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Join Date: Sep 2005
Location: Right here
Posts: 129
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A Bus named Mariana - 2.4k
This is a story I published a few years ago. The intent is to amuse, nothing more.
It was my intention to go to the marina that morning and I decided to take the bus from downtown Puerto Vallarta. Everything went normally at first: the slow, first-gear grind along Calle Juarez; stopping every twenty yards or so, to pick up anyone who showed even the slightest interest in boarding the bus. Then, as we reached Calle Columbia and started downhill, quite suddenly, everything changed.
As we steadily built up speed, it became clear that the driver was not going to stop for any more passengers no matter how frantically tried to wave him down. Obviously, the man reasoned that if someone wanted to board his bus, they’d had ample opportunity to do so when he was crawling uphill along Juarez. They couldn’t expect him to stop now, not when he was on the fastest part of the route. Secure in the knowledge that God was on his side, he kept his foot to the floor.
He was setting a blistering pace. We were really thundering along now, the windows rattling; the engine roaring; the specially tuned exhaust (for noise, of course, not performance) was reverberating from the walls of the houses as we flew by. I knew it was too good to last and sure enough, I heard the irritating, insect-like buzz: someone had pressed the button indicating they wanted to get off – someone wanted him to stop!
The driver glared back at us all accusingly in the mirror. Judging by the look on his face, he wanted to kill the Judas in our midst. He had trusted us, he had been foolish enough to believe that we too shared his passion for speed, and we had betrayed him. However, unless the traitor proved to be extraordinarily cooperative, he would probably need to stop the bus to kill him. Anyway, there were probably too many witnesses. He was close to tears as he applied the brakes and came to a halt.
This unjustifiable interruption seemed to have taken a lot out of our driver and we continued for some distance at an erratic pace. It was as if he was some jilted lover, he simply couldn’t let himself be hurt again. Clearly distracted, he even began to stop and let new passengers board.
When we turned off the Carretera al Aeropuerto and started along some road I had not travelled before, I was not unduly concerned at first. None of my fellow passengers appeared to be surprised and I figured they probably knew where the bus was going. It had definitely said Marina on the front of the bus, not just scrawled on the windshield, it had been a proper sign, almost like a plaque. Eventually, no doubt, we would get back to the main road. Anyway, the driver, somehow sensing a kindred spirit, had just engaged a Bimbo bread van in what had every sign of becoming an interesting and very intense race. I didn’t want to risk causing a relapse by asking that he stop and let me off just as he was showing signs of recovering his former competitive spirit.
The race was really heating-up and the van driver was using all the tricks his bread delivery experience had taught him. He even began to glance off the kerb at the apex of the bends, just like the Indy and Formula 1 guys. I don’t know how they load the loaves in those vans, but whenever I see a crushed loaf of Bimbo bread in the store, I recall that van lurching all over the road.
The van’s nimbleness was clearly annoying our driver. Putting myself in his place, I remember thinking how frustrating it must be for a driver like him. How could anyone be expected to do any real racing in such a vehicle? A bus, for God’s sake! They were designed solely to carry passengers around–what the hell had his employers been thinking about when they'd bought these damn things?
The straights proved to be our opponent’s undoing. Our higher gearing gave us the edge and we finally inched past the bread van to the unrestrained delight of our driver, who began banging his fist on the steering wheel to underscore his victory, despite the inadequacy of his vehicle.
I looked back to see if the van was about to re-engage us. But no. Having given his all and selflessly risked his cargo and his employer’s van, the delivery driver knew he was beaten. No doubt way off his route by now, he’d stopped and eventually disappeared from sight behind us.
Obviously still much elated and flushed with success, our driver showed no signs of resentment when a group of schoolgirls indicated that they wanted to get off–at least somewhere close to their school. He even came close to a complete stop. Although he continued to gun the engine mercilessly in order to discourage any slackness as the girls leapt from the door like paratroopers.
I should have got off then too. I thought about it, but the race had left us some miles from the main highway and I had no way of knowing how easy it might be to get back. Moreover, I was in the same position as one who has gambled and lost more than he can afford. I had little alternative but to continue and hope that somehow I could regain my losses. Surely, we would soon be turning around and heading back towards the highway and the marina. My confidence proved to be totally without foundation.
We began to leave paved roads and any semblance of civilization far, far behind. As we passed through village after village, each more isolated than the one before, I had begun to consider the sign of any rusted-out, junked car as a sign of encouragement. Unless these hulks had been dropped from planes, or dragged there by teams of mules, it proved that at sometime, someone else had once driven out this way! I tried to calculate how long it might be before we ran out of fuel and had to continue on foot to Guadalajara – surely at this point, closer than Puerto Vallarta. By this time, of course, I was the only passenger, all people of sound mind having abandoned the expedition miles earlier. There was just me and the driver left now.
It was about twenty minutes later, when he turned off the dirt track and intentionally careened down a small embankment into the dry river bed. It was at that point that I cracked. Slowly, I made my way forward, one handhold to next, through the violently lurching bus. The swirling clouds of dust that poured in through the jammed-open windows stung my eyes and made it hard to see but, finally, I reached the front. The driver, who I now realized, was completely mad, continued to struggle furiously with the wheel as the wretched vehicle rebelled against his will and fought him for every yard of the dried up river bed. He seemed to reserve his greatest vengeance for the gearbox, grinding away years of its life with each passing minute. Clutching the handrails in a death grip, I screamed at him to give up; to abandon this insane enterprise.
