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chapter 28
And so our expedition was reunited--for the moment at least. "If we can't make it through, I can always come back," MacClayne said as he boarded the bus and sat down.
Before long we'd emerged from the town, and to our surprise the road was a blacktop in excellent condition. Perhaps that was what we should have expected; after all, what we'd seen the previous day indicated that Colima was a prosperous state with good roads.
We sped along on a broad, flat coastal plain. Along both sides of the road were large groves of grapefruit, oranges and limes, as well as banana palms and even a few plantings of tall coconut palms. Everything was lush and green.
"Like a tropical paradise!" MacClayne said.
"It sure looks like one," I said, almost disbelievingly. "But you know something? It is one. This is the tropics!"
"We're in it!"
"That's right! This is it and we're here!"
The sun was shining. The day was bright. Fresh warm air flowed in through the open windows of the bus and brushed soothingly across our faces and through Cuauhtémoc's feathers. He seemed to enjoy it as much as we did.
And we could hear ourselves talk. No sounds of banging or crashing or splashing through mud, just the steady hum of the well-tuned motor as we rolled along. The smoothness of the road itself was almost enough to make this seem like paradise.
After half an hour we came to a wide river which we crossed on a broad, well-constructed, comfortable bridge. This had to be the Río Coahuayana, the same watercourse which cut the deep canyon we'd crossed the afternoon before.
"Back on the map!" I said, and dug it out of my pack.
"You mean we're in Michoacán?"
"Nothing less. That river was the boundary."
It felt good to be once again in the state where I'd spent all these months and met Chayo. It was also a state for which I had a map. The smooth road continued, and so did the lush groves of citrus trees, coconut and banana palms.
Up ahead the landscape seemed about to change. A high mountain ridge loomed up and cut off everything beyond. Soon we were ascending a road which was carved into the face of a steep cliff. The plain fell below us and spread out as far as we could see with its groves and orchards. Our road remained good, and we climbed at a smooth, steady rate in second gear, and then, as we rounded a bend, the plain disappeared behind. In front of us, blue water extended out till it met the sky.
The Pacific Ocean. It was like seeing an old friend after a long absence. It was directly under us as we sped along, high on the edge of the steep cliff. White foam surged as waves crashed on the jagged rocks below.
Bend after bend, we wound our way along on this well-paved road. Below us a promontory jutted out into the sea; on both sides of it were inviting-looking coves with sandy beaches. Then we turned inland, and climbed still higher to a place where cactus grew all around. There was broad, disk-like nopal, and the tall, round trunks of what I took to be saguaro.
"We're in a cactus forest," I said in surprise, thinking of how only minutes before we'd been looking at banana palms.
Eventually we rounded a lengthy curve, and there, far below us, stretched a long, crescent-shaped beach. Waves washed up on the sands and dissolved into white foam and mist. Tall slender coconut palms bordered the beach, and behind them was a flat, wedge-shaped valley, enclosed by mountains. Everything sparkled in the sunshine; the water was blue and the foam was white and everything else was green.
It was a tiny world, maybe ten kilometers across, completely isolated and all to itself--as indeed it must have been until this modern road was carved into these cliffs.
Small and distant, down in the middle of the valley, was a cluster of habitations. A few had the customary red-tiled roofs; most buildings were a brown or tan that blended with the lush green vegetation that surrounded them.
"A Mexican Shangri-La," I remarked.
Our road began to descend the barren, cactus-covered mountainside, and MacClayne recalled the words of a Scottish poet:
Could I find a bonnie glen,
warm and calm, warm and calm;
free fray din, and far fray men.
"Robert Burns?" I said.
"No, it was by a woman, I think her name was Grant. A lot of people, a good many Scots among them, seem to think that Robbie Burns was the only poet that Scotland ever produced. We've had quite a few, but nobody pays them much heed."
White clouds floated across the deep blue sky, and warm air continued to stream in through the windows as our bus slowly descended the mountainside, out of the cactus thicket and down onto the plain where we once again passed between groves of banana palms and citrus orchards.
Soon we entered the village and came to a halt at what seemed to be the plaza, although it was unlike others I'd seen, resembling more a big empty hay field. Teams were playing soccer to the cheers of a few dozen fans. There was no arcade, and only a handful of buildings along one side. At one end were numerous vendors in makeshift stalls under palm leaf roofs.
"It looks like market day," MacClayne commented as we got off the bus.
Parked along one side of the plaza was the bus with the destination reading FARO, probably the one that had departed without us while we sat there talking about Portugal.
"Where is Faro, anyway?" I kept wondering. It didn't seem to be on the map.
MacClayne was beaming with delight, and we exchanged exclamations of wonder at finding ourselves in this bonnie glen.
"Shangri-La!"
"Tropical paradise!"
