No Hablo Espanol

The instant we cross the border, Mexicans swarm us. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m terrified.

They’re husky and black-haired with grizzled temples. Not all are dark. Some are blonde and blue-eyed and have moustaches. They wear white shirts and dark sunglasses. They shout at us and wave their arms, adding a layer of thick spicy sweat to air already choked with diesel and sewage fumes.

“Taxi! Taxi!”

Darrell elbows through them, with me close behind.

Half a block of broken pavement later, they’ve given up–all but one. He’s younger.

“Tourist card, señor?”

“Si, necesitamos.”

Easy for you to say, Darrell.

The cabbie leads us through an arch to a white stucco building, where Darrell speaks Spanish to a bored-looking Customs official. He’s practically fluent, while I don’t understand a word. Christ, what am I doing here? He’s filled me up with stories of Mexico’s low cost of living, easy ways, and pretty senoritas.

Darrell tells me that since we’re going by train, we’ll have to get tourist cards at the railway station. “That means a taxi ride, which is why this guy is smiling.”

Darrell claims that Mexican trains are luxurious. But based on my first taste of Nogales, I’m having misgivings.

This was back in the seventies, when there was still passenger rail service in Mexico–and we looked like the Smith Brothers on the cough drop box.

The cabbie wants to carry our luggage–two rucksacks. I’m not sure about this, but when Darrell hands his over, so do I.

Around the next corner, we find Junior’s cab. He opens the trunk with a coat hanger. After stowing our gear, he holds the door for us. Again, I hesitate. But when Darrell gets in, so do I.

The cabbie closes the door and struggles to start the battered ancient Chevy. When the rusty old clunker coughs back to life, valves clattering, we creep on in a cloud of smoky exhaust. Other cars, I notice, do not stay in their lane. Or even on their side of the road. Very exciting.

I’m wondering about law enforcement when Darrell points out the traffic cop standing on the corner.

“Notice the Sam Browne belt? Mexicans are big on uniforms, the gaudier the better. See how he carries his gun in his belt, rather than in his holster? Another macho symbol.”

Vendors with little push carts wave at us. Most women are wearing long dresses, most men serapes and bolo ties.

At the station ticket windows, the lines are endless.

“Don’t worry, Mexican trains usually don’t run on time,” Darrell says.

“That’s supposed to comfort me?”

The station floor is filthy. Some travelers are using cardboard boxes for luggage. After a long wait, I reach the counter. But the clerk waves me over to another official. He examines my birth certificate and hands me a tourist form to fill out. The instructions are in Spanish. I grab Darrell by the arm. He points to the bottom of the form, where there’s an English translation.

The clerk says something.

“What are you laughing about, man?” I ask Darrell, a little pissed.

“This guy asked me what I was doing with a gringo like you.”

Our cards stamped, we go to a loading platform where another uniform shows us our train, which is powered by three yellow and blue diesel engines. Faces are staring at us through filmy windows.

“This can’t be our train.”

“It is,” Darrell says.

“No, you told me Mexican trains were better than American trains. This looks like something out of ‘The Great Locomotive Chase.’”

“It’s the only train to Guadalajara tonight.” A dilapidated bus screeches up to the station overloaded with passengers. “Would you rather take the bus?”

The conductor’s wearing a peaked blue hat. He tears our tickets in half. The first car is already clogged with passengers. We hurry to the next. Finally, we come to some empties. I notice the white bibs on the headrests.

“First class,” Darrell says.

They’re not even reserved. But the car’s filling up fast, so I pick one and sit. The bottom falls out. I’m sitting on the floor. Nobody reacts. I get up, shove it back in place, sit closer to the back. My breathing is almost normal by the time two barefoot kids take the facing seats. Their parents are across the aisle. Adorable kids. The dark-eyed girl is about seven, her shy little brother maybe a year younger. Both look clean. Their clothes are old, but meticulously mended.

I ask if they speak English.

They smile and shrug.

Darrell leans over and engages their parents in a lengthy conversation. “They’ve been up north, trying to find work,” he reports.

“They seem desperately poor.”

“When I was in the navy—”

“You were in the navy?” It reminds me how little I know about Darrell.

“I saw countries where they were starving in the streets. But people down here don’t have it so bad. Where else can you live so well, so cheaply, and with so little guilt?”

Nobody I can see appears to be living particularly well. In fact, I feel guilty for having so much while they have so little. What will happen to these kids in the future?

