies that a traveler to Mexico might encounter, from federal police and airport officers to customs inspectors and migration authorities.
Concerned that I might not be able to memorize all those patches, and therefore tell actual well-intentioned government officials from infamous impersonators if I'm stopped as I drive the Transpeninsular Highway, I'm continuing to look into possible alternatives. Some guy in Cabo San Lucas advertises in the English-language Gringo Gazette that he can help residents of Los Cabos register their vehicles in South Dakota to circumvent the vehicle-registration regulations of Mexico, California and elsewhere. I'd rather avoid that kind of duplicity, but I'm running out of options and time. And besides, those South Dakota license plates, with their reproduction of Mount Rushmore, are rather handsome.