"And we're finally in it!"
Cuauhtémoc flapped his wings and crowed lustily, as though to announce our arrival. In addition to all else, it was good to see MacClayne in such a good mood.
A few houses were made of concrete, but in this place not even concrete could be ugly. Most were mud wattle, however. A few had red-tiled roofs, and some used a type of corrugated tar paper called carton. The majority were thatched with palm fronds or grass.
A couple blocks seaward of the plaza we came to a restaurant. The thatched roof was made of palm leaves, held up by wooden poles over a dirt floor. There was really no door, just a broad opening in a low wall. It was elegant simplicity, done in the local style.
"Like something I'd expect to see in the South Pacific," I said.
"Shall we go in and have coffee?"
As we entered, a guy sitting with an attractive woman said something, laughed, and then ducked as the woman struck him with a token slap. They both laughed. The place was about half full; there were maybe a dozen people.
We selected a place at one side of the room. The wall beside us was only about table high. It consisted of palm fronds woven together, and Cuauhtémoc chose it as his perch.
"Even the waitress somehow looks Polynesian. A bit heavy-set, but cute," said MacClayne.
She was carrying a dish to a fellow at the next table. It looked like chile verde.
"Ask what that is," MacClayne said. "I might have some."
"So will I," I said. "We might as well eat now that we have the chance."
It was early for dinner. But we had no idea where the rest of the day might take us, where night might find us.
"La Placita--is that where we are?" MacClayne said.
"That's what it said on the bus. But who knows. We might have gotten off in the wrong town."
"If so, a fortuitous mistake."
We both laughed.
When the waitress came to take our orders I asked her, and she confirmed that this was indeed La Placita. She smiled admiringly at Cuauhtémoc.
"¿Su mascota?" she asked.
"Mi amiguito," I said.
Cuauhtémoc flapped his wings and crowed. Everyone in the place turned to look and grin; the bird seemed to enjoy the attention. I told the waitress to bring us two plates of whatever the guy next to us was eating, and for Cuauhtémoc I poured some oats from my pack into a dish.
"What would La Placita mean?" MacClayne wondered.
I shook my head.
"No big thing," he said, "I was just curious."
"Well, I'm also curious," I said, and I asked the waitress when she came by again.
"Plaza chiquita, o lugar de mercado," she told us.
I was about to translate for MacClayne, but he'd caught the gist of it. "The flea market?" he said.
"I'd say that's a good translation."
She asked us where we were from; MacClayne spoke for both of us. "Somos de California," he said.
A couple of tables off to one side a threesome were talking and drinking soda pop, and from time to time they burst out laughing. On the other side of us a couple of young guys waved their beer bottles and greeted us in English: "Hello! Are you from California?" They'd apparently heard what we'd told the waitress.
MacClayne handled the English department, just as I normally took care of the Spanish side of things. He responded with his usual cheerfulness, but avoided any implied invitation to have a beer. While he chatted with them, I idly contemplated the other patrons of this establishment.
The man eating chile verde wore expensive riding boots and a wide-brimmed hat with a tassel. He was middle-aged, and I guessed him to be a fairly well-off rancher, one that might own a few dozen head of cattle and probably a pickup truck. At this moment he was joined by a younger man who noticed me as he entered, and kept his eyes fixed on me as he walked up to the rancher's table and sat down. Of course everybody in the place was looking at us, but this guy was staring rudely, both at me and also at Cuauhtémoc. He was about my age and rather handsome, but the very bones of his face seemed to radiate hostility. I was sure I'd seen him before.
I returned his gaze. He said something to the rancher, who also turned to glance at me, then they both turned away. Our meals came, and I began eating. When I looked again, both men had left.
The waitress passed by to see if we needed anything more, and I made use of the opportunity to ask about the two men, but she didn't know them. "No son de aquí," she said. After she was on her way, MacClayne again commented on her Polynesian looks. I guessed he was envisioning her in a grass skirt. Or perhaps without a grass skirt.
A gentle, refreshing ocean breeze passed through from time to time. Everything added to the South Sea island atmosphere of this restaurant. The wooden table and the chairs we sat on were crudely built, probably in a local workshop. But the very artlessness of them matched the dirt floor and the palm-thatched roof overhead. It all added to the charm.
"Tropical paradise at last!" We kept saying it again and again and again, as if to overcome disbelief and reassure ourselves that this was absolutely real. "Tropical paradise!"
"Our bonnie glen."
"Warm and calm. Warm and calm," MacClayne said. "I'm glad I came with you today."
The sun was out, the storm was over. The rain and cold were done with, at least for now. This was so different from the cold, dark, impenetrable, rain-soaked jungle we'd expected to land in.
