|
You are here: the-vu>
Travel> Auto
Mexico
Auto Mexico
By Cherie Magnus
Published April 2002
After a mind-expanding long day with ghosts,
pyramids, and mysterious ancient art in
Teotihuacan, our little tour group cruise
along the Autopista with just two hours
to go before hitting San Miguel de Allende
and home.
Gene, an archeologist from the University
of Texas, Jaime, our Mexican guide/driver,
and me, a transplant from Los Angeles, are
basking in the afterglow of history and
art when the ´95 Oldsmobile's engine suddenly
quits as we tool along in the fast lane.
Luckily we are coasting down hill, and Jaime
gets it started after repeated tries, and
the three of us breathe sighs of relief
as the car chugs forward.
Then the engine quits again, and with skillful
maneuvering through the trucks and rush
hour traffic, Jaime is able to get us on
the right shoulder where we roll to a stop.
When the car starts once more , we exit
at the next off-ramp and inch into a tiny
town that seems to have nothing more than
a little tienda, a big cemetery, and, thank
goodness, a garage. It's dark by now, and
the mechanic rigs up a light to check under
the hood. Three other men and a boy playing
with valeros (those 2 clacking balls on
a string)--and Jaime, of course--watch him
do it. Gene and I observe the animated discussion
and gesturing of all six of them through
the windshield.
Gene mumbles in the back seat that the
problem is a speck of dirt from bad gasoline
clogging up the fuel filter, but the committee
under the hood thinks it's the fuel injection.
They fiddle with that, the sparkplugs, and
the engine--which before had a smooth and
quiet idle--now sounds like a threshing
machine. When they give up on the front,
they jack up the rear and change the filter.
Gene and I are still in the car as
it lurches upward. The street is totally
black but for the light bulb on a cord dangling
from one man's hand.
I have to go to the bathroom. Gene says
that he doesn't want to sound like a chauvinist,
but I am the only woman here, so I shouldn't
get out of the car. I have no fear, but
I can't imagine any toilet anywhere near.
So I stay put.
Gene had forgone a fabulous lunch at the
La Gruta Restaurant in order to see more
of the Teotihuacan pyramids, and even though
I had been plying him with snacks from my
bag, I worry about him. He seems to have
low blood sugar or something. I thought
there was nothing left, but I find a tangerine
from the previous night's Posada. He gives
me back half and I give half of that to
Jaime out the window. Jaime retains an air
of cheerfulness and confidence. Because
I had taken a previous tour with him, and
because of our wonderful day today, I’m
not at all worried about how we would get
back to San Miguel. Jaime will take care
of us. He’s young, but smart and inspires
confidence. At least in me.
Not so with Gene. He frets about the different
mechanical possibilities of the car trouble,
and tries to figure out plans B and C if
we are indeed stuck. He has good reason
to worry as he is scheduled to leave tomorrow
for Texas at 6 a.m.
Finally the car won't even start, it is
now after nine, and all six surrounding
the car agree no more can be done tonight.
Gene and I confer that we think there are
too many cooks under the hood. Jaime talks
to a tow-truck guy who is flat bedding a
car to Queretero, half way home for us.
But we would have to sit inside the car
on the truck. Gene and I don't like it,
but we say what the heck and get out of
the Oldsmobile, stiff after so many hours
of sitting there. But the driver reneges,
it seems it is illegal to do that. One of
the kibbitzers then agrees to take us up
to the Autopista toll booth. By this time,
Gene and I don't ask any questions, we just
get in the car with Jaime.
Up at the toll gate, Jaime talks to the
policeman parked in his unit, I guess he
was explaining why we were up there.
Then along comes a bus marked "San
Miguel de Allende." Jaime flags it
down, and--a miracle--the bus stops. We
run, and climb on board. Incredulously sinking
into seats, we can't believe our luck: very
few buses to SMA at all, and we got one!
We flagged down a bus on the autoroute and
it stopped! Gene and I laugh, only in Mexico!
At Queretero, everyone but us three and
a snoring guy across the aisle get off,
and a woman carrying a decorated snack tray
gets on. Jaime hops up and takes orders
from us, water for me, Coke for Gene (the
sugar thing, I think), and Coke and chips
for Jaime. We all debate about telling the
sleeper we are at Queretero in case it is
his destination, but no one does. Almost
immediately on the road again, Jaime asks
me for a plastic bag, which he uses in the
back of the dark bus as a urinal, and then
tosses out the window. The cars behind the
bus must think it’s raining. My problem
isn't so handily solved and I try not to
think about it.
When we drag off the bus at last in San
Miguel, Jaime finds us one taxi and he takes
another. Kisses all around, handshaking,
muchas
gracias. adios.
Gene and I agree as we part at his hotel
that the pyramids were incredible, but our
car trouble was a fascinating Mexican experience
of its own.
 |
About
this author: With degrees in English,
Dance, and Library Science from UCLA,
Cherie has published many articles in
professional journals and magazines.
Her solo travels to Europe and Latin
America have inspired several pieces
published in Skirt!, PassionFruit, Moxie,
JourneyWoman, Dancing USA, GoNomad,
Open Spaces, Porthole, The Cusco Weekly,
the-vu, and various online magazines.
She was the dance critic for the Cerritos
News in Orange County, California before
moving to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.
She is currently at work on a novel
situated in France, when she's not out
dancing. |
 |
| Cherie
Magnus and Carlos Gavito, star
of "Forever Tango." |
|
You are here: the-vu>
Travel> Auto
Mexico
|
