More Bus Time Than Bus Life
Light red sauce dribbled down my chin. Just the right amount of heat in the gentle broth laced with a few tiny bits of carrots, smothering the quarter chicken as a parent’s love can smother a child. An icy Corona Light was the perfect drink and the warm roasted flour tortillas were the perfect accompaniments.
It is 3:13 am and I am in a bus stop in north central Mexico.
I and my traveling partner, Will, have been on a bus or in a bus terminal since 4:30 pm the previous day. We did not need to be at the Laredo, Texas terminal that early but given we had been told conflicting departure times, we did not want to miss the bus. We had securely stored the Prius in its Laredo, Texas garage, Ubered to the terminal and waited, thankful for air conditioning on this 106-degree day.
Will left the small terminal, found a next door tienda selling ice cold bottled water, and in his thoughtful way, brought back not just one for me but one for an exhausted looking older woman, sitting alone, departing on a 10 pm bus to Houston. She had five more hours to wait, we had much less.
Neither Checkmybus.com nor BusBud.com had been helpful as they had been in the past, allowing us to book tickets, select seats, and pay online for a luxury bus ride. In San Miguel de Allende, when we left, we were told the bus departed Laredo at 5 pm. When we arrived nearly a week ago in Laredo, we checked the departure time and was told it left at 6. When he bought our tickets, the tickets said 6:15 pm. At 6:30 pm we asked the attendant when the bus would arrive. “Soon”, she responded. “Soon.”
At 7 pm it arrived, we hopped on and happily, were allowed to sit in the front two seats, diagonally across from the driver, allowing us to have a full scenic view. No separation between passengers and drivers as is found on some buses here. On the way north, we had been cramped into a smaller space than we had experienced on a Mexican bus so we were grateful not to have to take our assigned seats this time. We were required to check two of our bags in the luggage compartment under the bus, giving us a bit of concern that they might be removed when the compartment was opened to let other passengers get their baggage.
The incoming bus driver chatted briefly with the outgoing driver. It sounded as if the incoming driver was telling the outgoing driver that something was amiss with the bus’s operating system, never a good sign and certainly not for a six-hundred-mile drive, nearly twelve-hour drive.
The new driver drove us to the International Border, only about a mile from the terminal. There, he departed and two other drivers boarded while our bus joined a line of other buses waiting to get through Immigration. A guitarist hopped on, shook hands with the drivers, played a song or two, received some pesos, shook hands again with the drivers and departed.
We passed over the Rio Grande River. I could see in the distance, the long bridge I had walked across six weeks ago when I had re-entered Mexico, going on to catch the bus, not in Laredo (US), but in Nuevo Laredo (Mexico), directly on the opposite side of the border. Then I walked into Mexico, thinking of those who had swum across the Rio Grande to get into the US. I could have walked right on out through the country, had I not known that I must get an Immigration stamp if I wished to get out of the country without a lot of bother and expense. Now, a different process.
We anticipated we would have to claim our luggage, as is done on entering the US, but no, we could leave everything on the bus. Inside the Immigration facility, past the guy toting a hefty firearm, we, the only gringos on the bus, surrerendered our passports and waited last in line until our turn. Six others onboard had American passports but most carried Mexican ones.
Together, we were escorted into a stark, all white interview room. I sat in the only chair as Will stood. The interviewer behind the desk asked if we were vacationing in Mexico to which we responded affirmatively. With that the friendly and efficient officer asked for the visa payment of 30 usd, payable in usd or pesos. Until a few weeks ago, there had been no charge for visas; now there is, likely a way to pass on the costs Trump’s policies are producing on Mexico. We returned directly to the bus, bypassing the x-ray machines which appeared not to be used.
Back on the bus, we were relieved. Border crossings often produce a bit of angst but we were concerned about this one given we were carrying a new computer Will had purchased for a longtime friend who has moved to SMA after years of living in Germany. We had read online that some folk going in to Mexico via flights, with more than one computer, had been asked to pay customs fees on any extra computers.
From there, the bus moved on to the bright new Nuevo Laredo (Mexico) terminal. We could leave our items on the bus but we must disembark and wait in the terminal. For what reason? The bus had to be washed!