Cuauhtémoc crowed repeatedly and ate with carefree enthusiasm, splashing his water and scattering his oats into our dishes, but today that only seemed to heighten MacClayne's euphoric mood. As we finished our meal and ordered coffee, he began recounting happy memories of acquaintances from decades past.
* * *
Back in the plaza we looked for oranges since we needed to stock up before continuing on down the road towards Lázaro. There weren't any hotels in La Placita, so we planned to spend the night on the beach.
"¡Ganamos!"
I looked around to see where the shout came from. More followed. "¡Ganamos! ¡Arriba . . .!"
The soccer game that we'd seen being played when we arrived in town had finally ended and fans were cheering wildly. There weren't that many, but what they lacked in number, they made up for in enthusiasm and alcohol consumption. Empty beer cans lay everywhere, as did some passed-out fans.
"¡Ganamos!" shouted one in our direction to let us know his team had won. The commotion was just up ahead of us.
"¡Les felicito!" I replied to express congratulations as we walked past. MacClayne did likewise.
"¡Salud!" yelled a fan, holding up his beer. Another stepped in front of me and drunkenly invited us to join their victory celebration and drink heartily. I started to protest that we were in a hurry and had to go, but, before I could say even that, we were surrounded by four or five well-pickled soccer fans.
One grabbed MacClayne, and another shoved a bottle in his face. Just as MacClayne jerked his arm loose, I felt a hand on my wrist. Cuauhtémoc jabbed his beak into the hand, which immediately let go of me. MacClayne took off running and so did I.
At this moment a bus came driving by.
"¡ESPÉRANOS!" I shouted to the driver, and we ran towards the bus with the fans stumbling in pursuit.
The bus slowed down and opened the door while we ran alongside and jumped aboard. Once we were in, the driver gunned the engine and we roared off down the road.
"¡Arriba los Hueros!" shouted a passenger. The rest joined in, applauding and laughing. "¡Arriba . . .!"
For a moment I was startled, then I waved to our audience and said, "¡Ganamos!"
More laughter. The bus was full of amused passengers.
We sat down to catch our breath. "They're cheering us on our escape," I said to MacClayne.
"I guess we have fans too," he said with a grin and waved to the other passengers. Cuauhtémoc perched on my knee and crowed lustily. I gave him a hug. "You were wonderful!" I said. "My warrior chicken!"
Everybody on the bus was chattering and laughing. Those sitting near us congratulated us as though we were the winning team in that race. Nobody said anything in the way of condemning the drunken soccer fans. Their behavior had been perhaps a bit outrageous, but their actions seemed to amuse rather than shock.
"Where's this bus headed?" MacClayne said.
I asked another passenger. "Aquila," he replied.
"Aquila?" MacClayne repeated. "Did he say Aquila?"
For a moment MacClayne and I looked at each other, then out the window. We now were in the upper part of this small valley, on a narrow but well-paved road that followed a river upstream.
"Maybe it was our destiny to visit Aquila," MacClayne said.
"No question about it. This too is part of being on the road to Apatzingán," I said. "It's traditional for travelers in search of fabled cities, holy grails and golden fleeces to encounter numerous adventures along the way. Just think of all the things that Jason and the Argonauts experienced during their voyage."
"And Odysseus on his way home," he said. "By the way, when we get to Aquila, is there a road that continues on to anywhere?"
"Apparently not," I said. "We'll have to go back to La Placita and set out again from there."
The conductor came by and I paid our tickets.
The valley had narrowed, and soon there was no valley, just a canyon with the small river which we crossed back and forth. Instead of bridges there were concrete fording structures that made the river easy to drive across. "El Río Maquilí," a fellow across the aisle told us.
We passed a waterfall cascading down from the cliff above the road. Four or five children stood under it, enjoying themselves.
"Michoacán es bonito, ¿no?" a woman across the aisle said to me.
"Sí, lo es," I affirmed. I was pleased to find that these people were aware of the natural beauty of their surroundings. In the years before I'd met so many people who were bored by the scenery around them.
The road twisted and turned as we rode on, but it remained paved, and the ride was smooth. Nor did the grade seem very steep. Although we were getting deeper into the mountains, we didn't seem to be that high up. There were no pines, just the broadleaf trees of lower altitudes.
In half an hour we arrived in Aquila. Had we hoofed it over the mountains as originally planned, this is the town we would have passed through on our way to the coast. After our lengthy detour through Colima, we were now twenty kilometers from Villa Victoria as the bird flies. As we got off the bus, I glanced around the plaza. Aquila seemed pleasantly tropical rather than hot and dusty.
Although hardly more than a village, this town was the local administrative center for an area which included La Placita and a large section of the coast. There was only one hotel. It was built of concrete with a brick facade; as concrete buildings go, it was nicely done. In front grew a cluster of leafy banana palms.
