Sveti Vlaho
10/04/2009 at 21:45 from (21.527881, -105.282218)
We woke up early and packed our things. Our march into Mazatlán had taught us a valuable lesson about walking in the heat, so we thought better of it on our way back out. The first chance we had, we hailed a pulmonia and negotiated a quick ride to the bus terminal north of downtown. The breeze was a welcome comfort as the day was threatening to be an especially hot one from the very beginning.
Once in the terminal, we bought a pair of second class tickets to San Blas, saving a hundred or so pesos from the first class rates. We waited in the first class terminal (read: air conditioned room) until 10 minutes before our scheduled departure. We dragged our stuff to the smaller, hotter, rattier, stinkier second class terminal, waiting only a few minutes before thankfully boarding our bus.
This bus was worse -- by a fair margin -- than our first one into Mazatlán. The bathroom was locked, and even the key the driver provided couldn't open it. The seats were worn and stained, with some stuck in the reclining position. Duct tape held my arm rest together and the siding on the bus rattled menacingly as the engine vibrated the entire bus. Even so, we both agreed that it still rated a notch higher than our Greyhound experience.
We were seated in front of a kid from Guadalajara who was heading back home after a weekend of partying in Mazatlán. He had visited the US for a few weeks several years ago, but, in spite of the short duration of his stay, his English was remarkably good. He appointed himself to the position of guide and helped us navigate the increased chaos and confusion of the second class bus system.
We flew through Mazatlán's sprawling suburbs, which grew dustier and more impoverished the further we moved from the coast. We flashed past prisons and bars and roadside stands selling mariscos (seafood) and cabeza (brain) tacos for cheap. A large Pacifico distributor marked the outskirts of town, and from then on we were surrounded by lush, jagged countryside.
Every surface that wasn't completely vertical seemed covered in a verdant carpet of trees, shrubs, flowers, and vines. And within a few kilometers, the vines seemed to take over everything. Improbably, cacti lived here, too, amid the tropical greenery. For whatever reason, we found it bizarre to see the occasional cactus draped in vines, the jungle choking out the desert.
To our left, our constant companion was the Sierra Madre Occidental range, its craggy peaks looming in the distance. The further we got from Mazatlán, the more often we encountered vast orchards, coconut palm plantations, and the omnipresent patchwork of corn fields. Wherever the plant life wasn't cultivated, the emerging jungle was covered in a mat of purple and pink and orange flowers.
Every dozen kilometers or so, we would flash through some tiny village of thatched roof huts with rough-hewn coconut wood frames clustered around a single, unpaved road. The inhabitants would watch the bus pass from their hammocks, escaping from the sun under the shade of trees and palapas. Almost as often, we would pass over nameless rivers, swollen and brown, on half-finished bridges, many without guard rails.
After a scenic couple of hours, we pulled into Las Peñas, a dusty town whose sole source of income seemed to be the passengers transferring buses or using the restroom. We contributed our six pesos to the local economy, then climbed back aboard, readying ourselves for the stop in Tepic, where we would catch our next bus to San Blas. When we resumed our trip, we were joined by a busker who serenaded us with a string of beautiful, romantic songs until the strings on his battered guitar began to snap. We gave him a few pesos and he hopped off a couple of kilometers down the road.
Before we knew it, we were twisting along a road on the mountainside above Tepic, staring into the depths of a city that seemed to pack every inch of the valley below. We marvelled at the immensity of one of Mexico's first colonial cities, founded in 1524 by Hernán Cortés' nephew. The hills ringing the town were each decorated with a shrine and the occasional spire of a church rose up from the multicolored mass of blocky buildings.
We drove down into the heart of Tepic before stopping suddenly on an ancient, dusty road in a decrepit neighborhood. The driver turned off the bus and informed us that we were out of gas. He hopped down and opened up the luggage compartment, pulling out an aging metal canister that had been riding along under our feet. We jumped off and stretched our legs while the driver struggled with the gas cap and nozzle. Marijana stayed on the bus and I strolled down the block to buy a strawberry ice cream at a corner store.
