Backlog: Faith, population control, and shortcut (Oaxaca)

They say that atheist soldiers in the trenches of war get religion. I say you need only travel a Mexican road to find faith.

Taking a cab from the Mexico City airport to your hotel is an exercise in faith, courage, and bravado. Your driver is a matador, the other vehicles, the players in a tragedy with an ending already proscribed. Someone must be maimed or killed.

The cab is small and the bus converging from the left comes at you at the speed of a cheetah in pursuit of prey. The driver of the SUV to your right appears obsessed with becoming one with your lap. One of the godzillions of crosses on the side of the road already bears your name. You start to believe in miracles each time you arrive, awash in perspiration but alive(!), at your destination.

I haven't met a single person in this country -- native or foreigner -- who doesn't have tales to tell of people dying in car accidents. Every family has lost at least one member in a crash. The country's population would surely be quadruple what it is, if every day thousands of people didn't meet a gruesome and fiery vehicular finale.

Being a pedestrian is not much easier than being a driver, however. The other day I waited 20 minutes to run like hell across a thoroughfare in Cuernavaca. The traffic never let up, much less stopped. There are probably thousands of people, who are believed to have been kidnapped because they never returned home from the grocery store, when in reality, they were unable to reach the other side of the road. Legions have no doubt died waiting for their chance to realize their dream of a pedestrian right of way. I have never heard a "Why did the chicken cross the road?" joke here, because no chicken has ever done so.

It's hard enough to walk, but I can't imagine ever getting behind a steering wheel in this country. You've gotta be extremely aggressive, suicidal, homicidal, or just plain crazy (or any combination thereof) to feel comfortable driving here.

My friend T. doesn't appear to be any of the above, and yet he pilots his motorcycle and truck with confidence. Normally relaxed and mild mannered, he explains: "Stop signs are street ornaments. Turn signals are car ornaments. Stop lights are suggestions. Flash your left signal to indicate that someone can pass. Or to indicate a left turn. Let the other driver beware and be a good guesser. Drive fast but arrive late. Rules are flexible. He who gets wherever first, without dying, wins."

So, after a day of sightseeing (a humongous old tree, a deserted convent), T. tells us that he's taking us to say goodbye to Reina, the mother of one of my former students and the owner of a street eatery. He knows a shortcut.

We are somewhere among the unmarked streets of Oaxaca, careening downhill in a small white truck. There is an obvious roadblock: a series of rocks and boulders stretching from one side of the street to the other. Even with my eyes tightly closed, I can see the message:"DO NOT ENTER!!!!"

We enter.

A. and I are shrieking hysterically. T. is smiling like a madman. An anarchist, he is in his element: there are no rules.

Quick right turn, fast left. The road in front of us disappears abruptly. A cliff. A. and I are trembling, grabbing each other, howling with laughter and with fear. We know we are going to die.

Not yet. I believe.

Crazy buggers (Mexico City)

Have I mentioned that I do not stay at luxury hotels when I travel? The places I pick are easy on the wallet, if not on the eye. They are not rated with 3 stars, 2 stars, or even 1. They rarely rate at all. But in my own 4-scar system, the Hotel I. merits a strong 2.5. The bathrooms are clean (although the toilets sometimes leak). There is good security: A guard (armed with antibacterial lotion to spritz on your hands when you enter the lobby) protects against the spread of swine flu and the threat of strangers (maybe). The rooms are either bright or quiet, but not both. The ceilings of rooms on the fourth floor leak only when it rains (which is nearly every day or night, but only for an hour or two).

After A.'s return stateside, I change hotel rooms. No longer in the spacious, noisy, and relatively bright room we shared, I am now housed in what I shall henceforth not so fondly refer to as "the inner sanctum" (I.S.); its only window opens onto a hallway, with a view of the door of a room with an actual view. This unfortunate positioning allows the fumes from the cigarettes smoked by those I am henceforth referring to as "the other f____ing tourists" (or OFTs) to filter their way into my lungs.

The only other things that enter the room while I'm trying to breathe or sleep are mosquitoes. I am apparently hosting a swarm (a herd? colony? cartel? convention?) of them. I am their oasis in the desert, their all-night diner, the only room at the only inn -- a neon sign flickering "Welcome," beckoning on the way home to the other side of the(ir stagnant) pond.

I'm sure that there must be a series of very, very teeny-tiny signs posted high up on my door: OPEN HOUSE. ALL U CAN SUCK. CHILDREN FEED FOR FREE WITH PARENT! LIMITED TIME ONLY. FRESH FROM THE USA. TASTES LIKE CHICKEN!

Itchy and bumpy, I awaken in the mornings expecting to see paint-ball sized splatters on the walls, the bloody remains of those buggers so sated with my lifeblood that they were unable to make it out of the IS, much less to their meetings of Overfeeders Anonymous.

It is so dark in the IS that I don't open my eyes until what I think is a late wake up -- 9am. Turns out it 's noon. The good news is that despite smacking my head at least twice in an attempt to foil a dive bombing mosquito and banging my head at least twice on the shutters that open into the IS directly above my bed, I have awakened. There is the distinct possibility that later in the week someone (the maid? an OFT?) will find me, severely concussed, a bumpy, bloodless, and dessicated husk, in the smokey, murky shadows of my room.