A lady of about forty appeared. She showed us a room, and as she was unlocking the door, she said in a husky voice that was almost charming, "Here you must pay in advance."
"How much?" I asked.
"Eighty pesos for the two of you."
"Are there blankets?" I asked her as we entered. There were only sheets on the beds.
"It doesn't get cold here, but I'll get you some blankets."
The room was rather nice, and above all, clean. In the courtyard were a couple of large shade trees.
We moved in, set our things down, and then spent the next fifteen minutes exchanging comments on the filthy hotel in which we'd spent the previous night back in Tecomán. We hadn't said much of anything about it while we were there, but we said it now.
"When you're in a lousy place, you don't really want to think of how crummy it is," I remarked, "But when you move on to something nice, then you think back and compare. And you know, that place we stayed in last night was downright filthy."
"Old chewing gum stuck to the bedposts, cobwebs everywhere, filthy sheets, and they overcharged us," MacClayne said. "Well, we're in a decent place now."
"Those soccer fans did us a favor by chasing us up here."
It was good to be in a place where we could comfortably kick back and relax, to be off the road for the rest of the day. I suddenly discovered that I was very tired, drowsy. Perhaps it was from the excitement of the day. I lay down and fell asleep.
When I opened my eyes it was still only late afternoon. I'd slept an hour or so. On the table lay a note from MacClayne saying that he'd gone to the plaza. Cuauhtémoc was impatiently strutting about on the floor; he wanted to be out in the courtyard.
I needed to take a bath, as well as wash my clothes. My T-shirts reeked from sweat, and my trousers were mud stained from the day before when I'd sat in the spilled beer in the back of the dust-filled truck.
The entire establishment had only one shower, and there was no hot water tap, but what came out wasn't very cold. After showering I decided to wash my clothes. In the courtyard outside was a pila, and on it lay a bar of strong-smelling laundry soap. I wore my shorts, my only spare garment. I was just finishing up with my washing when I glanced around me; there stood the lady who'd rented us the room. She had a big basket of clothes she was apparently going to wash. I stepped aside so she could move in.
"You're not from around here?" she asked.
I grinned. It struck me as a polite way of noting that I was a blue-eyed person who spoke Spanish with a foreign accent. I told her my partner and I were from California, and that we planned to go down the coast to Lázaro. "I heard that pickup trucks get through," I said, and asked her opinion.
"They did--until the storm. People from Lázaro sometimes come to this hotel, but not for some weeks now."
"Are the bridges washed out?"
"There were no bridges. The arroyos were swollen with water; creeks turned into rivers. Vehicles couldn't cross." She talked as she washed clothes, scrubbing them on the washboard surface of the pila.
"It's been that bad?"
She nodded. "But I suppose you're still going that way?"
"We're hoping to."
"Well, the storm is over. You might get through, it's hard to say," She said. "So, what brought you to Aquila?"
"Destiny," I said, and told her of our escape from the drunken soccer fans. A little girl came by to ask her something. I assumed it was her daughter, but apparently not, for the girl addressed her as doña Matilda.
I hung my clothes on a line to dry and came back to continue the conversation. She told me stories and anecdotes about the region, as well as place names and their origins. The promontory and cliffs we'd crossed that afternoon had been known for centuries as Punta Suchisi. It was now called Cabeza Negra, incorrectly in her opinion.
"This is a mining town, isn't it?" I cut in to ask.
"Aquila? Nothing important. There's the Tenemastles mine, but they're not working it now."
"No?"
"But there are others," she said. "The Spaniards used to mine gold not far from here, that was at the Motín river. You'll cross it on your way to Lázaro."
"What's there now?"
"Just the river. The mine's been abandoned for centuries, since early colonial times. But until quite recently this entire region was called Río Motín de Oro."
"I guess you've read a lot about the local history."
She shook her head. "I can't read," she said. "I never went to school.
"But you seem well informed," I said, a bit surprised.
"That's what people often say about me," she said. "I don't read. But I listen."
She'd finished her washing, but we continued to chat. "But forgive me," she said. "I forgot to introduce myself. My name is . . ."
"¿Doña Matilda?" I said, interrupting. "I heard the little girl call you that a few minutes ago."
She laughed. "I see you listen too."
"And I'm Olaf," I said. "My partner is MacClayne, and my bird's name is Cuauhtémoc." I glanced around. The bird was scratching under a tree. "By the way, where can I find a phone? One to make long distance calls."
"Where to?"
"Uruapan."
She let me use the office phone, and the bird sat on my arm, presumably expecting to hear Chayo's voice. Eventually I got through to doña Rosario, Chayo's aunt.
"Olaf! Is that you? Where are you?"
"Aquila."
"Aquila? Where's Aquila?"
