Foreign Aid VW repair

Now that I was reconnected to the world I had left behind, I could finally focus on what really took precedent: fixing my speedometer cable so that driving would have a calculable speed and distance to it each day.

I know that few Volkswagens, especially those whose vintage preexists 1990, have little ability to travel fast enough to warrant even a first glance from a cop - and having VW's version of a minivan made that potential even less likely - but it was not Bessie's speed I was ultimately worried about. Knowing that it is against the law to have a faulty odometer, even for a car whose classic status renders mileage less of a concern, it was Bessie's faulty gas gauge and the subsequential guesstimates in calculating gas consumption that necessitated figuring out what was wrong with her.

The week's stay in Albuquerque prior to my flight home gave me ample time to research VW repair shops and I stumbled upon a promising one a couple of miles from Amberlee's house. Located on the corner of San Pedro and Constitution, a scenic 2.2 mile walk from Amberlee's house through the demographically diverse residences of Albuquerque's outskirts, Foreign Aid Auto was a bit of a graveyard for all things VW - a common sight I have come to find when dealing with any shop whose main job entails VW repair.

A towering, two story black building whose blazen, ten foot red lettering stood out against the brown and dusty landscape, loomed before me as I noticed that the shop's five garages were filled with numerous VWs of various vintages in various stages of disassemble. Walking through the shop's glass front door, I noticed the garage sale atmosphere immediately and, with a look somewhere between skepticism and awe, perused the gadgets and trinkets as I waited for a lady to finish her diatribe on the malfunctions of her bug.

Finally called up to the desk by Mike, an overweight 20 something whose black Metallica T-shirt looked as though it doubled as a napkin, I proceeded to explain my dilemma and my out of town status. Looking like he forgot to wipe chocolate milk off of his upper lip, the sporadic hairs of Mike's mustache moved lightly in the fan's wind as he listened with feigned interest to my tale. Telling me that they needed to take Bessie and run a diagnostic on her, I left her in his care and headed back to Amberlee's only to be called a few hours later and told that Bessie needed a new speedometer cable, a part that they could order but one that would take a few days to arrive.

Knowing that my flight home was leaving the next day, the timing seemed perfect and I informed Mike that I would bring Bessie back in ten days. Setting an appointment for the Monday of my return I left and thought nothing of the ordeal; I figured I would be back soon to a new part and a scheduled appointment, that Bessie would be fixed quickly, and I would be on my way, out of Amberlee's hair and off again along the open road.

Ten days later, upon returning back to Albuquerque from the needed break in my vacation, I entered Foreign Aid expecting a short visit that would end in a fixed van. Entering a shop that I now knew all too well, I started to get a feel for the workers and wondered silently about the level of competence and the safety of my rig. Though I have come to realize that most VW mechanics are a touch kooky, all of these workers had a uniqueness about them.

Some, like Paula, a frumpy but organized Mexican lady who was the shop's governing mother, had a common look and an ease of personality that allowed easy integration into any situation. Others stood out a little too much, such as the old guy whose constant short shorts, long black socks, glasses, and creepy eye-balling of all the patrons coupled with a grin only a mother could love made you wonder what convoluted thoughts pin-balled around in his mind on a daily basis.

When the store's manager, Paul, a slick Mexican whose glasses and always semi-buttoned shirt showcased limited tufts of graying hair and a single gold chain, went looking for my "hard to find" part, he found it hanging in the shop, along with two more exactly like it that had been on the shelf for over a year. It turns out that one of Paul's coworkers, the bearded, semi-stoned looking one, had accidently ordered a speedometer cable for an '82 Vanagon instead of an '81.

With his slightly slick black hair that was just starting to speckle with salt, Paul was nice enough, but his use of humor and slang quickly wore thin, especially since both increased with his ineptitude. I was told that it would take until Thursday to reorder the correct part and that they would call that morning when it arrived on the truck.

As 2 o'clock Thursday rolled around I called only to find that the replacement cable was in but they were "swamped" and wondered if I could bring it in Friday morning. I informed Paul that I would be bringing it in that afternoon and that it needed to be done first thing in the morning; Paul promised it would be.

Trusting Paul's word, I suspected something was amiss when noon rolled around on Friday and I had heard nothing. Picking up the phone I called and was informed that Bessie was done and that they were again were "too swamped" to call. Cursing under my breath, I stormed out the door for the half hour walk to pick up Bessie.

A short while later I arrived at Foreign Aid and had to wait for Paul to finish another phone conversation. Finally finished, he called me over and he started the invoice, his attempt at humor, "can I add $100 for me?" falling flatly to the floor when my response of, "no, but you can subtract $100 for me", was uttered and he silently handed me my keys.

Walking across Constitution to the shop's parking lot, my joyous adventure was not yet over as I noticed that Bessie was blocked in by guy loading a bug onto a trailer. By now I wanted to kill someone but I called Katie and waited, blood boiling, for the man to slowly finish.

Finally free of Foreign Aid, and with a working speedometer, I made my way back to Amberlee's, the late time now pushing Friday's departure date back to an early Saturday exit. After the entire ordeal, all of the hassles and mistakes, I came to realize that the worst part was what dawned on me when I was cleaning out Bessie, I had purchased a speedometer cable back in Bend.