Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Collectivo from hell
So we had a lovely time in Puerto Escondido, doing not too much of anything at all. On Sunday, our most ambitious project was a walk about a mile long on a stone path carved into the cliffs between Zicatela and some of the other beaches. We swam and sunned and spoke to many surfers, who were about the only other folks in town.
We were quite mellow and unsuspecting when we got into our collectivo van to make the trip back to Oaxaca. We got to the station a bit early, so we could get tortas for the trip. We should have known something was up when the van tried to leave and I had to stop it and run to drag lisa and nell from the restaurant -- without the sandwiches. The van left 10 minutes EARLY, which is extremely suspicious for any form of transportation in Mexico.
Our van down to Puerto was comfortable and spacious. This one had no leg room, and the seats were about as wide as my head, so we travelled hip to hip (or lap to lap in the case of one portly man who was sitting next to me for an hour).
Our driver looked pleasant enough but we quickly realized he was insane. He managed to text his friends by cell and talk on the CB radio as he gunned through every curve and twist in the mountain roads, tires sqealing, transmission groaning, chickens and goats scattering. We just missed several burros, who placidly stare at the careening van and stand their ground. My hunch is there are no winners in van v. burro collisions.
All this was nauseating, but I was sitting scrunched against the door of the van, which clunked and rattled as though it would swing open every time senor loco took a right turn. We didn´t stop for six hours, and then it was only so he could get gas. Nell and I went to the bathroom and Lisa stayed in the van, a good thing since she was there to stop Senor Loco when he tried to leave without us.
(I learned today that this is common, and if you ever find yourself traveling by collectivo, either leave someone behind when you go to the bathroom or make sure you have a backup plan.)
The guy´s patter on the CB never let up. And it was ridiculous. I couldn´t understand much of it -- slang. But it sounded like he was repeating the same joke over and over to different chaufers along the route. There was also a lengthy conversation about what and where he would eat when he got to Oaxaca , which sucked because we were all hungry. His constant twitching, talking, texting made us suspect he was on speed.
The van wasn´t full, so we spent the whole ride picking up people and dropping them off (the reason the collectivo is supposed to be a great way to go is because if it´s full, it doesn´t make any stops, other than rest stops)
After we got out of the mountains, I figured at least we weren´t going to fall off a cliff or get into an accident. But the scariest part was yet to come. Laughing into the CB about something about drugs, the driver swung off the road and into the middle of an empty field or ranch, looking for someone he was supposed to be picking up (we think). It was 9 p.m. and extremely dark. (Did I mention that Senor Loco seemed to have some issue with using his headlights -- he kept turning them off.)
Anyway, he kept calling back via phone and CB for directions, and driving on a dirt burro track. We all had visions of getting robbed, of the driver being picked off for some offense, or of some kind of trap or set up. Of jumping out or being abandoned or losing the transmission and getting lost in the desert a la Babel. Everyone in the van - including the men - was leaning forward, looking nervously at eachother, shrugging shoulders, lifting eyebrows. Loco finally gave up, after about 20 minutes or half hour, and we were relieved, eventually, to see the lights of a highway.
As we got closer to Oaxaca though, it was clear that there were problems in the city. Ah la mecha! the driver kept yelling into his CB. Annoying, but fortunately, I didn´t learn what this means until today. (It´s about to explode!)
The taxistas were on strike, the other drivers were telling Senor Loco. They blockaded all the roads into the city. The governor of Oaxaca had the two main leaders of the taxistas jailed either just before or as the strike started. And this was what was prompting the Ah la mecha comment. I later learned that many who were supposed to leave Oaxaca yesterday couldn´t because they couldn´t reach the bus station or airport. So the driver just started dropping people off as close to their destination as he could get them. Traffic was so bad because so few streets were open. No one was going in the right direction -- lots of cases of three lanes of traffic all trying to turn right into a single lane. And here I admit I was happy to be riding high with Senor Loco because you had to be to navigate that mess. When he drove the wrong way down three lanes of oncoming traffic, over a wide median, and into a street that had been blockaded, I decided he was my new best friend. Go Mr. Loco!
Suddenly he stopped the van, got out and started throwing our backpacks on the sidewalk. We had NO idea where we were. Walk! The station is that way, he said, gesturing vaguely . So we did. Past rows of taxis blocking intersections, through the quiet streets, until we got our bearings and found our way to the center of town where we had chille rellenos at 11 p.m. at what we like to call the Mexican Dennys. That´s an insult, because this place is so much better, with three floors and live music every night, but it still feels like a diner and hence the name. The waiters here are great. You all look tired. Sit down. Have something to eat.
What´s going on with the taxistas, we ask.
Oh, a little problem. Nothing serious at all. It is almost over. Relax! Have a beer! Tell me how was the beach?
