Montezuma’s Revenge

The life line of Mexico; the third-class bus. They went everywhere that there were roads, paved or unpaved, or a mixture of both. They connected every small town with the larger cities at infinitesimal fares to enable the farmers to bring their corn, eggs, chickens, pigs, beans to the markets and return with cloth, salt, rebozoSy coffee, nails. Given diligence and a great deal of patience, as well as a total indifference to discomfort, a man could travel the length and breadth of Mexico in these buses for their trails cross everywhere. What better way to leave Acapulco than in this manner! Lost in the crowd, one more simple farmer, rattling out of the city at a spanking twelve miles an hour, past the keen-eyed servants of the law who were searching for the murderou American, grinding up the hills in low gear and away.

Within the hour the bus squealed to a halt in El Treinta and Tony stepped shakily down. If there had been any police at the city’s exits they had been invisible from his position within the vehicle between an armful of pendant, fearful-eyed chickens, and two men who argued the entire time about the local football team and attempted to involve him in the discussion. It had indeed been an adventure and he walked with unsure step toward the nearest miscelanea that bordered the road. Bottles were ranked neatly on the shelves inside and he let his eyes flit quickly over the mezcal and tequila, enough of that, thank you, to last quite a while, to settle on the aguardiente. This is a transparent, dangerous distillate of sugar cane, potent beyond belief. He selected a medium-sized bottle sealed with a black cork, paid for it and sampled its fiery potential before leaving the premises, the storekeeper nodding with approval at his happy sigh and pleasurable wipe of the back of his hand across his lips.

Outside the April sun burned with the heat of August. The town was stretched along the highway on both sides, two-dimensional, two single rows of buildings. Glittering tourist cars and smoke-belching diesel trucks thundered by on the pavement; children played unheeding on each side on the packed dirt that was the only street of the town. A palm-leaf-covered stand sold bright tropical fruit and an American couple was haggling over the price of mangoes in high-school Spanish. They reduced the asking price considerably and carted their bargains away in triumph as Tony bought the same fruit at a quarter of the price; all parties concerned were happy. The machete carved sweet slices of the mango, w blended very well indeed with the aguardiente. The wait the next bus arrived was pleasant, the bus itself not crowded so that he actually found a seat. The man who joined him also joined him in drinking from the bottle and in return shared still-warm tortillas stuifed with beans from his bag. Upward, grinding in low about the turns, the jungle falling away on each side, plunging into the clouds that hung like fog across the road, they made i way. The bottle was soon finished and the two travelers slept peacefully, leaning one against the other. So did the morning pass and a good deal of the afternoon. Mountains and road and the stop at every village, or parada, where the waiting customers waved their hands. Over the highest pass finally and the steady drop into the immense bowl and high plain of the state capital, Chilpancingo.

It was here that Tony decided that he had had enough of this rustic form of travel. Not to complain, he had had many interesting conversations, shared more than one bottle and enjoyed some excellent home cooking in exchange. But his feet hurt and his fundament had been battered into black and blue surrender; these vehicles were never intended for extended voyaging. Surely there could be no police here on the alert for him. In any case they would be watching the cars and the first-class buses, if at all, while the second-class buses were comfortable and speedy enough. Since the Cuernavaca bus he wanted did not leave for an hour he strolled through the market until it was time to depart. This gave him the opportunity to make a few purchases, a razor and ancillary equipment, a large red handkerchief, a paperback book of witch’s dream analysis that promised frightening insights, a pack of cigarettes, a box of wax matches, and finally a plastic airline bag to hold everything. It was in good condition, hardly used at all, and he wondered what chain of circumstances had brought this memento of the Czechoslovakian State Airlines to such a remote corner of Mexico. Perhaps it was best not to know, even the dream book said that there were many mysteries for which answers should not be sought. When the bus pulled out he had a cozy window seat and was deeply involved in the true meaning, at last, of snakes and umbrellas in the same dream.