Going up was fine, but going down the mountain—the bus driver’s heavy foot on the tortuous, narrow roads—was miserable.
My companion told him to slow down, that we’d prefer to live than try to get to the beach fifteen minutes early and tumble down the mountain. But the driver was unmoved. He told my friend he had a headache and wanted to get to Pochutla quickly so he could buy some medicine. Why he was playing godawful techno music in the bus was a mystery.
So instead of taking pictures of us sinking through the clouds, I was trying not to throw up,
I missed pretending we were coming down from Heaven while the sun set behind the mountains casting them as silhouettes. Rather, I worried about the sweet bread I’d eaten an hour earlier ending up on the floor of the bus. I asked my friend if it was going to get better. He’s an honest person and told me, ‘No.”
When I feel like I’m going to vomit ,all my other concerns fly out the window. I clung to the handle on the seat in front of me, closed my eyes, and wrote this poem in my head.
I let go of myself and listened to the old women joking around with each other and the driver, only recognizing a few words here and there.
***
It’s dangerous making strangers into symbols for me and my life. I know everyone has problems.
But I couldn’t help thinking this bus ride that was my singular six-hour hell was a normal commute for them.
The women had gone to the city and were coming back to their towns with supplies that would probably last a few weeks.
They had offered us beer when we climbed into the bus. Even feeling nauseous, I wished I’d accepted their generosity.
One woman had brought her eighty-five year old mother to the city to see a doctor.
She told her mom to have faith.
She would be okay.
I have so much.
But they seemed happier, or at least more content.
More solid.
Jostled only by the bus.