Ay! Carumba!

SHOOK UP

 

The sun is orange red, broiling hot. The road is dusty as this full  beat- up graffiti covered bus with ½ it's windows broken or non-existent heads to Caracas.  Babies are suckling in plain view of anyone who cares to look. My one glance is enough for the entire trip. If there hadn't been rough play aboard at some time, this bus could have been a hearse. The heat, sour smells cause me to hold a kerchief over my mouth and nose, move it often enough, not to be taken for dead and tossed off the bus. The natives stare at me. I look back at them in disbelief and sorrow as just getting on this bus meant they didn't have to walk 25 miles to the margarita ranch. Dust blows in every open crevice. Feet dangle down from the roof. I count my few blessings and forget the roofers.

 

Someone near me coughs into a bandana. I turn my head and notice a young man, not much out of his teens, standing in the back of the bus who now has a guitar around his neck. He taps his foot, claps his hands and starts to sing. Passengers perk up, sing along. They miraculously seem to forget the smells, the heat. I try but can't do it. I guess they are so used to their body odors that they call it Body Chanelle #1.Their national anthem isn't, but should be, 'La Cucaracha'. Those skitters  were all over the wall when I woke in my motel last night, even in the two drawers that held my meager belongings. I emptied the drawers, made sure my toiletries were still usable, put the few clothes I brought in the suitcase, carried it down the one flight of stairs and checked out–with no refund offered.

 

Not one bus, not one car have we passed. There is a gasoline station about ½ mile away and we are slowing down. When the bus empties I am able to see how bare its tires are. I also know that my bladder will explode if I don't go in the loo. The ladies take longer coming out than the men and look better too. I'm 22nd  in line and it is my turn. The exiting woman holds the door open for me and the sweet odor of Blue Dahlia escapes, curls into my nostril, clears my nasal passages. There is a white sink inside with a filled paper rack above it. The small mirror has been wiped fairly clean and most important, the toilet works and the floor is dry. What is going on in the other loo has nothing to do with me. I climb back on the bus and see the boy who was playing the guitar charging the gas and tipping the overseer. The men walk out single file. Most of them have combed their hair and mustaches and they walk quickly to their seats. I am quite sure I smell maryjane.
The roof of the bus is empty. There is little to see down the road but cactus and agave and a small stand on the side with handmade souvenirs. I am taken aback. The colors, the clay bowls, brighten my attitude and I must buy something.

 

The driver pulls over. I get off first. Three senoras are close behind me. Even if the prices are high, I must bring a few of these treasures home. This is why I am on this trip, to see Mexico like Mexicans. I want to delve, hear a Mariachi band in town, go to their magnificent art gallery. Whatever price is asked for the footed bowl that has won my heart is so cheap, but Senora # 1 speaks to the artist sitting cross- legged on the edge of the road. Very simply my price is dropped from $5 American to $4. Probably the big mustachioed man who appears from no-where is the artists husband. He wraps it in two layers of NY Times newspapers and puts a heavy cord around it. I pay, he leaves.

 

Night is nearing and we reach La Pinta. Everyone is tired. I carefully take my only purchase to the small but highly recommended hotel.
As I take hold of the shiny brass bar of the revolving front door, a child in a wet diaper squeezes in beside me. I turn my head and push faster to get rid of that kid. The bowl crackles, breaks into shards!

 

Unfortunately I am also rid of the bowl that would never have fit under my plane seat anyhow.