We spoke for a few minutes. Chayo had departed on her journey for Chiapas, doña Rosario told me. She'd left Uruapan the same day I had.
continued in Chapter 29
Before long we'd emerged from the town, and to our surprise the road was a blacktop in excellent condition. Perhaps that was what we should have expected; after all, what we'd seen the previous day indicated that Colima was a prosperous state with good roads.
We sped along on a broad, flat coastal plain. Along both sides of the road were large groves of grapefruit, oranges and limes, as well as banana palms and even a few plantings of tall coconut palms. Everything was lush and green.
"Like a tropical paradise!" MacClayne said.
"It sure looks like one," I said, almost disbelievingly. "But you know something? It is one. This is the tropics!"
"We're in it!"
"That's right! This is it and we're here!"
The sun was shining. The day was bright. Fresh warm air flowed in through the open windows of the bus and brushed soothingly across our faces and through Cuauhtémoc's feathers. He seemed to enjoy it as much as we did.
And we could hear ourselves talk. No sounds of banging or crashing or splashing through mud, just the steady hum of the well-tuned motor as we rolled along. The smoothness of the road itself was almost enough to make this seem like paradise.
After half an hour we came to a wide river which we crossed on a broad, well-constructed, comfortable bridge. This had to be the Río Coahuayana, the same watercourse which cut the deep canyon we'd crossed the afternoon before.
"Back on the map!" I said, and dug it out of my pack.
"You mean we're in Michoacán?"
"Nothing less. That river was the boundary."
It felt good to be once again in the state where I'd spent all these months and met Chayo. It was also a state for which I had a map. The smooth road continued, and so did the lush groves of citrus trees, coconut and banana palms.
Up ahead the landscape seemed about to change. A high mountain ridge loomed up and cut off everything beyond. Soon we were ascending a road which was carved into the face of a steep cliff. The plain fell below us and spread out as far as we could see with its groves and orchards. Our road remained good, and we climbed at a smooth, steady rate in second gear, and then, as we rounded a bend, the plain disappeared behind. In front of us, blue water extended out till it met the sky.
The Pacific Ocean. It was like seeing an old friend after a long absence. It was directly under us as we sped along, high on the edge of the steep cliff. White foam surged as waves crashed on the jagged rocks below.
Bend after bend, we wound our way along on this well-paved road. Below us a promontory jutted out into the sea; on both sides of it were inviting-looking coves with sandy beaches. Then we turned inland, and climbed still higher to a place where cactus grew all around. There was broad, disk-like nopal, and the tall, round trunks of what I took to be saguaro.
"We're in a cactus forest," I said in surprise, thinking of how only minutes before we'd been looking at banana palms.
Eventually we rounded a lengthy curve, and there, far below us, stretched a long, crescent-shaped beach. Waves washed up on the sands and dissolved into white foam and mist. Tall slender coconut palms bordered the beach, and behind them was a flat, wedge-shaped valley, enclosed by mountains. Everything sparkled in the sunshine; the water was blue and the foam was white and everything else was green.
It was a tiny world, maybe ten kilometers across, completely isolated and all to itself--as indeed it must have been until this modern road was carved into these cliffs.
Small and distant, down in the middle of the valley, was a cluster of habitations. A few had the customary red-tiled roofs; most buildings were a brown or tan that blended with the lush green vegetation that surrounded them.
"A Mexican Shangri-La," I remarked.
Our road began to descend the barren, cactus-covered mountainside, and MacClayne recalled the words of a Scottish poet:
Could I find a bonnie glen,
warm and calm, warm and calm;
free fray din, and far fray men.
"Robert Burns?" I said.
"No, it was by a woman, I think her name was Grant. A lot of people, a good many Scots among them, seem to think that Robbie Burns was the only poet that Scotland ever produced. We've had quite a few, but nobody pays them much heed."
White clouds floated across the deep blue sky, and warm air continued to stream in through the windows as our bus slowly descended the mountainside, out of the cactus thicket and down onto the plain where we once again passed between groves of banana palms and citrus orchards.
Soon we entered the village and came to a halt at what seemed to be the plaza, although it was unlike others I'd seen, resembling more a big empty hay field. Teams were playing soccer to the cheers of a few dozen fans. There was no arcade, and only a handful of buildings along one side. At one end were numerous vendors in makeshift stalls under palm leaf roofs.
"It looks like market day," MacClayne commented as we got off the bus.
Parked along one side of the plaza was the bus with the destination reading FARO, probably the one that had departed without us while we sat there talking about Portugal.
"Where is Faro, anyway?" I kept wondering. It didn't seem to be on the map.
MacClayne was beaming with delight, and we exchanged exclamations of wonder at finding ourselves in this bonnie glen.
"Shangri-La!"
"Tropical paradise!"
"And we're finally in it!"
