One December many years ago, I took a long bus trip from Portland, Oregon to Baja, Mexico. And hopefully back again. Those were the days – get this – when I got paid to go on adventures and returned to tell about them. A pack of Debt Dogs of Hell may have snapped at my heels on a regular basis. What do you mean, you want money every month?
But that was some good times. – JDW
***
I woke up in the middle of the night,
a cacophony of snoring
nicely washed away by the hum of the tires.
Daylight crashed
through the windows about seven a.m.
and my first view of California
was a settlement named Miravista Estates,
which is Spanish
for overpriced-little-boxes-on-the-hillside.
Los Angeles reminds me
of the images of Hell
my grandmother used to paint
when I was a bad little boy.
Which was often.
Eighty degrees and
fat women in elastic halter tops and orange wigs
were buying skinny Christmas trees
on the hot concrete
in front of a take-out sushi restaurant.
The scenery off the Interstate
is entirely paved and franchised.
Mexico, however, is a step back…
down…and out. The weather’s even warmer
and if there was grass, it would not be green.
These people have vultures like we have robins.
A bit of culture shock.
You get 96,000 pesos for two 20 dollar bills.
Soldiers in droopy camouflage uniforms,
carrying automatic weapons,
stand guard in liquor store doorways.
Let me describe this part of the country… rock, cactus, dirt,
rock, scrub brush, dirt, rock, cactus and dirt.
In more urban areas, it’s much the same,
with fewer cacti.
Dirt, shack, dog, 1974 Plymouth,
taco stand, dirt, shack, dog.
Also, a place to rent videotapes.
Litter everywhere,
like whitecaps on a choppy sea.
Of course, I rode for free and got paid to do it.
Imagine fares have climbed in twenty-five years.
But if memory serves, and it sometimes does, this is one long bus adventure worth writing about.