August 23: The Abastos Market
There are a large number of craft-producing villages within a short bus ride of Oaxaca. But to get a bus, you must ordinarily go to the 2nd class bus terminal in the sprawling Abastos Market. Some buses leave from the terminal itself, while others leave from various locations in the market. You learn these locations only by hard experience (you can ask for directions, but will probably get conflicting advice).
In a perverse way, we look forward to our periodic forays into the Abastos Market. The market is fascinating, but it is not easy. It is not a place frequented by the wealthy class. It is a teeming, noisy, dirty place. Dust is everywhere, and loud buses belch fumes into your face until you feel queasy. We always leave somewhat exhausted, sweaty, and abraded as if by sandpaper. Of course, market regulars live in this atmosphere all day, every day.
The government recently constructed a gleaming new 1st-class bus terminal on the other side of town. But the 2nd-class terminal in the Abastos Market has been unchanged in the quarter century that we have known it. It just gets more rundown. And God help you if you need to use the bathroom.
Ancient buses arrive at the terminal through a wasteland of dust (or a sea of mud, in the short rainy season). The potholes are legendary, and get bigger by the year. Swaying buses disappear into them like struggling galleons in a storm-tossed sea, only to climb out again and make slow headway toward port.
The rare first class ride.August 23: On a 2nd-Class Bus
The U.S. State Department says that you should only take 1st-class buses in Mexico. That may be good advice, especially if you are taking a long trip. But I must admit that I have seldom felt happier, or freer, or safer than on a 2nd-class bus. For one thing, a 2nd-class bus is more interesting. There is also a feeling of humanity, community and courtesy that you will seldom experience in a place like an international airport.
On a 2nd-class bus, there is no pretense or falsehood, and there are no metal detectors or cell phones. The bus is friendly and comfortable, in a worn and homely way. The seats are shabby, and sometimes broken so they lean way back. The seat covers are dark with years of accumulated dust and exhaust, and some of the seats are held together with packing tape.
Some windows are cracked, and frozen in place. If the window is frozen in the shut position, you may get a little hot and stuffy. If open, you may be a little windblown. If the window can be adjusted, you may have to negotiate the adjustment with the person in the seat ahead. But all of these things can be managed.
The seats fill with beautiful, decent and patient people. They sit in the front if they can, in the back if they must. Sturdy middle-aged ladies push down the aisle and drop into their seats, maneuvering big plastic bags and wearing sweaters despite the heat. There are old people with weathered hands and faces, school girls dressed in uniform, Indian women carrying sleeping babies in rebozos, small children smiling shyly, and boisterous young men whistling out the window to buddies on the street.
The adventure starts as you roll out of the terminal, dust everywhere. The bus rocks from side to side, like a ship in heavy seas, as it navigates the enormous potholes at the terminal entrance. The rosary beads, crucifix and holy pictures hanging in the windshield sway this way and that. The bus driver, a sweating and seasoned pro, grinds the gears and hauls at the big wheel – all the while honking the horn, waiving to fellow drivers, and joking with the teenage kid who proudly “rides shotgun” to his right.
Of course, the kid has no shotgun. He just collects fares and serves as a kind of conductor for the journey. As the bus rolls out of the terminal, the kid bangs the metal side and shouts the bus’s destination with the well-rehearsed nasal voice of a street hawker. The bus picks up more passengers -- some standing at the curbside, others chasing the bus with waving arms. On a 2nd-class bus, passengers just climb on without paying. Later, when things have settled down, the kid comes back to collect. The kid always remembers, with unfailing accuracy, who has paid and who hasn’t. Of course, the people would pay even if he didn’t remember.
Looking out of my bus window.As you pull out of the station, a street vendor or musician may climb onto the bus. The vendor may offer candy, nuts, melon with salsa, or a cream to ease your arthritis. The musician may strum a twangy, well-worn guitar, or render a nasal a cappella version of an old Mexican folk song. In some cases, the seller may have a mental or physical handicap. The bus riders, who are themselves none too affluent, always buy and contribute generously.
The bus, which may have its own name (like “Angelito”) on the front window, stops anywhere and everywhere -- wherever people want to get on or off. We remember one long night ride when groups of faces would appear in the headlights as if from nowhere, the bus would stop, and campesinos would bundle themselves, their babies, and their belongings onto the friendly bus. The bus always accepted them without fear or question.
