New-car launches are funny things. The plot varies by manufacturer and vehicle, but they all tend to follow a pattern. The basic recipe looks something like this: Step 1: Reveal new model at glamorous international auto show. Step 2: Invite members of the media to test-drive new model in exotic locale. Step 3: Ply journalist-testers with free booze and thrilling corporate PowerPoint presentations. Step 4: Await reviews; pray somebody liked it.
The 2011 Mitsubishi Outlander Sport drive program took place in Cabo San Lucas, Baja California Sur, Mexico. Mitsubishi says this was because both the Outlander and Baja are urban and youthful, but this is bunk. In reality, the Outlander Sport—a $19,275 four-cylinder cute-ute with a Lancer Evolution’s face—was launched in Cabo because it is a homely, uninspiring thing, and because Mitsu knows it. The logic makes sense: If your car is a snoozer, then you draw attention away from that fact with as many distractions as possible. And in Cabo, a beach town with half-naked gringos on every corner, there are a lot of distractions.
When I landed in Baja, I was jet-lagged and beat, fresh off two weeks of work travel and a friend’s birthday party that left me with a mind-crushing hangover. Mitsubishi gave photographer Robert Kerian and me a four-wheel-drive Outlander Sport SE ($23,775) for a day. The route that journalists were expected to follow charged off into the desert across 160 miles of arrow-straight highway. Given the circumstances, and our 148-hp Sport’s indolent CVT, the drive sounded about as appealing as a Golden Girls marathon on acid. We ejected from the program—ausente sin permiso—and went to find a bar.
We found an auto-parts store instead.
Here’s the thing about Mexico: Cars there are weird. The country’s automotive culture seems to operate on a version of Teddy Roosevelt’s “do what you can with what you have” philosophy. Few cars are left stock, and low-peso improv is key. Also, chrome and questionable taste.
Martinez Autopartes
And so we stumbled onto Martinez Autopartes, an automotive-accessory depot on Cabo’s north side. After two minutes of wandering the store’s narrow aisles, Kerian decided we needed to join the party. After half an hour of buying two-dollar stick-on fender vents, the man behind the counter told me that we should “get . . . it wrapped.” This sounded excelente, and three hours later, we drove away from a vinyl-wrap shop on the east side of town, a custom-commissioned Asian girl riding a tiger and playing the flute on the Outlander’s hood. Also, ghost flames and bats. For $300.
It snowballed from there.
We hit another parts store, then another, then another. I blinked, and Kerian was tying a $60 fiberglass wing to the Outlander’s tail with ratchet straps. Five minutes gave us stick-on pinstripes. Chrome bull badges. A skull-shaped shift knob and, as a nod to all the churches in town, a chrome Jesus sticker the size of a dinner plate.
We paused at one point, surveying our progress, and I cracked an unlabeled, two-peso bottle of yellow soda I found at Martinez’s. It tasted like maple-flavored floor cleaner and packed so much sugar that my eyes lost focus. Kerian and I sat on the sidewalk, contemplating the hood art.
“She needs a name,” I said.
“I can’t do that without seeing her in full bloom,” Kerian declared.
“Gotta check her out. Make some eye contact.” He walked over to the SUV and stared at the hood for a minute.
“Dude,” he said, sweat pouring off his nose, “her name is Marge.”
“Marge is pretty hot,” I offered.
“Stop drinking that soda,” Kerian said.
Things continued. Leopard-skin seat covers appeared out of nowhere. Kerian talked a Cabo local named Alfredo, a wiry guy in his thirties, into tagging along and acting as translator. He took us to Cabo’s used-car mall, a Baghdad-like area of the city that seemed to consist of nothing but dust clouds and Chevrolet Cavaliers painted with brooms. Caught up in the moment, I bought some 13-inch, $200 chrome wire wheels from a man who also sold hot sauce and canned pickles. Two hours and two machine shops later, we realized the wheels couldn’t be made to clear the brake calipers. So we stole four space-saver spares from Mitsubishi’s media garage instead. Duly tweaked, the Outlander’s ride-and-handling balance went from staid and stable to an odd combination of comfortable and nervous, like a rally car that got fat with old age. Steering feel, no longer hampered by the weight of the stock 18-inch alloys, shot through the roof.
At the end of the day, we wandered into Los Cangrejos, or “the crabs,” the oldest neighborhood in Cabo. It was old-school Mexico—dirt roads, roofless buildings, chickens in the street. A fat guy in a Geo Metro was driving in circles around a plaza while a roof-mounted bullhorn blared a recorded message in machine-gun Spanish. (Alfredo said it sounded like, “We have the best cheese in town,” which led to a lengthy discussion of Mexican euphemisms.) Street dogs followed us, barking. Above 40 mph, the wing’s tie-downs vibrated against the glass. It sounded tired and sad, like a woodwind orchestra that ate too many beans.
Small talk revealed that Alfredo used to instruct SCORE off-road racers. Thus prompted, we found a deserted street in the Cangrejos and tried jumping the Outlander. I went first, barreling off an uneven rise in the road at 50 mph. The car launched into the air, lumpy and lopsided, like a breaching whale. Then Alfredo buckled in, cranked two feet of air under each tire, and almost landed on Kerian’s head. Kerian, who was lying prone in the street, shooting, asked if Alfredo could do it again, only faster.
Knowing when to say when, I called the project done. Sun setting, we returned the car to Mitsubishi and high-tailed it to the airport before anyone could ask any questions. Alfredo disappeared back into Cabo’s crowds, and Marge, under penalty of delamination, agreed to keep her mouth shut.
Was there a point here? No. Did we essentially ruin a perfectly good vehicle? We’d like to think we improved it. (During the whole outing, the only people who gave us funny looks were Americans, which makes an odd kind of sense.) Lessons were learned: If you want an inoffensive small SUV, call Mitsubishi. If you want an easy good time, go to Cabo. If you need a gently used chrome Jesus, call Marge. She doesn’t talk much, but when it comes to distractions, you could do a lot worse.
(bangsa yang Bijak Adalah Bangsa yang Menghargai Sejarah)
