ODDS ‘N’ SODS — My Mexican odyssey

In 1975, I was cruising around the Mexican state of Guerrero, looking at showings, and my travels took me through Chilpancingo.

I looked up a man whose first name was Francisco, a 71-year-old mining engineer who had been recommended highly. He recommended a copper property way back in the hills, west of Ciudad Altamirano, and, since I had a showing to look at in the same area, I decided to proceed there with him.

Francisco suggested we hire a fellow who owned a truck, and go part of the way, to Zirandaro, that night. After purchasing a few supplies, we drove west over a tortuous road which allowed us to travel only a few miles per hour. In the middle of the afternoon we arrived at our destination, a few shacks on the south side of Balsas River.

Francisco estimated it would take at least two days to look at all of his showings. After two hours, I had seen all of them and decided to turn the property down. We decided to continue on to Zindaro.

After some deliberation, Francisco said we should let the truck go, cross the river and head north 1 1/2 miles to a road where (presumably) a bus passed at 5:00 every morning.

The Balsas River was, at this location, about 300 ft. wide. I crossed first, in a boat with the owner. It leaked like a sieve and I baled all the way.

Upon reaching the bank, I high-tailed it north to stop and hold the bus.

After treading 11/2 miles, I came upon a trail, but it was evident that no bus had ever passed there before. A farmer noticed me and informed me that there was indeed a bus, but that the nearest stop was six hours away on foot, to the east. To reach it, I would have to cross another river, beyond which there was a village from which the bus departed.

Late that morning, I reached the river, which I managed to cross quite easily. The water level did not even reach my armpits. On the other side, I tipped the water out of my boots and walked up to the village, where it was confirmed that the bus arrived at about 5 p.m. and left the next morning at 5 a.m.

I was further told, however, that the bus did not go to Zirandaro, but travelled much farther northeast, to Huetamo. No other transportation was available, and I proceeded to drown my dismay in cold, cheap beer.

Francisco arrived in mid-afternoon, having ridden the 20 miles on the farmer’s one and only mule, and at around 5 p.m., a typical third-class Mexican bus rolled into town, complete with driver and a conductor. It was the sort of vehicle that caters mainly to farmers who carry chickens, pigs and produce to market.

Together, Francisco and I concocted a scheme to reach Zirandaro by bus.

Latins are reputed to be the world’s greatest lovers, and it is common knowledge that liquor helps the operation along. I noticed that the passengers consisted entirely of men, and so I bought them all a beer asked if any of them had ever been to Zirandaro. They had not, so I began extolling the beauty of the women there. (In truth, the only ladies I had seen in town were a few old crones tottering off to church.) I bought them another round and suggested to the driver and conductor that they could perhaps drive us to Zirandaro for 20 American dollars, but they were afraid they would be fired for taking the bus off the regular route.

Then, with tongue in cheek, I remarked that I had seen several lovely blonde women in Zindaro. I knew that natural blondes were as scarce as hens’ teeth outside of Mexico City. The driver was noticably enthused and, after some discussion with the conductor, proclaimed, “OK Gringo, 40 dollars.” When we took the Zirandaro turnoff, there was some consternation, since no bus had ever taken this route before, but we proceeded nonetheless. There were several sharp turns along the way, where the bus slowed down and more Mexicans climbed on board. By the time we hit the Balsas River, there were some 30 Mexicans hanging on to the vehicle, and Francisco and I began wondering if perhaps there were some blondes there after all.

We never did find out. Francisco said the driver and passengers might turn nasty if there were no blondes to be seen, so we jumped the next bus back to Altamirano.– The author, a frequent contributor to this column, is a geological consultant based in Toronto.