Cuauhtémoc flapped his wings and crowed lustily, as though to announce our arrival. In addition to all else, it was good to see MacClayne in such a good mood.
A few houses were made of concrete, but in this place not even concrete could be ugly. Most were mud wattle, however. A few had red-tiled roofs, and some used a type of corrugated tar paper called carton. The majority were thatched with palm fronds or grass.
A couple blocks seaward of the plaza we came to a restaurant. The thatched roof was made of palm leaves, held up by wooden poles over a dirt floor. There was really no door, just a broad opening in a low wall. It was elegant simplicity, done in the local style.
"Like something I'd expect to see in the South Pacific," I said.
"Shall we go in and have coffee?"
As we entered, a guy sitting with an attractive woman said something, laughed, and then ducked as the woman struck him with a token slap. They both laughed. The place was about half full; there were maybe a dozen people.
We selected a place at one side of the room. The wall beside us was only about table high. It consisted of palm fronds woven together, and Cuauhtémoc chose it as his perch.
"Even the waitress somehow looks Polynesian. A bit heavy-set, but cute," said MacClayne.
She was carrying a dish to a fellow at the next table. It looked like chile verde.
"Ask what that is," MacClayne said. "I might have some."
"So will I," I said. "We might as well eat now that we have the chance."
It was early for dinner. But we had no idea where the rest of the day might take us, where night might find us.
"La Placita--is that where we are?" MacClayne said.
"That's what it said on the bus. But who knows. We might have gotten off in the wrong town."
"If so, a fortuitous mistake."
We both laughed.
When the waitress came to take our orders I asked her, and she confirmed that this was indeed La Placita. She smiled admiringly at Cuauhtémoc.
"¿Su mascota?" she asked.
"Mi amiguito," I said.
Cuauhtémoc flapped his wings and crowed. Everyone in the place turned to look and grin; the bird seemed to enjoy the attention. I told the waitress to bring us two plates of whatever the guy next to us was eating, and for Cuauhtémoc I poured some oats from my pack into a dish.
"What would La Placita mean?" MacClayne wondered.
I shook my head.
"No big thing," he said, "I was just curious."
"Well, I'm also curious," I said, and I asked the waitress when she came by again.
"Plaza chiquita, o lugar de mercado," she told us.
I was about to translate for MacClayne, but he'd caught the gist of it. "The flea market?" he said.
"I'd say that's a good translation."
She asked us where we were from; MacClayne spoke for both of us. "Somos de California," he said.
A couple of tables off to one side a threesome were talking and drinking soda pop, and from time to time they burst out laughing. On the other side of us a couple of young guys waved their beer bottles and greeted us in English: "Hello! Are you from California?" They'd apparently heard what we'd told the waitress.
MacClayne handled the English department, just as I normally took care of the Spanish side of things. He responded with his usual cheerfulness, but avoided any implied invitation to have a beer. While he chatted with them, I idly contemplated the other patrons of this establishment.
The man eating chile verde wore expensive riding boots and a wide-brimmed hat with a tassel. He was middle-aged, and I guessed him to be a fairly well-off rancher, one that might own a few dozen head of cattle and probably a pickup truck. At this moment he was joined by a younger man who noticed me as he entered, and kept his eyes fixed on me as he walked up to the rancher's table and sat down. Of course everybody in the place was looking at us, but this guy was staring rudely, both at me and also at Cuauhtémoc. He was about my age and rather handsome, but the very bones of his face seemed to radiate hostility. I was sure I'd seen him before.
I returned his gaze. He said something to the rancher, who also turned to glance at me, then they both turned away. Our meals came, and I began eating. When I looked again, both men had left.
The waitress passed by to see if we needed anything more, and I made use of the opportunity to ask about the two men, but she didn't know them. "No son de aquí," she said. After she was on her way, MacClayne again commented on her Polynesian looks. I guessed he was envisioning her in a grass skirt. Or perhaps without a grass skirt.
A gentle, refreshing ocean breeze passed through from time to time. Everything added to the South Sea island atmosphere of this restaurant. The wooden table and the chairs we sat on were crudely built, probably in a local workshop. But the very artlessness of them matched the dirt floor and the palm-thatched roof overhead. It all added to the charm.
"Tropical paradise at last!" We kept saying it again and again and again, as if to overcome disbelief and reassure ourselves that this was absolutely real. "Tropical paradise!"
"Our bonnie glen."
"Warm and calm. Warm and calm," MacClayne said. "I'm glad I came with you today."
The sun was out, the storm was over. The rain and cold were done with, at least for now. This was so different from the cold, dark, impenetrable, rain-soaked jungle we'd expected to land in.
Cuauhtémoc crowed repeatedly and ate with carefree enthusiasm, splashing his water and scattering his oats into our dishes, but today that only seemed to heighten MacClayne's euphoric mood. As we finished our meal and ordered coffee, he began recounting happy memories of acquaintances from decades past.
