Date: Fri, 6 Apr 2007 22:17:23 -0600
Reply-To: Jeffrey Olson <jjolson@GWTC.NET>
Sender: Vanagon Mailing List <vanagon@gerry.vanagon.com>
From: Jeffrey Olson <jjolson@GWTC.NET>
Subject: Friday Bus Story: 2
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This is for all of you working the graveyard shift...
On the way south on our search for the perfect Mexico experience we
stopped in Mazatlan to get a starter. We'd been push starting the bus
for 900 miles, and it was getting old for the pushers. I was the driver.
Mazatlan in 1974 was just beginning to expand south. There were a
couple big hotels, but only a couple. South of the hotels was wide open
beaches and dirt roads to reach the beaches. Rolling Stone magazine had
had a big article on travelling in Mexico not to long before we left,
and they'd spent a goodly amount of time talking of other young
American's experiences with outlaws who would plant pot in the
American's car and then threaten to arrest them. Apparently they did an
excellent job really scaring people because they always got the money.
AFter we replaced the starter we headed south to find a remote beach on
which to drive the bus and camp. I don't know if others have found
this, but the 66 VW camper does really well in sand, even soft sand. We
never got stuck, although we had to use the pushers a couple times to
get us going. We did try and avoid really soft sand because we knew we
had to let air out of the tires and didn't want to use the bicycle pump
to pump them up. Now there's a job - it takes forever to pump up a tire.
Prior to crossing the border we'd taken a road off the highway to find a
place to stash our stash. We decided that there would be nothing less
obvious than burying it next to a fence post. We did this, and wrote
how to find the specific fence post in the middle of nowhere on the
piece of plywood separating the passenger front seat from the ice box
behind the passenger seat. Those directions were legible for 12 more
years - up to the day I sold the bus, front seats down to springs,
bedframe busted, little dents and creases on every body panel, engine
blown. $75...
We drove around on dirt roads for a while, trying to find one that took
us to hardpan on the beach. We wound our way through brush six feet
high and finally found a little peninsula that led down to harder sand.
We angled the bus just so - sun blocked if you sat inside, or next to
the side doors under the homemade awning. We settled down to an
afternoon of playing in the whitewash of the surf - the beaches there
are way too steep to do any swimming - this was the case of most of west
coast mexico actually, reading and drinking beer.
About an hour after we had settled in we heard the groaning of an engine
surging and receding, getting closer. This made us a bit nervous. We
were at least 200 yards or more from the highway, with nothing but scrub
brush between us and it. We'd talked about what we would do if the
scenario described in Rolling Stone happened to us.
A big 50s Buick or Cadillac pulled up, bouncing on shockless springs,
its pain almost totally gone - the car was rust red with streaks of aged
paint. There were three men in the car. The driver turned off the
engine and they just sat there, 15' from us. We waved at them, and
walked the line between paying attention to what they were doing and
cleaning up the bus. We'd already realized that four people crammed
into the bus required patience and grace with each other. But more
importantly, the bus had to be neat. Everything had its place. I think
this is what helped us through the next 20 minutes.
After a couple minutes of watching us attend to the bus all three doors
opened at the same time. The driver was well-dressed in jeans, western
shirt, boots, straw wide-brimmed hat. He was wiry and wily. The man
that got out of the back seat was rotund, wearing one of those short
sleeved, shapeless and faded shirts that half the men in Mexico wore.
He had a big grin on his face as he slammed his door and flanked his
compatriot. The guy that got out of the passenger seat was your tall,
big silent type. He was an Indio, high cheekbones, pitted skin, long,
greasy hair under his cowboy hat. His eyes were dead. He also had a
giant pistol in a western style holster and belt. I'd never seen such a
huge gun. This guy was really creepy. He just stood there, looking at
us.
Sharon was your typical california girl, white blond hair, sunny, fairly
surface disposition, and a well-toned and tanned body she had no qualms
about displaying in her pink bikini. She greeted the two men after
nervously glancing at, and then ignoring, the big Indio. She didn't
know much Spanish, but did know enough to ask, "quieres ayuda?"
That means, "Do you want help?" The two guys laughed and the Indio just
looked at her. They spoke English and said no, they didn't need help.
The driver said they were policia and that they were making sure people
along the beach were ok. We started acting friendly and joking with
them. We thanked them for looking out for tourists, for checking up on
us. The joking went back and forth for a while and we asked questions
about good places to eat in Mazatlan, just trying to keep them talking.
For some reason this seemed like a good strategy, even though we hadn't
really talked about what we would actually do if we were going to be
robbed.
After a couple minutes the driver wandered over to the open side doors
and started making comments about the bus, the shelves in one door, the
fold-up table on the other, the awning hooks, the ice box and on and on.
Rob had stayed in the bus and was sitting on the seat right behind the
driver's seat. His feet were in the aisle and one arm was on the
laquered replacement table I'd put in for the trip. His big, hairy face
leaned out into the space at the end of the table. When the guy had
moved toward the bus Kim had sat down on the floor, his feet on the
ground. He'd turn around when the guy asked a question, but essentially
blocked any access to the interior of the bus. The passenger door was
closed, thank god.
I kind of jittered around, addressing the backseat guy who stood a bit
back, his face getting increasingly less cheerful, while speaking in
Spanish to the guy looking at the westy details. Rob swears that the
driver who was poking around had a film cannister in his left hand.
He'd gesture with his right hand, and rest his other hand. We watched
him like a hawk. Sharon had put on a shirt - she was feeling a bit
uncomfortable with their repeated, unhidden up and down lascivious
perusal of her body.
There was lots of movement, but apparently, we had our space
well-covered enough that the driver couldn't plant the cannister. He
backed up in frustration and asked us directly if we were carrying mota
- marijuana. We went into our song and dance that that would be stupid,
that we were in Mexico to vacation and spend money. Both his face and
the rotund guy's faces were now grim. The Indio put his hand on the
butt of his pistol. The driver warned us to be careful, that there were
lots of bad people who would try to sell us mota, and that the laws were
very strict and harsh. We thanked him for his information, maintaining
face and bravado, acting as if there weren't a whole lot of levels going
on.
The driver made disgusted grunting noise and inclined his head toward
the car. They did their macho swagger to the car, got in, barely got it
started, raced the engine, and backed up and away.
We just stood there looking at each other, and then started talking all
at once. I kind of did a leaping walk-dance, saying, "it was them, the
guys in Rolling STone. Yes!!!" We war storied and said what we saw.
Rob's noticing the film cannister got the rest of us big eyed, and we
went off to what would have happened if they'd been able to plant it.
We decided we'd had enough of the beach and loaded up the bus and drove
back into Mazatlan where we got a nice bug infested couple of beds in a
50 peso a night motel. We had to completely unload the bus because it
was easy to break into. This was one of the reasons we really didn't
like staying in towns - we were carrying a lot of stuff...
The next day we got up and gladly left Mazatlan, heading south on our
quest for the untrammeled, unspoiled tropics and a decent beach for
surfing...
Jeff Olson
Martin, SD
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