Lots of sidebars, but still no Mazatlán
09/29/2009 at 23:01 from (23.166676, -106.26659)
I was up before the sun, in spite of the previous night's exhaustion. We were excited to be engaged in the first unanticipated adventure of our trip, so we hurriedly packed up, watching the Mexican news as we did and wondering how in the hell we'd ever be able to keep up with the Spanish language. Our clothes were (mostly) dry, so the packing went fast and, within minutes, we found ourselves checked out and waiting for Cinthia in the lobby.
Cinthia drove up in a battered Japanese car and, after we exchanged pleasantries, asked us if we'd like to try an authentic Mexican buffet breakfast. Our answer, of course, was an emphatic "YES!" We piled into the car and drove south through Nogales' city center to a place called Mexico Lindo. The place was empty, but Cinthia insisted it was good. We embarrassed her the entire time by taking photos and asking her personal questions, while in the background a telenovela blared.
As the meal found its way to our stomachs, our pace slowed and we arrived at the important questions.
"Why did you want to take us to breakfast?" I asked, with my characteristic tact.
"Because you were both so nice," she replied. "Besides, I wanted to make it up to you for yesterday."
As it turned out, Cinthia was as curious about us as we were about her. It hadn't actually occurred to me until that point that we were a uniquely odd couple to encounter at any border (who liquidates their life to visit one of the poorest, most ignored corners of the globe?). And, we came to find, she had once dated a Canadian whose last name was "Davis" and she was always enamored with the name "Brian" ("But I would never name my child that if I marry a Mexican," she said. "'Brian Rodriguez' just sounds stupid."). She had just bought a plot of land south of Nogales, right alongside a golf course that's being constructed. She has always wanted to drive across the United States and, when we suggested that she should take the train from Chicago to Seattle in a sleeper car, she seemed genuinely delighted at the idea.
After we had finished stuffing ourselves with fresh fruit, chilaquiles, and menudo (look it up!), we took a few photos and she insisted on paying. We piled back into the car and she drove us through some of the highlights of Nogales, a place our guide books told us to avoid at all costs.
She showed us the rich neighborhood, adorned on all sides with the sorts of McMansions that would do Issaquah proud. Then, she took us to Nogales' largest mall, just behind the bus terminal. It rivaled Bellevue Square for cleanliness and grandeur, housing a casino and 5 Telcel stores, in addition to the standard mall fare. And -- perhaps most astounding -- she showed us a kiosk in the mall where anybody, from anywhere in Mexico, can print out their vital records. The printer was out of ink, but she demonstrated by pulling up her ex-husband's records on the screen while Marijana made me proud by pointing out the obvious identity theft implications of such a system.
As it turns out, all vital records for any persons born or married in Mexico are digitized and entered into a single, national database. The American equivalent (disparate states managing paper records) looked quaint and antiquated in comparison. I almost felt offended. Mexico is, after all, rarely regarded as being technologically and organizationally superior to the United States in any fashion. If anything, the standard impression of Mexico is of a worn and corrupt bureaucracy. And yet here was an efficient, easy Mexican system whose American equivalent is chaotic, lumbering, bureaucratic.
After I marvelled for a time at the public records machine, we walked back out to the car and she drove us around the block to the bus station. She helped us exchange our tickets for a pair on a first class bus going all the way to Mazatlán. After she walked us over to the departure area, we sat down and she blurted out "I will never forget you." We hugged and walked through "security" (a large, sleepy man who took special delight in waving people past -- not through -- the metal detector), thanking her profusely. She stood in the window, waving, as we dropped our bags by the side of the bus, collected our claim checks, and climbed aboard. We waved like idiots and then took our seats, reflecting on how easily we had made so dear a friend so quickly.
Once we were on the road, we noticed our surroundings. Yet again, Mexico gave me reason to doubt America's across-the-board superiority. This bus put the best of Greyhound to shame. Everything was downright plush, with 75% reclining seats, tons of leg room, and massive windows with individual shades. It was as good as any first class section on any plane I've ever seen, with the only drawback being the amount of time we'd spend on the road. At least, unlike every long-distance flight I've been on, the buses afforded us a break to eat, stretch, and get some fresh air every couple of hours.