* * *
Back in the plaza we looked for oranges since we needed to stock up before continuing on down the road towards Lázaro. There weren't any hotels in La Placita, so we planned to spend the night on the beach.
"¡Ganamos!"
I looked around to see where the shout came from. More followed. "¡Ganamos! ¡Arriba . . .!"
The soccer game that we'd seen being played when we arrived in town had finally ended and fans were cheering wildly. There weren't that many, but what they lacked in number, they made up for in enthusiasm and alcohol consumption. Empty beer cans lay everywhere, as did some passed-out fans.
"¡Ganamos!" shouted one in our direction to let us know his team had won. The commotion was just up ahead of us.
"¡Les felicito!" I replied to express congratulations as we walked past. MacClayne did likewise.
"¡Salud!" yelled a fan, holding up his beer. Another stepped in front of me and drunkenly invited us to join their victory celebration and drink heartily. I started to protest that we were in a hurry and had to go, but, before I could say even that, we were surrounded by four or five well-pickled soccer fans.
One grabbed MacClayne, and another shoved a bottle in his face. Just as MacClayne jerked his arm loose, I felt a hand on my wrist. Cuauhtémoc jabbed his beak into the hand, which immediately let go of me. MacClayne took off running and so did I.
At this moment a bus came driving by.
"¡ESPÉRANOS!" I shouted to the driver, and we ran towards the bus with the fans stumbling in pursuit.
The bus slowed down and opened the door while we ran alongside and jumped aboard. Once we were in, the driver gunned the engine and we roared off down the road.
"¡Arriba los Hueros!" shouted a passenger. The rest joined in, applauding and laughing. "¡Arriba . . .!"
For a moment I was startled, then I waved to our audience and said, "¡Ganamos!"
More laughter. The bus was full of amused passengers.
We sat down to catch our breath. "They're cheering us on our escape," I said to MacClayne.
"I guess we have fans too," he said with a grin and waved to the other passengers. Cuauhtémoc perched on my knee and crowed lustily. I gave him a hug. "You were wonderful!" I said. "My warrior chicken!"
Everybody on the bus was chattering and laughing. Those sitting near us congratulated us as though we were the winning team in that race. Nobody said anything in the way of condemning the drunken soccer fans. Their behavior had been perhaps a bit outrageous, but their actions seemed to amuse rather than shock.
"Where's this bus headed?" MacClayne said.
I asked another passenger. "Aquila," he replied.
"Aquila?" MacClayne repeated. "Did he say Aquila?"
For a moment MacClayne and I looked at each other, then out the window. We now were in the upper part of this small valley, on a narrow but well-paved road that followed a river upstream.
"Maybe it was our destiny to visit Aquila," MacClayne said.
"No question about it. This too is part of being on the road to Apatzingán," I said. "It's traditional for travelers in search of fabled cities, holy grails and golden fleeces to encounter numerous adventures along the way. Just think of all the things that Jason and the Argonauts experienced during their voyage."
"And Odysseus on his way home," he said. "By the way, when we get to Aquila, is there a road that continues on to anywhere?"
"Apparently not," I said. "We'll have to go back to La Placita and set out again from there."
The conductor came by and I paid our tickets.
The valley had narrowed, and soon there was no valley, just a canyon with the small river which we crossed back and forth. Instead of bridges there were concrete fording structures that made the river easy to drive across. "El Río Maquilí," a fellow across the aisle told us.
We passed a waterfall cascading down from the cliff above the road. Four or five children stood under it, enjoying themselves.
"Michoacán es bonito, ¿no?" a woman across the aisle said to me.
"Sí, lo es," I affirmed. I was pleased to find that these people were aware of the natural beauty of their surroundings. In the years before I'd met so many people who were bored by the scenery around them.
The road twisted and turned as we rode on, but it remained paved, and the ride was smooth. Nor did the grade seem very steep. Although we were getting deeper into the mountains, we didn't seem to be that high up. There were no pines, just the broadleaf trees of lower altitudes.
In half an hour we arrived in Aquila. Had we hoofed it over the mountains as originally planned, this is the town we would have passed through on our way to the coast. After our lengthy detour through Colima, we were now twenty kilometers from Villa Victoria as the bird flies. As we got off the bus, I glanced around the plaza. Aquila seemed pleasantly tropical rather than hot and dusty.
Although hardly more than a village, this town was the local administrative center for an area which included La Placita and a large section of the coast. There was only one hotel. It was built of concrete with a brick facade; as concrete buildings go, it was nicely done. In front grew a cluster of leafy banana palms.
A lady of about forty appeared. She showed us a room, and as she was unlocking the door, she said in a husky voice that was almost charming, "Here you must pay in advance."
