Today I've been rushing around trying to get things done before heading back to the U.S. for a month or so. This is almost never productive in Mexico. It certainly wasn't today. At the end of it all I found myself on a packed 633 bus during the hottest part of the day, cursing under my breath at all things Mexican. (In my mind the incompetent secretaries at the University of Guadalajara, the guy who was supposed to show up at 9:30 to connect our washing machine, the people I was packed up against, and the bank were somehow all working in concert against me). As is normal, the driver accelerated madly forward at every green light, never anticipating having to stop again. Each red light caught him totally off guard, and he would suddenly slam on the brakes each time. This lurching is pretty standard fare on city buses. Sometimes I close my eyes and picture myself on the bridge of the Enterprise when they get hit by photon torpedos, but today I was far too pissed off. The bus was so miserable that I decided to get off a stop early and walk. But the driver, who seemed to be in some kind of race with the the other buses, only saw fit to let off one passenger before slamming on the gas pedal again. I was still holding a metal bar but I hadn't really steadied myself, so my arm was almost jerked out of its socket when he accelerated. Ignoring the steady ringing of the buzzer and people shouting "¡Baja, baja!" the driver proceeded to speed past bus stop after bus stop. He seemed intent on getting to the front of a convoy of other buses, but they kept outmaneuvering him, so he was stuck in the outside lane. When he finally relented and pulled in behind the others at a bus stop, I had the option of backtracking a long ways or getting lost by trying to find a shortcut through a windy residential area. I chose the getting lost while trying to find a shortcut option.
Eventually I ended up somewhere I knew, a bus stop on the edge of a vacant lot overlooking some dumpsters at the mall. I waited there for a long, long time with a tattooed guy wearing a wife beater and a homemade sling for his broken arm. He was something of an expert on bus routes and would give advice to other would-be bus riders who wandered past. (Even Mexicans are fairly baffled by the bus system. Though perhaps system isn't the right word). After a really long time of standing silently next to each other we got on the same bus. Instead of paying, he whispered a word to the driver, positioned himself at the front, and began to deliver a long monologue. Despite the bus being nearly empty, he spoke with great self-importance, although very rapidly--I didn't understand a word. I assumed he was asking for money because of his broken arm. I fished around in my bag for a few pesos since I felt some camaraderie from our having waited so long together. But then, when I looked up again, he was driving a long metal nail up his left nostril. On a moving bus mind you. Then another nail up the right nostril, concluding his presentation. I felt bad that I only had 3 pesos left on me to give him.