“But, we are here!” he shouted above the sound of the engine, screaming in ultra-low gear. And, sure enough, inch by inch, we began to crawl up the side of the river bed, sending small rocks zinging and ricocheting from the spinning rear wheels. We crested the bank and we were there.
It is to my eternal discredit, that I can’t tell you the name of the village. I’m certain that I asked and equally sure that someone told me, but I was in no shape to remember. I felt drained, I was exhausted and yet strangely elated. I imagine it’s similar to the feeling a victorious marathon runner must experience when the race is over. The first beer I had in the little store made me quite giddy. I remember asking the owner if she received her supplies by parachute. She thought I was kidding.
By now, I was feeling much better and my elation was already giving way to resentment over what I had been through. I was on my second beer when the driver came in. I will not repeat my remarks regarding his concept of geography, nor shall I detail the anatomically impossible exercises I strongly suggested he should attempt. To say that he was astonished would be a grave understatement and he vigorously protested his innocence.
“Oh yeah? Oh Yeah?” I shouted (I find that I am most eloquent at times like these). “Well you just point out the bloody marina to me then, pal!”
He said that there was no marina, nor was there even water for a marina within miles of the place. He advised me that the latest thinking on the topic claimed that, whenever possible, it was best to build a marina at least somewhere near enough water to enable boats to float. He went on to inform me that dragging boats around a dry marina was frowned upon by purists who did not regard it as real sailing, not to mention how it played hell with the gel-coat finish.
Finally, he asked that if I had wanted to go to a marina so badly, why had I not gone to the one in Puerto Vallarta, it even had water?
My first impulse was to do something to him with my beer bottle. Instead, grabbing him by the shirt, I marched him out of the store and round to the front of his bus.
“Since you know so much about bloody marinas, perhaps you can read too,” I snarled. Pointing to the sign, fixed squarely on the front of his bus, I bellowed into his ear, “Just read what that big, bloody sign says will you, you bloody cretin!” As I mentioned earlier, displaying such a sophisticated vocabulary often proves invaluable on such occasions.
Before he could speak, I answered for him: “Marina, right? Look! Look! Marina, marina! Doesn’t that say marina? M-A-R-I-A-N-A, Mar…”. I let go of his shirt.
He knew instinctively that he would taste a sweeter revenge if he did not stoop to the same violent behavior the raving gringo had displayed. He began to straighten his clothing, imperiously brushing off my attempts to assist.
“My daughter, she is called Mariana. Okay with you marina-man if I name my bus after her?” he asked contemptuously.
“Yes, yes, of course.” I was stupid enough to respond.
“My daughter, she is four, maybe I should ask her to help you with your reading, marina-man?” he beamed.
“Thank you.” I could not stop myself, I was still dazed.
He then turned on his heel and began a slow, dignified walk of triumph back to the store, his head held high. The small crowd that had assembled to watch marina-man humiliate himself, applauded and cried, “Bravo, Raul!”
I knew, without asking, that there was no phone and no other way out of this village other than with Raul and his stupid bus. Even if I stayed overnight I would still have to use his bus tomorrow. Anyway, no one in the village would put me up. They would be afraid that marina-man would drag them from their beds in the night in order to misread something for them.
At first, he ignored me as I re-entered the store. My profuse apologies did nothing to dislodge his position of one who had been greatly wronged. However, I could see that Raul was not really bitter about my actions. I began to suspect that he had a strong sense of humor and viewed the whole thing as genuinely funny. Still he was going to get all he could from the hand I had dealt him.
He began to come around. Well, okay, he would have a beer, but not a Corona, he would have a more expensive Negra Modelo. I ordered two.
“Modelo, that’s another big word for you, no? Same number of letters as marina!” he sniggered, pleased with the observation. The villagers who now crowded the entrance to the store tittered and I sheepishly agreed that, yes, it had six letters.
As I said, Raul was not a bitter man. After I had bought him another beer, he decided to let me off the hook and changed the subject. He asked me what I was doing in México, when not in search of marinas. I knew I should not have told him the truth, but the topic caught me off-guard and at that moment, I could not think of a convincing lie.
“I am writing a magazine for tourists,” I told him.
“Really? Well, in view of today’s performance, I suggest you consider a coloring book instead.” He managed to get the whole thing out before he and the crowd exploded in laughter. At this point, I joined in.
Two more beers and all was forgotten. We were quickly back on the, now freshly cleaned, bus and back on our way down the dried up river bed. As we came to the villages, we steadily began to pick up passengers. It was to these people that I would point out signs that civilization was not far off.
“Look! There’s a paved road coming up soon.” I would inform them excitedly. “And, see that? Look! It’s a brick building of some sort!” I guess the smell of beer on my breath didn’t help.
It was mid-afternoon when I got home. The whole thing had taken no more than five hours. Again, the smell of beer did nothing to encourage my wife’s belief when I told her what had happened. And that’s a pity really, because it’s all true!
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