"How much?" I asked.
"Eighty pesos for the two of you."
"Are there blankets?" I asked her as we entered. There were only sheets on the beds.
"It doesn't get cold here, but I'll get you some blankets."
The room was rather nice, and above all, clean. In the courtyard were a couple of large shade trees.
We moved in, set our things down, and then spent the next fifteen minutes exchanging comments on the filthy hotel in which we'd spent the previous night back in Tecomán. We hadn't said much of anything about it while we were there, but we said it now.
"When you're in a lousy place, you don't really want to think of how crummy it is," I remarked, "But when you move on to something nice, then you think back and compare. And you know, that place we stayed in last night was downright filthy."
"Old chewing gum stuck to the bedposts, cobwebs everywhere, filthy sheets, and they overcharged us," MacClayne said. "Well, we're in a decent place now."
"Those soccer fans did us a favor by chasing us up here."
It was good to be in a place where we could comfortably kick back and relax, to be off the road for the rest of the day. I suddenly discovered that I was very tired, drowsy. Perhaps it was from the excitement of the day. I lay down and fell asleep.
When I opened my eyes it was still only late afternoon. I'd slept an hour or so. On the table lay a note from MacClayne saying that he'd gone to the plaza. Cuauhtémoc was impatiently strutting about on the floor; he wanted to be out in the courtyard.
I needed to take a bath, as well as wash my clothes. My T-shirts reeked from sweat, and my trousers were mud stained from the day before when I'd sat in the spilled beer in the back of the dust-filled truck.
The entire establishment had only one shower, and there was no hot water tap, but what came out wasn't very cold. After showering I decided to wash my clothes. In the courtyard outside was a pila, and on it lay a bar of strong-smelling laundry soap. I wore my shorts, my only spare garment. I was just finishing up with my washing when I glanced around me; there stood the lady who'd rented us the room. She had a big basket of clothes she was apparently going to wash. I stepped aside so she could move in.
"You're not from around here?" she asked.
I grinned. It struck me as a polite way of noting that I was a blue-eyed person who spoke Spanish with a foreign accent. I told her my partner and I were from California, and that we planned to go down the coast to Lázaro. "I heard that pickup trucks get through," I said, and asked her opinion.
"They did--until the storm. People from Lázaro sometimes come to this hotel, but not for some weeks now."
"Are the bridges washed out?"
"There were no bridges. The arroyos were swollen with water; creeks turned into rivers. Vehicles couldn't cross." She talked as she washed clothes, scrubbing them on the washboard surface of the pila.
"It's been that bad?"
She nodded. "But I suppose you're still going that way?"
"We're hoping to."
"Well, the storm is over. You might get through, it's hard to say," She said. "So, what brought you to Aquila?"
"Destiny," I said, and told her of our escape from the drunken soccer fans. A little girl came by to ask her something. I assumed it was her daughter, but apparently not, for the girl addressed her as doña Matilda.
I hung my clothes on a line to dry and came back to continue the conversation. She told me stories and anecdotes about the region, as well as place names and their origins. The promontory and cliffs we'd crossed that afternoon had been known for centuries as Punta Suchisi. It was now called Cabeza Negra, incorrectly in her opinion.
"This is a mining town, isn't it?" I cut in to ask.
"Aquila? Nothing important. There's the Tenemastles mine, but they're not working it now."
"No?"
"But there are others," she said. "The Spaniards used to mine gold not far from here, that was at the Motín river. You'll cross it on your way to Lázaro."
"What's there now?"
"Just the river. The mine's been abandoned for centuries, since early colonial times. But until quite recently this entire region was called Río Motín de Oro."
"I guess you've read a lot about the local history."
She shook her head. "I can't read," she said. "I never went to school.
"But you seem well informed," I said, a bit surprised.
"That's what people often say about me," she said. "I don't read. But I listen."
She'd finished her washing, but we continued to chat. "But forgive me," she said. "I forgot to introduce myself. My name is . . ."
"¿Doña Matilda?" I said, interrupting. "I heard the little girl call you that a few minutes ago."
She laughed. "I see you listen too."
"And I'm Olaf," I said. "My partner is MacClayne, and my bird's name is Cuauhtémoc." I glanced around. The bird was scratching under a tree. "By the way, where can I find a phone? One to make long distance calls."
"Where to?"
"Uruapan."
She let me use the office phone, and the bird sat on my arm, presumably expecting to hear Chayo's voice. Eventually I got through to doña Rosario, Chayo's aunt.
"Olaf! Is that you? Where are you?"
"Aquila."
"Aquila? Where's Aquila?"
We spoke for a few minutes. Chayo had departed on her journey for Chiapas, doña Rosario told me. She'd left Uruapan the same day I had.
continued in Chapter 29
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