SIDEBAR:
Buses are the primary mode of travel across Mexico's vast expanses, and the terminals in major cities are at least as large, busy, and well-appointed as any American airport. There are three major classes of long distance bus here:
segunda clase - confusingly called second class, this is the third and lowest tier of the Mexican system. This is a popular, but bare bones bus class, providing cheap transit on older buses along Mexico's free highway system. These are usually offered over intermediate distances to provide a cheaper alternative to primera clase buses and to provide service to more out-of-the-way places. Even these buses are typically in better condition than Greyhound buses, at significantly cheaper prices.
primera clase - a level above segunda clase, this is what we will be doing most of our long-distance travel on. First class buses are new and use the toll highways, which are like express freeways in the US, which means they generally arrive at their destinations more quickly. Because these buses almost exclusively use the freeways, though, there are significantly fewer destinations offered than the more numerous segunda clase buses, and so they typically only serve the larger "hub" cities.
ejecutivo clase - these are the bus equivalents of charter jets. They are substantially more expensive than primera clase, but there are only two or three fully reclining seats per row, complimentary drink service, personal movies, hot meals, attendants, etc. We won't be taking these because (as the name implies) they don't offer more speedy service, just indulgent accommodations on board. For the money, we are better off bringing our meals aboard first class buses, which are plenty ritzy for our taste.
With an 18 hour ride stretching out ahead of us, we settled in and made ourselves comfortable. The scenery that flashed by our windows was spectacular, alternating gently between desert and scrubby fields. We had to work to enjoy it, though, because the instant we were underway, the driver popped in the first of what would become half a dozen DVDs. As the dubbed dialogue blared (Marijana: "I've never seen dubbing done this well in any Croatian movie!"), it was difficult to pay attention to anything else but Nicholas Cage's "masterful" performance as a man who can see a couple minutes into the future.
SIDEBAR:
Mexicans, we are beginning to understand, have a remarkable tolerance for noise. This seems to be a mechanism for coping with another odd cultural trait, one that would be considered incredibly rude in the United States: there doesn't seem to be any notion of public silence. That is to say, people here blare their music, regardless of whether it's in the privacy of their car or via a boom box on the street.
They don't care if you like it. They don't care if you're trying to have a pleasant conversation. They don't care if the radio station changes to a test signal and they wind up blasting the entire neighborhood with nothing more than a repeating screech for almost an hour. Nobody seems to mind, and consequently, nobody seems to worry about offending anyone.
This is, obviously, incredibly exhausting for anybody who comes from the land of noise ordinances, quiet hours, and personal space. The bus ride was our first exposure to this facet of Latin culture, but it would not be our last.
We hit Hermosillo after 2 hours of comfy travel, just as the movie was coming to a close. Thankful for a break from the deafening soundtrack and atrocious acting, I disembarked to stretch my legs and grab a couple of expensive (for Mexico) tamales, industrially produced and rapidly consumed. After ten minutes we were back on the road, winding through Hermosillo's suburbs before emerging again on the freeway running parallel to the Sierra Madre Occidental mountains.
After a few more hours of softly undulating terrain and the occasional tiny village, we arrived as the sun was setting in Ciudad Obregón to let off a couple passengers and take on a man selling the worst chocolate I have ever tasted. He had a sob story about how he was feeding his family on the proceeds from the treats and, spotting a pair of suckers, thanked us in advance for our generosity. We bought four of the bitter sticks, wincing in culinary pain as we took our first bites. A few hours later, the man disembarked in Los Mochis and was replaced by another cookie vendor with an identical story.
Disney movie after abysmal Disney movie became the video fare and I found myself drifting fitfully in and out of sleep. My ear plugs were of little use as the video was blaring, even at that ungodly hour. Unable to sleep, I set to work catching up on journal posts, looking at photos, and marveling at how every other person on the bus was snoring, impervious to the cyclone of noise that was brutalizing my tender ear drums. By the time we reached Culiacán, I was nearly delirious with exhaustion and, in spite of the cacophany, sank finally into a shallow, restless sleep.