Bus Trip from HELL

Morelia, Mexico

I needed two days in Morelia to refreshen and rejuvenate the body from the constant bus travel through Mexico, and to write, post to the web site, and enjoy the colonial city. The outskirts are dreadful. Unsightly graffiti marks every building. Paint is peeling from walls of homes and stores. Trash is littered everywhere. On the way to Hotel Don Vasco -- less than $28.00 a night, three short blocks from the Central Plaza, with internet connection, excellent security -- the taxi driver told me that these outer areas are not patrolled by police. He said the youth in the area lack respect for neighbors or property. The local government is corrupt and only concerned with improving their economic well being, therefore neglect is common.

When we entered the central business district, the old 16th century Spanish colonial area, it felt like we passed into another country. I observed no graffiti, or trash in the streets, freshly blue, pastel pink, yellow, beige painted buildings and homes. Drivers adhered to traffic signals, with well behaved pedestrians in marked crosswalks. The taxi driver stated these areas are patrolled by police and private security. Many wealthy Mexicans and “Americans” live here, and they exert influence to assure a safe, well maintained environment.

Three blocks from Plaza Central, it's clean & well maintained 

The central area of Morelia features cobble and brick stone roads, and colonial style buildings from the 16th and 17th century. Spanish influenced blooming flower garden courtyards in the center of most buildings tricked one to believe you were not in a major metropolitan suburb of Mexico City. The colonial atmosphere and well dressed people hinted to affluence and comfort.

Spanish style garden courtyard in the middle of a metropolitan area

Colonial buildings, water fountains create a 16th century atmosphere

Many of the buildings in the center of Morelia had similar doors

It is cloudy and looks like rain is coming. The blue sky of yesterday is gone, replaced by low gray overcast, and dark full bodied clouds full of rain passing high overhead. It’s very humid and my shirt is already soaked with sweat, even though I’ve only walked three blocks from the hotel to the Central Plaza. The people are generally good-looking, with more Latino facial features than Indigenous. I see no one dressed in traditional Native attire. Of course, most people are on their cell phones ignoring the group they’re with, to converse with someone not present. 

The Plaza is a constant stream of people, most without shopping bags. It looks like one of the favorite activities - one that’s free - is walking the Plaza, noticing who’s there, and being noticed. Many stop for ice cream. In all the cities of Mexico I passed, eating ice cream cones is an inexpensive habit and activity enjoyed by the entire family. The majority of the crowd are in their teens, twenties, and early thirties. There are a few in my “mature” age bracket of fifty-ish. I spot several 50 to 60 year-old, well dressed gentlemen, escorting younger attractive women in their 20’s and 30’s. 

 The center piece of the Plaza Central

Every fifteen minutes I hear . . . ding, dong . . . ding dong . . . ding dong . . . from different directions. There are church bells ringing. Not always the same church. Mixed with these chimes are car horns blasting for right away, traffic cops blowing whistles to direct vehicles, and rumbles of cars, metro buses, and scooters taking off after green lights.

Not all was enjoyable. The dingy yellow, diesel smelling air stung the eyes, and fired the lungs. In my short stay, I developed a sore throat and watery eyes from breathing and exposure to the filthy contamination. It reminded me of Los Angeles, California on a “smog alert” day, and Mexico City’s everyday mucky atmosphere. I unsuccessfully attempted to avoid Mexico City’s toxic air by staying in Morelia. Though a couple of hours outside Mexico City, it exhibits the same air and traffic pollution.

A never ending stream of traffic

I ordered a burrito & tostada - my luck, there was a two for one special, 

so I received two burritos

And, two tostadas: too much to eat, even for me

Morelia's huevos rancheros for breakfast, almost as good

as the ones in Chihuahua

Needing to move south for my health, I left with red eyes, and blowing dark black substances from my nose. I also packed clean clothes (laundry washed, dried, folded for $4.00), and looking forward to devouring the famous “mole” of Oaxaca, a rich concoction of over thirty ingredients featuring chocolate, peanuts, cinnamon, chile peppers, garlic, cloves, tomatoes.

