We entered the taxis in groups of four. The taxis in San Cristobal are largely compact cars with standard transmissions and many were souped up with non-standard features including hood scoops, rope lights, duel exhausts and phallic antennas.
While Sharon, Sally, Annie and I got into the taxi, Chris provided the driver with instructions in Spanish and then leaned into the car through the driver's window and said, "OK. I gave the driver directions and we're going to meet you there. Someone will need to pay him $50 pesos before you get out. Just let me know and I'll pay you back."
"'Kay. See y'all there," called Sally from the back seat.
As the taxi pulled away from the curb Annie said, "Sally I hope you have money. I gotta exchange more of my money. I'm already out of pesos."
"I have to drop by a bank too," said Sharon. "I heard Chris say that he would take us to an exchange on the way to dinner tonight."
I opened my purse and took out a 50-peso note and then watched the city slide by as our $5.00 taxi ride took us out of the colonial city and back towards the highway to Tuxtla. We approached a busy intersection and took our place in a long line of vehicles waiting at a red light. I looked to the right and saw a taxi depot where idle drivers with crossed arms leaned against their cars in a long line. Across the intersection to my left was a modern Chrysler dealership in fresh, white stucco with tall palm trees lining the curb. Black, red and silver compacts littered the lot and the showroom begging for buyers.
The moment the light turned green, the drivers began tooting their horns and it made me smile. The Mexican version of the beep-beep-beep signal for blind pedestrians, I thought. It reminded me a little of the person who stands at the elevator bay and repeatedly hits the button to summon the elevator car. The cars all began moving the moment the light turned green but it didn't seem fast enough for the waiting drivers. They continued honking their horns even as they crossed the intersection's point-of-no-return. I turned around to look at my travelling companions in the back seat and realized they were thinking the same thing.
We turned right at the next major intersection and began our ascent up a two-lane highway carved with ruts and potholes. We left the busy commercial properties behind as we began our drive through the poor, residential communities outside of town. The homes were made of cinder block and topped with sheets of tin roofing. The lawns were small and dirty and many were filled with small groups of children playing in the sand. Dogs criss-crossed the street as they navigated their way through the busy line of traffic with extraordinary timing and intuition. These animals are brilliant, I thought.
Our driver slowed and then pulled into a small parking lot on the right-hand side of the road. He turned in his seat and smiled at us as he said something fast and decisive in Spanish. I looked out the window but I didn't see anything that looked like they could be the offices of Maya Vinic. Then again, I recalled how misguided my expectations had been for CIEPAC's offices so I was reluctant to make more assumptions about what to expect in terms of commercial office space in San Cristobal.
"Are you kiddin' me? This don't look like anyplace we wanna be," said Sally. "Ther're caskets in them windows."
I looked to my right and saw a glass showcase filled with caskets lined in velvet.
"Donde est Maya Vinic?" ventured Annie.
"Aqui," replied the driver.
"Here," I relayed. "He says this is the place."
"This is no kinda place," said Sally, "an' I'm not gettin' out."
"No?" questioned the driver.
"No," was our emphatic reply.
The driver gently eased back onto the two lane highway as we all began scanning the street for Maya Vinic's offices. We passed more tiny concrete homes, a few garages and little else. About three miles up the road, a Spanish woman with two small children waved to the driver. He held out a finger to let her know he would be there in "one minute." He continued up the road a little further and turned left onto a lovely cobblestone terrace in front of a terra cotta arch and then turned to us and said, "Aqui."
"Aqui?" I questioned.
"Si."
"Well, he don't know where he's goin'," said Sally. "We might as well git out and try to find someone who kin help us."
I paid the driver, opened the door and stood at a most unlikely threshold. As I looked down the hill in the direction from which we had just come, I saw blocks and blocks of an impoverished community to my right. To my immediate left, I gazed upon the lush green gardens of a spectacular estate surrounded by a high fence and manicured lawns. This very spot, I felt, defined the struggle of the Mexican people as they try to bridge the gap between the classes.
"Well, at least he chose a safe place to dump us," I offered.
"I think I heard about this place," said Annie. "It's a real fancy restaurant. I remember reading about it before I left. Let's go in and ask for a phone."
We walked up the cobblestone drive that wove its way through the estate gardens. Within minutes we found ourselves standing in front of a beautiful open-aired restaurant busy with waiters dressed in very formal black and white. I felt suddenly and conspicuously under-dressed.
"Habla Anglais por favor?" we asked.
No, nobody spoke English, and everybody here was too busy to help out a few ignorant touristas who didn't have the courtesy to learn the local language. They were clearly uncomfortable with our being here and I began to wonder if this place was for private gatherings. A club house perhaps. The reaction we received told me that either this place did not cater to tourists OR at least not our type of tourist.
"I think we shud siddown an' order arselves a drink," said Sally with a big grin.
"I would love a cold drink, but I don't think we fit the dress code," I said returning her smile.
We turned back towards the street and reluctantly left this oasis. When we reached the busy street, we began discussing our situation. We all agreed that we were at a huge disadvantage because none of us spoke Spanish. We also agreed that the distance was too far to even attempt to walk back to the hotel. While I was game to stroll back down the hill towards the busy intersection to hail a cab, my American travel companions did not share my sense of ease.
"Hey!" said Sharon grinning, "Here comes a goat herder."
We turned to look down the hill and watched as a woman in traditional dress headed up the hill towards us. About where the estate property began, the woman eased her goat herd across the road to the sidewalk on the other side of the street. The goats marched along in a perfect little line, never straying. The woman had a purple and pink blouse embroidered across the shoulders and wore a thick, furry skirt cinched at the waist with a colourful, woven belt. The goats were quieted with tiny muzzles and seemed not the least put off by their walk through town. We watched as they continued on up the hill. It was then that we saw the taxi.
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