The West Coast of Mexico
No Como Carne
OK, so we cheated a little. Nogales was a pretty down and gritty town. Once we crossed the border, we decided it might be wise to take a train and so amongst all the hustle and bustle of the Spanish-speaking Mexican town living we managed to find our way to the train station to buy our tickets. Upon entering there was a toll guard at the gate who simply said $.50 granite $.50 is not a whole Lotta money but when you only have 100 bucks for your whole trip that definitely has some kind of impact. So I challenged the gentleman and said what is the $.50 for? He just looked at me with his eyes almost crossed And repeated $.50 very slowly.
So I pulled out a dollar and gave it to him. That paid for my brother who is with me on this journey. We got the cheapest ticket we could get so we bought third class. This meant that we sat on the floor there were no seats it was a crowded car full of Mexican families with children, running from end to end There were crates of live chickens and even goats walking freely about. It was quite an experience and well worth the cost of the journey to take us to the West Coast of Mexico. Having been on the train for a few hours, we began to get very hungry. The train pulled into a small town, and more people entered. I remember seeing the cactuses and palm trees as I looked out the window after standing up to stretch my legs, I noticed Federales walking about with their submachine guns, and Hand-grenades stuck on their chest vest. We had no Spanish-speaking skills whatsoever.
However, I did carry a translation book in my pocket and I was able to find phrases that I wanted to communicate that I awkwardly expressed to my southern neighbors. It wasn’t long before a man entered the train car with a flat large tray and straps that went over each of his shoulders to hold it level.
However, I did carry a translation book in my pocket and I was able to find phrases that I wanted to communicate that I awkwardly expressed to my southern neighbors. It wasn’t long before a man entered the train car with a flat large tray and straps that went over each of his shoulders to hold it level.
He made his announcement as he entered the car speaking of course in Spanish saying – burrito – burrito. My mouth was watering as the smell permeated the space. I was so hungry, and I was also very committed to being a vegetarian at that particular time in my life. As he approached me, I prepared myself for what to say and I looked up the phrase ‘I do not eat meat’, so as he looked me in the eye I stared back and I said No Como Carney. He looked stunned. His round dark skin face frowned and he bellowed out the same words. Loud he said, no Como Carne? No Como Carne? The whole train car broke out into laughter.
These two young white-faced gringos had no idea of the culture that they had entered. And there were no vegetarians in this land! Everything was made with pork or beef or chicken. We would’ve starved if we didn’t alter our dietary perspectives. I must say it was one of the most delicious burritos I’ve ever eaten in my life. I see now that when you were traveling to another land that had other cultures you needed to adapt. This principle followed me through life.
After a six or seven-hour ride that had been quite grueling, having to sit on the floor of the third-class car and hear nothing but the Latin language. I was back against the wall with my head down eyes closed, tolerating my way through the experience. Finally, we arrived, I stepped down off of the train car onto the dirt ground. The heat was almost unbearable, however, as soon as you would perspire you’d be dry from the lack of humidity. I learned to accept this change and found a way to find comfort in it. With my backpack on my back, I walked out to the highway that would be equivalent to Highway 1 in California without prosperity.
It was a beautiful, lonely place, and I walked to find shade under a grove of trees next to the road where I sat on my backpack and waited for a potential ride to pass by. It was a crossroad and on the opposite corner, it was a graveyard. At one point I walked over to it and strolled among the many crucifixes and gravestones. The only thing I could understand that was inscribed on the stones were the numbers. It was a very old graveyard. Rides were very scarce so we sat there for quite some time. There was a village by the ocean a short walk from where we were. Children began to wander the road closer toward us. We had had a frisbee with us and my brother and I was throwing it back and forth to one another. When the children saw this, they came running to us in amazement. We realized that they had probably never seen a frisbee before. ‘What was this magic that these two gringos brought to their village?’ I was apprehensive to throw it to them and thinking that they might just take it and run, but I chose to trust and threw it to a younger boy who caught it, and attempted to throw it back to me. Without language to share, I was able to teach them some tricks and techniques that they picked up for it quickly. Soon they were all throwing the frisbee to one another catching it and having so much fun. It was such a beautiful site to watch these children explore to my world. Then finally a car stopped to pick us up and the young boy brought me over the frisbee. I looked at him and I took it, and as we shared a farewell smile I gave it back to him as a gift. He looked at me with such joy and happiness, I shall never forget his face and the way that he smiled at me.
Next stop Puerto Vallarta.