Yes, the bus had to be washed. At least we did not have to re-fuel as I have had to do in some countries when I’ve taken a taxi or bus. Somewhere else in Mexico I have been on a bus where we had to wait while it was being washed. This seems strange to us as there is plenty of time between rides for it to be cleaned (and thus far, they have always been immaculate). Perhaps some law requires the washing given it was coming from out of the country (in from the US).
When the two tie and white shirted drivers returned, sweaty and with ties removed, they wiped their faces, replaced the ties and we were off. Meanwhile, we had shared two different types of tasty tacos from the terminal food cart, commenting that we were glad to be back in Mexico.
By now, the day’s dusk was nearly history and we were rolling down to the road toward Monterrey, another three to four hours away. We’d named the two drivers who say little to one another, The Elder and The Younger even though both appear to be in their mid-thirties. Soon The Younger retired to the back of the bus into a covered gray box arrangement made for assistant driver sleeping accommodation. The Elder would move us onward for another six or more hours.
We put our feet up on the bar like arrangement in front of us, reclined the seats and settled in for the night. Unlike most of our other rides here, this bus did not have wifi or working electrical connections. Only after Will bought the tickets did we learn that for four dollars more and only an hour later, we could have been on the higher end bus, complete with nearly flat reclining seats, wifi, electrical plug-ins and more tv, movie and game channels than anyone would ever have time to use. No, the tickets could not be changed.
Onward we went, flying down the highway, passing tens of dozens of eighteen wheelers, pulled off to sleep for the night. Few truck stops like we see in the USA are available to truckers but there are pullouts where they can catch some shut eye. Likely most of them started the day in the US, waiting for cargo to be boarded, then they waited at Immigration, and finally they are on the road only to need some rest to make it on down through the country where they will pick up another cargo and return.
I watch the scenery, as much as I can see in the dark. Also, I watch the driver, pondering what I would do should he have a heart attack and lose control of the bus. I conclude that if he fell to his right, I’d have problems as he would be far too heavy to move. We’d be doomed if he fell over the steering wheel. The only hope would be if he slumped to left, allowing me to grab the steering wheel and hit the brake. I had perfected my thinking about this topic on a mountainous all night ride through Colombia several months ago. May such planning never be needed.
He turns off the overhead lights and monitors. Most passengers are snuggled in, asleep under blankets brought on board to keep warm in the bus’s cold air conditioning. Will is chilling next to me and I turn my traveling sweater into a muffler around his neck to warm him. I thank the Universe for all those Asian bus and train rides whereby I could not allow myself to be impacted by temperature, hot or cold. Most of the passengers have come from somewhere northern in Texas. No children but middle aged and older folk, casually but comfortably dressed for the long ride, just average pleasant Mexican citizens.
Blessed silence fills the bus. The Elder, chubby as he is, throws, one at a time, a candy into his mouth, likely a support to keep him alert as he drives through the night. Next he turns on the bus radio, changing stations periodically but loudly enough that I can hear it easily from my front row seat.
Then I hear the sound.
A shrill one. Ear shattering to me but the thirty or so other passengers appear unawakened by it. No one moves, soft snores being the other only sound. The Elder takes out a phone camera, capturing the instrument panel, all while we roll down the road at 70 mph. I try to figure if the sound increases or decreases as we incline or decline, making no conclusion. I am unsure but think the sound may increase as the bus climbs, a concern, given the nearly 6000 feet we will climb before we reach our destination.
As we decline slightly, I can see Monterrey’s lights, twenty-three miles in the distance, spread widely over the valley floor. The Elder shoots another photo. I anticipate seeing Monterrey’s impressive downtown high rises as I did on a previous trip but no, this time, we skirt the cosmopolitan five-million resident city.
Will snores softly, shuffles in his seat. I check out the bathroom, envious of the sleepers I pass in route. Unlike most of the buses here on which we have traveled, this bathroom is shared by men and women, has no sink, and a weak flushing system. Back in my seat, I stuff my fingers as far as they will go into my ears, grateful when I pull them out to discover the sound is gone. Soon it returns and I know I will not sleep soon.
Hours later we pull into our dining spot, the same one we stopped at when Will and I traveled to Guadalajara. We recalled the friendliness, the cleanliness, the efficiency and yes, food tasting like a loving Mexican mama, moments earlier, had turned it out for her family’s Sunday comida. White shirted and tie wearing drivers meet, greet, and dine in a separate room, likely sharing road and other tales.
