The Mayan ruins of Tonina are 20 minutes from the city of Ocosingo. The setting is beautiful, the temples and buildings well excavated and there are very few restrictions, free to climb on and over everything and explore. Having the place to ourselves, we were the only visitors that day, made everything all the better.
Returning to Ocosingo we waited for a colectivo. It arrived, a 1960’s Volkswagen Microbus, stick shift. Only a couple of passengers, lots of legroom. The breeze from the open windows was fresh and perfect. The ride went through a lush valley of fertile Mexican farmland and large cattle ranches.
Approaching Ocosingo the trip took an interesting turn. There was a large group of kids and adults at the side of the road across from a school building. The driver of the colectivo stopped. It took a bit of time and arranging as every one was loaded. When it was done the ambiance of the trip took a dramatic turn which called for a head count. It wasn’t the easiest task but I swear to its accuracy. I counted and recounted. There were now 26 humans of various shapes and sizes in the Micro Bus.
This was nothing. I recall a very slow12 hour trip by train as it wound and climbed from sea level in Northern Chile into the mountains of Bolivia. The train car so packed there wasn’t any additional space and people still pushing their way on. My seat along with dozens of others was the filthy floor, so tightly packed that one had to sit upright, my back resting against the back of someone else. Hygienically frightening. Sometimes a poor sense of smell is a virtue. There wasn’t much Spanish spoken, my fellow passengers of an impoverished indigenous stock, the women in hoop skirts, colorful embroidered blouses, fedoras for headwear, cheeks red from years in the high altitude sun. No eye contact. As the train wound and climbed, good fortune was on my side. Helpless and unable to shift positions much less move I could see trails of urine as it ran my way, diverted and absorbed by luggage and clothing.
Perhaps someone in an indigenous household in the mountains of Bolivia is recounting a similar event. This, no doubt, is a common tale.