The Hack as Journalist: Chasing Fares and Stories, With a Baby on Board

SAN PEDRO GARZA GARCIA, Mexico Tinny salsa downbeats jangled out of the flashing cellphone. Mario Salas pressed hard on the clutch, jammed the gearshift into second and wedged the phone between his right ear and shoulder.

"Dime," he said -- "Tell me."

"Si," he said. "Si. A bad accident? A really bad one? I'm on my way."

It was 5:15 p.m. in this moneyed suburb of Monterrey-- time for Salas to transform. When the call came in, Salas was a taxi driver, prowling the streets for fares in a dented, bright green Ford sedan. But the phone call hurled him into his other identity -- hustling TV cameraman.

Salas is a Mexican archetype. In this country, where wages are painfully low, almost everyone, it seems, has a second gig, or a third, or a fourth. Moonlighting isn't a luxury; for many, it is a necessity.

Salas juggles three jobs. He is a taxi driver, a newspaper reporter and a TV cameraman. Sometimes, he's all three at once.

Minutes later, Salas hurtles down the hill, barreling toward the road to Saltillo, better known as the Highway of Death because so many cars and trucks end up smashed along the roadside, victims of a route where reckless driving is the norm.

Salas hazards a glance at the back seat. There, snuggled into a baby carrier, is Grecia Salas, his daughter, all of 2 months old, curling her toes and happily trying to force her tiny little hand into her tiny little mouth.

Salas has just picked her up from day care, but his cameraman job is a game of minutes, and there is no time to drop her off somewhere. Thankfully, he has also just picked up a neighbor's 15-year-old daughter after school. He presses her into service as an emergency back-seat babysitter.

Salas knows the Highway of Death better than most. He flings his little sedan down here every couple of days, and now his intimacy with the roadway pays off. Coming up on stalled traffic, Salas jams the brakes, expertly skids onto the narrow strip of pavement between the long row of idling cars and the shoulder, and deftly whips forward.

Up ahead, the streetlight turns red, but Salas is flying now. No time to stop. He rolls down the window and yells to a policeman haplessly trying to flag him down, "Code 20!" -- police jargon for journalist. The officer nods his head as Salas roars through the intersection.

Things are going well. Salas smells a big score. He lives to beat his competitors to the scene and he's feeling like he's got an edge on everyone.