Thirty minutes later, back on the road, The Younger has taken over while The Elder has retired to the sleeping compartment. All is quiet. I fall asleep pondering how the sauce covering the chicken could have been flavored. The chicken was tender and well-cooked but not completely falling off the bone. Did the original ingredients make the difference? An unexpected spice or vegetable?
Like many other bus drivers here, The Younger chooses to center the bus on the lane, right side passengers in the right lane, left side passengers in the left lane. He sings to himself as we roll past more trucks, a few buses, and fewer cars. The noise continues periodically and I recall how good it will feel to be back in SMA, checking the gardens, watching the birds, and sleeping.
Watching the driver make a phone call, I am pretty sure he has contacted the sleeping The Elder about the ongoing shrill sounds. Soon The Elder, groggy, appears in only his white t-shirt and navy sleeping pants, by The Younger’s side. They discuss, pull over, change drivers and we continue a few more miles, both of them keeping a close eye on the instrument panel.
Passengers continue to sleep, aside from this one in the front row with cold air blowing on me. I don a thin black over-blouse and black socks. Dork is the look I must be going for, Will tells me later and I acknowledge I look pretty dorky but the socks warm my toes.
I want to watch what will happen next. I begin to plan. If the bus cannot proceed, all the luggage will need to be removed and transported to a new bus; meanwhile, we may have numerous hours waiting alongside the road with no food, limited toilet facilities, and likely no cooling air conditioning in the triple digit heat. Hitchhiking seems unlikely. Should we try to stay on-board? How will we track our luggage? Yes, I’ve honed my worry skills in the last few years even though my experience tells me all will be fine. Just fine.
We slow and pull off again, the drivers go to the side of the bus, opening a compartment and making some adjustments. One goes into a field, searching for something on the ground, likely to hold an object in the bus’s innards in place. We proceed but again stop soon. We repeat this several times.
No AAA for buses here.
I think of the times I’ve driven cars with mechanical problems. I’ve done the same that these drivers are doing — -driven a bit, stopped, waited, pushed onward. Any forward progress is progress, I’d tell myself.
At Dolores del Hidalgo, known for its ceramics industry, a few passengers arrive at their destination and leave the bus before the driver reverses us, moving the bus to the far corner of the bus parking lot. Now, I’m sure we are going to have to unload everything and wait for another bus to replace this one, still working after traveling a million and a half miles. But no, here comes a worker with a pail of liquid. Soon we are on the road again. Will and I discuss how close to home we are and how likely they will be driving fast to make up for all the lost time.
Wrong again we were.
As The Elder, not in his tidy uniform but still in his sleeping togs, stands next to him, The Younger maneuvers the bus around corners meant for burros, having to reverse sometimes, turning slowly around sharp right angles.
Until we pass the orange juice stand.
Again we stop.
Both drivers depart, amble across the two-lane street, and order drinks. No one on board, aside from me, sighs heavily. We all know drivers have to kept alert and these guys have been driving or wrestling with mechanical problems much of the night. Plus — -it is Mexico. As the Mexican proverb says, there is more time than life.
In his weariness and eagerness to get home, Will renames to Putz #1 and Putz#2, laughing as he knows it is part of the territory here. Numbers 1 and 2 are just celebrating, happy that they have relieved their aging bus’s problem for at least a few more miles.
Now The Younger and The Elder change from their quiet selves, becoming extremely loquacious. Chat, laugh, guffaw they do for the next fifty miles. They are celebrating, happy they have relieved their bus’s problem for at least a few more miles.
“Cuál fue el problema con el autobús?” I ask The Elder. He tells me that it was overheating.
As we near SMA, we head to the terminal on a route that I have not yet seen, providing yet another view of the famous city and one which I have come to love. We pull into the station, muchas gracias the drivers, exchange our luggage tags for our bags, waltz through the small terminal and into a familiar green and white waiting taxi.
Sixteen hours after we left Laredo, Texas we are passing SMA’s beautiful flower stands, checking to see if our favorite chicken stand is open, discussing the oncoming rains with the taxi driver, and yes, opening the gate to our casita.
We are home, at least our home for now, happy and thankful for another wonderful Mexican adventure.
