Crossing Over ~ The Van from Hell

As the van sped down the two-lane highway, I felt a little of the fear melting away and rested back into the bench seat, closing my eyes and trying to let go.  But we seemed to be going forever, despite the out of control speed. I checked my watch with my LED light: already an hour had passed and no sign of a Pemex or any civilization, an unfamiliar road, deeper and further into the desert darkness. Then, suddenly we exited onto a dirt road and I felt my grip tighten on the door handle. Our headlights flashed onto a tiny town marker: Cedillo.  I’d heard of this pueblo – a third the size of Rio – but never had been.  

I looked over at my accidental compañero Joe; he shrugged his shoulders.  

I inquired with the driver, breaking the silence:  Where [the hell] are we going?

Picking up another passenger– don’t worry, the driver assured. Last stop before the Pemex.

There was no mention of this side-trip – more lies by omission – how many more would there be – and with each my fearing the worst?

After heaving over six speed-bumps we did finally pull up to a corner depot. An old senior loaded in;  and the driver took the opportunity to pick-up some marketing material, gifting each of us a commemorative Azteca calendar. Mine had the Virgin Guadalupe on the top; but I gave it back.  I really didn’t want a reminder of this whole episode.  I wanted to just get going.

Another hour through the dark desert before the familiar green and red glow of the state-controlled gasoline monopoly finally appeared like an oasis before us.  

We waited under the fluorescent lights. A young women sat on a wall outside the restroom peddling her woven palm dolls.  I was out of money. I had to buy 100 pesos of saldo – my final pesos – so I could text Rita and let her know I was okay. Was I okay?  But still no sign of the bus.  

At 8:30 on the dot the Azteca appeared – right on the revised time schedule.  I felt exhausted, though the real journey was just beginning.  As the bus pulled into the lot I realized it was just slightly fancier than a school bus!  Not at all like the picture on the flyer. 

I wanted to give up on this whole crazy adventure – but I knew it was too late.  I had to buck up – Rita was right. I was an RPCV now –a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer – part of an elite group that had made it through. Though I was not QUITE returned.

At the top of the stairs I discovered this bus was packed!  Was there even a spot for me? Kids were racing the aisles – I had to navigate around them to grab what looked like the last open seat, next to an old senior who thankfully shimmied over so I could take the aisle. But my seat would not recline – it kept folding forward when I wasn’t leaning back with all my weight.  There were no video screens or foot rests – the air was thick and stale – the overhead vents would not open.  This was as rustic as the little green ‘Verdadita’ bus that took me out to the campo to meet with the Zama Mamas.  But this was going to be a 12 to 15 hour drive!

Meanwhile I could hear them loading my bags and boxes on –I’d forgotten - I was supposed to watch each piece transfer, Rita had warned me. But it was too late. The doors slammed below and the driver was pulling away. And I forget to tip the van driver in all the rush.  I prayed he hadn’t done the same with my precious cargo as he’d done with the information – convenient omission. And then I realized I really didn’t care.  I’d be grateful if I just got my body across the border.

Oh, Mexico. I relaxed my head back against the grimy headrest, uttering my life-saving Peace Corps refrain.  You never fail to…confound, confuse, disappoint, obfuscate…and amaze.  I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, feel that acceptance sink into my bones – proof that I was passing the final test of cultural integration.  Instead I jammed-in my ipod earbuds, cranked up the jazz and closed my eyes, praying for sleep.

The Señor next to me who smelled of onions and cigarettes was snoring. Without an armrest boundary between us, he was oozing into my territory.  Talk about crossing the frontera! I white knuckled it for a few hours as the bus heaved and swerved like a white-water raft along the pot-holed NAFTA Highway. 

After a couple of blessed rest stops – there was no bathroom on the bus – things finally got quiet, the road got a little smoother, and the children had settled down to sleep. Ranchera music drifted from the driver’s FM radio and I could overhear his friendly conversation with the women on the first row.  I let myself be lulled by the sounds, felt myself smile to myself in the dark as it occurred:  this was just what I’d hoped for this final pass through Mexico. Then I drifted off.

Continued...