"The fox has many tricks; the hedgehog has one. One good one."
-African proverb
The April humidity at midday almost succeeded in making the lethargic citizens of Guadalajara keel over and faint right there on the streets. Observing these people, these faceless businessmen, shoppers, beggars, as they lumbered about the crowded downtown section of the city, I remember thinking how it looked like they were trudging through puddles of melted tar. Needless to say, and I don't know why I'm saying it, I was uncomfortably hot, too.
The blistering sun seemed only ninety-three miles away. I tugged at the damp collar of my shirt, buckling under the weight of my backpack.
I was too preoccupied to worry about the asphyxiating meteorological conditions. Instead, I was remorseful. Here I was at the bus terminal and I was about to bid Luis, the first amigo I had made south of the border, a reluctant adios.
During my three week visit to Guadalajara, I had developed a very intimate relationship with Luis, his family who fed and sheltered me, his friends who treated me with respect and admiration (why, because I'm a gringo?), and the enchanting city. But soon, Mexico's second largest metropolitan area got to me, enchanting or not.
Two days ago, on an unpremeditated whim of my restless soul, I had decided to leave. The ocean was beckoning me, urging me to respond. At the ticket counter I paid one-hundred and fifty pesos for a ticket and warmly embraced Luis, assuring him that we would re-unite again, somewhere, somewhen. Then he turned and left me all alone.
I boarded an air-conditioned first-class bus bound for the Pacific Ocean hamlet of Zihuatanejo.
Even though it was a first-class bus, it still wasn't in very good condition. The difference between a first-class bus and a second-class one is hardly worth the extra twenty pesos. Anyway, that was my first confrontation with the Mexican Public Transportation System. People told me what to expect, yet I still had problems adjusting to four stereotyped characteristics: (1) buses and trains rarely depart at the scheduled time; (2) buses and trains are claustrophobically overcrowded; (3) buses and trains break down, or wreck, frequently; and (4) buses and trains are not reserved primarily for human cargo. It's not an uncommon sight to see some peasant with his chickens or roosters take a seat opposite you.
Everyone has the privilege of exploiting the services of the Mexican Public Transportation System. But, in my estimation, your best bet is a burro. Steady, slow, easy.
My bus left the terminal an hour later than scheduled, courtesy of an unmotivated bus driver or something. The delay didn't annoy me. In fact, it gave me a chance to relate to some of the passengers, a colorful bunch of people who seemed to guard interesting life stories. In front of me was an old woman who looked like she was about a thousand years old and put on this earth to be nothing but a haggardly old wizened apple. In the seat beside me sat an oppressively loquacious fat man who insisted that I could make a million pesos if I would only become his partner in some obscure business enterprise. But after a while his coagulated Spanglish flew by too fast for my bio-computer deciphering units to handle. At this point, I simply nodded my head up and down or sideways, maybe throwing in an occasional "Si" or "Muy bien," wishing all the time he would please shut the fuck up. And then some brat in the back of the bus started bawling.
In the aisle across from me, I kept staring lewdly at a stunningly beautiful senorita whose silky black hair spilled provocatively to her shoulders. I wanted desperately to say something, anything to her. I could tell she knew that I was watching her. She looked upper middle-class, full of aplomb, almost arrogant. But to me, she was the girl with gardenias in her hair, the mysterious beauty in every romantic ballad ever written about Mexico. Hell, I was even too timid to ask her for one of the Raleigh's she was smoking.
Finally, we were off and running, as my father used to say. Preparing for a long haul, I situated myself in the seat so I could stretch my legs in the aisle. The distance between Guadalajara and Zihuatanejo was (still is) only four inches according to my Triple A road map of Mexico, yet each inch corresponded to roughly four hours of traveling time. Contending with perilous mountain roads zig-zagging wildly across the raw expanse of the land, and tolerating pompous herds of unfenced-in farm animals roaming the highways like those intimidating bestial Federales can lengthen the time of any cross-country trip.
I was cramped and crushed, anxious and sleepy. Indeed, it was quite a mortifying sixteen hours.
The distorting time vacuum allowed nostalgic memories of this stretch of road to surface and haunt me. Burl and I, neophyte travelers combing the continent, had explored this region seven months earlier in our epic journey with the crippled Opel. For a complete, graphic briefing on these absurd escapades, lose yourself in the 147 pages that comprise that narrative, "Pleasantly Warped". Then, I was not the same person I was now. I couldn't discern why, but being here this time, alone and independent, seemed so much different.
When my corpulent seat-mate wasn't trying to capture my attention with emphatic gestures and garbled words, I also devoted some time toward reading. Ironically enough, the book I was reading was a tattered copy of Stranger in a Strange Land which I had borrowed from Luis. At times the words didn't register. Instead, I was day-dreaming about the psychological discomforts of being alone, really alone, in the untamed badlands of a foreign country for the first time in my life. I put the book down as a cowardly fear settled in me.
At midnight or so I became fatigued from my ridiculous apprehensions. I slipped into a contorted dream phase as the bus streaked through the eroding night.