We were quite mellow and unsuspecting when we got into our collectivo van to make the trip back to Oaxaca. We got to the station a bit early, so we could get tortas for the trip. We should have known something was up when the van tried to leave and I had to stop it and run to drag lisa and nell from the restaurant -- without the sandwiches. The van left 10 minutes EARLY, which is extremely suspicious for any form of transportation in Mexico.
Our van down to Puerto was comfortable and spacious. This one had no leg room, and the seats were about as wide as my head, so we travelled hip to hip (or lap to lap in the case of one portly man who was sitting next to me for an hour).
Our driver looked pleasant enough but we quickly realized he was insane. He managed to text his friends by cell and talk on the CB radio as he gunned through every curve and twist in the mountain roads, tires sqealing, transmission groaning, chickens and goats scattering. We just missed several burros, who placidly stare at the careening van and stand their ground. My hunch is there are no winners in van v. burro collisions.
All this was nauseating, but I was sitting scrunched against the door of the van, which clunked and rattled as though it would swing open every time senor loco took a right turn. We didn´t stop for six hours, and then it was only so he could get gas. Nell and I went to the bathroom and Lisa stayed in the van, a good thing since she was there to stop Senor Loco when he tried to leave without us.
(I learned today that this is common, and if you ever find yourself traveling by collectivo, either leave someone behind when you go to the bathroom or make sure you have a backup plan.)
The guy´s patter on the CB never let up. And it was ridiculous. I couldn´t understand much of it -- slang. But it sounded like he was repeating the same joke over and over to different chaufers along the route. There was also a lengthy conversation about what and where he would eat when he got to Oaxaca , which sucked because we were all hungry. His constant twitching, talking, texting made us suspect he was on speed.
The van wasn´t full, so we spent the whole ride picking up people and dropping them off (the reason the collectivo is supposed to be a great way to go is because if it´s full, it doesn´t make any stops, other than rest stops)
After we got out of the mountains, I figured at least we weren´t going to fall off a cliff or get into an accident. But the scariest part was yet to come. Laughing into the CB about something about drugs, the driver swung off the road and into the middle of an empty field or ranch, looking for someone he was supposed to be picking up (we think). It was 9 p.m. and extremely dark. (Did I mention that Senor Loco seemed to have some issue with using his headlights -- he kept turning them off.)
Anyway, he kept calling back via phone and CB for directions, and driving on a dirt burro track. We all had visions of getting robbed, of the driver being picked off for some offense, or of some kind of trap or set up. Of jumping out or being abandoned or losing the transmission and getting lost in the desert a la Babel. Everyone in the van - including the men - was leaning forward, looking nervously at eachother, shrugging shoulders, lifting eyebrows. Loco finally gave up, after about 20 minutes or half hour, and we were relieved, eventually, to see the lights of a highway.
As we got closer to Oaxaca though, it was clear that there were problems in the city. Ah la mecha! the driver kept yelling into his CB. Annoying, but fortunately, I didn´t learn what this means until today. (It´s about to explode!)
The taxistas were on strike, the other drivers were telling Senor Loco. They blockaded all the roads into the city. The governor of Oaxaca had the two main leaders of the taxistas jailed either just before or as the strike started. And this was what was prompting the Ah la mecha comment. I later learned that many who were supposed to leave Oaxaca yesterday couldn´t because they couldn´t reach the bus station or airport. So the driver just started dropping people off as close to their destination as he could get them. Traffic was so bad because so few streets were open. No one was going in the right direction -- lots of cases of three lanes of traffic all trying to turn right into a single lane. And here I admit I was happy to be riding high with Senor Loco because you had to be to navigate that mess. When he drove the wrong way down three lanes of oncoming traffic, over a wide median, and into a street that had been blockaded, I decided he was my new best friend. Go Mr. Loco!
Suddenly he stopped the van, got out and started throwing our backpacks on the sidewalk. We had NO idea where we were. Walk! The station is that way, he said, gesturing vaguely . So we did. Past rows of taxis blocking intersections, through the quiet streets, until we got our bearings and found our way to the center of town where we had chille rellenos at 11 p.m. at what we like to call the Mexican Dennys. That´s an insult, because this place is so much better, with three floors and live music every night, but it still feels like a diner and hence the name. The waiters here are great. You all look tired. Sit down. Have something to eat.
What´s going on with the taxistas, we ask.
Oh, a little problem. Nothing serious at all. It is almost over. Relax! Have a beer! Tell me how was the beach?
# posted by Anne @ 3:13 PM 
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Ah, how that brought back memories, especially of the long-distance taxis in Tunisia and one in particular where my argument in German (our only shared language) with the driver about the poor manners of Tunisian men, while a six-member nomad family stuffed into the back seat listened in, was disrupted only by unscheduled stops to fix no less than three flat tires along the way. Glad you're ok...
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