BACKWATER VAGABONDS
“The new road should be near ccmpletion by now”, read the Mexican travel
brochure,
describing the lovely little town of Barra de Esperanza, north of
Manzanillo on the tropical
Pacific coast.
On this one of many trips to out-of-the-way places of Mexico, my wife and I
stood in the
town’s only sand street watching our bags being tossed into the back of a
third-class bus. The
village sprawled among tall palms, dozing in the warm afternoon sun as gulls
propelled
themselves with little cries, across the white breakers on the white beach
and glided in a
sweeping arc over the lush, tropical foliage bordering the lagoon. Surely
the classic
hideaway.
This is our return trip to Manzanillo on the “new road near completion.”
Near completion
of survey would be more like it. Three days before on the trip in, we
complained of the
over--optimism of quick-visit writers regarding progress in this part of the
country. The “road”
was a torn wound through choked forests, felled trees wilting alongside.
Interrupted streams
eroded many places across the narrow, winding trail. This was jungle few
people traveled
since well before the Spanish conquest. Soon this pristine bay will become
crowded with
tourists when, and if, the road is completed.
Locals began boarding the bus and we joined the gathering crowd funneling
through the
door. I quickly slipped into the front seats, numbers 3 and 4, as I like to
watch the road
ahead. Boxes, children and palm-fiber bags, in a shuffling mass fill the
worn confines of the
weary vehicle. People settled down and we waited.
Children were repositioned and hand baggage moved about as we watched the
brassy
sun paint the horizon clouds. Silence settled. We waited. Twenty minutes
behind schedule
(forgive the up-tight word schedule) and not having the stoic patience of
Mexicans, I stared
about for some indication of action. “Night travel on this road leaves me
cold, regardless of
the temperature,” I smirked, wiping my wet neck with my wet handkerchief.
Fragrances of
fruit and flowers, bantams and babies melded in the rising temperature of
the crowded bus.
Laughing voices on the still air drew attention as two couples hurried from
the beach. We
noted a decided unsteadiness in the men as they pumped through the soft
sand. The woman
across the aisle whispered hoarsely, “Madre de Dios, our drivers!”
Country travel uses a relief driver for emergencies but I couldn’t decide
who would
relieve whom of this pair. An old, expressionless man stepped forward to the
steering wheel
and pressed firrnly on the horn, only to receive a gay wave and the little
space between
thumb and index finger meaning “momentito” as our crew changed from their
trunks behind a
palm rib fence. The low, red sun shone on their wet, bronzed skin as they
squirmed into their
clothes. With loud farewells to the two girls, our well-fueled crew pulled
themselves aboard,
smiling broadly at the sullen, sweating faces of the passengers. The folding
door slammed
shut and we ground out of town with unrestrained blasts of the horn,
scattering dogs and a
family of pigs blessing us with forced ventilation.
Shadows deepened as we entered deep growth at the end of the village. The
road
became worse in proportion to the failing light. Miles inland, we surprised
an “indio” couple
bathing in the stream we forded, and they slipped behind dense brush as the
bus splashed
by.
I envied them their stable environment as we clutched the hand rail in
front of our seats.
As twilight failed, the headlights bravely cast their amber glow on the
road.
The left light swung back and forth, following the vehicle’s lurching like
a ship’s lantern.
Our relief driver told some joke to the “operador” and the resultant
laughter brought a change
in course and another bush joined its brothers along the road.
After an hour of swaying in our seats, we nosed down the bank of a broad
river a
hundred meters across. The swinging headlight illuminated the current
flowing over river
rocks piled a foot below the surface. This was the “bridge” for wheeled
traffic. Low gear was
lustily engaged and we launched into the water. A splitting headache was
exceeded only by
my wife’s vicelike grip on my arm.
The struggle over the slippery rocks as the current rushed around the
wheels brought the
motor to a full steaming whistle. After a quick discussion, the driver
stopped while the relief
man, with a bucket over his arm, waded up front and threw up the hood.
Silhouetted against
the lighted river, he dipped the pail, slopping water into the steam. The
motor died. The
stones shifted beneath the wheels in the silence. As the driver tried
starting the wet motor,
the relief man climbed back in, dropping the pail in the entry step.
The rear of the bus settled bit by bit as the river current swung it to the
edge of the
submerged roadway. A baby cried in the darkness as murmuring voices swelled
above the
starter’s monotonous grind. The motor coughed to life, loping on five
cylinders and we jerked
forward. The pail rolled noisily back and forth, banging against step and
door.
Slowly rumbling ahead, we sloshed through the water to the opposite shore
where an
adventurous truck was waiting to try the same thing the other way. From the
rise of the bank,
we saw the welcoming loom of Manzanillo.
Wife Gloria said, “Well, the village was lovely but I’ll be happy to get
back home at
Lakeside to the stability of our walled garden.”
“Yes, of course,”I said. “But you know, Gloria, we can go from Valladolid
in east Yucatan
to the ancient village, Holohty, on the Gulf of Mexico by bus. A little
ferry from the mainland
to a spit of palms where thousands of flamingos gather in March.”
I could see by her look I’d better hold the subject for another time.
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