When it got to be sixish, just after the bus screeched to a halt on a street lined with gorgeous palm trees, the crack of dawn split wide open. Disoriented from a restless sleep, I squinted my eyes and forgot momentarily where I was. I turned to ask the fat man if he knew, but he had gotten off somewhere in the middle of the night. Then I saw a sign attached to the door of a run-down shack, informing me that I was at the Zihuatanejo bus station. I quickly gathered together my senses, much faster than I could gather my belongings which were stuck in the overhanging baggage compartment. I anxiously exited, waving good-bye to the driver.
The day was already warm, intensifying the amalgam of strange odors that permeated the now tropical atmosphere: a salty smell from the ocean spray; a rotten stench from the market; the aroma of fresh fish. My empty stomach growled like a starving bear - but more pressing problems were on my mind. I was pathetically tired, and totally uncertain of what to do or where to go. I felt self-conscious as hell in this isolated village, with my fancy A-frame backpack and my anonymous gringo ubiquity.
I walked down what appeared to be the main street. I stopped in front of a small cantina before making my strut through Mainstreet. The washed-out road was unpaved and littered with all sorts of garbage. Chickens and pigs, intimidated by packs of emaciated dogs, scrounged in the rubbish, mingling with the shopkeepers who lazily performed early-morning chores. I kept thinking: in the big city the sight of an American backpacker is hardly worth noticing. But what about in a small peasant villa like this?
Most of the people whom I passed smiled at me warmly. For me, this was a big event, and I'm glad I felt like I was accepted.
Walking a short distance farther, I encountered a small boy clothed only in a pair of shredded cut-offs. He was throwing pails of water on the dusty ground in front of a sleazy taco stand. Everything seemed so filthy in the squalid serenity of Zihuatanejo. I tried to imagine my Grandmother here: impossible. I was engrossed with a new type of fascination, and could hardly help from identifying with a book I was recently reading.
I felt unnerved, despite the good vibrations (buena onda) of Zihuatanejo's rustic charm. It was a completely ludicrous notion that bestruck me. In Guadalajara, I had mastered enough of the fundamentals of Spanish grammar to feel relatively confident during picayune conversation. With a little perseverance I was soon able to connect certain phrases to certain words and make them into sentences. I'm not implying that I could engage in an intellectual discussion on the role that transfer ribonucleic acid plays in protein synthesis, or rap eruditely about ontological theories recapitulating phylogenetic evolution by any means, but I could get along with amazing proficiency after only three weeks of study.
But at this moment, in this remote corner of Mexico, not knowing why, I felt paranoid and insecure. All that Spanish I thought I knew now seemed as useless as tits on a boar, another dear-old-dad expression. These foolish sentiments clouded my rationality until I was distracted by a soft, familiar sound: the organic mechanical lull of the ocean. Like a crazed hound on the scent of fresh prey, I tracked down the distinct onomatopoetic crash of powerful waves elegantly genuflecting on the receding shores of Zihuatanejo.
I gaped at the incredulous panorama, much like Balboa must have done ages ago. I removed my backpack and collapsed upon the sand, letting the tide play with my bare feet. The town was awakening as the sun climbed into the sky. And while I meditated upon the wonderful soothing sound that is more captivating than the legendary Sirens, I eventually regained my sense of well-being.
The pleasant memories of my pit-stop in Zihuatanejo are ripe in my head. I suppose the reason why everything is so memorable is because it finally dawned on me that I was a free, independent person, together, and not a confused, unsure latent psychotic with no capabilities to my name. Magically, many reserve qualities surfaced in me which aided my indomitable will to be in control at all times. Qualities which were untapped before I went to Mexico alone. Gradually, I became self-reliant, fattened my confidence, improved my self-image, shorthand techniques to survival on the streets came naturally. In a very short time, I had become a fuller, more complete person.
My initial fear of "being alone" dissipated shortly after a couple of gregarious Mexicans approached me and wondered if "fumo mota." At seven in the morning? Before breakfast? At first, I was suspicious of them, convinced they were out to rip me off in some dastardly way. I trusted no one, especially when drugs were involved. The last R.S.V.P. I wanted was one from the warden at a degrading Mexican prison. I backed off and played it cool.
These fellows turned out to be okay, I guess. But I still had a communication barrier to contend with - I think Jorge kept asking me if he could buy my sleeping bag. I didn't like his overbearing attitude; malaise hit me.
Sergio, a little runt who looked like a bulldog, reached into a cigarette package and pulled out a long, thick joint. With a devious smile, he waved it enticingly in front of my face. I felt like a silly parrot waiting for my cracker. When I expressed my concern for safety, he made a funny, indifferent noise. So the three of us smoked - cautiously. The cannabis perked me instantly. After two or three tokes, I was convinced that sleep was impossible, food was necessary, and solitude inevitable. I excused myself awkwardly with a "gracias" and went off in a daze to scrounge up something cheap to eat.
Moments later I met crazy Tim.