On our way again, we wound through Tepic's modern and commercial center to the massive bus station. We pulled our bags off, bought tickets onward to San Blas, then once again paid a visit to the restroom (although this time for free). Within half an hour, we were on a bus bound for the smooth surf of the coast. The bus we were on was operated by TNS, the line Cinthia had strenuously warned us against as its buses are scruffier, dirtier, and older than other fleets. Nevertheless, the coach we were on was nicer than our last, so we sat back and tried to relax as the driver wound circuitously through the streets to the third class (AKA local bus) terminal.
Along the way, a drunk who had hopped on outside the second class terminal attempted to chat with the driver, but managed only to slur his way to silence. He hopped off at the third class terminal, after much expert maneuvering by our driver to angle in, pick up passengers, and extract the bus from a space scarcely wider than an alley and deeper than a couple of garages.
After that stop, the bus operated more like a local bus, stopping occasionally at unmarked spots in the seedier parts of town to pick up knots of people bound for San Blas, ostensibly commuters on their way home from working in the city. As the sun sank lower in the sky, we careened along a narrow, winding road through an increasingly larger, darker, deeper jungle. Our driver didn't even attempt to slow down going into turns, slamming everybody around on every switchback.
Dominating our subconscious was perhaps the worst movie I have ever seen, a domestic production called "3 Sonorenses y 2 colombianos" that was apparently about random acts of poorly simulated shootings. The film opened with 7 variations of men meeting in some location, then a car driving up, a woman stepping out and spraying the men with an automatic weapon, smiling, then ducking back into the car and speeding off. Even the locals refused to watch the movie, preferring to fall asleep or stare out the window instead.
SIDEBAR:
Movies on buses are something of a national pasttime in Mexico, and the audience is rarely discerning. One of the most important roles a bus driver plays here is VJ, and it is an obligation they adhere to rigidly. Within seconds of even the finest bus pulling out of the terminal, a movie will be playing on the overhead screens, and the decision about which movie to play is not arrived at democratically. Being a light sleeper, I came equipped with ear plugs, but because of the volume (see an earlier post about noise in Latin America), I typically have to suffer along with the rest of the bus.
And here is the real issue: The other passengers don't seem to suffer at all, no matter the quality of the film. They appear to enjoy an inane, brain-grating, mass-produced Disney film as much as an Academy Award winner. In fact, there even seems to be a preference for bad films, judging by the selection we've enjoyed thus far. My current theory is that, much like with music, most Mexicans are simply used to having other people's poor choices forced upon them, and so they have developed an incredible capacity for patience and tolerance.
Trying to ignore the movie and feeling a touch of motion sickness from staring too long out the window, I made the mistake of looking out the front to witness the driver and oncoming traffic playing blind chicken, each side crossing the center line on turns, neither slowing down, with a narrow miss every couple of minutes. I quietly clutched Marijana's hand, praying that we either get to our destination in one piece or die quickly.
Around us, the jungle grew thicker, hanging over the road and occasionally sending a vine, branch, or fruit down to slap the top and sides of our speeding bus. Tiny communities slipped by alongside the road, small collections of smaller huts assembled from wood scraps, salvaged metal sheets, tarps, and palm fronds.
After an hour of some of the most reckless driving we had ever experienced (our driver had maintained an average speed of 70 km/hr over a road that didn't seem to have a single straightaway), we rolled into San Blas under gathering darkness. We stepped out into oppressive humidity and were greeted by a developmentally disabled kid demanding money. Confused, we walked over to the side of the bus to collect our bags. He grabbed a hold of Marijana's, holding it for ransom until I gave him three pesos.
Shaking off this bizarre episode, we saddled up and set off for the night's destination, Stoner's Surf Camp, along the Playa Borrega, preparing ourselves for another long and sweaty hike through another strange town. We rushed through the scenic town center, dominated by a church with neon blue crosses illuminated at the top of its spires, hung a left, and walked down a dirt and cobble road that stretched ahead of us for some indeterminate distance. After what seemed like an eternity of sweating and cursing, Marijana convinced me to stop and ask for directions. I was about to open my mouth when a local said, "Stoner's?" and pointed to the next sign, not 10m away.
Relieved but embarrassed, we thanked him and strode over. A short man with long hair who identified himself as Pompi shook our hands, showed us to our cabaña, fetched us towels, and bid us good night. We admired our rustic surroundings, threw our stuff in the corner, and loosely drew closed the mosquito net that hung from above the bed. Within minutes, we collapsed, exhausted, and fell fast asleep.