EL CENTRO
Maggie Stoffels

It was one of those melting days in Vallarta. Just the action of cleaning your teeth made you sweat. I had arrived a week ago from a New Zealand winter some 20 degrees lower in temperature. I wished longingly for the cool fresh breezes, and the misty mountains back home, no humidity, or choking stench of mould everywhere.

"Well, you wanted everything different and now you have it", I told myself sternly. A little iguana was contemplating me from my windowsill. He visited most afternoons. We sat, silent and still for some 15 minutes or so longer until he quietly slid away. Again I procrastinated on the merits of mosquiteros for my windows. No more mosquitoes, but no more iguanas, butterflies, frogs, bats or any other of the wonderful creature that often made their appearances. However I needed some more paint for my house and decided to go to Pitillal to get it. I got up, glanced in the mirror and watched a colored sheet of makeup drip down my nose. Not a good look. I washed it all off. My hair again seemed set solid in a mixture of cement dust and sweat. Yes, I was renovating. I promised myself another long cold shower and shampoo on my return.

I set off on my mission and smiled delightedly as a cloud of butterflies passed by. A loud smack on the cobblestones in front of me brought me back. There, much to my astonishment was a very large three-foot iguana, lying prostrate. He had obviously fallen out of one of the giant trees shading my street so effectively. I thought he must be dead, or at least unconscious. I bent down to examine him more closely. This magical dragon-like, prehistoric creature opened his eyes and stared at me. I stepped back waiting for him to run off. No. Maybe he was damaged. I heard a car approaching, and stepped onto the road a little more to shield him.

I pointed and waved to the driver but he didn't slow down. There was no one here to show and tell. I circled around his body carefully, whispered good luck and went on to the bus stop. This was to be my first venture alone to Pitillal. "Tres pesos, por favor" I had learned that much. I had my ticket. How great it was to ride around anywhere in Vallarta for this small amount. The natural air conditioning of the broken and stuck windows was very welcome. I sat, it was a quick and comfortable trip. I alighted into the heat and pursued the shadows relentlessly, dodging the vendors with their colorful stalls overflowing onto the street, and the groups of women and children bulging around the doorways, until I finally reached my paint shop. Shut for siesta. I'd forgotten the afternoon ritual. All the shops had now either shut, or were firmly doing so. Oh well I would catch another bus back home and try again tomorrow. There's always mañana. I was slowing down in the heat, and wondered why the rest of the world did not enjoy siestas, instead of toiling determinedly against the natural rhythms of nature. I hopped onto another bus showing El Centro. Again I was lucky and had my seat. The bus seemed to be taking a different route back. We wound through Pitillal then climbed higher, a very pleasant vista was opening up. There seemed to be fewer passengers on board, and we were not picking up any extras. We were really bumping along now. The last of the passengers climbed out in front of a little pig and chicken farm. The co-driver, (always standing beside the driver with one foot on the top step), was peering through the cracked windscreen. He turned to look at me curiously. I smiled back. The road had become much narrower, it was full of pot holes, no pavement, a few scattered farmlets. This was a great tour but where on earth was I? We must be going to some bus depot I reasoned.

"El Centro?" I called, moving forward closer to the driver.
"No Señora" We were quite high now. We had been riding for some twenty-five minutes, I could see Pitillal below, but not Vallarta. We continued twisting and turning, with occasional shouts of warning from the co-driver who at times got out to check the track. His reason for being was evident now. The religious icons were swaying crazily. The Virgin Mary was beside the pin-up girls, ranchero boots, guitars, crosses, and the ever present fringing framing it all like a stage. It was reassuring to see Mary there, with the prayers beside her, as though she was in charge and would somehow protect the passengers or drivers, I'm not sure which, but both needed it. We finally lurched to a halt. There was no more track to travel, no houses, no farms, no buses, no people. We were in a semi-clear space, high in the hills with abundant mango trees. The driver opened the door and they both got out. They looked harmless enough but I felt vaguely uneasy. I followed suit.

"El Centro por favor?"
"No Señora, no Centro." I didn't know how to ask anything else, and so sat under a big mango tree and admired the scenery. They had a smoke, so did I. The driver opened a newspaper and began to read. There was a breeze, the humidity was gone, and I thought that I could hear the soft sweet sound of flowing water. I reveled in the coolness. I thought that this must be some kind of terminal, minus the buses, buildings, people, whatever. Another bus would come to take me to El Centro. But no, nothing, and nobody very different, I thought. The co-driver had now El disappeared. Shortly I heard what I thought to be an animal, pushing its way through the undergrowth coming up the hill behind me. I jumped to my feet, it was only the co-driver with a bucket of water. There must be a river down there. He then proceeded to wash varying parts of the battered bus with an old cloth, occasionally pausing to admire his handiwork. The windscreen gleamed in a myriad of lights radiating from all the shattered cracks. He polished it lovingly. Some twenty minutes later they got to their feet and climbed aboard, To my astonishment they shut the doors behind them. I leapt to my feet and banged on the door calling "El Centro por favor".

"No Señora, no Centro" The doors stayed shut. Well! Ok, no Centro. Its 2.50 p.m. Don't panic, you are cool, you have your water bottle, fresh mangoes, and, you are up high and can see Pitillal in the distance. If you follow the goat track, keep walking down to where it is cooler, you will eventually reach civilization. But don't leave too late or you won't cope in the dark. You have two legs, no? I glanced back at the bus. The doors were still shut. My watch said 2.55 p.m. Suddenly the doors swung open. Was it only five minutes? "Señora, El Centro? tres pesos por favor." The driver and his mate chuckled as I scrambled in. At exactly 3:00 p.m. we left. We started to wind our way down back to Pitillal, taking my heart and blood pressure back to normality. After some rapid-fire words from the driver (in Spanish) the passengers getting on turned to look at me with kindly amusement. It was evidently a great joke, so I grinned back. As soon as we were in Pitillal I hopped out. "Gracias". I smiled at him as though it was the most normal thing in the world to catch his bus and be locked out in the wilds beyond Pitillal.

"Gracias Señora." He gave a little bow with his head. Yes, he would dine out on this one, I thought. I jumped into the first cab I found and was back home in ten minutes. What a day. And WHY didn't the bus go El Centro? Well silly me. Did I mention that I was from New Zealand? We drive on the left. I was silly enough to stand on the wrong side of the street facing the wrong way, waiting for the bus. I'd forgotten for a moment that here, you drive on the right. Yes, I am from down under as they say, where everything is upside down. But I had had an exciting day, I'd seen my iguanas, had an adventure, traveled up into the hills, sat under a mango tree in the cool fresh air, and wasn't that almost exactly what I'd wished for? Well, nearly, and all for the princely sum of six pesos. Where else but in Mexico? Yes, I love the differences, and I love Mexico.