Two hours later, five miles away, a huge Elite monster rolls out from the Central Camionera. For the next two days, this rumbling machine will be home. Forty-five hours -- if all goes well -- from la frontera to la capital, Mexico.
In the passenger cabin, sealed off by a door from the driver, you are seat number 12,
at the window, third row, right hand (facing forward). Behind you a bratty
kid. In front, two quiet ladies. Across the aisle, one row forward, a brown guy, late
twenties, early thirties. He smiles, once, and you feel, somehow, you will know him better...
if he goes all the way to Mexico City. He will. And you will.
But for now, in the afternoon light, your eyes glue to window view. From the sprawl of maquiladora mesa, climb into crumbling mountains. Pass through Tecate's shining valley. Twist down the grade of la rumorosa under desert sunset, and drive into evening darkness over Mexicali. After another short stop, press onward, with a new guy sitting beside you.
At last you cross the dead Colorado River. You speak to the man next to you, "Despues que las ciudades beben su agua, no hay mucho en el rio." -- After the cities drink their (or its) water, there ain't much in the river....
"No," affirms the young traveler, "puro desierto."
Into the pure desert, the bus rumbles past Sonora sand dunes and mountains faintly lit by half-moon filtered clouds, or pierced by beams of headlong trucks and busses that rush toward, suddenly pass beside, then vanish behind your rolling cabin of night.
Inside this cabin, away from the curtained windows, sealed off from the driver, three TVs gleam a Hollywood movie dubbed in Spanish. Of course, there are plenty of car chases, fights, and highway wrecks. You and your companions laugh as Steven Segal sends several trucks off a cliff. How appropriate. Like showing Airport as an in-flight movie! *Ah, Mexico!*
Of course, it could be worse -- they could show you SPEED, the bus-bombing film with Keanu and Hopper. Hey, don't laugh. It will happen.
The Segal pollution film ends. You lean your seat back. Think about sleeping.
But now, out of nowhere comes the ritual of baggage inspection. The bus lumbers to a halt. Everyone off, please, and take your bags into a white concrete building. Step up to a stoplight, press the button. If the green light comes on, you may go, pase, Senor. But if red, well, you must open up and be inspected. In weird anticipation, like entering some bizarre lottery, you push the button. Green. "Pasale, Senor." You nod, drag your bag toward the forward door, and pause, gazing back over the strange scene. Half the bus rips open its bags, the other half trudges back outside, into the waiting driveway. Relieved, yet disturbed, you join them. Wonder if you are actually still onboard, dreaming all this uncanny scenario. But when you make a move to return, a uniform stops you, "Please wait here for the bus to pull forward."
Then, on the road again, with no movies on TV, and passengers nodding into sleep, the great and mighty beast begins to break down. Once, twice, and again, we pull off the road, sit, and wait as the driver and his partner open the engine hatch, sending light shining out across the desert sands and rock, and then start the motor again. But each time, after only a few more miles, a whiny little alarm comes on and we pull off. The final time, stop on a gravel area in the middle of nowhere, nearby a couple silent motorhomes and trucks and a single, dark cement building. Driver pops his head into the passenger cabin, "Sorry, Senores, but we have tried everything. We must wait for help to come."
Who knows how long? We try to sleep. Later, later, you wake from fitful dreams of thirst, and hear rattling down below. Someone has come. They are working on our bus at last. Look out your window. The light shines from the rear compartment, across the barren gravel. More rattle and clank, and voices shouting in Spanish, and then... vroom vrooooom vroom rumble rumble rumble rumble....
They have fixed it at last! You take a drink from your water. Set your pack on the empty seat beside you. That's right, the guy got off back at Sonoita. Now you are alone, and surely it must be tomorrow already... sleep, sleep, sleep....