Bus Trip from HELL

I traveled five hours by first class bus to Puebla at night, leaving Morelia at 11:30 PM, on my way to our next destination of Oaxaca. I sat in the comfortable seat behind the bus driver, with plenty of leg room and slept through most of the bus ride. At Puebla, I changed buses for a four to five hour bus ride to Oaxaca. The misery begins.

Upon arrival in Puebla, I bought the last seat on the bus heading to Oaxaca. It was a window seat at the back of the bus, next to the toilets. I knew better, but didn’t want to wait three hours for the next bus. Next time I’ll wait.

The seat did not recline, with less leg room than all other seats. Having the window seat, I thought that’s not so bad, until a large round, short Mexican sat next to me in the aisle seat. He had the height and looks of Danny DeVeto and twice the girth. He seemed to be as round as he was tall. He sat down and spilled into my space. There was no where to move. His sweaty, hot fleshy body hugged mine for the entire five hour trip. He immediately fell asleep, starting snoring with his mouth wide open, and in need of a strong mouthwash. Extra strength Listerine would have helped. Then, things got worst.

The fellow in front jerked his seat to the maximum recline position. My knees went from being in my chest to my mouth. I literally was in a sitting fetal position, unable to move to the left, or right, thanks to the sleeping, bad breath mini-giant. I should have counted my blessings. After many passengers took advantage of the bathroom facilities, sewer smells emulated from the toilet overpowering the bad breath.

I went to go investigate why it smelled so awful -- heated, baked feces, mixed with putrid urine -- and to relieve myself. I discovered the toilet had run out of water and no longer flushed. Any subsequent waste sat in the bowel, stirring and mixing, and expunging molecules of smell in my direction. The mini-giant slept through the whole affair. His sense of smell must be damaged by some unknown accident or affliction, or he’s probably a plumber.

The road to Oaxaca twists through the Sierra Madre Mountains in a repeat series of narrow, curved switchbacks. The bus driver took the curves with wreak-less abandon. I felt queazy. Oh no, an eighteen or nineteen year-old woman looks yellow, pale and making her way to the toilet. She made it just in time. I could hear her retching and throwing up. Soon to be followed by a smell of a mixture of vomit, stewed feces and urine, and something else I was unable to identify -- something decaying and dead. Only two more hours of torment until we reach Oaxaca. I’m not going to make it. Should I tell the driver to leave me here? I’ll walk.

Mountains we passed through, from where I almost walked

In my past, I knew a colleague who was a Zen Buddhist who extolled the value and benefit of meditation, going within oneself, blocking out the external world. This was the moment to put it into practice. I closed my eyes and focused on an image of my beautiful spouse and two loving dogs -- concentrate, meditate, clear the mind, focus on pleasant memories, happy times, these things will pass. Only ten minutes go by, and I can’t take it any longer. I’m feeling sick. I’m going to throw up. I can’t wake the mini-giant, so I’m going to vomit on him, that will show him.

Somehow, I don’t have a clue, I gain my composure, strength, and dignity. I take a deep breath, wrong thing to do, and decide I’m not going to embarrass myself, my country, my readers. I discover an internal fortitude I didn’t know I had. My father always said to me: when it comes to hardships, you don’t know what you can do, until you do it. He died nine years ago. I miss him.

My mind overcame my body. I held it down. I didn’t vomit. I sat for the next two hours, breathing unbearable smells, cramped quarters, a queazy stomach, and windy curves. I thought of some of the indignities, debasement, torture, and humiliation recounted by my father that he suffered as a prisoner of war during World War II, in a Japanese hell camp. He survived, when almost 90% of his unit perished. I’m his son. He gave me his genes. I can bear this. I’m not going to die at any moment, at the whim of a savage guard. My father saved me. 

Nearing Oaxaca, the ride from Hell is almost over

About an hour outside of Oaxaca, the sleeping mini-giant awoke with a cough and a sneeze. He continued to hack and cough all the way. Obviously, no one instructed him to properly sneeze into his shoulder or arm when in a public place. Unable to escape, I held my breath each time he sprayed germs, saliva, mucous, and bad breath throughout the bus. We finally arrived in Oaxaca.

I survived the ordeal with a stiff back, cramped legs, and a “head cold”, and committed to never, never, never ever get the last seat, at the back of the bus. I sure hope the mole in Oaxaca is worth it? I’ll let you decide.