Our journey continues through semi-arid high plains. The view is mainly farms and rangeland. We keep stopping at every village. More passengers jam aboard. Some wear Jaws or Cold Bear Wine T-shirts.

“Students on break,” Darrell says.

A few speak, but all I can do is smile. I assume that when the train is completely full, these too-frequent stops will cease. Meanwhile, women and children appear at the windows selling tacos, tamales, and fruit. All of it looks and smells delicious. But Darrell wants to wait for the dining car to open.

Many of our fellow passengers are now standing in the aisle, which is almost impassable. Every time someone exits, a scramble ensues. The children are replaced by adults. One has a bandaged toe. I strive not to step on it, but there’s not much legroom. Surely when the train is completely full, it’ll speed up.

A man on crutches says something to me.

Does he want me to give up my seat? I sympathize, but don’t want to. “No hablo Espanol.”

He keeps talking.

“No hablo Espanol.”

He keeps talking.

Finally, he goes away.

“Nicely played, Mike,” Darrell says. “He figured you for a rich American tourist, an easy touch.”

Now I’m the gringo who won’t give up his seat for a cripple.

The temperature soars as we reach the desert. I ask Darrell if the bottled water’s safe to drink.

“Safer than the puro in the hotels. But if you’re going to get sick, why not just go on and get it over with. I get turista almost every time I come down here.”

“Now you tell me.”

“It’s no big deal. You don’t need a prescription for antibiotics here.”

“You have to know how to ask for them.”

“If you need penicillin, I’ll get you some. You’ll be fine.”

Hours later, I discover the toilet is nothing but a hole in the floor of the last car. You can see the ties flicking past. Eventually, thirst drives me out to the platform between the passenger cars, where people are lined up for Tecate. Eight pesos. One dollar. Not the best Mexican beer, but a lime slice comes with it.

The train continues picking up passengers, who sit on suitcases and lie under the seats. We never speed up. Boxcar communities appear on rusty sidings, complete with curtains and flowerpots. Kids ride burros close beside the tracks. Others skinny-dip in ditches. Hogs chase chickens. Goats butt heads.  A porter collects bottles for the deposit and puts them in a wicker basket. Everything else winds up on the right-of-way.

“How can people here just throw their shit out the window?”

“Careful.”

I look at Darrell in amazement. “They can’t even speak English.”

“Don’t be too sure. Insults are deadly business down here.”

“I’m not insulting anyone.”

His expression says maybe I am.

I hang my head out the window, yank it back in. Brush is growing right up to the tracks.

At Guaymas on the Gulf of California, the harbor’s full of tankers and freighters. On the land side, it’s the Sierra Madre mountains.

“Good-looking women here,” Darrell says.

“At last.”

“One time I got thrown in jail. You don’t want to do that, believe me.”

Adventure. We’re having an adventure.

The dining car opens at ten. Darrell goes to get us something while I save his seat from the exhausted Mexicans eyeing it. He brings me a ham sandwich wrapped in a paper napkin.

“Eighty fucking pesos,” he complains.

“I don’t care what it costs.” I wolf mine down.

“We’ll get something better in the morning.”

He dozes off. Too exhausted to sleep, I lean over him to look out the window. There’s a full moon and lots of stars. Beautiful.

When I try to move back, though, something’s in my way.

A Mexican.

Sleeping on the arm of my seat.

I realize the guy’s probably been standing up for hours, but if I wouldn’t give my seat to a cripple, I’m sure not giving it to him. How can I get rid of this guy without creating an international incident?

Finally, I don’t care anymore, and I just shove him off. He crashes into another guy, starts a chain reaction. What now? Will I be thrown off the train? He struggles to his feet, shambles away. I blow out a breath.

For the rest of the night, I keep my grip on the arm of the seat.

In the morning, the train stops at Mazatlán. Darrell’s still asleep. Women and children appear, dressed in colorful layers and carrying covered baskets. I pay one of them five pesos for boiled shrimp and a round loaf of bread. It’s fantastic. When I finish eating, I wipe my mouth and chuck the shells and wrapper out the window.

I’m learning.

© 2024 Rick Neumayer

“No Hablo Espanol” was first published 2012 in Gloom Cupboard and will appear in the forthcoming THREE FOGGY MORNINGS: Stories by Rick Neumayer. If you liked this one, I’d love to hear from you.