A trip into Mexico

My friend, Carolynn, didn't have to ask me twice to join her at her family's house in Mexico at some point during this year of rediscovery of North America. Really, a year and a trip like this wouldn't be complete without a foray into the third country in the Americas that still belongs to the North, just before it becomes Central. We agreed on mid-March, and that I would not attempt to drive the Jamboree down but instead hop in an overnight bus from Tucson to Alamos, about 9 hours directly south. I wrote as I went, and what follows is your Mexico blog installment. It goes nowhere except on a bus and back, very briefly and succinctly, and says very little, but it may be fun, light reading material for you anyway.

Here's what I was thinking as I travelled on the overnight bus from Tucson to Alamos, Mexico:

I really should learn to speak Spanish. I seem to travel in Spanish-speaking countries with relative frequency, and after a few hours of exposure I find that I can make out basic statements and questions, and the few words of Spanish that I do know I find in the recesses of my brain and can suddenly use again. Like finding a poem that you read a while back and then remember the nuance or the image that struck you in that earlier encounter.

I am on a bus into Mexico from the states. We just crossed the border, and the border experience rates among one of the more interesting ones I've experienced; and not unpleasant. In fact, the three immigration guards who came out to stamp my visa, and mine alone, as everyone else on the bus was Mexican, were down right jolly. Chatty. All smiles. As the bus ride wore on, I remembered more of my Spanish words and used one or two of them as my travelling companions became braver and spoke to me at rest stops, the only Gringa on board. The drive has rolled at a snail's pace, taking hours at the border, stopping prettty much everywhere to pick more people up and rearrange luggage below.

At the border there was a group customs talk. It went like this. A few men with official looking jackets offloaded all the luggage from below. At one point someone got on board and said something, and then everyone started to file off, collect their bags and then go into a room to listen to instructions from what I assume was a customs officer. I grabbed my bag and, completely linguistically oblivious, used the time to send a couple of text messages.

There's something to be said for oblivion, though. For being the clueless foreigner in the group. Smile, follow the others, and they end up helping. This most recent Mexican adventure reminds me of a bus trip I took in Egypt a few years ago from Cairo to the Red Sea coast. Also overnight, and I was also the only foreigner on board. The bus stopped periodically for checks by the authorities to ensure all passengers had the appropriate papers. I think they radioed ahead to each stop that a foreign girl was on this particular bus, because as the stops became more and more frequent, it became obvious that the officals headed straight to my seat in the back. By this point, sign language and smiles had awarded me with protecting friends among my fellow travellers, who offered me bread and oranges and finally called out in exasperation what I can only assume was something like “she's FINE, her passport and visa are valid, can we carry on please??”. Thankfully, they didn't hold the guards' curiosity against me personally.


While in Alamos, Mexico:

I DID learn a bit of spanish!

But first: when I arrived at the Casa de Chocolate, early in the morning, squinting from the bus ride and the bright sun, I was greeted by Elia, the staff at the casa who rescued me with coffee and put me in my room. I thought I was staying in a hotel when I first wandered the grounds of the Casa, until Carolynn arrived to inform me that, yes, it does sometimes function as a hotel of sorts, but that it is her family's through her father's work. We rattled around in this “casa”, aka “palacita” or, better, “Hacienda” for an entire week, not doing very much. It felt wonderful (except for the one day my stomache revolted. All a part of the Mexican experience, I suppose.)

Alamos is known as the town of “portales”, and the casa is one its best loved because it has the most portales of any other casa in its entranceway. It is called the Casa de Chocolate, however, because among its previous owners were the Mars family, as in Mars Bars. Mars bars, were, of course, not available in Mexico, so as a final twist the locals know it as the Hershey Casa.

Carolynn arranged morning Spanish lessons. She was quite a bit further advanced than I, but patiently allowed me to figure out how to conjugate Estar and how to ask for kitchen utensils. I think I learned the equivalent of about 4 months of basic Spanish in 3 morning sessions, and I'm left now with a pile of pages of Spanish words and phrases in my backpack and a few more swimming around in my head. Revision will definitely be required. I doubt its enough yet to engage in conversation on the bus ride back.

And on the return bus back to the States:

Sitting at the US-Mexican border again, a week later, this time in the sunny mid-March morning, and this time in a very long and slow moving line into the states. If the crossing into Mexico was a procedure, it kept up a certain pace at least. With everything that has been happening around this border, understandably the American entry point is a bit longer of a wait while those responsible take their very careful inspections. I've been in my seat on the bus reading for about an hour and a half already, the bus inching its painfully slow way towards the crossing up ahead, so I thought I'd take my computer out and write a play-by-play of the wait we are making to get into the US (this is the reason for the sudden switch to the present tense).

Thank goodness for a good book and a clean toilet at the back of the bus. I sit and read and watch through the window the Mexican salesmen and women walking among the cars and trucks and buses waiting for their turn to get into America, plying everything from cheap, last-minute Mexican souvenirs such as sombreros and glittery jewellery, to snacks and drinks, to newspapers.

The girl behind me throws up in a bag her mother holds for her as we sit here. Strange, I think. Most people do that while the bus is moving. Sleeping on the bus through the night was intermittent, frequently disrupted by stops in towns along the way, the bus driver deciding to turn up the volume on what is apparently one of his favourite songs, and a security check of all bags and possessions about an hour or so away from the border to ensure there were no sneaky packages on board. I can see the US border guards walking around with their drug-sniffing dogs up ahead for yet another, last precaution.

One of the sales people just walked on the bus to relieve hunger pains during what's turning into a wait of several hours, carrying a tray of peanuts and brittle candy. A truck and camper with Alberta license plates are waiting in the lane next to me. As much fun as I'm having, I'm looking forward to getting into the Jamboree (which implies, naturally, that I'm looking forward to first getting into the United States. Answering questions that I last entered the US in Austin, left my Canadian-registered RV in Tucson which I now plan to drive back to Canada, that I'm a Canadian citizen, resident of the Netherlands, a teacher on a sort of sabbatical, always raises the eyebrows of the immigration officer doing the asking. Its a fun rigamarole, I recommend it to anyone who's only ever tried a simple story.)

I think I'm about half an hour away now. 9 cars in front of our bus. Our bus driver has his papers ready, and I can see the dogs up ahead, waiting patiently in the sun.

Why take such a long bus journey, anyway? Well, despite the obvious 800 dollar savings between the bus and flight options between the same two points, think of all the adventure and stories and sleep I'd have missed if it weren't for the bus trip?

Alamos, Mexico